The Collected Songs of Charles Mackay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Since the sweet knowledge I possess
That she I love is mine,
All nature throbs with happiness,
And wears a face divine.
The woods seem greener than they were,
The skies are brighter blue;
The stars shine clearer, and the air
Lets finer sunlight through.
Until I loved, I was a child,
And sported on the sands;
But now the ocean opens out,
With all its happy lands.

II

The circles of my sympathy
Extend from earth to Heaven:
I strove to pierce a mystery,
And lo! the clue is given.

The woods, with all their boughs and leaves,
Are preachers of delight,
And wandering clouds in summer eves
Are Edens to my sight.
My confidants and comforters
Are river, hill, and grove,
And sun, and stars, and heaven's blue deep,
And all that live and move.

III

O friendly hills! O garrulous woods!
O sympathizing air!
O many-voicéd solitudes!
I know my love is fair.
I know that she is fair and true,
And that from her you've caught
The changeful glories ever new,
That robe you in my thought.
Grief, from the armour of my heart,
Rolls off like rustling rain:
'Tis life to love; but double life
To be beloved again.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE TREES.

I

I heard the language of the trees,
In the noons of the early summer,
As the leaves were moved like rippling seas
By the wind—a constant comer.

It came and it went at its wanton will,
And evermore loved to dally
With branch and flower, from the cope of the hill
To the warm depths of the valley.
The sunlight glow'd; the waters flow'd;
The birds their music chanted,
And the words of the trees on my senses fell,
By a Spirit of Beauty haunted:—
Said each to each, in mystic speech,
“The skies our branches nourish;
“The world is good,—the world is fair,—
“Let us enjoy and flourish!”

II

Again I heard the steadfast trees;
The wintry winds were blowing;
There seem'd a roar as of stormy seas,
And of ships to the depths down-going.
And ever a moan through the woods was blown,
As the branches snapp'd asunder,
And the long boughs swung like the frantic arms
Of a crowd in affright and wonder.
Heavily rattled the driving hail;
And storm and flood combining,
Laid bare the roots of mighty oaks
Under the shingle twining.
Said tree to tree, “These tempests free
“Our sap and strength shall nourish;
“Though the world be hard, though the world be cold,
“We can endure and flourish.”

LITTLE AT FIRST, BUT GREAT AT LAST.

I

A traveller through a dusty road,
Strew'd acorns on the lea;
And one took root, and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows,
And Age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore;—
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore!

II

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scoop'd a well,
Where weary men might turn;
He wall'd it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink,—
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that toil might drink.
He pass'd again—and lo! the well,
By summers never dried,
Had cool'd ten thousand parching tongues,
And saved a life beside.

III

A dreamer dropp'd a random thought,
'Twas old, and yet was new,—
A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true;
It shone upon a genial mind,
And lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray,
A monitory flame.
The thought was small—its issue great:
A watch-fire on the hill,
It sheds its radiance far adown,
And cheers the valley still!

IV

A nameless man, amid a crowd
That throng'd the daily mart,
Let fall a word of Hope and Love,
Unstudied from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown—
A transitory breath—
It raised a brother from the dust,—
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last!

A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

I've a guinea I can spend,
I've a wife, and I've a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I've a cottage of my own
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So come and drain a glass
In my arbour as you pass,
And I'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

II

I love the song of birds,
And the children's early words,
And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;
I love the meadow flowers,
And the brier in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil, John Brown.

III

I love a simple song
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown:
But ever when I hate,
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown,
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for human kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

IV

So, if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;
I've parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I've a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE ASTRONOMER.

I

Upon thy lofty tower,
O lonely Sage,
Reading at midnight hour
Heaven's awful page!
Thine art can poise the sun
In balance true,
And countless worlds that run
Beyond our view.
Thou scannest with clear eyes
The azure cope;
To thee the galaxies
Their secrets ope;
Thou know'st the track sublime
Of every star;
Space infinite, and Time,
Thy problems are.
O Sage! whose mental span
Thus grasps the sky,
How great the soul of man
That soars so high!

II

But yet thou canst not guess,
With all thy skill,
What seas of happiness
My bosom fill.

Thou canst not track the woe,
The hope, the faith,
That prompt the ebb and flow
Of my poor breath.
Outspeeding with thy thought
The solar ray,
Thou canst not, knowledge-fraught,
Discern my way.
My love—its depth and height,—
Thou canst not sound;
Nor of my guilt's dark night
Pierce the profound.
O student of the sky,
My pride departs;
Worlds undiscover'd lie
In both our hearts!

THE ROSE'S ERRAND.

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

I sent a message by the Rose
That words could not convey;
Sweet vows I never dared to breathe,
And wishes pure as they;
A mute but tell-tale messenger,
It could not do me wrong;
But told the passion I conceal'd,
And hopes I cherish'd long.

II

My Love received it with a smile,—
She read its thought and sigh'd,
Then placed it on her happy breast,
And wore it till it died.
Immortal Rose! it could not die:
The spirit which it bore
Lives in her heart, as first in mine,
A joy for evermore.

THE WHITE DOVE.

I

The White Dove dwelt in woodland bower,
A happy bird each live-long hour;
No care she felt, no grief had she,
Deep hidden in her wild-wood tree.
The castle tower stood fair and high,
Its banner flaunted to the sky:
“'Tis bright,” quo' she, “this morn of May,”
Then spread her wings and flew away.
Oh foolish thing! Oh luckless day!
She spread her wings and flew away.

II

She sat upon the castle gate
And saw the Earl in all his state—
With helm and plume, and jewels rare,
And his youngest son with golden hair.

“A dove!” he cried, “a milk-white dove—
“Up in the turret far above!”
And from his side he drew a dart
And pierced the trembler to the heart.
Oh cruel, oh remorseless dart!
It pierced the trembler to the heart.

III

“What have I done, unthinking boy!
“I've slain the thing that was my joy.
“What have I done?” with tears he cried,
“I would to Heaven that I had died!
“The sweetest dove that ever flew,
“The mildest dove with eyes of blue;—
“The angel dove that I have slain!
“Remorse and I are one, though twain;
“Aye, flow, ye tears! ye fall in vain,
“I'll ne'er know happiness again!”

LOVE IN ALL SEASONS.

I

I love my Love in the days of Spring,
And for her sake, each living thing;
We gather garlands by the way,
We pluck the blooms of the merry May.
We roam the woods, we trace the streams,
Our waking thoughts are bright as dreams:
No bee on the blossom, no lark in the sky,
Is happier than my Love and I!

II

I'll love my Love in the Summer time,
Our years shall ripen to their prime;
We'll sit in the shade a little more,
Beneath the elm-trees at the door;
We'll watch with joy the children run,
We'll give the world our benison:
No bird in its nest on the tree-tops high
Shall be so blithe as my Love and I!

III

I'll love my Love in the Autumn eves,
We'll gather in our barley sheaves;
We'll reap our corn, we'll press our vine,
We'll hear on the hills our lowing kine;
We'll pluck our peaches from the wall,
We'll give our friends a festival:
There is no joy the world can buy
That we shall not share; my Love and I!

IV

I'll love my Love in the Winter cold;—
So shall our tale of life be told;
We'll sit together by the hearth,
Spectators of a younger mirth;
And as the children come and go,
We'll dwell in the light where their faces glow:
We'll live in love; and loving die,
And still love on, my Love and I!

WHEN, WHERE, AND HOW.

I

When, and Where, and How,
Rule our fate between them,
Fortunate is he
Who has grasp'd and seen them.
Fairies, kind and bright,
Men and Nature love them;
Earth and Time are theirs,
And the sky above them.

II

V

Seas undeceitful
Calm smiling at morn,
Wreck not ere midnight
The sailor forlorn.
And gold makes a bridge
Every evil to span;
Oh! Believe me,—Believe me,
Believe if you can.

WHEN FIRST MY FANCY.

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

When first my fancy ceased to roam,
'Twas thou that fix'd it, wild before;
Thine artless smiles allured it home
And bade the truant stray no more.
'Twas beauty's bondage o'er me cast
The charm that speaks in silent eyes,
Outshining all the misty past
With hues of present Paradise.

II

The wavelet, dazzled by a star,
Lies lonely 'mid the restless sea;
But I,—a wavelet happier far,
The star itself came down to me.

Oh! blest was I above my thought—
Beyond Expression's warmest bound;
'Twas Earthly Beauty that I sought,
'Twas Heavenly Goodness that I found.

BURIED GRIEFS.

I

Oh! let them rest, the buried griefs,
Why should we drag them to the day?
They lived their hour of storm and shower;
They lived and died and pass'd away.

II

Oh! let them rest—their graves are green;
New life shall rise above the mould;
The dews shall weep, the blossoms peep,
The flowers of sympathy unfold.

III

So, on the solitary moor,
The soldiers' graves are bright with flowers;
The wild thyme blooms, and sweet perfumes
Attract the roamers of the bowers.

IV

There strays the bee to gather sweets,
And gives his booming trumpet rest;
There waves the heath its purple wreath,
And there the linnet builds her nest.

V

So let them rest—the buried griefs,
The place is holy where they lie;
On Life's cold waste their graves are placed—
The flowers look upward to the sky.

OH, SAY, FOND HEART!

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

Oh, say, fond Heart! if Wisdom sighs
To banish Sorrow from its sphere,
The starry midnight from its skies,
And wholesome winter from the year?
Oh no! fond Heart! 'Tis Folly seeks
Incessant noon and summer bowers;
The tears we kiss from Beauty's cheeks
Are Heaven's own dew-drops on the flowers.

II

And how, fond heart! could Love display
Its deeper feelings, strong and pure,
If constant pleasure track'd its way
And it had nothing to endure?
Oh cease, fond Heart! the selfish prayer!—
Take day and night with all they bring;
'Tis storms that purify the air,
'Tis Winter spreads the couch of Spring.

THE CONFABULATION.

I

By the lone sea-shore
Mournfully beat the waves,
Mournfully evermore
The wild wind sobs and raves.
A sadness and a sense of deep unrest
Brood on the clouds and on the water's breast.

But lo! the white sea-mew careering,
Floats indolently by,
And lo! a snowy sail appearing
Gleams fair against the sky;
The sadness and the loneliness depart—
And Nature smiles with sympathy of heart.

II

From snowy mountain-peak
How sadly we look down
On purple moorland bleak
Ungladden'd by a town:
The solemn grandeur is akin to pain;
We look for sympathy—and sigh in vain.
But if we hear the kine deep-lowing,
Or voice of chanticleer,
Or watch the azure smoke upflowing
From cottage homesteads near,
The lonely landscape glitters in the sight,
And human gladness robes it with delight.

'TIS MERRY IN THE MEAD.

III

Sitting on the grass, the maiden
Vow'd the vow to love me well;
Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly,
No one but myself can tell.
Widely spreads the smiling woodland
Elm and beech are fair to see;
But thy charms they cannot equal,
O thou happy hawthorn tree!

SHALL LOVE BE FOR EVER THE THEME OF THE SONG?

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

Shall Love be for ever the theme of the song,
O minstrel, whose voice the night-echoes prolong?
Shall Friendship and Valour for ever inspire
The thoughts of the heart, and the tones of the lyre?
Ah, no! let them rest in oblivion awhile,
And we'll sing a new song with a tear and a smile,—
The song that shall kindle, wherever we roam,
A light brought from Heav'n to the altar of Home!

GOOD-BYE, DEAR FRIENDS!

I

When on the bough the fruits decay,
The hungry sparrows fly away;
And when the house begins to fall,
The rats forsake it, one and all:
Good friends—dear friends—such fate have I!
My fortune 's daily growing worse,
There's not a penny in my purse:
Good-bye!—dear friends—good-bye!

II

'Tis true I gave you corn and wine,
And made you free to all things mine;
But times have greatly changed since then,
I yield no drink to thirsty men
Good friends—dear friends—the well is dry;
I seek in vain through all the town,
And cannot borrow half a crown:
Good-bye!—dear friends—good-bye!

III

But should the tree bear fruit once more,
The birds will twitter as before;

And should the house forbear to fall,
The rats will burrow in the wall.
Good friends—you're happy—so am I!
The leafless tree can stand alone;
The wall is built of solid stone:
Good-bye!—dear friends—good-bye!

IV

So get you gone, I need you not!
Your friendship's dear at half a groat!
I have some friends worth scores of you,
Health, Hope, and Strength, to dare and do.
Good friends—there's sunshine in the sky;
You've served your ends,—no harm is done,—
I've learn'd what company to shun:
Good-bye!—dear friends—good-bye!

TRADE AND SPADE.

I

Between two friends in days of old
A bitter strife began;
And Father Spade with Brother Trade
Disputed man to man.
“You're vain, undutiful, and proud,”
Said Spade, with flashing eyes;
“You earn your thousands while I starve;
“You mock my children's cries.

“You ride in state with lordly looks;
“You dwell in bower and hall;
“You speak of me reproachfully,
“And prosper on my fall.
“So from this hour, in shine or shower,
“We'll learn to live apart:
“I ruled the earth ere you were born—
“I cast you from my heart!”

II

And Trade lost temper in his pride,
And utter'd words of scorn:
“You do not know the ways of men,
“Amid your sheep and corn.
“You doze away the busy day,
“Nor think how minutes run;—
“Go, put your shoulder to your work,
“And do as I have done.
“You've all the earth to yield you wealth,
“Both corn and pasture-land;
“I only ask a counting-house,
“And room whereon to stand.
“And from this hour, in shine or shower,
“I'll learn to live alone;
“I'll do without you well enough—
“The world shall be my own!”

III

And thus they wrangled night and day,
Unfair, like angry men;
Till things went wrong between them both,
And would not right again.

But growing wiser in distress,
Each grasp'd the other's hand;
“'Twas wrong,” said Spade, “to rail at Trade;
“He loves me in the land.”
And Trade as freely own'd his fault:
“I've been unjust,” he said,
“To quarrel with the good old man
“Who grows my daily bread.
“Long may we flourish, Trade and Spade,
“In city and in plain!
“The people starve while we dispute—
“We must not part again.”

IV

And all the people sang for joy,
To see their good accord:
While Spade assembled all his sons,
And piled his plenteous board.
He fed them on the best of fare,
Untax'd the foaming ale,
And pray'd on England's happy shore
That Trade might never fail.
And busy Trade sent fleets of ships
To every sea and strand,
And built his mills and factories
O'er all the prosperous land.
And so we'll sing God save the Queen!
And long may Father Spade,
For sake of both the rich and poor,
Unite with Brother Trade.

THE CHRISTMAS QUEEN.

I

I am Queen of Smiles and Beauty,
Queen supreme this Christmas night.
Loyal subjects! hear your duty—
My decrees are Law and Right.
Mine's a crown of Christmas Holly,
Mine's a charter—wide yet clear;
Foe of gloom and melancholy,
Friend of Laughter—Song—and Cheer.

II

I have titles to reward you,
I can make you Dukes and Earls;
In my court we'll thus regard you,
If it please the pretty girls.—
Choose your rank! “my Lady Smiler!”
“Duchess Lovely!” “Countess Coy!”
“Princess Eye-Bright,”—heart-beguiler!
“Ensign Pleasure!” “General Joy!”

III

Could I govern States and Nations
As to-night I govern you,
I would double poor men's rations,
And give Merit all its due.
Wealth should taste a keener pleasure,
Happy genius learn to thrive,
Every child should be a treasure,
And each honest man should wive.

IV

This I'd do if I were able,
And my kingdom not so small,—
Bounded by a dinner-table
And the pictures on the wall.
Yet, what matters? Here is gladness:
Joy requires no wider span—
Leave the outer world to sadness;—
We'll be happy while we can.

HAPPY WINTER.

I

Said Winter;—and he strove to frown,
“Why do you love me, young and old?
“The drifting snows my forehead crown,
“My heart is hard, my blood is cold?”
“Ah, no!” said both, “We love you well
“For fresh delights remember'd long;
“Your voice is merry as a bell,
“And all your accents sound like song.
“So smile—old Winter—smile again,
“You but pretend our foe to be;
“You warm and cheer the hearts of men,
“We love you for your Revelry.”

II

Said Winter to the maid I love,
“What makes thee prize me, maiden fair?
“I strip the verdure from the grove,
“And Hush the music in the air.”
Sweet was her smile as she replied,
“O Winter wild, though this be true,
“You come with Christmas at your side—
“You give affection work to do.
“The suffering and the poor you seek,
“With kindly words and offerings free,
“You dry the tears on Sorrow's cheek;
“We love you for your Charity.”

III

Old Winter kiss'd the blushing maid,
To young and old he held his hand:
“Who loves me in this guise,” he said,
“Need fear no winter in the land.
“On them I'll ask my daughter Spring
“Her choicest blooms and balms to pour,
“The Summer on their path shall sing,
“And Autumn bless them with its store.
“So be ye happy on the earth,
“Whate'er your name or station be,
“Who mingle with your Christmas mirth
“Your bounteous Christmas Charity.”

COLD CHRISTMAS?—NO!

[_]

[Music by Sir H. R. Bishop.]

I

Cold Christmas? No!
Our Christmas is not cold;
Although the north winds blow,
And pile the drifting snow,
And the beech-trees on the freezing wold
Rock sadly to and fro,
Our Christmas bears a warm true heart,
His face is red with glee;
And he jests and laughs,
And he sings and quaffs.
He was never unkind to me, my love:
May he never be cold to thee!
Cold Christmas? No!
He is warm and bright,
And he brings delight
To the hearts both of high and low.

II

Old Christmas? No!
Though states and kingdoms wear,
And change and ruin grow
From ages as they flow;
He's as light of tread, as young and fair,
As a thousand years ago.
The morning beams are always new,
And scatter blessings free;
And the Christmas-day
Is as new as they.

He was never old to me, my love:
May he never grow old to thee!
Old Christmas? No!
He shall never part
With his youth of heart
While there's love in this world below.

THE DOUBTFUL CASE OF ABSTINENCE AND TEMPERANCE—

WITH THE UMPIRE'S OPINION.

THE WATER-DRINKERS.

As long as there are wells and springs,
And clear refreshing fountains,
As long as mighty rivers run
To ocean from the mountains,
As long as seas give back to clouds
The rains that form the river,—
We'll drink our draughts of water pure,
And bless the bounteous giver.

THE WINE-DRINKERS.

As long as vineyards yield the grape
And nectarines grow mellow,
As long as apples load the trees
And barley-fields are yellow,—
We'll drink our cider, ale or mead,
And wine, the best of liquors,
And press whatever juice we please
To fill our flowing bickers.

THE WATER-DRINKERS.

Let those who toast the lords of war
And demigods of battle,
Prefer the draught of fiery wine,
And make the tables rattle;
We drink to men of peaceful deeds,
To men abhorring slaughter,
The civilizers of the earth,
And—here's to them—in water!

Let those whose fitful passions rove
From new to newer beauty,
Drink to their changeful loves in wine,
And scorn the charms of duty;
We drink the mild domestic hearth,
The wife, the son, the daughter—
The bright fireside of honest men—
And—here's to it—in water!

THE WINE-DRINKERS.

Let you who are so puling weak,
So lost to self-reliance,
As not to trust your own resolve
To bid excess defiance,
Drink, if you will, at pumps and wells,
Lest use of wine should hurt you;
We'll taste the blessings Heaven has sent,
Nor think denial virtue.

Poor souls! you fear not other men,
You dread internal treason,
But if you starved for fear you'd choke,
You'd show as much of reason.
We too can honour virtuous love
And fame unbought of slaughter—
We'll drink to both in wholesome wine,
And wash ourselves in water.

THE UMPIRE'S OPINION.

Like every umpire ever named
A doubtful case to settle,
I can but say I love you both,
Oh goblet!—and oh kettle!—
Whene'er I drink to honest hearts,
I'll drink with equal pleasure
The limpid water from the brook,
Or wine in flowing measure.

Let those who, masters of themselves,
Can use without abusing,
Drink the good wine, whate'er it be—
I leave it to their choosing.
But those who feel their want of strength
When woo'd by potions richer,
Are wise if they confine their draughts
To water from the pitcher.

ELLEN EVELINA.

I

Thou hast smiles for all the world,
Ellen Evelina!
Beautiful those smiles may be,
Warm as sunshine, and as free;
But I'd rather, I confess,
Love a maid who, smiling less,
Gave her sweetest smiles to me,
Ellen Evelina!

II

Thou canst win the world's applause,
Ellen Evelina!
Thou'rt a wit and bel esprit,
Living upon flattery;
But I'd rather all my days
Love a woman seeking praise
Not from others, but from me,
Ellen Evelina!

III

When thou singest, hearts beat low,
Ellen Evelina!
Admiration great and free
Lingers on thy melody!
But no song, however fair,
In my fancy can compare
With a whisper'd—“I love thee,”
Ellen Evelina!

IV

Oft I think against my will,
Ellen Evelina!
Notwithstanding all I see
Bright and beautiful in thee,
That thou lovest, oh my belle,
Thy enchanting self too well,
To give love enough to me,
Ellen Evelina!

V

Thou hast chosen—so have I—
Ellen Evelina!
In thy track I'll cease to run,
I will end as I begun;
She whom I would choose for life,
For my love, my friend, my wife,
Must have heart—and thou hast none,
Ellen Evelina!

GREAT KING WILLIAM.

I

Great King William spread before him
All his stores of wealth untold,
Diamonds, emeralds, and rubies,
Heaps on heaps of minted gold.
Mournfully he gazed upon it
As it glitter'd in the sun,
Sighing to himself, “Oh treasure!
“Held in care, by sorrow won;

“Millions think me rich and happy,
“But, alas! before me piled,
“I would give thee ten times over
“For the slumbers of a child.”

II

Great King William from his turret
Heard the martial trumpets blow,
Saw the crimson banners floating
Of a countless host below;
Saw their weapons flash in sunlight,
As the squadrons trod the sward;
And he sigh'd “Oh! mighty army,
“Hear thy miserable lord:
“At my word thy legions gather—
“At my nod thy captains bend—
“But, with all thy power and splendour,
“I would give thee for a friend!”

III

Great King William stood on Windsor,
Looking from its castled height
O'er his wide-spread realm of England,
Glittering in the morning light;
Looking on the tranquil river
And the forest waving free,
And he sigh'd, “Oh! land of beauty,
“Fondled by the circling sea,
“Mine thou art, but I would yield thee,
“And be happy, could I gain,
“In exchange, a peasant's garden
“And a conscience free from stain.”

PROUD BEAUTY.

I

Proud maid, thou lov'st thyself too much
To give thy love to me;
Thou art too distant for my touch,
I've lost my faith in thee.

II

Though thou art splendid as a star,
Thy beams are little worth,
They come too coldly from afar,
And cannot warm the earth.

III

I want no star amid the gloom,
To light my mortal way,
I want a taper in my room
When twilight groweth gray.

IV

I want no proud majestic tree
To shade my cottage o'er,
I want a honeysuckle free
To clamber at the door.

V

I want no diamond sharply set
Upon my forehead press'd,
I'd rather have a violet
To carry at my breast.

VI

Thy charms may rivalry eclipse,
That all men may admire,
I'd rather have a pair of lips
To kiss beside the fire.

VII

I've lost all hopes I ever built,
Of being loved by thee—
So, Lady, dazzle whom thou wilt,
No more thou'lt dazzle me.

UNDER THE VINE.

I

Although my hand ne'er touch'd the tree
Whence droop the ripe grapes temptingly,
Nor strove to snatch those treasures red
That smile to woo us overhead,
I'd gather sweeter fruits than thou
Couldst ever rifle from the bough,
Were I beside thee, maiden mine,
Beneath those branches of the vine.

II

I'd gaze upon thy beaming eyes,
And gather hopes and sympathies;
I'd sun me in those smiles so bright,
And fill my heart with inward light;

I'd hear thy voice so low and clear,
And cull sweet words I love to hear;
Thy willing hand in mine I'd press,
And from its touch draw happiness.

III

Fair from the bough the bunches dip,
Cool treasures for the longing lip—
All thine to gather; but for me,
More fruits than ever swung from tree
Lurk in the whispers of thy mouth,
And overvalue all the south;
So gather, gather, maiden fine,
Thy harvest cannot equal mine.

THE FESTIVAL OF LABOUR.

OPENING OF THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851.

I

Gather, ye nations, gather!
From forge, and mine, and mill!
Come, Science and Invention;
Come, Industry and Skill!
Come with your woven wonders,
The blossoms of the loom,
That rival Nature's fairest flowers
In all but their perfume;

Come with your brass and iron,
Your silver and your gold,
And arts that change the face of earth,
Unknown to men of old.
Gather, ye nations, gather!
From every clime and soil,
The new confederation,
The jubilee of toil!

II

We strive not for dominion;—
Whoe'er the worthiest be,
Shall bear the palm and garland,
And crown of victory.
In kindly emulation
His willing hand we'll seek,
And own him brother and a friend,
Whatever tongue he speak.
Whate'er his clime or colour,
His lineage or his creed,
To him shall honour due be given
For honourable deed.
Gather, ye nations, gather!
Exalt them—for you can—
The dignity of labour,
The brotherhood of man!

III

The world is growing wiser,
New thoughts and hopes are born;
Too long we've dwelt in darkness,
And tarried for the morn.

Too long in foolish warfare
We've dipp'd our bleeding hands;
But wisdom, taught by suffering keen,
Comes beaming o'er the lands.
Our princes and our people
The grateful truth have learn'd,
And strive for glory purer far
Than Cæsar ever earn'd.
Gather, ye nations, gather!
Let ancient discords cease,
And Earth, with myriad voices,
Awake the song of Peace!

NOON-TIME IN THE SHADE.

I

Far away—Oh far away
From cities all this summer-day,
On the fresh grass beneath the trees,
Lull'd by the voice of birds and bees,
And music of the boughs above,
We'll sit, and sing and read of love,
And quite forget—so happy, then—
The tramp and crash of living men.

II

Far away—Oh far away—
We will be selfish for a day,
And flying from incessant strife,
Live with the leaves a careless life;

One day;—it is not much to crave;—
Out of the ocean, one small wave
On which to float, nor seek to know
How th' incessant world may go.

III

Far away—Oh far away—
I will sing my love a lay;
And she shall sit amid the flowers,
And hear of ancient troubadours;
And if it please my fancy well
My passion in disguise to tell,
I'll woo my lady in a song,
And she shall blush, nor think me wrong.

IV

Far away—Oh far away—
Thankful for a summer-day;
We will enjoy it like the leaves,
Or ripening corn that never grieves,
Or mellowing fruit upon the bough
That blushes thanks for sunshine now;
Or lark that sings in heaven's blue cope—
A thing too happy ev'n to hope.

V

Far away—Oh far away—
We'll make a gem of Time to-day;
And should the future need the spark,
We'll draw the jewel from the dark—
Of all our jewels prized the best,
And wear it upon Memory's breast,
To show—whatever fate contrives—
We once were happy in our lives.

SUMMER RAIN.

[_]

[Glee by Sir H. R. Bishop.]

I

The mountain streams are silent
Or whisper faint and low,
The Earth is grateful to the dews
For moisture which the clouds refuse,—
Blow, west wind,—blow!
And fall, O gentle Rain!
Awake the music of the bowers,
Unfold the beauty of the flowers;—
The corn-fields long to hear thy voice,
And woods and orchards will rejoice
To see thee, gentle Rain!

II

It comes! The gushing wealth descends!
Hark! how it patters on the leaves!
Hark! how it drips from cottage eaves!—
The pastures and the clouds are friends—
Drop gently, gentle Rain!
The fainting corn-stalk lifts its head,
The grass grows greener at thy tread,
The woods are musical again;—
And from the hill-side springing,
Down comes the torrent singing,
With grateful nature in accord,
A full-voiced anthem to the Lord,
To thank Him for the Rain.

RECONCILIATION.

I

'Tis true that you and I fell out,
Yesterday!
I've no idea what about,
Johnnie Gray!
I only know the sun shines on,
Though yesterday be dead and gone,
And through the trellis at the door
The light comes dancing as before—
Johnnie Gray!

II

The evening follow'd glowing noon,
Yesterday!
And driving clouds obscured the moon,
Johnnie Gray!
But night is past, and morn is here—
The fields are green—the sky is clear—
The rose and lily gleam with dew—
And I've two loving lips for you,
Johnnie Gray!

THE GIN-FIEND.

I

The Gin-Fiend cast his eyes abroad,
And look'd o'er all the land,
And number'd his myriad worshippers
With his bird-like, long right hand.
He took his place in the teeming street,
And watch'd the people go;
Around and about, with a buzz and a shout,
For ever to and fro;—
“And it's hip!” said the Gin-Fiend, “hip, hurra!
“For the multitudes I see,
“Who offer themselves in sacrifice,
“And die for the love of me.”

II

There stood a woman on a bridge,
She was old, but not with years—
Old with excess, and passion, and pain,
And she wept remorseful tears
As she gave to her babe her milkless breast;
Then, goaded by its cry,
Made a desperate leap in the river deep,
In the sight of the passers-by!
“And it's hip!” said the Gin-Fiend, “hip, hurra!
“She sinks;—but let her be!
“In life or death, whatever she did,
“Was all for the love of me.”

III

There watch'd another by the hearth,
With sullen face and thin;
She utter'd words of scorn and hate
To one that stagger'd in.
Long had she watch'd, and when he came
His thoughts were bent on blood;—
He could not brook her taunting look,
And he slew her where she stood.
“And it's hip!” said the Gin-Fiend, “hip, hurra!
“My right good friend is he;
“He hath slain his wife, he hath given his life,
“And all for the love of me.”

IV

And every day, in the crowded way,
He takes his fearful stand,
And numbers his myriad worshippers
With his bird-like, long right hand;
And every day, the weak and strong,
Widows, and maids, and wives,
Blood-warm, blood-cold, young men and old,
Offer the Fiend their lives.
“And it's hip!” he says, “hip! hip! hurra!
“For the multitudes I see,
“That sell their souls for the burning drink,
“And die for the love of me.”

THE GLADES OF WINDSOR.

[_]

[James I. of Scotland was taken captive by the English in the eleventh year of his age. He was educated at Windsor Castle, and became the most accomplished prince of his time. He excelled particularly in poetry and music; and on his return to Scotland, after a captivity of nineteen years, he introduced into his own land the music which he had learned in Windsor Castle. He is universally recognised as “the father of Scottish melody,” and popular tradition ascribes to him the composition of many national airs. He has narrated, in his poem of “The King's Quir” (The King's Book), the romantic history of his love for the daughter of the Duke of Somerset—the beautiful Lady Jane Beaufort—whom he saw for the first time from a turret of Windsor Castle, as she was walking among her maidens. He afterwards married this lady, who became Queen of Scotland; and during his unhappy reign of fourteen years, and in the tragic incident which ended his life, she conducted herself with a mingled gentleness and heroism which justified the passionate attachment of her husband, and which to this day shed a halo of light upon her name and memory.]

I

Oh, fond is remembrance of time long departed;
Come, sit by my side, and the days I'll recall,
When the present was bright to the young and true-hearted,
And the fast-coming future seem'd brighter than all.
Through each fair forest glade
Of green Windsor we stray'd;
Our speech was a token, our silence a sign,
And thy hand's gentle pressure,
My heart's dearest treasure,
First told me of love that responded to mine.

II

In the dark gloomy dawn of my life's early morning,
When captive I pined for my home far away,
I forgot all my foemen,—their gibes and their scorning,
As soon as thy love shed a light on my way.

In that thrice-blesséd hour
When I gazed from the tower,
And beheld thee below in thy beauty and grace;
With bondage contented,
No more I lamented,
But found a new hope in the heaven of thy face.

III

The hope I then cherish'd has never deceived me,
With thee all my days have been days of delight;
The world may have oft, but thou never hast grieved me,
And always thy counsels have led me aright:
Oh! my love and my life,
My heart's partner and wife,
The weight of a crown is a burden of pain;
Sharp agonies line it,
And might I resign it,
'Twere sweet to be with thee in Windsor again.

A POOR MAN'S TREASURES.

I

Though I may be poor, if you reckon in coin,
For wealth I'm too happy to sigh:
I'm rich in some jewels no thief can purloin,
And that Crœsus himself could not buy.
I've health,—that's a fortune—and, more!
My teeth are estates in their place;—
My nose—half a million could never restore
A jewel, like that, to my face.

II

And then, I've my eyes; not the throne of this land
Could tempt me to part with but one.
My senses, my limbs, and my willing right hand;
Fresh air, and the light of the sun;—
With these and the friend that I love,
And the heart that beats fondly for me,
With Hope at my side looking calmly above,
I'm rich as a mortal can be.

PROTESTATIONS.

I

If the apple grow
On the apple-tree;
And the wild wind blow
O'er the wild wood free;
And the deep stream flow
To the deeper sea;
And they cannot help growing,
And blowing, and flowing,
I cannot help loving thee.

II

Yet if wild winds blew
Never more on the lea;
And no blossoms grew
On the healthy tree;
And the river untrue
Escaped the sea;

And they all had ceased blowing,
And growing, and flowing,
I'd ne'er cease loving thee.

III

And till that hour,
In the day or night;
In the bield or bower,
In the dark or bright;
In the fruit or the flower,
In the bloom or the blight:
In my reaping or sowing,
My coming or going,
I'll ne'er cease loving thee.

IRELAND'S WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA. —1849.

[_]

[Air by John Smith, Mus. Doc., Dublin.]

I

Sad Erin! thy harp has been silent too long;
Its strings to thy touch throb responsive no more;
Thy voice, once attuned to the raptures of song,
But raises a moan on thy desolate shore.
Arouse thee, O Erin! look up through thy tears;
The Queen of the Isles in thy havens appears,
With sisterly love, and all sympathies true;—
Awaken thy harp—let it sound on her ears,—
“Cead mile failte!—Erin aboo!”

II

The night of thy sorrow shall melt in the morn;
Already the darkness gives place to the day;
And thy children, that sat on their thresholds forlorn,
Look up to the sunshine that brightens the way.
Exult, then, O Erin! Victoria shall bring,
For the winter now passing, the glories of spring—
For the dark-beating tempest, clear vistas of blue;—
And the thousands now weeping shall smile as they sing,
“Cead mile failte!—Erin aboo!”

III

For years and seasons as they run,
For wintry cloud and summer sun,
For seed-time and the autumn store
In due succession evermore,
For flower and fruit, for herb and tree,
Lord! we are thankful unto Thee.

III

For beauty and delight of sound,
That float Thy universe around;
For carol of the happy birds,
For fall of streams, for gush of words,
For music of the earth and sea,
Lord! we are thankful unto Thee.

IV

For daily toil that we endure,
For labour's recompense secure,
For wholesome zest of appetite,
For food and drink and slumbers light,

For vigorous health and pulses free,
Lord! we are thankful unto Thee.

V

For fellowship with human kind,
For pure emotions of the mind,
For Joy, that were not joy sincere,
Unless for Sorrow's previous tear;
For Hope, and Love, and Sympathy,
Lord! we are thankful unto Thee.

VI

For Conscience, and its voice of awe—
Thy whisper when we break Thy law,
For knowledge of Thy power divine,
And wisdom, mighty as benign,
For all we are, and hope to be,
Lord! we are thankful unto Thee.

TEARS.

[_]

[Music by Sir H. R. Bishop.]

I

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,
Ye are welcome to my heart,—thawing, thawing, like the snow;
I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow-drops spring,
And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

II

IV

They pass;—they are too lofty
And remote,
They cannot see the spaces
Where I float.
The last hope dies within me,
With the gasping in my throat.

V

Through dim cloud-vistas looking,
I can see
The new moon's crescent sailing
Pallidly:
And one star coldly shining
Upon my misery.

VI

There are no sounds in Nature
But my moan,
The shriek of the wild petrel
All alone,
And roar of waves exulting
To make my flesh their own.

VII

Billow with billow rages,
Tempest-trod;
Strength fails me; coldness gathers
On this clod:
From the deep and troubled waters
I cry to Thee, my God!

THE WITHERED FLOWERS.

I

Die! flowerets, die!
Fade! leaves of summer, fade!
Thus on the ground I strew
Red rose and violet blue,
Emblems on earth to lie
Of all my wasted love, and all my hopes decay'd.

II

Fair as the rose
My youth put on its bloom;
But like these rose-leaves wan,
Its joys have come and gone,
And from their withering flows
No fragrance after death to sanctify their tomb.

III

Hope was a flower
Fairer, ye buds, than you;
But Hope—so sweet and bright—
Has shrivell'd in the blight
That smote its vernal hour,
Nor Spring, nor all its balms, its freshness may renew.

IV

And Love, young Love,—
Fairer than all the rest!
It blossom'd at my feet,
And with its odours sweet
Made rich the air above;
I pluck'd it where it grew, and wore it on my breast.

V

But woe is me!
Hid in that chalice fair
A poisonous aspic crept,
That stung me when I slept,
And fill'd with agony
The bosom that ne'er dreamt to find such traitor there.

VI

Die, flowerets, all!
Fade, leaflets, on my heart!
Joy withers where it rose,
Hope's fading eyelids close,
And Love's sweet blossoms fall;—
The light of Life is dim, and all its blooms depart.

THE GIANT.

I

There came a Giant to my door,
A Giant fierce and strong,
His step was heavy on the floor,
His arms were ten yards long.
He scowl'd and frown'd; he shook the ground:—
I trembled through and through;—
At length I look'd him in the face
And cried:—“Who cares for you?”

II

The mighty Giant, as I spoke,
Grew pale and thin and small,
And through his body, as 'twere smoke,
I saw the sunshine fall.
His blood-red eyes turn'd blue as skies,
He whisper'd soft and low.
“Is this,” I cried, with growing pride,
“Is this the mighty foe?”

III

He sunk before my earnest face,
He vanish'd quite away,
And left no shadow on his place
Between me and the day.
Such Giants come to strike us dumb—
But weak in every part,
They melt before the strong man's eyes,
And fly the true of heart.

THE MAGIC HARP.

I

Amid the trailing willows,
By a deep dark stream,
That heaved its restless billows
In the moon's pale beam,
A golden harp was hung,
By magic fingers strung,
That to the winds made music
Sweet as angels dream.

II

A stranger heard it sighing
In a soft sad tone,
As if to Heaven replying,
And the starry zone;
And struck th' enchanted strings,
As the air is struck with wings,
Till music fell like roses
By the autumn blown.

III

Alas! the hand that woke them
Was too rude and strong;
The touch that thrill'd them, broke them
In a mournful song.
The golden strings were crush'd,
Their harmonies were hush'd,
In one wild burst of sadness
Sounding far and long.

Rouse! brothers rouse! we've far to travel,
Free as the winds we love to roam,
Far through the prairie, far through the forest,
Over the mountains we'll find a home.

I

The snow lies deep upon the ground,
The north wind howls on high,
The mountain-tops stand white and clear
Against the dark blue sky;
The swamp is solid as the rock,
The river flows no more;
And lakes are bridged by iron ice
To bear us from the shore.
The roughest roads are smooth as lawns,
Bring out the merry sleigh;
Hark! hark! the music of the bells!
Away we go, away!

II

The farmer and the farmer's wife
Sit by the fire at home,
And as they hear the piping blast,
They pity those who roam.
But we find pleasure out of doors,
And fear no wild wind's wrath;
And, swift as swallows o'er the pool,
We cleave ourselves a path.
There's fresh delight in rapid flight,
Bring out the merry sleigh;
Hark! hark! the music of the bells!
Away we go, away!

101

III

Five hundred miles our course we'll keep,
And though the way be long,
We'll find a welcome at the end,—
A welcome and a song.
Around our father's cheerful hearth
The Yule-log sparkles bright,
And happy faces gather there
To spend the Christmas-night.
We'll join them ere the week be old,
Bring out the flying sleigh!
Hark! hark! the music of the bells!
Away we go, away!

X.—DOWN WITH THEM.

I

Down with them! down with the lords of the forest!
Down to the earth with each high-spreading tree!
Proud as they stand,
They shall yield to my hand,
To build up a home for my children and me.
Kings of the wilderness, ancient and hoary,
Old when Columbus set foot on the shore,
I breathe with the winds a last sigh for their glory,
The pride of a land they must cumber no more.

102

II

Man, the new monarch, decrees they must perish,—
Everything crumbles to timely decay;
Cities and towns,
Mighty sceptres and crowns,
Flourish and glitter—and vanish away.
Down with them, down! it is dark in their shadow,
Gloomy and chill in the light of the morn;
We've need of their place for the grass of the meadow,
We've need of the sunshine to ripen the corn.

III

Long have they harbour'd the 'coon or the savage,
But Change is the master of great and of small;—
Down let them lie,
Though so mighty and high,—
Merry's the music that rings to their fall!
Sweet human voices shall sound through the good land
Where the wolf howl'd, and the fox wander'd free;—
Down to the earth with the lords of the woodland!
Down to the earth with each high-spreading tree!

XI.—UP THE STREAM! THROUGH THE WOOD!

I

Up the stream! through the wood! Winter is past,
Hush'd is the cold angry voice of the blast;
Soft blow the breezes, and bright shines the day;
The fountains are gushing, the roses are blushing,
And rivers are rushing; away, lads, away!

103

Unruffled and blue, with the light on her breast,
Lake Erie lies calm, like an ocean at rest.
So gather, make ready, with rifle and bow,
And up the stream! through the woods! row, my lads, row!

II

Up the stream, through the wood, thousands of miles!
Breasting the rapids, and rounding the isles;
Ours is the wilderness, come when we may,
Teeming with treasure, and all for our pleasure,—
Our pleasure and profit; away, lads, away!
The nuggets we find are the squirrel and coon,
The beaver and white wolf that howls to the moon;
So gather, make ready, with rifle and bow,
And up the stream! through the woods! row, my lads, row!

III

Up the stream, through the wood, hardy and bold,—
'Twould curb our free souls to go digging for gold;
There's wealth in the forest—black, white, brown, and gray;
Our sport is to find it, and danger—who'd mind it?
'Tis danger gives pleasure—away, lads, away!
The full-bosom'd rivers flow merrily on;
The summer is short, 'tis our time to be gone;
So gather, make ready, with rifle and bow,
And up the stream! through the woods! row, my lads, row!

104

XII.—LONG PARTED HAVE WE BEEN.

I

Long parted have we been,
With an ocean wide between,
Since the weary day we left them on our good old English shore,
And we took a last farewell to return to them no more.
But they're coming, coming, coming,
They are coming with the flowers,
They are coming with the summer,
To this new land of ours:
And we'll all forget our sadness,
And shake their hands with gladness,
And bid them joyous welcome to this new land of ours.

II

How often have we pray'd
They were here, both youth and maid,
The friends, the dear relations, and the lovers fond and true,
To share our better fortune, and all the joys we knew.
And they're coming, coming, coming,
They are coming with the flowers,
They are coming with the summer,
To this new land of ours:
And we'll give them cordial greeting,
And have a merry meeting,
And a day of true rejoicing in this new land of ours.

105

III

In all our happiness
There seem'd a joy the less,
When we look'd around and miss'd them from the fireside's cheerful glow—
The old familiar comrades that we loved so long ago.
But they're coming, coming, coming,
They are coming with the flowers,
They are coming with the summer,
To this new land of ours:
It needs but their embraces,
And all their smiling faces,
To make us quite contented in this new land of ours.

106

ENGLAND, DEAR ENGLAND.

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

Where is the slave who, of England despairing,
Aids not her cause when she summons her sons?
Where is the knave who, when foemen are daring,
Parleys for safety, or crouches and runs?
England ne'er grew them,
Her soil never knew them,
Wholesome's the earth in our isle of the sea.
Our maidens would flout them,
Our children would scout them,
We'd hoot them with scorn from our land of the free.

II

England, dear England, our fathers before us
Bled for thy freedom, and left us their fame!
England our darling! the mothers who bore us
Gave us their blessing entwined with thy name!
Ours be the glory
To better thy story,
Lofty and pure be thy banner unfurl'd.
If great we receive thee,
Still greater we'll leave thee,
England, dear England, the Queen of the world.

107

THE GLORY OF THE FLAG.

I

Raise high the flag of England!
The meteor of the fight!
That never flash'd on battle-field
Except to lead the right;
That never graced the triumphs
Of tyrants o'er their hosts,
Or carried Rapine and Revenge
To unoffending coasts.
Unfurl it high
In purity,
The flag without a stain;
That we men,
The free men,
May swear by it again!

II

Wherever it has floated,
Upon the sea or land,
Has Trade, the world-adorning, stretch'd
Her civilizing hand;
And Enterprise has ventured
Her argosies high piled;
And Science strew'd the earth with flowers,
And kindly Knowledge smiled.
For deeds like these,
O'er land and seas

108

Our flag has been unfurl'd;
And we men
The free men,
Can boast them to the world.

III

Be these thy triumphs ever,
Oh, banner of our sires!
May never War unfurl thy cross,
To gleam above her fires;
May civil strife ne'er plant thee
Upon the plain or hill;
But Peace, Discovery, Love, and Joy
Exalt and wave thee still.
O'er smiling downs
And prosperous towns
Float proudly, as of yore!
That we men
The free men,
May love thee evermore!

IV

Yet, if a tyrant urge us
To vindicate the right,
How great soe'er his power and fame,
We'll raise thee in the fight.
Our sons shall see thee flashing,
And conquer in the van—
Shall rival Alma's gory field,
And nobler Inkermann!
Whate'er they do,
The brave and true,

109

Thy fame shall flourish fair;
And no man
A foeman
Shall touch thee—if he dare!

WEARY WARFARE.

I

All nature takes the part
Of the sorrow in my heart—
Takes the voice of my lamenting all the night and all the day!
I hear a sweet bird singing,
On a branch of willow swinging,
And evermore, for evermore, the sad song seems to say:
“Oh! worthless are the laurels
“To be gained in kingly quarrels,
“And the phantom glory gather'd in the death-fields of the fray.”

II

The passing west-wind grieves
As it rustles 'mid the leaves—
I cannot close my fancy to its low incessant moan;
Against my casement beating,
Still the rain-drops keep repeating—
And evermore, for evermore, the one desponding tone:
“Oh! day of desolation,
“When nation wars with nation,
“When homes and hearts are broken, and realms are overthrown.”

110

III

The trumpet's boasting voice,
Bidding multitudes rejoice,
Speaks of murder, not of glory, and of death, not victory.
The joy-bells loudly pealing
But awake the same sad feeling;
And evermore, for evermore, seem sounding mournfully,
“O battles red and gory!
“A melancholy glory,
“O weary weary warfare, that steals my love from me!”

MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.

[_]

[Music by Sir H. R. Bishop.]

I

Mourn for the mighty dead,
Mourn for the spirit fled,
Mourn for the lofty head—
Low in the grave!
Tears such as nations weep
Hallow the hero's sleep;
Calm be his rest, and deep,—
Arthur the brave!

II

Nobly his work was done;
England's most glorious son—
True-hearted Wellington,
Shield of our laws!

111

Ever in peril's night
Heaven send such arm of might—
Guardian of Truth and Right,—
Raised in their cause!

III

Dried be the tears that fall;
Love bears the warrior's pall,
Fame shall his deeds recall—
Britain's right hand!
Bright shall his memory be!
Star of supremacy!
Banner of Victory!
Pride of our land!

STREW ROSES—GATHER GARLANDS.

A SONG OF VICTORY.

[_]

[Music by Frank Mori.]

I

Ring the joy-bells, chime on chime!
Sound the peal from shore to shore;
Steadfast, dauntless, and sublime,
England conquers as of yore.
And let the people's voice
O'er all the land rejoice,
That in the great immortal fight,
The glorious living and the dead,
For Freedom arm'd, for Justice bled,
And conquer'd in the right.

II

Sound the requiem, loud and clear!
England weeps her children slain,
Mourns, with sympathy sincere,
Heroes lost, but not in vain.

115

And let the solemn peal
A nation's grief reveal:
Yet be the tears of sorrow dried;—
We owe their babes a glorious debt;
And grief is vain if it forget
The claims of those who died.

III

Ring the joy-bells, light the blaze!
And let the deep-voiced cannon roar!
Join all hands in prayer and praise,
England conquers as of yore.
On red Oppression's grave
She liberates the slave;—
She aids the weak, she curbs the strong;
She arms;—and hopeful nations pray;
She arms—she fights—she wins the day;—
And Right succeeds to Wrong.

ENGLAND AND FRANCE;—1855.

[_]

[Music by Mrs. Joseph Kirkman.]

I

Who dare disturb the lands,
Arming their felon bands,
Lifting their blood-red hands?
Let them advance!
Two mighty states combined,
Both of one heart and mind,
Combat for humankind,—
England and France.

116

II

Friends of the rightful cause,
Guardians of Europe's laws;—
Guilt in its schemes shall pause,
Awed by your glance.
Where your twin banners wave,
Freedom shall bless the slave;—
Glory shall crown the brave,—
England and France.

III

Foes of our peace and right,
Tempt not the useless fight,
Vain is your arm of might,—
Vain, sword and lance;—
True hearts repeat the cry,
England and Liberty!
England and Victory!
England and France!

117

ENGLAND OVER ALL.

[_]

[Music by Frank Mori.]

I

Little England! great in story!
Mother of immortal men!
Great in courage! great in glory!
Dear to Freedom's tongue and pen!
If the world combine to brave thee,
English hearts will dare the fight—
English hands will glow to save thee,
Strong for England and the right!
England over all,
Whatsoe'er befall!
If we live or die,
This shall be our cry—
England over all!

II

Weaker nations, over-zealous,
May desire thine overthrow!
Selfish tyrants, vainly jealous,
May conspire to strike thee low.
Let them strive with armies banded,
Let them plot with fool and knave,
England, strong, and single-handed,
Shall defy them to enslave!
England over all,
Whatsoe'er befall!

118

If we live or die,
This shall be our cry—
England over all!

III

England first in art and science,
First in letters, first in fame—
Earth's example and reliance,
Free and worthy of the name.
Realms, the light of freedom spurning,
Rise and fall and pass away;
England, with that lantern burning,
Stands superior to decay.
England over all,
Whatsoe'er befall!
If we live or die,
This shall be our cry—
England over all!

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

Firm as England's coast,
When the tempests blow,
Stood the British line,
And foil'd the advancing foe.
The fierce Napoleon sigh'd to win the day,
But Wellington was calm—the master of the fray.

119

He saw the time had come,—
Blow trumpets! beat the drum!—
And when the order flew
Like light o'er Waterloo,
And the great immortal strife begun:
“Now be brief,”
Said the chief;
“We'll excel all the deeds we have done;—
Follow me,
You shall see
How the battle should be fought and won!”

II

Ney and all his men,
Never known to fail,
Fled in sudden rout,
Like storms of rattling hail.
The old Imperial Guard—Napoleon's boast—
Dissolved before the shock of the mighty British host;
And Blucher, found at last,
Came sweeping like a blast.
The knell of France had peal'd;
The Frenchmen fled the field;
The great Napoleon saw he was undone;—
“Follow me!”
Then said he;
“All is lost!—they are coming!—let us run!
Sauvons-nous!
They pursue!
And the battle has been lost and won!”

120

III

Thus the fight was fought,
Not for vain renown,
Not for sake of war,
Or mad ambition's crown;
But for the sake of peace, unknown so long,
To give the world repose from tyranny and wrong.
And thus for evermore,
Unconquer'd as before,
May Britain stand her ground,
And Wellingtons be found
To wave her glorious banner to the sun;
And to lead,
When we need,
Crying, “Englishmen! the strife has begun!
Follow me!
You shall see
How the battle should be fought and won!”

OUR SWORDS ARE SHEATHED.

I

Our swords are sheathed,
The flag droops idly down,
Our shields are laurel-wreathed—
There's peace in bower and town.
But should a foreign tyrant
Insult us where we stand,

121

Or foes invade, we'll draw the blade,
And sweep them from the land.
Bless'd are our swords, if Justice
Have made them keen and strong,
But shame shall be their portion,
Who battle in the wrong.

II

Our fame and might
Have rung throughout the world,
And ever in the right
Our flag has been unfurl'd.
And if our foes, forgetful,
Should tempt our guardian wave,
We'll find for each, upon the beach,
Destruction and a grave.
So let them come!—we care not!
'Tis Freedom makes us strong;
And shame shall be their portion
Who battle in the wrong!

DERWENTWATER.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

Sweet lake of the mountains! how happy was I
When life's sunny morn had no cloud on its sky,
And I roam'd with my love on thy beautiful shore,
To hear the deep music that gush'd from Lodore!

122

II

We sail'd on thy waters, rejoicing alone,
Or trod thy green islands, and call'd them our own,
And built, 'mid the hills that encircle thy breast,
A bower and a home in the wilds of the West.

III

But sorrow has darken'd the noon of our day,
And peril and doubt have encompass'd our way;
My heart's only love in captivity lies,
And thy glory, O Derwent! is dimm'd in mine eyes.

IV

Sad lake of the mountains, through dangers I roam,
With a pang in my heart and a blight on my home,
To dream of the joys that shall bless me no more,
And mingle my sighs with the moan of Lodore.

TELL ME, OH TELL ME.

[_]

[Music by Frank Mori.]

I

Tell me, oh tell me, Rose of the morn,
What whispers the dew on thy breast;
Tell me, oh tell me, blossoming Thorn,
Thy vows to the wind of the west.
Soft flowing River, seeking the sea,
What saith the moonlight sleeping on thee?
“Love!” said the Rose and the Hawthorn of May!
And “Love,” said the River, “for ever and aye!”

123

II

Tell me, oh tell me, Blush on her cheek,
What makes thee as red as the rose;
Tell me, oh tell, for I know ye can speak,
Sweet Smiles, what your meanings disclose.
Eyes of my dear one! stars of my night!
What is your secret, beaming with light?
“Love!” said the Blush and the Smile that she wore;
And “Love,” said the dark Eyes, “true Love evermore!”

THE CHEERFUL HEART.

I

Though Love may claim the sweetest song,
And bards the tender strain prolong;
Though Friendship evermore inspire
The answering echoes of the lyre;
Still a theme remains to sing,
Fair as sunshine, fresh as spring,
Rainbow seen when storms depart,—
The charm of life, the Cheerful Heart.

II

Should Love grow cold, or Friendship wane,
'Tis this can win them back again;
And Hatred, in its own despite,
Will yield and soften in its light.

131

II

And what's a crown, if not a cap,—
A cumbrous, heavy thing, mayhap?
And I've a cap of easy size,
That shields my head, and shades mine eyes;
A fence around my whole estate,
Wherein no lurking traitors wait.
So let the king enjoy his crown,
And line it well with fur and down,
Sparkling bright
In the light,
'Twill seam his forehead deep with care;—
Despise my fur-cap, if you dare!

III

And what's a throne, if not a seat
Too high for love to reach its feet?
And I've a chair at my fireside,
That's made for use, and not for pride.
Around its elbows, worn and old,
The children shake their locks of gold;
So let the king enjoy his throne,
Unloved, unloving, and alone.
Come to me,
If you'd see
An easy throne, a queen most fair;—
Despise my kingdom, if you dare!

132

OLD JOHN JENKINS.

I

“Love is false!” said old John Jenkins;
“False and selfish, proud and vain;
“Brittle ice in age's winter,
“In life's summer storm and rain.”

II

Jenkins, Jenkins, old John Jenkins,
Milk grows sour, and so do you;
Jaundiced eyes make dark the sunshine,
And discolour heaven's true blue!

III

“Friendship cheats!” quoth old John Jenkins,—
“Shows its taper best by day;
“Borrows money when you're wealthy,
“When you're needy flies away.”

IV

Jenkins, Jenkins, old John Jenkins,
Leave us Hope while life is new;
Memory fails or sense forsakes you—
You've perverted all you knew!

V

“Fame 's the breath of foolish people;
“Wine 's a headache, gold's a snare;
“Beauty plagues us, glory slays us;
“Nothing 's good, and nothing 's fair.”

133

VI

Jenkins, Jenkins, old John Jenkins,
You are rotten through and through;
If this world have lost its flavour,
Try the next, you growler, do!

THE BLESSED RAIN.

My love took shelter under the tree
From rain, the summer rain,
And I, by love made bold and free,
Took shelter with her in the lee
Of the wide, high-spreading chestnut-tree,
And bless'd the rain, the rain.
Quoth I, “Dost think the storm will pass?”
Quoth she, “I'm but a silly lass.”
Quoth I, “True love hath rainbow-light.”
Quoth she, “Most beautiful and bright.”
Quoth I, “My love is hard to tell.”
Quoth she, “Come close, I'll listen well!”
Oh, rain! oh, rain!
Oh, blessed rain!
No sunshine ever shall come again,
So dear to me as that stormy rain!

134

THE IRON SHIP.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

She was not born 'mid rain or dew,
Nor in the sunshine ever grew;
No lordly monarch of the wood
Fell in his glory where he stood,
That she might flourish fair and free.
But down, a thousand fathoms down,
Where stretch the roots of mountains brown,
We drew the iron for her frame,
And built her up, 'mid smoke and flame,
To sail, the mistress of the sea.

II

The hammer fell, the anvil rung,
As she to shape and beauty sprung;
In mimic lightnings she was nursed,
And cradled in their thunder-burst;
And now we launch her fair and free,
To brave alike the tempest-stroke,
And fire, that slays the “heart of oak;”
The iron conqu'ror of the main,
May danger track her path in vain,
The queen and glory of the sea!

135

FAREWELL TO THEE, ENGLAND.

I

Farewell to thee, England! oh, land of our birth,
The pride and the glory and queen of the earth!
We sail with sad hearts to a land far away,
In search of the bread that may fail if we stay.
New faces glow bright in the blaze of our fires,
The stranger sits down in the halls of our sires.
Farewell! oh, farewell to thy beautiful shore!
England! dear England! farewell evermore!

II

We've courage to lead us; there's strength in our hands;
There's wealth to be won in the far-distant lands;
For us and our children are acres to spare,
And the name of our fathers forbids to despair.
There are homes in the world for the honest and free,
And kingdoms and empires to found o'er the sea.
We quit not in anger thy beautiful shore;
'Tis with tears that we bid thee farewell evermore!

III

Farewell! oh, farewell! In the land where we go
Our heart's deep affection shall lighten our woe;
Thy manners, thy language, thy faith, and thy fame,
Shall follow our footsteps, and flourish the same;
Thy virtues shall live in the songs that we sing,
And the tales that we tell to thy glory shall cling.
Farewell! oh, farewell to thy time-hallow'd shore!
England! dear England! farewell evermore!

136

THE BEAUTY AND THE BEE.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

Fanny array'd in the bloom of her beauty,
Stood at the mirror and toy'd with her hair,
Viewing her charms, till she felt it a duty
To own that like Fanny no woman was fair.
A bee from the garden,—oh, what could mislead him?—
Stray'd through the lattice new dainties to seek,
And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him,
Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek.

II

Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought him,
Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart,
And angrily cried, when at last she had caught him,
“Die for the deed, little wretch that thou art!”
Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender
Pray'd her for mercy,—to hear and forgive:
“Oh, spare me!” he cried, “By those eyes in their “splendour;
“Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live!

III

“Am I to blame that your cheeks are like roses,
“Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse?
“Lilies are hid in your mouth when it closes,
“And odours of Araby breathe from your lips.”

137

Fanny relented:—“'Twere cruel to hurt you,—
“Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore;
“And e'en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue;—
“Go forth and be happy—I blame you no more.”

OVER THE WAY.

I

When cold-hearted Poverty knocks at my door,
And robs me of blessings I gather'd before,
Takes a glass from my table, a coal from my fire,
And robes my dear Nelly in meaner attire,
I envy sometimes in the heat of the day
My very good friend who lives over the way.

II

But when I sit down at my pleasant fireside,
And count o'er the joys I was never denied,—
My sweet little wife, and the babes at her knee,
My health and my conscience unsullied and free,—
No longer I suffer my wishes to stray,
Or envy my friend who lives over the way.

III

He's wealthy but feeble, he's titled but old;
His son is a spendthrift, his wife is a scold;
Suspicious of others, ill pleased with himself,
His only delight is to reckon his pelf.
Were he ten times as rich, I'd refuse, by my fay!
To change with my friend who lives over the way.

138

IV

Though Poverty, frowning, peeps in at my door,
I'll neither be beaten nor vainly deplore;
I'll scare him away by hard work if I can,
And look in his face with the heart of a man;
And, hiving at home all the joys that I may,
Forget my poor friend who lives over the way.

THE SEA SORROW.

I

Far away, far away, on the wide rolling billow,
I dream of the fields and the bowers,
Of the cottage at home, of my love's lonely pillow,
And the children that sport 'mid the flowers.
Day and night, sad at heart, on the ocean
I sigh for the folly that caused me to roam;
Or I weep bitter tears of emotion,
To think of the beauty and blessings of home.

II

Nevermore, nevermore discontented I'll wander
In search of the treacherous gold;
Safe at home let me rest, all the wiser and fonder,
To watch my heart's treasures unfold.
All the dreams of ambition are closing,—
No more in the rays of the morning they shine;
From my toil and my travel reposing,
The calm light of duty shall gild my decline.

139

JONES.

I

We sit round the table and pour out the wine,
Transforming our crystals to rubies divine;
Then drain them to Freedom, to Friendship, to Worth,
And think ourselves great as the kings of the earth;
When Jones, interrupting, says, “Drinking 's a sin,
“And headache and heartache are drawn from the “bin.”
Fill the goblet again, not with cheers, but with groans:—
Get out of our sunshine, ridiculous Jones!

II

I read the sweet letter my love sent to me,
Enclosing a rose from a land o'er the sea;
I press to my fond lips a curl of her hair,
And own that she's loving and good as she's fair;
When Jones, interrupting, says, “Love 's a mistake,
“And women but play with men's hearts till they “break.”
I answer, “Why not, if they're bloodless as stones?—
“Get out of my sunshine, detestable Jones!”

III

My heart glows with hope for the welfare of man;
I pray for my fellows, and help when I can;
I see through the distance of ages to be,
The many, grown wiser, made happy and free;

But if you doubt the trial,
And smile to hear the tale,
I know beyond denial
A charm that cannot fail:
Try thought refined, the simple mind,
Good humour bright and feeling true,
And you need not seek for eye or cheek,
The magic of the dew.

145

THE DREAMS OF YOUTH.

I

Oh! youth's fond dreams, like evening skies,
Are tinged with colours bright,
Their cloud-built halls and turrets rise
In lines of lingering light.
Airy, fairy,
In the beam they glow,
As if they'd last
Through every blast
That angry Fate may blow.
But Time wears on with stealthy pace,
And robes of solemn gray,
And in the shadow of her face
The glories fade away.

II

But not in vain the splendours die,
For worlds before unseen
Rise on the forehead of the sky,
Unchanging and serene.
Gleaming, streaming,
Through the dark they show
Their lustrous forms
Above the storms
That rend our earth below.
So pass the visions of our Youth,
In Time's advancing shade;
Yet evermore the stars of Truth
Shine brighter when they fade.

146

THE BOATMAN.

I

The bridegroom smiled a happy smile,
The bride was sweetly blushing,
And o'er the water's tranquil breast
A sound of bells came gushing.
The bridesmaids laugh'd, or watch'd the light
Upon the ripples quiver,
But shadows dimm'd the boatman's face
Who row'd them o'er the river.

II

Slow fell his oars, his thoughts were sad;
“'Tis eighteen years in summer
“Since o'er the stream I row'd the bride,
“New-born, a fairy comer.
“The bells rang gaily, as to-day,
“As to the font they brought her;
“And sire and mother wept for joy
“At christ'ning of their daughter.

III

“And now once more across the stream—
“May all kind thoughts possess her!—
“I row the bride and bridal guests,
“And pray that Heaven may bless her!
“The sun shines bright, each heart is light,
“The laugh rings loud and merry,
“And shouts of welcome from the shore
“Come booming o'er the ferry.

147

IV

“A third time she must cross the flood,
“With Death, our lord and master:
“May I ne'er see that mournful day!”—
Row, boatman, row us faster!
Row, boatman, row,—your oars are slow,
Time flies and Love is pressing;
And you shall earn a double fee,
Besides your lady's blessing.

THE SILVER BIRCH.

I

Alone on the slope of the mountain it grew,
And bathed its light tresses in glittering dew;
The bird on its boughs linger'd loving and long,
And the stream at its feet ever murmur'd in song;
It toy'd with the winds, it was happy and free;—
Oh! the silvery birch was a flourishing tree.

II

The lord of the mountain beheld it, and sigh'd
That so lovely a thing in the desert should hide.
“Come down from the wilderness, child of the storm!
“And I'll shield from its anger thy delicate form;
“I've a garden of pleasure more fitted for thee,
“And there thou shalt flourish, my beautiful tree.”

148

Oh, Lark, with twinkling pinions,
And full enraptured note,
What means the lay—Oh, minstrel, say!
That gushes from thy throat?
“It means, that love requited
“Shall neither die nor cloy;
“'Tis light of heaven, to mortals given;
“'Tis earth's divinest joy.”
Above the clouds, oh, songster sweet
Soar high and carol free!
The coldest heart that ever beat
Will sympathize with thee.

151

OLD KING COAL.

[_]

[Air: Old King Cole.]

I

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“I'll move the world,” quoth he;
“My England's high, and rich, and great,
But greater she shall be!”
And he call'd for the pick, and he call'd for the spade,
And he call'd for his miners bold;
“And it's dig,” he said, “in the deep, deep earth;
“You'll find my treasures better worth
“Than mines of Indian gold!”

II

Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
Yet not content was he;
And he said, “I've found what I've desired,
“Though 'tis but one of three.”
And he call'd for water, he call'd for fire,
For smiths and workmen true:
“Come, build me engines great and strong;
“We'll have,” quoth he, “a change ere long;
“We'll try what Steam can do.”

III

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
“'Tis fairly done,” quoth he,
When he saw the myriad wheels at work
O'er all the land and sea.

152

They spared the bones and strength of men,
They hammer'd, wove, and spun;
There was nought too great, too mean, or small,—
The giant Steam had power for all;—
His task was never done.

IV

Old King Coal was a merry old soul:
Quoth he, “We travel slow;
“I should like to roam the wide world round,
“As fast as the wild winds blow.”
And he call'd for his skilful engineers;
And soon through hills and vales,
O'er rivers wide, through tunnels vast,
The flying trains like lightning pass'd,
On the ribs of the mighty Rails.

V

Old King Coal was a merry old soul,
A merry old soul is he;
May he never fail in the land we love,
Who has made us great and free!
While his miners mine, and his engines work,
Through all our happy land,
We shall flourish fair in the morning light,
And our name and our fame, and our might and our right,
In the front of the world shall stand!

153

THE LIGHT OF LOVE.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

Oh! the light of our love, in the Dawn of our day,
Is bright as the sunshine that smiles on our way;
It shows us the dew-drops like gems on the thorn,
And calls up the sweet-ringing music of morn.
The roses of life in its presence unfold,
And the crests of the mountains glow purple and gold.
Oh! the sweet light of love, in our Morning of mirth,
Is the charm and the glory, and hope of the earth.

II

But the light of our love, when the Evening is near,
Is softer and sweeter, more tender and clear;
The stars that were hid in the glare of the Noon,
Look forth in their beauty, undimm'd by the moon.
The world and its pleasures in shadow may lie,
But pleasures less fleeting appear in the sky:
Oh! the sweet light of love to our Evening is given,
To lead us from earth to the glories of Heaven!

154

THE GREEN LANES OF ENGLAND.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

Through the green lanes of England, the long summer day,
We wander'd at will in our youth's merry May;
We gather'd the blooms o'er the hedge-rows that hung,
Or mock'd the sweet song that the nightingale sung.
In the autumn we knew
Where the blackberries grew,
And the shy hazel-nuts hidden deep in the shade;
Or with shouting and cheer,
When the Christmas drew near,
In search of the ripe ruddy holly we stray'd.

II

But the green lanes of England, though dear to us then,
Were dearer by far when we grew to be men;
When the heart's first emotions were fervent and pure,
And the world had no grief that a smile could not cure.
'Twas beneath the green leaves,
In the calm summer eves,
That we breathed the young hopes in our bosoms that burn'd;
Or in Love's gentle eyes
Read the tender replies
That show'd the fond passion as fondly return'd.

155

III

Ye green lanes of England, wherever we roam,
Ye are link'd in our hearts with the mem'ries of home,
With the sports of our childhood, the love of our prime,
And the pensive delights of a soberer time.
Other lands may be fair,
With their balm-breathing air,
And their beauties and grandeurs that charm or appal;
But to young and to old,
Till our hearts shall grow cold,
Shall the green lanes of England be dearer than all.

THE FLOWER AND CHAIN.

I

The fading rose may drink the dew,
And draw fresh life from summer skies;
But years nor tears can e'er renew
The love deceived that droops and dies.
The chain whose links dissolve and part,
May be united as before;
But broken love's defy our art,
And, once dissever'd, meet no more.

156

II

Though frail the rose, it fears no storm,—
Its sweets exhale when tempests rave;
But falsehood blights its fairy form,
And strews its blossoms on the grave;
The mystic chain, like Fate and Death,
Can bear all grief that men have borne,
But breaks and crumbles at a breath,
When utter'd by the lips of scorn.

THE BEAUTIFIER.

I

III

“We never hide the truth we feel,
“To flatter rich or poor;
“And stoutly bear, as men should do,
“The griefs we cannot cure.
“And if like others we have err'd,
“Or stumbled now and then,
“We've always held our heads erect,—
“And so we shall again!

166

IV

“With cheerful hearts we've plodded on,
“Through many a stormy day;
“Enjoy'd the light, and loved the right,
“And pluck'd the flowers of May.
“We've done our best, and hoped the rest,
“Though poor yet honest men;
“And always found our pathway clear,—
“And so we shall again!”

OF LOWLY BIRTH, BUT REGAL BEAUTY.

I

Be wise, O vagrant Fancy, nor paint the world so fair,
Nor build such cloudy temples and castles in the air;
Believe, or thou wilt rue it, that friendship can be tray,
And love forget to-morrow the truth it vows to-day.

II

It is not hope, but folly, to robe the earth in light,
And in the blaze of morning to disbelieve in night;
Thy glowing dreams mislead thee, thy careless eyes grow blind,
They only see the rainbow, but not the cloud behind.

172

III

And yet, O vagrant Fancy, 'tis better as thou art;
To disbelieve in goodness destroys both head and heart.
We'll keep our loves and friendships, nor deem they can betray,
Nor heed that thorns may pierce us when flowers are on the way.

FAIR AND TRUE.

II

Pebbles on the shore
Dread no billow's roar;
But the mighty ships, deep-laden in the hold,
With a thousand men,
Steering home again,
Founder oftentimes with all their men and gold.
Feathers fall but slowly;
And the poor and lowly
Fall, and are unhurt, while greatness falls to die
Kings may wake to weep,
While their ploughmen sleep.
Who would be a Somebody? Nobody am I!

177

THE RIVER OF TIME.

[_]

[Air: Tarry awhile with Me.]

I

A youth full of hope, and a man in his prime,
Sat down by the shore of the river of Time:
The youth, with a sigh, cast a flower on its breast,
And watch'd the sweet blossom float down to the West,
Then roam'd by the river, impatient of rest.
“And haste,” he cried, “thou tardy stream,
“And bring the promised joy;
“I'm weary waiting on the brink;—
“Oh, who would be a boy!

II

“I long to behold the delights of the world,
“The swift-sailing ships, with their banners unfurl'd;
“To join the glad songs of the hopeful and free,
“As onward in triumph they sweep to the sea.
“Flow swiftly, O river, and waft them to me.”
And still he cried, “O tardy stream!
“Be fleet as thou art clear;
“I'm weary, weary gath'ring flowers,—
“I may not linger here.”

III

But the man, with a smile, turn'd his gaze to the sky,
And then to the river, slow murmuring by;
The odour of lilies around him was shed,
The birds sang their songs 'mid the boughs overhead;
And though he was happy, he sigh'd, as he said,—

178

“Oh, tarry awhile, thou rapid stream;
“Why hasten to the sea?
“Thy waves are fair, thy banks are green;
“Oh, tarry awhile with me!”

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.

[_]

[Air: On the Cold, Cold Ground.]

I

How mournful is my fate!
I've lost my hope, my love, my joy;
My heart is desolate,
And beats but to deplore.
Thy father went before,
And left but thee to bless me, boy!
Thy face was bright as day,
Thy voice like music's sound:
The voice is hush'd, the light is quench'd
In the cold, cold ground.

II

But yet thou sleepest well.
It was a glorious field, my son,
On which thy father fell!
Ah! double grief is mine;
Alike his fate and thine!
'Twas hard such love to yield, my son:
'Twas hard to lose you both,
E'en though your country found;
But flowers are springing from your graves,
In the cold, cold ground.

179

III

The cheerful leaves unfold,
As they were looks of thine, my boy,
To bid me be consoled,
And learn to hope and pray:
They seem to smile, and say,
“The grave is powerless to destroy.”
The sunshine gilds my face;
Love, like the flowers around,
Points smiling up to Heaven, my boy,
From the cold, cold ground.

THE SUMMER BOWER.

I

Love once built a summer bower,
Fill'd with golden treasure:
“Here,” he said, “come shine or shower,
“I will pass my leisure.
“Care and grief, with brow severe,
“Never more shall enter here,
“And no winter in my year
“Shall disturb my pleasure.”

II

But, alas! as Time flew by,
Love, by sameness haunted,
Pined for want of sympathy,
Sigh'd for something wanted.

180

Pleasure's debt was hard to pay,
Constant light obscured his way,
Weary grew the summer day
In that bower enchanted.

III

Wasting thus in lonely pride,
Lo! a stranger sought him;
Walking sadly by his side,
To the world she brought him.
To the world of grief and care,
To the healthy open air,
And to pathways bleak and bare,
Where this truth she taught him:

IV

“Sorrow is my name,” she said;
“Thou my strength must borrow:
“Tears to-day like rain-drops shed
“Feed the flowers to-morrow.”
Since that time, the world can prove
In a magic round they move;
Sorrow purifying Love,
Love consoling Sorrow.

181

LOVERS' QUARRELS.

[_]

[Air: Come, Sweet Lass.]

I

Let's be wise,
And cease repining:
Love is shining
From our eyes,
And taunts no more arise
After the rain
The sunshine smiles again;
And birds make music rare
When storms have clear'd the air.

II

Love, like flowers,
Blooms all the sweeter
And completer
After showers,
That fill with balm the bowers.
When the wind blows,
The bright flame brighter glows;
And kisses after strife,
Make Love the joy of Life.

182

THE EOLIAN HARP.

[_]

[Air: Farewell to Manchester.]

I

Through the summer night
Comes a melancholy sprite,
Fitful as a light
On the billowy seas;—
At my window lone
It awakes a mournful tone,
Rising, falling, failing in sweet melodies.
Tell me, why dost borrow
Such a voice of sorrow,
Spirit at my casement, moaning 'mid the trees?

II

Wherefore seek to know?
Forests sigh when wild winds blow,
And the torrent's flow
Dies in plaintive song;
Nature's voice appears
As if, touch'd by human tears,
'Twere a dirge of pity for our human wrong;
Ocean moans for ever;
Sadly falls the river;
And all the vagrant storms the notes of grief prolong.

III

Breathe, O summer air;
Music never spoke despair;
And thy sighs declare
Comfort 'mid our pain.

183

Joy abides in grief;
Hidden in the flower and leaf
Are the autumn treasures—fruit and golden grain.
Sigh, O wind of summer,
Sweet uncertain comer,—
Sympathy for sorrow hallows all the strain.

NOTICE TO QUIT.

I

Love plagued me so much when he dwelt in my heart,
That I gave the tormenter a hint to depart;
But he would not obey me. “Oh, why should I go?
You must,” he exclaim'd, “have a tenant, you know;
And should I forsake you, Ambition, perchance,
Might be the next comer to lead you a dance.
He'd vex you, perplex you, and lure you astray;
So you'd better be wise, and allow me to stay.”

II

“I care not for Fame or Ambition,” I cried;
“I ask but for quiet, and nothing beside.”
“All folly!” said Love; “and if Glory should fail,
Some passion less noble your heart would assail.
You must have a tenant to keep the house tight,
And if Fame will not suit you, why Avarice might.”
“Enough!” I replied; “let us argue no more.”
And he 's tenant again, firmer fix'd than before.

184

MY GARDEN GATE.

I

Stand back, bewildering Politics!—
I've placed my fences round;
Pass on, with all your party tricks,
Nor tread my holy ground!
Stand back—I'm weary of your talk,
Your squabbles, and your hate:
You cannot enter in this walk;—
I've closed my garden gate.

II

Stand back, ye thoughts of trade and pelf!—
I have a refuge here;
I wish to commune with myself—
My mind is out of gear.
These bowers are sacred to the page
Of philosophic lore;
Within these bounds no envies rage—
I've shut my garden door.

III

Stand back, Frivolity and Show!—
It is a day of spring;
I want to see my roses blow,
And hear the blackbird sing.
I wish to prune my apple-trees,
And nail my peaches straight:
Keep to the causeway, if you please—
I've shut my garden gate.

185

IV

I have no room for such as you,—
My house is somewhat small:
Let Love come here, and Friendship true;—
I'll give them welcome all;
They will not scorn my household stuff,
Or criticise my store.
Pass on—the world is wide enough—
I've shut my garden door.

V

Stand back, ye pomps! and let me wear
The liberty I feel!
I have a coat at elbows bare—
I love its dishabille.
Within these precincts let me rove
With Nature, free from state;
There is no tinsel in the grove—
I've shut my garden gate.

VI

What boots continual glare and strife?—
I cannot always climb;
I would not struggle all my life—
I need a breathing time.
Pass on!—I've sanctified these grounds
To Friendship, Love, and Lore:
Ye cannot come within the bounds—
I've shut the garden door.

186

WILD FLOWERS.

I

Fair flow'rets of the field
That gem the modest grass,
And peep in woodland bowers,—
Fair buds, that ever yield
A pleasure as we pass,
And smile like happy hours,—
Sweet memories ye recall
Of past delights we knew,
Ere toil and grief begun:
Joy haunts you, one and all,
Ye nurslings of the dew,
And darlings of the sun!

II

Rose-lipp'd, the daisies tell
Of infantine delight,
When we were pure as they;
Shy violets in the dell
Restore the visions bright
Of youth's unfolding May;
And sweet, with sweeter name,
The blue “forget-me-not”
Recalls the joy supreme,
When life was loving flame,
And hope was passion-fraught,
And sorrow but a dream.

187

III

Fair blossoms, ever bloom!
Heaven has its stars above,
To light its awful face;
Earth has your sweet perfume,
Your smiles as kind as love,
Your never-failing grace.
Oh! blessings great, though small,
That stir each feeling true,
We love you every one:
Joy dwells amid you all,
Ye nurslings of the dew,
And darlings of the sun!

THE SOBER WINE.

[_]

[Air: Wine! wine! Women and Wine!]

I

Some drink the wine for sake of wine,
Some for folly, some for care;
Some with borrow'd light to shine,
Some to save them from despair.
'Tis not for these we fill the glass,
And bid the joyous bumpers pass;—
Wine! wine! the sober wine!
Is only bright to thee and me,
For the sake of company.

188

II

Oh! life indeed were dark and cold,
Could men not meet in festive bands,
And while the healths with cheers were told,
Join cups and voices, hearts and hands.
If in the joy-inspiring night,
They could not pour, with faces bright,
Wine! wine! the sober wine!
In honour of the brave and free,
In a goodly company.

III

As symbol be the vintage pour'd
Of feelings warm, and honest worth;
And while the wine-cup cheers the board,
We'll mingle wisdom with our mirth,
And prize the gift, as sent to bless,
And only hurtful in excess:—
Wine! wine! the sober wine!
Our friend, not tyrant, let it be,
Only good in company.

MY GOOD RIGHT HAND.

I

I fell into grief, and began to complain;
I look'd for a friend, but I sought him in vain:
Companions were shy, and acquaintance were cold,
They gave me good counsel, but dreaded their gold.

189

“Let them go,” I exclaim'd, “I've a friend at my side,
“To lift me, and aid me, whatever betide.
“To trust to the world is to build on the sand:—
“I'll trust but in Heaven and my good Right Hand.”

II

My courage reviv'd, in my fortune's despite,
And my hand was as strong as my spirit was light;
It raised me from sorrow, it saved me from pain;
It fed me, and clad me, again and again.
The friends who had left me came back every one,
And darkest advisers look'd bright as the sun:
I need them no more, as they all understand,—
I thank thee, I trust thee, my good Right Hand!

PROCRASTINATIONS.

[_]

[Music by Sir H. R. Bishop.]

I

If Fortune with a smiling face
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up?—
To-day, my love, to-day.
But should she frown with face of care,
And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?—
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

190

II

If those who've wrong'd us own their faults,
And kindly pity pray,
When shall we listen and forgive?—
To-day, my love, to-day.
But if stern Justice urge rebuke,
And warmth from Memory borrow
When shall we chide, if chide we dare?—
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

III

If those to whom we owe a debt
Are harm'd unless we pay,
When shall we struggle to be just?—
To-day, my love, to-day.
But if our debtor fail our hope,
And plead his ruin thorough,
When shall we weigh his breach of faith?—
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

IV

If Love, estranged, should once again
His genial smile display,
When shall we kiss the proffer'd lips?—
To-day, my love, to-day.
But if he would indulge regret,
Or dwell with bygone sorrow,
When shall we weep, if weep we must?—
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

191

V

For virtuous acts and harmless joys
The minutes will not stay:
We've always time to welcome them
To-day, my love, to-day.
But care, resentment, angry words,
And unavailing sorrow,
Come far too soon, if they appear
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

THE EXILE OF CLOUDLAND.

I

When I was a dweller in Cloudland,
I dwelt in a rich and a proud land;
I was lord of the clime,
I was king of the time;
And the sun and the shower,
The leaf and the flower,
All came to my bidding in Cloudland.

II

I was monarch supreme in my Cloudland,
I was master of fate in that proud land;
I would not endure
That a grief without cure,
A love that could end,
Or a false-hearted friend,
Should dwell for an instant in Cloudland.

192

III

My Cloudland, my beautiful Cloudland,
I made thee a great and a proud land!
With skies ever bright,
And with hearts ever light;—
Neither sorrow nor sin
Found a harbour within,
And Love was the law of my Cloudland.

IV

But, alas for myself and my proud land!
There came Revolution in Cloudland;
My people, untrue,
Broke my sceptre in two,
And, false to their vow,
Took the crown from my brow,
And banish'd me far from my Cloudland.

V

My Cloudland, my beautiful Cloudland!
How happy was I in that proud land;
All the wisdom I've won
Since my realm was undone,
Is but poor to repay
What I lost in the day
When I turn'd my last looks upon Cloudland.

VI

Oh, ye thoughts and ye feelings of Cloudland!
Ye died when I quitted that proud land!

193

The man who will not happy be
When he sits at Beauty's side,
And might press the lips, so pure and free,
Of his wife or destined bride,
Deserves to groan through his age alone,
And to seek a friend in vain;
Fill high the glass, the toast shall pass—
May he ne'er have the chance again!
Bad boy!
May he ne'er have the chance again!

III

The man who will not thankful be
For his liberty and right,
For his strong good health and labour's fee,
And quiet sleep at night,
Deserves to know how the beggars go,
And to starve in cold and rain;
Fill high the glass, the toast shall pass—
May he ne'er have the chance again!
Bad boy!
May he ne'er have the chance again!

197

THE CHIMES.

I

Ring on, ring on, ye mournful chimes!
We 're sad at heart to-day,
And dream of joys that Fate may not restore—
Of love and hope in bygone times,
Too quickly fled away:
Ring mournfully, ye chimes, evermore.

II

Ring on! yet why so sad, ye bells?
O'er woods and waters borne,
Your tones but mock the fancies in the mind;—
With saddest thought a pleasure dwells;
Our hearts are less forlorn:
Ring sweetly, O ye bells, on the wind!

III

Ring on, ring on! let joy go round,—
The shade of grief has pass'd,
The sky is bright, the world has bliss in store:
Ring on, ring on! for pleasure found,
And hope, that long shall last:
Ring merrily, ye chimes, evermore!

198

FAREWELL TO THE WOODLANDS.

[_]

[Air: Since Hodge proves Ungrateful.]

I

Farewell to the woodlands, farewell to the bowers,
Farewell to the home of our happiest hours,
To pleasant companions, to mirth and to song,
And the kind-hearted friends we have cherish'd so long:
Our cares and our duties forbid us to stay,
But our thoughts shall be with you wherever we stray;
And we'll long for the summer to smile on the plain,
To bid us return to the woodlands again.

II

And joyous to us shall the memories be
That cling to the scenes where our hearts were so free:
If care should perplex us, if sorrow should frown,
Or weariness follow the moil of the town,
We'll think of the days when our faces were bright,
With the rambles of morn and the songs of the night;
And cherish the hope, amid winter and rain,
That we'll come back with summer to see you again.

199

THE MAYING:

AN INVITATION.

I

Fair May unveils her ruddy cheek,
And decks her brow with daisies,
And scatters blossoms as she goes
Through fields and forest mazes.
The fragrant hawthorn, white with bloom,
Fills all the uplands airy;
The grass is dry, the sky is clear—
Let's go a-Maying, Mary!

II

I dearly love, in days like this,
When birds make music o'er us,
To roam with thee through wildwood paths,
And listen to their chorus:
To help thee over crags and stiles,
And take thy hand in leaping,
And, out and in, to see thy face
Through leaves and branches peeping.

III

Ten years have pass'd since first I saw
Thy fresh and budding beauty;
And love has ripen'd with the years,
And link'd itself with duty.
In life's young Spring I swore to thee
A truth that should not vary;
And now, in Summer of my days,
love thee better, Mary!

200

IV

Time lays his finger light on thee,—
Thy cheeks are red as peaches;
Thine eyes are bright as first they glow'd
To hear my youthful speeches.
Thine eldest boy is nine years old,
Thy youngest babe two summers;
And thou art blooming like a girl
'Mid all the little comers.

V

Bring all the four into the woods,—
We'll set them gathering posies
Of harebells blue and pimpernels,
Instead of garden roses.
Beneath the trees we'll have one day
Of frolicsome employment;
And birds shall sing and winds shall blow,
To help us to enjoyment.

VI

Leave house affairs to shift awhile—
Leave work, and care, and sorrow;
We'll be the merrier to-day,
And happier to-morrow.
I would not greatly care for life,
If fate and toil contrary
Could not afford me, now and then,
A holiday for Mary.

201

VII

And Fate is kind to those who strive
To make existence pleasant,
With harmless joys and simple tastes,
And kindness ever present.
We'll not complain; so come away,
And when we want a treasure,
We'll use these May-day memories
To buy forgotten pleasure.

LOVE'S QUESTIONS AND REPLIES.

I

I send a question to my dear
Each morning by the lark,
And every night the nightingale
Brings answer ere the dark.
The question needs no other words,
And this is the reply—
“I'll love thee, dearest, while I live,
“And bless thee if I die.”

II

I send a message by the rose;
It says, “Thou breathing grace,
“Thy modest virtue, like this flower,
“Spreads fragrance round thy place.”

202

The lily brings the answer meet:
“O thou whom I adore,
“My heart is spotless as these leaves,
“And loves thee evermore.”

YOUTH'S WARNING.

I

Beware, exulting youth, beware,
When life's young pleasures woo,
That ere you yield you shrive your heart,
And keep your conscience true!
For sake of silver spent to-day,
Why pledge to-morrow's gold?
Or in hot blood implant Remorse,
To grow when blood is cold?
If wrong you do, if false you play,
In summer among the flowers,
You must atone, you shall repay,
In winter among the showers.

II

To turn the balances of Heaven
Surpasses mortal power;
For every white there is a black,
For every sweet a sour.
For every up there is a down,
For every folly, shame;
And retribution follows guilt,
As burning follows flame.

203

If wrong you do, if false you play,
In summer among the flowers,
You must atone, you shall repay,
In winter among the showers.

THE CUCKOO.

[_]

[Air: Old English, by Dr. Arne.]

I

When daisies pied, and snowdrops pale,
And young May-blossoms, gleaming bright,
And slender lilies of the vale
Have fringed the robes of Spring with white,
The Cuckoo on the hawthorn-tree
Sings all the morning merrily:
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! come forth to play,
The Spring is Nature's holiday.

II

When children gather wreaths of flowers,
Or plait green rushes into crowns,
And lovers meet at twilight hours,
In woodland corners far from towns,
The soft sweet voice re-echoes still,
Through grove and mead, o'er vale and hill,
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! and seems to say,
O Life, be Love! O Love, be May!

204

THE OWL.

[_]

[Air: Old English, by Dr. Arne.]

I

When crisp, cold Winter binds the ground,
And night's dark shades are gathering round,
When weary men sit close and warm,
And children by the ingle swarm,
And swiftly sails the icy moon,
The horned Owl begins his tune—
Tu whit! tu whoo! the merry lay
Fills all night long his turret gray

II

The horned Owl sits snugly too,
When frost makes diamonds of the dew,
And through the branches bare and hard,
Like Love behind a window barr'd,
The moon looks forth with rueful mien;
He sings his song 'mid ivies green—
Tu whit! tu whoo!—a hermit old,
Whose cheerful voice defies the cold.

III

A sage and solemn bird is he;
The stoic of the hollow tree,
Or watcher in the ruin'd tower,
Who reads the stars at midnight hour;
And though his note be harsh or strong,
'Tis Nature that inspires the song—
Tu whit! tu whoo!—a merry lay;
The night has mirth as well as day!

205

AN AUTUMNAL LYRIC.

I

How liberal and lovely
Is all the varied year!
The Winter only showers,
And the Summer only flowers,
To bring ripe Autumn here.
When roar'd the wintry tempest,
When fell the sleet and snow,
When rush'd the mountain torrents
In vernal overflow;
When fell the sweet spring blossoms
Into the lap of June,
And leaves grew thick and juicy
In many a summer noon:
'Twas all for sake of Autumn,
So bountiful and free—
'Twas all for the golden harvest—
'Twas all for thee and me!

II

What though tempests gather o'er us?
Storms not always vex the sea;
Sunshine yet may gleam before us;
There are calms for thee and me.
Fortune's gifts are unavailing;
Ours are gifts she never bore,—
Love unchanging, hope unfailing—
Heart! take courage, sigh no more.

213

O THOU WHO IN DANGER AND STRIFE.

I

O thou who in danger and strife
Wert ever the guide and the friend,
Whose smiles were the joy of a life,
Whose counsel was “hope to the end;”
Though wild were the storms that are past,
Though wealth seem'd a withering tree,
There was balm on the wings of the blast,
And a spring-time of healing in thee.

II

I loved thee in days of my youth,
When Time and its promise were fair,
But not with the fervour of truth,
I felt in my sorrow and care.
I knew not, till men had betray'd,
How deep thy devotion might be;
Nor found, until hope had decay'd,
What better than hope was in thee.

III

The sunshine of Fortune is warm,
As we bask in its blaze on the hill:
Come, spirit that govern'd the storm,
And temper prosperity still!
Like the roseate glow of the west,
That streams on the calm summer sea.
Thy love shall illumine my breast,
And my life be reflected from thee.

214

SIGH NOT! JOY'S IN SEASON.

[_]

[Air: This Great World is a Trouble.]

I

Sigh not! joy 's in season!
Though the world go sometimes wrong,
Can you think to right it,
Drawing faces long?
Laugh, man! think no evil,
Fools alone look always wise:
Sing, man! Nature woos you,
Under sunny skies.
Out, then! out, like childhood!
Mead, grove, glen, and wildwood,
All breathe the breath of heaven, and call you forth to play.
Laugh, man! Laughing's wholesome!
Sing, man! Why so dolesome?
Come close your musty books, and taste the summer day!

II

Wealth wears bird-like pinions,—
Flies away, or drowns, or burns;
Fame dies, slain by scorning;
Lost love ne'er returns.
Laugh, man! Harmless pleasure
Lies around us free as air;
Sing, man! Join our chorus,—
Mirth has music rare.

215

Faint heart! Over the ferry
Rows best he who 's merry,
While Sadness ever drifts entangled in the stream.
Laugh, man! Laughing 's wholesome;
Sing, man! Why so dolesome?
Bright shines the summer sun—come forth and share its beam!

JOYS OF THE PAST.

I

Joys of the past! are they vanish'd for ever?
Flow'rets soon gather'd and sooner decay'd;
Ripples of light upon Time's flowing river,
Lost with the breath o'er its bosom that stray'd?
No; there are hours in the heart's happy sadness,
When they return, amid sunshine and rain;
Memory, bright as a rainbow of gladness,
Spans the dark sky with their beauty again.

II

Visions of glory, half cloud and half splendour,
Flash on the soul, looking back through the years;
Hopes that were lofty, and loves that were tender,
Gleam through the haze of our passionate tears.
Vainly, oh! vainly our hearts would restore them;
Fair though they glitter, how quickly they're gone!
Echoes that die with the music that bore them,
Lights that are darken'd the moment they've shone.

216

THE ONLY SHILLING.

I

Roaming through the wild wood
In a morn of May,
Blithe as happy childhood,
Singing care away;
Sunshine sparkled o'er me,
Life was new and fair;
The way was broad before me,
And joy was in the air.

II

One remember'd shilling
Was my only wealth;
But my hand was willing,
I had youthful health,
Fancies, full of riches,
And a heart of grace,
And hopes, the lovely witches!
That look'd me in the face.

III

“Fortune! you may flout me!
“I am rich,” quoth I;
“Reckon, if you doubt me,
“What your gold can buy.
“Can it purchase pleasures,
“Such as health affords?
“And strength and hope are treasures,
“As rich as any lord's.

217

IV

“Hand for honest labour,
“Head to hope the best;
“Heart to love my neighbour,
“Faith for all the rest:
“These, and power to use them,
“Are the wealth I hold;
“And fool I'd be to lose them,
“For all Australia's gold.

V

“Shilling, if I spend thee,
“Still the fountains run!
“Shilling, if I lend thee,
“Others may be won!
“Fortune, if you love me,
“You can seek my door;
“If not, there's Heaven above me,
“And ne'er will I deplore.”

VI

Thus, in Life's young morning,
Singing as I went,
Fear and danger scorning,
I was still content.
Fortune never hail'd me,—
None the worse I've sped;
For courage never fail'd me,
Nor yet my daily bread.

218

COULD WE RECALL DEPARTED JOYS.

I

Could we recall departed joys,
At price of parted pain,
Oh, who that prizes happy hours
Would live his life again?
Such burning tears as once we shed,
No pleasure can repay;—
Pass to oblivion, joys and griefs!
We're thankful for To-day!

II

Calm be the current of our lives,
As rivers deep and clear:
Mild be the light upon our path,
To guide us and to cheer.
For streams of joy that burst and foam
May leave their channels dry,
And deadliest lightnings ever flash
The brightest in the sky.

219

THE DAY HAS GONE.

[_]

[Air: Old English.]

I

Oh! the day has gone, the mournful day!
It pass'd with the midnight chime,
Like a sear leaf from the tree,
Like a rain-drop in the sea,
Like a sob from the heart of Time.

II

Oh! the day has gone, the wasted day!
It brought us both joy and pain,—
A pleasure that has fled,
And a sorrow that is dead;—
They shall never revive again!

III

With the day that's gone let Sorrow go!
We bore it without a tear:
It was well inclined to stay,
But we reason'd it away,
And we gave it no welcome here.

IV

And though the joys with the griefs are lost,
Like the snow-flakes on the stream,
There are others to be born
On the sunlight of the morn;—
Let us smile in their purple beam!

220

V

Lo! the day is dead! good night, good night!
And the day is born—good day!
There's a voice upon the blast,
And the sand is falling fast;—
Let us sing and rejoice while we may!

THE SUNSHINE AND THE RAIN.

I

Oh, where would be the golden corn,
And where the ripe red wine—
The rich man's wealth, the poor man's health,
Wer't not for summer shine?
And where would be the sheep and beeves,
And plenty of the plain,
And where the light of beauty's eyes,
If 'twere not for the rain?

II

There's no man rich, there's no man poor,—
The sunshine 's free to all;
The meanest beggar ever born
May thank the rains that fall.
The grandest gifts that Heaven bestows,
Are mine and thine in vain,
If we cannot bless with grateful hearts
The sunshine and the rain.

221

THE MILLER OF THE DEE.

[_]

[Air: The Jolly Miller.]

I

There dwelt a miller hale and bold,
Beside the river Dee;
He work'd and sang from morn to night,
No lark more blithe than he;
And this the burden of his song
For ever used to be,—
“I envy nobody: no, not I,
“And nobody envies me!”

II

“Thou'rt wrong, my friend!” said old King Hal,
“Thou'rt wrong as wrong can be;
“For could my heart be light as thine,
“I'd gladly change with thee.
“And tell me now what makes thee sing
“With voice so loud and free,
“While I am sad, though I'm the King,
“Beside the river Dee?”

III

The miller smiled and doff'd his cap:
“I earn my bread,” quoth he;
“I love my wife, I love my friend,
“I love my children three;
“I owe no penny I cannot pay;—
“I thank the river Dee,
“That turns the mill that grinds the corn,
“To feed my babes and me.”

222

IV

“Good friend!” said Hal, and sigh'd the while
“Farewell! and happy be;
“But say no more, if thou'dst be true,
“That no one envies thee.
“Thy mealy cap is worth my crown,—
“Thy mill my kingdom's fee!
“Such men as thou are England's boast,
“O miller of the Dee!”

DUKE HUMPHREY'S DINNER.

I

With Humphrey the Duke long ago,
I dined in the cold open air;
The wind whistled keen o'er the snow,
And my cloak was as fine as my fare.
The banquet we spread
Was the best fancy bread,
And our drink was of water, the mother of wine;
But the talk that we had,
Though 'twas sober and sad,
Was as brave, Father Money, as thine.

II

For Humphrey, though haughty, is free,
And teaches his truths to the wise,
And the lessons he offer'd to me
Were pearls that a Crœsus might prize.

223

I've learn'd from that time
How to gather and climb;
I've feasted the noble, the great, the desired;
But never since then,
From the sagest of men,
Learn'd half what my Humphrey inspired.

III

'Twere vain, O ye Mighty and High,
To tell you the truths that he told;
In the deeps of a well never dry,
They rest in the darkness and cold.
Who never was down,
Be he noble or clown,
May find in Duke Humphrey small wit to commend;
But in sorrow and pain,
There is wisdom to gain,
By all who make Humphrey their friend.

MEADOW-SWEET.

II

“Come, sing us a song of the full-flowing bowl!”
Exclaim'd the proud foe, as he play'd;—
The minstrel, though sadness lay deep on his soul,
Look'd round with a smile, and obey'd:—
“Who drinks the deep draught shall be strong in the fight,
“Who drains to the dregs is a king!”
Again they applauded:—“We'll pledge you to-night:—
“'Tis thus that a minstrel should sing!”

III

Then changing his theme, came the tune, like a wave:
“When haughty invaders defy,
“His fame shall be first on the roll of the brave—
“Who meets them, to conquer or die:

Friend of my sadness, harp that I cherish!
Favour and glory and fame may depart,
Still shalt thou cheer me; Song shall not perish
While Freedom and Love have a home in the heart.

III

Poor men unheeding,—rich men impeding,—
All may neglect us, or scorn if they will;
Yet shall thy music, loud and triumphant,
Rise and be heard in the wilderness still.

IV

Tyrants shall fear and freemen shall love us,
Friends of the right and the foes of the wrong!
Wake up, despised one! heaven is above us;
Oh, wake and respond to the soul of my song!

But still, though loves desert us,
Or pleasures die away,
We'll prize them while we hold them,
Nor weep when they decay.
No grief of ours can save the flowers,
Or clip Enjoyment's wings;
Then why deplore? we'll sigh no more:
Alas, poor things!

'MID THE NEW-MOWN HAY.

[_]

[Air: Jockey to the Fair.]

I

When swallows dart from cottage eaves,
And reapers bind the barley-sheaves;
When peaches peep amid the leaves,
And woodbines scent the way,—
We love to fly the smoky town,
To breathe the air of woodlands brown;
To join our hands and form a ring,
To laugh and sport, to dance and sing,
Amid the new-mown hay.

II

A stranger comes with eyes of blue,
Quoth he, “I'm Love, the young and true;
“I wish to pass an hour with you,
“This pleasant summer day.”

234

“Come in! come in! you saucy elf!
“And who's your friend?”—“'Tis Friendship's self!”
“Come each, come both, our sports to share;
“There's welcome kind, and room to spare,
“Amid the new-mown hay.”

III

The ring is form'd; but who are these?
“Come, tell your errand, if you please;
“You look so sour and ill at ease,
“You dim the face of day.”—
“Ambition!” “Jealousy!” and “Strife!”
And “Scorn!” and “Weariness of Life!”—
“If such your names, we hate your kin;
“The place is full, you can't come in,
“Amid the new-mown hay.”

IV

Another guest comes bounding by,
With brow unwrinkled, fair and high,
With sunburnt face and roguish eye,
And asks our leave to stay.
Quoth he, “I'm Fun, your right good friend!”—
“Come in, come in! with you we'll end!”
And thus we frolic in a ring,
And thus we laugh, and dance, and sing,
Amid the new-mown hay.

235

SAY NO MORE THAT LOVE DECEIVES.

I

Say no more that Love deceives;
Love that's worthy of the name,
Hopes, confides, endures, believes,
In all fortune still the same,—
Born with Truth, as heat with flame.
If through the heart that Love might fill,
One thought of change or falsehood rove,
Our tongues may name it what they will;
'Tis earthly feeling,
Its taint revealing;
But, ah! we may not call it Love.

II

Selfish Pleasure often wears
Love's pure garments for disguise;
And the mask that Fancy wears,
Seems like Love to careless eyes,
And Folly round Indifference flies.
But Love itself is ever true;
No guile profanes his radiant face;
His robes are of celestial hue:
From heaven descending,
O'er mortals bending,
He points to Heaven—his dwelling-place.

236

THE WINES.

I

Whence comest thou,
O lady rare,
With soft blue eyes
And flaxen hair,
And showers of ringlets
Clustering fair?
And what hast thou got
In that bowl of thine?—
“I come,” quoth she,
“From the beautiful Rhine,
“And in my bowl
“Is the amber wine.
“Pure as gold
“Without alloy,
“Mild as moonlight,
“Strong as joy;
“Taste, and treasure it—
“Drink, but measure it—
“Thirsty boy!”

II

And who art thou,
So ruddy and bright,
With round full eyes
Of passionate light,
And clustering tresses
Dark as night?
And what hast thou drawn
From the teeming tun?—

237

“I come,” quoth she,
“From the blue Garonne,
“Where the vines are kiss'd
“By the bountiful sun,
“And the regal Claret,
“Kind, though coy,
“Flushes the hills
“With purple joy.
“Taste, and treasure it—
“Drink, but measure it—
“Thirsty boy!”

III

And whence art thou,
With bounding tread,
With cheeks like morning,
Rosy red,
And eyes like meteors
In thy head?
And what dost thou pour
Like jewell'd rain?—
“I come,” quoth she,
“From the sunny plain,
“And bear a flagon
“Of bright Champagne,—
“Age's cordial,
“Beauty's toy,—
“Dancing, glancing,
“Wine of Joy.
“Taste, and treasure it—
“Drink, but measure it—
“Thirsty boy!”

238

THE WOODMAN.

[_]

[Air: Down among the Dead Men.]

I

Five hundred years the royal tree
Has waved in the woods his branches free;
But king no longer shall he stand,
To cast his shadow o'er the land;
The hour has come when he must die:—
Down upon the green earth let him lie!

II

No more beneath his spreading boughs
Shall lovers breathe their tender vows;
No more with early fondness mark
Their names upon his crinkled bark,
Or idly dream and softly sigh:—
Down upon the green earth let him lie!

III

The lightning stroke has o'er him pass'd,
And never harm'd him, first or last;
But mine are strokes more sure, I trust,
To lay his forehead in the dust;
My hatchet falls,—the splinters fly:—
Down upon the green earth let him lie!

IV

But yet, although I smite him down,
And cast to earth his forest crown,

239

The good old tree shall live again,
To plough deep furrows o'er the main,
And flaunt his pennant to the sky:—
Down upon the green earth let him lie!

V

Full-breasted to the favouring breeze,
He shall be monarch of the seas,
And bear our Britain's triumphs far,
In calm or tempest, peace or war;
'Tis but to live that he must die:—
Down upon the green earth let him lie!

THE THREE FLOWERS.

I

V

I spoke my thought, I sang my song,
Because I pitied, felt, and knew;
I never glorified a wrong,
Or sang approval of th' untrue.

243

VI

And if I touch'd the people's heart,
Is that a crime in true men's eyes,
Or desecration of an art
That speaks to human sympathies?

VII

As man, let men my worth deny;
As Harper, by my harp I stand,
And dare the Future to deny
The might that quiver'd from my hand.

VIII

A King of Bards, though scorn'd and poor,
I feel the crown upon my head,
And Time shall but the more secure
My right to wear it.—I have said.

CARELESS.

Spring gave me a friend, and a true, true love;—
The summer went carolling by,
And the autumn brown'd, and the winter frown'd,
And I sat me down to sigh;
My friend was false for the sake of gold,
Ere the farmer stack'd his rye;
And my true love changed with the fickle west wind,
Ere winter dull'd the sky:
But the bees are humming—a new spring 's coming,
And none the worse am I!

244

THE RAPID STREAM.

[_]

[Air: Parthenia.]

I

O Streamlet! swiftly flowing,
Down through the corn-fields going,
Stay thy course with me.
For us the skylarks sing,
For us awakes the Spring;
There's time to spare, the earth is fair;
Why hurry to the sea?

II

The sky is bright above thee,
Silvery branches love thee,
Bending to the reeds;
No mill with busy wheel,
Or ship with ploughing keel,
With sad unrest disturbs thy breast,
Amid thy flowery meads.

III

Ambition's voice may woo thee,
Glory and Gold may sue thee;
All are empty breath.
The end is still the same,
And Power, and Wealth, and Fame,
But run at last through deserts vast,
To swell the sea of Death.

245

IV

Then why, without enjoying
Pleasures around us toying,
Pass our rapid day?
Our cares will come full soon,
Beneath the icy moon,
And we'll behold the ocean cold;—
Let's linger while we may!

A LOVER'S DREAMS.

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

I dream'd thou wert a fairy Harp,
Untouch'd by mortal hand,
And I the voiceless, sweet west wind,
A roamer through the land.
I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings,
And lo! my common air
Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee,
And turn'd to music rare.

II

I dream'd thou wert a Rose in bloom,
And I the gale of spring,
That sought the odours of thy breath,
And bore them on my wing.

246

No poorer thou, but richer I,—
So rich, that far at sea,
The grateful mariners were glad,
And bless'd both thee and me.

III

I dream'd thou wert the Evening Star
And I a lake at rest,
That saw thine image all the night
Reflected on my breast.
Too far!—too far!—come dwell on Earth,
Be Harp and Rose of May;—
I need thy music in my heart,—
Thy fragrance on my way.

CASTLE ATHELSTONE.

I

Through porch and hall the ivies creep,
In Beauty's bower the wild winds weep,
The raven haunts the turret lone;
Alas for fallen Athelstone!

II

No more the earls and knights of old,
In pomp and pride of steel and gold,
With nodding plumes and trumpet-tone,
Come down to mighty Athelstone.

247

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

Modest brier! odour shedding
Down the lanes to cottage doors;
Morn herself, if failing sweetness,
Might replenish from thy stores.
Charm of wild woods! humbly virtuous;
Heedless thou to flaunt or shine;—
Rich men praise thee, poor men bless thee,
Shy but lovely Eglantine!

II

Clad in garments white as lilies,
Newly wash'd by April's tears,
Scattering smiles like sunshine round her,
Lo! my love, my queen, appears.
Fragrant brier! like the maiden!
Fair, but prizing virtue best;
Freshly gather'd, love inviting,
Go and bloom upon her breast!

251

LOVE; NEW AND OLD.

I

And were they not the happy days,
When Love and I were young,
When Earth was robed in Heavenly light,
And all creation sung?
When gazing in my true love's face,
Through greenwood alleys lone,
I guess'd the secrets of her heart,
By whispers of mine own?

II

And are they not the happy days,
When Love and I are old,
And silver Evening has replaced
A Morn and Noon of gold?
Love stood alone 'mid youthful joy;
But now, by Sorrow tried,
It sits, and calmly looks to Heaven,
With angels at its side.

252

WHO SHALL BE FAIREST?

[_]

[Music by Frank Mori.]

I

Who shall be fairest?
Who shall be rarest?
Who shall be first in the songs that we sing?
She who is kindest
When Fortune is blindest,
Bearing through winter the blooms of the spring;
Charm of our gladness,
Friend of our sadness,
Angel of Life, when its pleasures take wing!
She shall be fairest,
She shall be rarest,
She shall be first in the songs that we sing!

II

Who shall be nearest,
Noblest, and dearest,
Named but with honour and pride evermore?
He, the undaunted,
Whose banner is planted
On Glory's high ramparts and battlements hoar;
Fearless of danger,
To falsehood a stranger,
Looking not back while there's Duty before!
He shall be nearest,
He shall be dearest,
He shall be first in our hearts evermore!

253

ENGLISH VIRTUES.

[_]

[Air: The British Grenadier.]

I

The virtues of Old England!
We'll count them if we can,
And prove to all who doubt us
What makes the Englishman;
What makes us stand the foremost
Among the brave and free!
What did our sires in days of old,
And what in ours will we.

II

From Agincourt and Cressy,
To Nile and Inkermann,
We've shown the wondering nations
What English valour can.
Our foes have felt our courage
In every clime and sea;
Our fathers stood like solid oak,
And so, to death, will we.

III

In times when evil fortune
Assail'd our country's cause,
Around the throne we've rallied,
Defenders of our laws;
Around the throne and altar,
And home, the sheltering tree;
Thus did of old our loyal sires,
And so, true hearts, will we.

254

IV

Our ships in ev'ry ocean
Are messengers of peace;
They carry happy tidings,
And bid the world increase.
Our traders thrive by honour;
Their words and bonds agree!
Our fathers wrought for honest gold,
And won it—so will we.

V

And in all times and places,
We cherish woman's worth;
Through all our isles we own her
The love-light of the earth;
To youth and age we offer
Respect and bended knee;
Thus did our sires, and taught their sons,
And so, true hearts, will we.

VI

And if we're rich and thriving,
We'll keep an open door;
If poor ourselves, the poorer
Shall taste our little store.
The hospitable wine-cup
Shall circle in our glee;—
Our fathers spread the welcome board,
And so, true hearts, will we.

255

VII

The virtues of Old England!
We'll prove them, if we can!
And show to all who doubt us
What makes the Englishman;
What makes us stand the foremost
Among the brave and free.
Thus did our sires in days of old,
And so, true hearts, will we!

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

I

I've a letter from thy sire,
Baby mine, Baby mine!
I can read and never tire,
Baby mine!
He is sailing o'er the sea—
He is coming back to thee—
He is coming home to me,
Baby mine!

II

He's been parted from us long,
Baby mine, Baby mine!
But if hearts be true and strong,
Baby mine!

256

They shall brave Misfortune's blast,
And be overpaid at last
For all pain and sorrow pass'd,
Baby mine!

III

Oh, I long to see his face,
Baby mine, Baby mine!
In his old accustom'd place,
Baby mine!
Like the rose of May in bloom—
Like a star amid the gloom—
Like the sunshine in the room,
Baby mine!

IV

Thou wilt see him and rejoice,
Baby mine, Baby mine!
Thou wilt know him by his voice,
Baby mine!
By his love-looks that endear—
By his laughter ringing clear—
By his eyes that know not fear,
Baby mine!

V

I'm so glad—I cannot sleep,
Baby mine, Baby mine!
I'm so happy—I could weep,
Baby mine!
He is sailing o'er the sea—
He is coming home to me—
He is coming back to thee,
Baby mine!

257

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

PART II.—THE APPROACHING SHIP.

I

FLOWERS IN THE STREAM.

[_]

[Music by Frank Mori.]

I

What flowerets, O river!
Fast flowing for ever,
I threw on thy bosom
In youth's early day,
O river! sad river,
Fast flowing away!
Hope blooming brightly,
Joy springing lightly,
Love, fair as sunshine,
And born in its ray;
O river! sad river,
I mourn their decay!

261

II

Serenely thou flowest,
Rejoicing thou goest,
While I stand lamenting
The summers of yore,
O river! sad river,
Alone on thy shore!
Love unrequited,
Hopes that are blighted,
Joys long departed,
Thou canst not restore;—
O river! dark river,
They blossom no more!

UNHAPPY JOHN.

I

Unhappy John doubts woman's truth,
And vows true love is dead and gone:—
Why?—He was jilted in his youth;
A false fair maid abandon'd John.
Because he found one canker'd peach,
All fruit is worthless in his eyes;—
Come forth, ye gentle souls, and teach
The selfish craven how he lies;
Come forth, ye ladies bright and fair,
Point at him your reproving hands,
And let your eyes your truth declare,
And shame him where he stands!

262

II

Unhappy John is sick of schemes;
He doubts the use of striving on:
Why?—Something is amiss, it seems,
And failure has dishearten'd John.
He moans in pitiful distress,
Because his projects topple down;—
Come forth, ye masters of success,
Ye builders of your own renown,
Who dig the mine or fell the oak;
Show him your hard and blister'd hands;
Tell him the worth of stroke on stroke,
And shame him where he stands!

III

Unhappy John distrusts his kind;
He gives the world his malison:
Why?—He was somewhat weak and blind,
And a false rogue defrauded John.
He thinks misanthropy is right,
If he be cheated of his pelf;—
Come forth, true souls, and in your light
Depict the bigot to himself!
Come forth, ye generous and good,
With spotless hearts and liberal hands,
Show him the face of brotherhood,
And shame him where he stands!

263

A HAND TO TAKE.

I

You're rich, and yet you are not proud;
You are not selfish, hard, or vain;
You look upon the common crowd
With sympathy, and not disdain;
You'd travel far to share your gold
With humble sorrow unconsoled;
You'd raise the orphan from the dust,
And help the sad and widow'd mother;
Give me your hand—you shall—you must!
I love you as a brother!

II

You're poor, and yet you do not scorn
Or hate the wealthy for their wealth;
You toil contented night and morn,
And prize the gifts of strength and health;
You'd share your little with a friend,
And what you cannot give you'd lend;
You take humanity on trust,
And see some merit in another.
Give me your hand—you shall—you must!
I love you as a brother!

III

And what care I how rich you be!
I love you if your thoughts are pure.
What signifies your poverty,
If you can struggle and endure?

264

'Tis not the birds that make the spring;
'Tis not the crown that makes the king!
If you are wise, and good, and just,
You've riches better than all other;—
Give me your hand—you shall—you must!
I love you as a brother!

LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY.

[_]

[Air: Love will find out the Way.]

I

Over the mountains
If Love cannot leap,
Down through the valleys
Unheeded he'll creep.
Whatever his purpose,
He'll do it or die;
And hardships and dangers
Confess it and fly.

II

Poor as a beggar,
Yet rich as a king;
Stormy as winter,
But radiant as spring;
He's constant, he's changeful,
He's night, and he's day;
A guide who misleads us,
Yet shows us the way.

265

III

Drown him in billows
Deep, deep in the main,—
Light as the sea-bird
He'll float up again.
You think he has perish'd
In sleet and in showers,—
He rises in sunlight,
And treads over flowers.

IV

Lock him in darkness,
In grief, and in thralls,—
Laughing to scorn you,
He'll glide through the walls.
Go chain up a sunbeam,
Or cage the wild wave;—
Then bind him with fetters,
And make him a slave!

V

Call him not haughty—
He dwells with the poor;
Call him not feeble—
He's strong to endure;
And call him not foolish—
He governs the wise;
Nor little—he's greater
Than earth and the skies.

266

GOOD NIGHT.

[_]

[Air: Begone! Dull Care!]

I

Good night! good night!
The chimes ring loud and clear;
Good night! good night!
A new-born day is near.
Our mirth has rung, we've danced and sung,
Our eyes have gleam'd delight;
The day has pass'd, we part at last;
To each and all, Good night!

He died,—yet the sun shone as bright as before,
And kiss'd the rosetree at the cottager's door:
Neither smith at the anvil, nor child at its play,
Nor churl at the plough, was sad-hearted that day,
For Pendragon the King!
He is gone; let him rest! Why should pleasure delay
For Pendragon the King?

IV

So runs the big world with the biggest of men:
We are mighty, no doubt, with the sword or the pen;
But we fall like the leaves when the autumn is cold,
And sleep in our place in the sheltering mould,
Like Pendragon the King!
And the day follows night just the same as of old,
And the summer, the spring.

270

EACH BLOCK OF MARBLE IN THE MINE.

I

Each block of marble in the mine
Conceals the Paphian queen,
Apollo, robed in light divine,
And Pallas the serene:
It only needs the lofty thought,
To give the glories birth;
And, lo! by skilful fingers wrought,
They captivate the earth.

II

So, in the hardest human heart,
One little well appears;
A fountain in some hidden part,
That brims with gentle tears:
It only needs the master-touch
Of Love's or Pity's hand,
And, lo! the rock with water bursts,
And gushes o'er the land.

271

LESS THAN A MAN.

[_]

[Music by Henry Russell.]

I

When at the feet of wealth and power
He'd kneel and flatter, cringe and cower,
Then haste some poorer man to spurn,
And play the tyrant in his turn;
Then is a man less than a man—
Then we pity him all we can.

II

When by his words he leads his friends
To danger for his selfish ends,
And leaves them in the evil day
To stand or fall as best they may;
Then is a man less than a man—
Then we pity him all we can.

III

When without sowing he would reap;
When he makes a vow he fails to keep;
When he would rather beg or steal,
Than labour for an honest meal;
Then is a man less than a man—
Then we pity him all we can.

IV

When by misfortune stricken down,
He whines and whimpers through the town,
And never lifts his strong right arm
To save himself from further harm;

272

Then is a man less than a man—
Then we pity him all we can.

V

Whene'er he plays the coward's part,
And trifles with a woman's heart,
Or scorns, ill-uses, and deceives
The love that lingers and believes;
Then is a man less than a man—
Then we pity him all we can.

VI

When he delights in raising strife,
Or values honour less than life;
When he insults a fallen foe,
Or at a woman aims a blow,
Then is a man less than a man—
Then we pity him all we can.

THE RETURN HOME.

[_]

[Air: When I followed a Lass.]

I

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds,
And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds;
The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky,
And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,—
And faintly stealing,
Booming, pealing,

273

Chime from the city the echoing bells;
And louder, clearer,
Softer, nearer,
Ringing sweet welcome, the melody swells;
And it's home! and it's home! all our sorrows are past—
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

II

How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain,
In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again,—
Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn,
And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn;
And 'mid the wild wood,
Dear to childhood,
Gather'd the berries that grew by the way;
But all our gladness
Died in sadness,
Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;—
But we're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past—
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

III

We loved thee before, but we'll cherish thee now
With a deeper emotion than words can avow;
Wherever in absence our feet might delay,
We had never a joy like the joy of to-day;
And home returning,
Fondly yearning,

274

Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore,—
England! England!
Beautiful England!
Peace be around thee, and joy evermore!
And it's home! and it's home! all our sorrows are past—
We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

IF I WERE A VOICE.

I

If I were a Voice,—a persuasive Voice,—
That could travel the wide world through,
I would fly on the beams of the morning light,
And speak to men with a gentle might,
And tell them to be true.
I'd fly, I'd fly, o'er land and sea,
Wherever a human heart might be,
Telling a tale or singing a song,
In praise of the Right—in blame of the Wrong.

II

If I were a Voice,—a consoling Voice,
I'd fly on the wings of air;
The homes of Sorrow and Guilt I'd seek,
And calm and truthful words I'd speak,
To save them from Despair.
I'd fly, I'd fly, o'er the crowded town,
And drop, like the happy sun-light, down
Into the hearts of suffering men,
And teach them to rejoice again.

275

III

If I were a Voice,—a convincing Voice,
I'd travel with the wind;
And whenever I saw the nations torn
By warfare, jealousy, or scorn,
Or hatred of their kind,
I'd fly, I'd fly, on the thunder-crash,
And into their blinded bosoms flash;
And, all their evil thoughts subdued,
I'd teach them Christian Brotherhood.

IV

If I were a Voice,—a pervading Voice,
I'd seek the kings of earth;
I'd find them alone on their beds at night,
And whisper words that should guide them right—
Lessons of priceless worth.
I'd fly more swift than the swiftest bird,
And tell them things they never heard—
Truths which the ages for aye repeat,
Unknown to the statesmen at their feet.

V

If I were a Voice,—an immortal Voice,
I'd speak in the people's ear;
And whenever they shouted “Liberty,”
Without deserving to be free,
I'd make their error clear.
I'd fly, I'd fly, on the wings of day,
Rebuking wrong on my world-wide way,
And making all the earth rejoice—
If I were a Voice—an immortal Voice.

276

THE BALLAD OF THE BEAR-HUNTERS.

I

Three hunters went a-hunting
In wild woods far away,
To chase the bear on mountain slopes
At dawning of the day.
They met Dame Joris on the road,
Plump as a gourd was she,
And with her went her daughter bright,
The rose-red Margerie.
And it's whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
The morn is shining fair.
Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! and wish us joy,
A-hunting of the bear.

II

“Get supper for us, Joris,
“When we return to-night;
“Good beer and wine, and crackling chine,
“And a fireside warm and bright.
“Ere sets the sun, three hungry men,
“We'll seek your hostelry;
“And Bruin dead in his old grey coat
“Shall bear us company.
“For it's whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
“The morn is shining fair.
“Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! and wish us joy,
“A-hunting of the bear.”

277

III

“I've got,” quo' she, “a ven'son haunch,
“A turkey served with brawn,
“And foaming flagons of wine as good
“As ever from cask was drawn.
“And if you slay the shaggy bear
“That prowls our forests through,
“I'll find the meat, and share the drink,
“And charge you ne'er a sou.
“For it's whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
“The morn is shining fair.
“Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! I wish you joy,
“A-hunting of the bear.”

IV

“What wilt thou give us, maiden?”
Said Reinhold, whispering low,
And clasp'd her by the yielding hand,
That nobody might know.
“I wish for something better than wine,
“Better than golden fee,—
“A look, a smile, or word of love,
“From rose-red Margerie.
“For it's whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
“The morn is shining fair.
“Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! and wish me joy,
“A-hunting of the bear.”

V

“I'll give,” quo' she, “a squeezing hand
“When nobody is nigh,

278

“A whisper'd word, a favouring smile,
“A twinkle of the eye.
“I'll give;—but what have I to give,
“Although I speak so free,
“Unless it be a vow of truth,
“And the heart of Margerie?
“For it's whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
“The morn is shining fair.
“Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! I wish you joy,
“A-hunting of the bear.”

VI

They had their hunting on the hill,
And merry men were they;
And a beaten foe was Bruin the bold,
At closing of the day.
And Joris spread a regal feast,—
The ven'son and the chine,
Turkey and brawn, and snow-white cheese,
And overflowing wine.
And 'twas whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
The wine-cup circles fair.
Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! 'tis ever joy,
A-hunting of the bear.

VII

“We track'd his steps an hour ere noon—
“'Twas up amid the snow;
“And then we track'd him down again,
“To his rocky dells below.
“And then our shots—one—two—and three—
“Went whizzing in his side;

279

“And the echoes raised a thunder tone,
“As he howl'd his last, and died.
“And 'tis whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
“The wine-cup circles fair.
“Whoop! Hollo! Hoy! 'tis ever joy,
“A-hunting of the bear.”

VIII

And Reinhold pledged his maiden bright
Again and yet again:
“I've woo'd thee, Margerie, many a month,—
“Oh, help me out of pain!”
“There, take my hand,” said Margerie fair,
“And wed me, while you can;
“But go no more a-hunting,
“When you're a married man.
“For his whoop! Oho! Hollo! Hallò!
“The bachelor may care;
“But married men should stay at home
“From the hunting of the bear.”

SONGS WITHOUT WORDS.

I

Songs without words! Through forest leaves they quiver,
With softer cadence tune the torrent's roar,
They mingle whispers with the rippling river,
And sport in billows on the stormy shore.

280

“Where is the place of their first fond meeting,
“Where, oh! where is that green bay-tree,
“Under whose cover
“The maid and her lover

Champagne is too often
A trickster malign,
That flows from the apple
And not from the vine;
But thou, my Catawba!
Art fresh as the rose,
And sweet as the lips
Of my love when they close
To give back the kisses
My passion bestows.
Thou'rt born of the vintage,
And fed on its breast,
Catawba the nectar
And balm of the West!

III

When pledging the lovely,
This sparkler we'll kiss;
When drinking to true hearts,
We'll toast them in this.
For Catawba is like them,
Though tender, yet strong,
As pleasant as morning,
And soft as a song,
Whose delicate beauty
The echoes prolong.
Catawba! heart-warmer!
Soul-cheerer! life-zest!
Catawba the nectar,
And balm of the West!

Cincinnati, Ohio, January, 1858.

286

MOUNTAIN DEW.

I

Mountain Dew! clear as a Scot's understanding,
Pure as his conscience wherever he goes,
Warm as his heart to the friend he has chosen,
Strong as his arm when he fights with his foes!
In liquor like this should old Scotland be toasted;
So fill up again, and the pledge we'll renew.
Long flourish the honour
Her children have won her;—
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!

II

May her worth, like her Lowland streams, roll on unceasing;
Her fame, like her Highland hills, last evermore;
May the cold of her glens be confined to the climate,
Nor enter the heart, tho' it creep through the door;
And never may we, while we love and revere her,
As long as we're brave, and warm-hearted, and true,
Want reason to boast her,—
Or whisky to toast her;—
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!

287

THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANTS.

[_]

[Music by Charles Mackay.]

I

Come away! far away! from the hills of bonnie Scotland;
Here no more may we linger on the mountain, in the glen;—
Come away! why delay? far away from bonnie Scotland,
Land of grouse, and not of heroes! land of sheep, and not of men!
Mighty hunters, for their pastime,
Needing deserts in our shires,
Turn to waste our pleasant places,
Quench the smoke of cottage fires.
Come away! why delay? Let us seek a home denied us,
O'er the oceans that divide us from the country of our sires.

II

Come away! far away! from the river, from the wild wood;
From the soil where our fathers lifted freedom's broad claymore;
From the paths in the straths, that were dear to us in childhood;
From the kirk where love was plighted in the happy days of yore.

288

Men and women have no value
Where the Bruce and Wallace grew;
And where stood the clansman's shieling,
There the red-deer laps the dew.
Come away! far away! But to thee, O bonnie Scotland,
Wheresoever we may wander, shall our hearts be ever true.

III

Far away! far away! in the light of other regions
We shall prove how we love thee to our children yet unborn.
Far away! far away! we shall teach them our allegiance
To thy name and to thy glory, thou beloved, though forlorn!
At recital of thy greatness
Shall our warmest fervour swell;
On the story of thy sorrow
Shall our fondest memories dwell.
Far away! why delay? We are banish'd from our Scotland,
From our own, our bonnie Scotland! Fare thee well! oh! fare thee well!

289

BE QUIET, DO!—I'LL CALL MY MOTHER

I

As I was sitting in a wood,
Under an oak-tree's leafy cover,
Musing in pleasant solitude,
Who should come by but John, my lover!
He press'd my hand and kiss'd my cheek;
Then, warmer growing, kiss'd the other,
While I exclaim'd, and strove to shriek,
“Be quiet, do!—I'll call my mother!”

II

He saw my anger was sincere,
And lovingly began to chide me;
Then wiping from my cheek the tear,
He sat him on the grass beside me.
He feign'd such pretty amorous woe,
Breath'd such sweet vows one after other,
I could but smile, while whispering low,
“Be quiet, do!—I'll call my mother!”

III

He talk'd so long, and talk'd so well,
And swore he meant not to deceive me;
I felt more grief than I can tell,
When with a sigh he rose to leave me.
“Oh! John,” said I, “and must thou go?
“I love thee better than all other;
“There is no need to hurry so,—
“I never meant to call my mother.”

290

THE MOONLIGHT DANCE.

I

Come, maidens, come to our merry dance,—
Youth and Beauty, come together;
Let young hearts meet
In converse sweet,
At twilight's time, in the summer weather;
By the pale light of the thoughtful moon,
When all is hush'd, save the sighing breeze;
In a still and balmy night of June,
Under the leaves of the linden-trees.

II

There song shall awake its softest tones,
Opening all the soul to pleasure;
At silent eve
Our feet shall weave
The jocund dance to its melting measure.
Come, maidens, come, when the night-bird's tune
Is wafted afar on the gentle breeze,
Come to our dance when the watchful moon
Shines through the leaves of the linden-trees.

291

IF FAIRY TALES WERE TRUE.

I

If fairy tales were true,
And fortune were my hap,
I'll tell you what I'd do—
If I had the wishing-cap:—
I'd make each maid a wife,
Who'd give both heart and hand;
And all domestic strife
I'd banish from the land.

II

No arm that wrought or plough'd
Should ever toil in vain;
The great should not be proud,
The small should not complain.
The friendship of a friend
Should last through good and ill;
And, constant to the end,
Should guide the wand'rer still.

III

Each little child should read
The Book of life and light,
And every hostile creed
Should love and reunite.
The triumphs of our time
Should bless the poorest lot,
And misery and crime
Should die and be forgot.

292

IV

All rulers should be just,
All people should be wise;
And swords and spears should rust
For lack of enemies:—
If fairy tales were true,
And fortune were my hap,
All this, and more, I'd do,
If I had the wishing-cap.

THE KING AMONG MEN

I

If his heart all undaunted ne'er quail'd before danger,
Or fail'd to beat high for the right,
If his doors were ne'er shut on the poor and the stranger,
His tongue never false to its plight,
To him we will drink, as a king among men—
Wassail! high wassail! good health to him then!

II

If Honour can dazzle, or Freedom inspire him,
To fight in their cause ere she sink,
If the wrongs of his kind or his country can fire him,
A bumper to him we will drink.
Though humble and poor, he is king among men—
Wassail! high wassail! good health to him then!

293

JOHN AND JONATHAN.

[_]

[Recited at a public dinner given to the author in Washington, United States, January 14th, 1858.]

I

Said Brother Jonathan to John,
“You are the elder-born,
“And I can bear another's hate,
“But not your lightest scorn.
“You've lived a life of noble strife,
“You've made a world your own,
“Why, when I follow in your steps,
“Receive me with a groan?

II

“I feel the promptings of my youth,
“That urge me evermore,
“To spread my fame, my race, my name,
“From shore to furthest shore.
“I feel the lightnings in my blood,
The thunders in my hand,
“And I must work my destiny,
“Whoever may withstand.

III

“And if you'd give me, Brother John,
“The sympathy I crave,
“And stretch your warm fraternal hand
“Across the Atlantic wave,

294

“I'd give it such a cordial grasp
“That earth should start to see,
“And ancient crowns and sceptres shake,
“That fear both you and me.”

IV

Said Brother John to Jonathan,
“You do my nature wrong;
“I never hated, never scorn'd,
“But loved you well and long.
“If, children of the self-same sire,
“We've quarrell'd now and then,
“'Twas only in our early youth,
“And not since we were men.

V

“And if with cautious, cooler blood,
“Result of sufferings keen,
“I sometimes think you move too fast,
“Mistake not what I mean.
“I've felt the follies of my youth,
“The errors of my prime,
“And dream'd for you—my father's son—
“A future more sublime.

VI

“And here's my hand,—'tis freely given,
“I stretch it o'er the brine,
“And wish you from my heart of hearts
“A higher life than mine.

295

“Together let us rule the world,
“Together work and thrive;
“For if you're only twenty-one,
“I'm scarcely thirty-five.

VII

“And I have strength for nobler work
“Than e'er my hand has done,
“And realms to rule and truths to plant
“Beyond the rising sun.
“Take you the West;—and I the East;—
“We'll spread ourselves abroad,
“With trade and spade, and wholesome laws,
“And faith in Man and God.

VIII

“Take you the West;—and I the East;—
“We speak the self-same tongue
“That Milton wrote and Chatham spoke,
“That Burns and Shakspeare sung;
“And from our tongue, our hand, our heart,
“Shall countless blessings flow,
“To light two darken'd hemispheres
“That know not where they go.

IX

“Our Anglo-Saxon name and fame,
“Our Anglo-Saxon speech,
“Received their mission straight from Heaven,
“To civilize and teach.

296

“So here's my hand, I stretch it forth;
“Ye meaner lands look on!
“From this day forth there's friendship firm
“'Twixt Jonathan and John!”

X

They shook their hands, this noble pair
And o'er the “electric chain”
Came daily messages of Peace
And Love betwixt them twain.
When other nations, sore oppress'd,
Lie dark in Sorrow's night,
They look to Jonathan and John,
And hope for coming light.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.

[_]

[Air: The Duke of York's March.]

I

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud
Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud;
Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West
May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast;
The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,
In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm:
Fair though they be,
There's an isle in the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth,—
The lords of the world, are the Men of the North!

297

II

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
There's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes;
Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do,—
Our watchword is “Duty,” our maxim is “Through!”
Winter and storm only never us the more,
And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door:
Strong shall we be
In our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Firm as the rock when the storm flashes forth,
We'll stand in our courage—the Men of the North!

III

Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,
In the face of the slave and the coward may shine;
Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,
And crime be a growth of the sun's brightest rays.
Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,
Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil:
Proud let us be
Of our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free:
Men with true hearts,—let our fame echo forth,—
Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!

298

WHEN CRISPIN WAS KING.

I

When Crispin was king, there was joy in the State,
And Plenty and Peace for the small and the great;
For every good fellow who lived in the land
Had always a friend in his honest right hand;
And none who were able and willing to toil
Found labour a “drug” in their dear native soil;
There were hams from the roof, there were steaks on the coal,
And loaves in the cupboard, and ale in the bowl:—
Will they never come back, like the blossoms of spring,
The days that we knew when old Crispin was king?

II

When Crispin was king, the goodwife sat at home,
And tended the babes to her bosom that clomb;
No grinders of poverty forced her away,
To struggle with men for the food of the day;
Her lasses were modest and fresh as the rose,
And her lads had stout arms for their friends and their foes;
And after their labour they frolick'd and sung,
And came not to want, if they married too young:—
Will they never come back, like the birds of the spring,
The days that we knew when old Crispin was king?

299

BYGONES.

Bygones! Bygones! cold and dark,
Why should ye haunt the sunny beam?
Dim as ghosts in Charon's bark,
Ye cloud the living stream
Love has wept its April tears;
Then why recall the parted rain?
And smiling Hope has banish'd fears;
Then wherefore bid them back again?
Last year's gales no longer strive
To scatter leaves that bloom to-day;
Why should last year's griefs revive?
Bygones! Bygones! pass away!

THE SHADOWS.

[_]

[Music by Frank Mori.]

I

I love my little native isle,
Mine em'rald in a golden deep;
My garden where the roses smile,
My vineyard where the tendrils creep.
How sweetly glide the summer hours
When twilight shows her silver sheen,
And youths and maids from all the bowers
Come forth to play the tambourine.

303

II

At morn the fisher spreads his sail
Upon our calm encircling sea;
The farmer labours in the vale,
Or tends his vine and orange-tree.
But soon as lingering sunset throws
O'er woods and fields a deeper green,
And all the West in crimson glows,
They gather to the tambourine.

III

We love our merry native song,
Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks;
Our moonlight walks the beach along,
For interchange of words and looks.
When toil is done and day is spent,
Sweet is the dance with song between,
The jest for harmless pleasure meant,
And tinkle of the tambourine.

IV

My native isle, my land of peace,—
My father's home, my mother's grave,
May evermore thy joys increase,
And plenty o'er thy cornfields wave!
May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf,
Nor war pollute thy valleys green;
Nor fail the dance upon the turf,
Nor music of the tambourine!

304

LOVING IN VAIN.

II

He who in wild-wood alleys roams, unthinking and unwise,
And takes a serpent to his heart for beauty of its eyes,
For splendour of its arching neck and glitter of its skin,
Was scarcely such a dupe as I, in ignorance of sin,
Who took such traitor to my side to fondle and to cherish,
And gave it sustenance and room.
But go! thy falsehood is thy doom!
And not the heart which thou hast stung—but thou, thyself, shalt perish!

310

NEVER AGAIN.

I

Will I love thee? Ah yes! but the love which I knew,
Ere Falsehood had clouded thy Truth's sunny blue,
A flower in the desert—a joy in my pain,
Will cheer my sad spirit, oh, never again!

II

The rose has been gather'd, the tune has been sung,
And roses have perish'd and harps are unstrung;
And I'll feast on the odour and hear the sweet strain,
To cheer me in sadness, oh, never again!

III

I will cling to thy fortunes and cherish thee still,
And stay by thy side through all sorrow and ill;
But Youth's early passion one falsehood has slain,
And Time can revive it, oh, never again!

311

THE PRIMROSE.

[_]

[The common field primrose, that grows in such beautiful luxuriance in the meadows and green lanes in the British Isles, is unknown in America and Australia—or only cultivated in conservatories or hot-houses. Two years ago, it was reported in a Melbourne newspaper, that an English primrose had been imported in a wardian case, and would be brought on shore from a ship in the harbour, to be exhibited in the city. The announcement excited a great sensation. Upwards of three thousand people turned out into the streets to see the flower brought ashore, and the pressure of the crowd was so great that it was found necessary to call out the police to preserve order, and to make a line through which the Primrose might be escorted on shore, to be seen of all her admirers.]

I

She comes!—make way, ye people!
Stand reverently aside;
She comes!—the gentle traveller,
In purity and pride;
Shower welcomes fair upon her,
To show befitting honour;
And give her love and homage
From hearts and kindling eyes;
And believe her, and receive her
With a thousand sympathics.

II

She has cross'd the stormy ocean,
A pilgrim, to our shore;
As fresh as Youth and Beauty,
And dear as days of yore.
Stand back! for she is tender,
And delicate, and slender;
And a rude, too boisterous greeting,
Well meant although it be,
Might endanger our sweet stranger,
From the land beyond the sea.

312

III

Oh! the love that she awakens,
And the smiles twin-born with tears,
That her pleasant face up-summons
From the depths of other years!
When we were blithe and youthful,
And fresh of heart and truthful,
And roam'd by rimpling rivers,
And woodland pastures wild,
To meet her, and to greet her,
In the valleys where she smiled.

IV

How often, in life's morning,
When none but she was nigh,
And the blithe free lark above us,
Sprinkling music from the sky,
Beside the stile we've waited,
Until evening hours belated,
To breathe the youthful passion,
That was bold as well as coy,
To some maiden, love-beladen,
Full of innocence and joy.

V

How often, in life's noontime,
When our boys and girls were young,
We have taken them to meadows,
Where the early blossoms sprung,
In that well-beloved far-land;
And wove them many a garland

313

Of buttercups and daisies,
And primrose blushing fair,
And entwined them, and enshrined them,
'Mid the clusters of their hair!

VI

Stand back, ye joyous people!—
Ye shall see her, every one;
Ye shall see her, but not touch her—
Where we place her in the sun!
She shall smile on you serenely,
And fairy-like and queenly;
And pour upon your spirits,
Like the dew from Heaven's own dome,
The feelings and revealings,
And memories of home!

HUMPHREY DUNN.

Ist mir ganz eins—
Ob ich Geld hab, oder Keins.

I

If he have money, or if he have none,
'Tis all the same to Humphrey Dunn.

II

If he have money, his heart is glad;
If none, 'tis cowardly to be sad.

314

III

If he have money, his wife goes fine;
If none, her eyes never cease to shine.

IV

If he have money, he drinks good beer;
If none, he relishes water clear.

V

If he have money, his feasts are spread;
If none, he can dine on a crust of bread.

VI

If he have money, he goes to the play;
If none, he laughs and stops away.

VII

If he have money, 'tis Paris and Rome;
If none, he walks in the streets at home.

VIII

If he have money, his creditors smile;
If none, they frown and wait awhile.

IX

If he have money, his jewels glow;
If he have none, the daisies grow.

X

For whether he've money, or whether he've none,
'Tis all the same to Humphrey Dunn!

315

A VISION.

I

Dawn without cloud, thou happy Day!
Earth's fairest creature comes this way;
And yet, O Sun, thou need'st not shine,—
Her beauty's light surpasses thine.

II

Be silent harpsichord and lute;
She sings, and Music should be mute,
And take a lesson from her voice,
How best to soothe us or rejoice.

III

Sweet-scented Lily, sweeter Rose,
Let all your blushing petals close:
What boots your odours to expand,
When she comes breathing in the land?

IV

Delay, O Time, when she is near,
Change every minute to a year;
And when she's gone, let seasons pass
Fleeter than moments in thy glass.

V

Delay! nor do my heart a wrong;
Go rob the sad, who deem thee long,
And give me, while my love is by,
The produce of the larceny.

316

VI

Take from the wasteful of thy joy
The days and hours that they destroy,
And pile them as my passion bids,
Like stones of steadfast pyramids.

VII

But when she goes—O wayward Time!
To linger is capricious crime;
So spur the steed, and slack the rein,
And gallop till she comes again.

JOHN GOODENOUGH.

I

I never saw John Goodenough,
And know not where he dwells,
Whether it be on the mountain-top,
Or in the sunny dells;
Whether it be in the city streets,
'Mid the crowds that come and go,
Or in the meads and woodlands green,
Where the murmuring waters flow;
Whether it be by the bare sea-beach,
Where croons the tempest wild,
I never met John Goodenough
Since I was a happy child.

317

II

I've heard of him and read of him,
And fancied him night and day,
With his soft blue eyes and placid smile,
And his long locks silvery gray;
With his words of goodness for the rich
And kindness for the poor,
And his brave true heart, that, come what will,
Is patient to endure;
But I never met him—never once—
Whether I wept or smiled,
Or thought him other than a dream,
Since I was a little child.

III

I've ceased long, long ago, to hope
I shall see his face again,
Or feel the grasp of his honest hand
In my pleasure or my pain;
Or hear the sound of his manly voice
Breathing his morning prayer,
Or blessing the children at his knee,
With his hands on their golden hair.
John Good, I know, and sometimes meet;
But Goodenough, wise and mild,
Remains a vision of the days
When I was a thoughtless child.

318

COMBING HER COAL-BLACK HAIR.

I

She sits o'er the keystone of the bridge
In the sunshine and the rain,
And there flashes a light from her deep dark eyes
That tells of a passionate pain.
All the day and half the night,
Alone with her despair,
She sits and sings, and talks to herself
Combing her coal-black hair.

II

Take heed, if you pass her on the way,
False wife, or fickle maid,
Or man who hast wrong'd a trusting heart,
Or broken it and betray'd!
Of the curl of her lip, of the glance of her eye,
Of the word of her mouth beware!
For she means you mischief where she sits
Combing her coal-black hair.

III

'Tis Misery gives her power to curse!
Pass on, ye good and true:
Her evil eye shall harm you not,
Her curse is not for you.
But ye who've broken Love's dear faith,
Take warning, and beware
Of the witch-like woman who haunts the bridge
Combing her coal-black hair.

319

WERT THOU MINE.

I

Wert thou mine—wert thou mine,
I would live in summer-shine;
I would carol like the lark,
When he soars above the dark;
I would heed nor grief nor care,
But be good, as thou art fair;
All my happiness should be
But a duty paid to thee!
O thou lovely, thou benign,
Wert thou mine—wert thou mine!

II

Wert thou mine—wert thou mine,
In that little heart of thine
I would dwell for evermore,
Snugly nestled at the core;
And would fill it, day and night,
With all beauty, all delight,
Till the glory of thy face
Should make Eden in my place.
O thou lovely, thou benign,
Wert thou mine—wert thou mine!

320

THE FERRY.

I

Passing o'er the Ferry,
I lost a purse of gold;
It vanish'd in the stream,
Like a fancy in a dream.
Let it go! its loss is told;
And I'll sit me down and try,
While there's sunshine in the sky,
If I cannot win another
Ere to-morrow's light be old.

II

Passing o'er the Ferry,
I lost a ruby ring;
It was given me by a friend
Whom I'll love till life shall end.
Let it go! like bird on wing!
For my friend will still love on,
Though the gift he gave be gone—
As the sunshine loves the meadows,
Though they lose the flowers of Spring.

III

Passing o'er the Ferry,
I lost my heart, ah me!
To a pair of laughing eyes,
To a face like summer skies.

321

It has gone, that heart so free.
And great will be my pain
Till I get it back again,
Or the love of her who stole it.
Woe is me! oh, woe is me!

A COURTSHIP.

I

“A penny for thy thoughts,” she said.—
“I think that thou art fair,
“That pleasantness about thee dwells
“Like sunshine in the air,
“And that within thine eyes there lurks
“More light than day can spare!”!
“Well! take thy penny if thou wilt!
“Thou'st robb'd me, I declare!”

II

“But that is only half my thought:
“I think, if thou wert free
“To take this heart—this truth—this life—
“This hand, that's offer'd thee,
“I'd be the happiest man on earth.”—
“Be happy then!” quoth she;
“And when I pay thee for that thought,
“Myself shall be the fee!”

322

THE INQUIRY.

I

Tell me, ye winged winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low.
And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd, “No!”

II

Tell me, thou mighty deep,
Whose billows round me play,
Know'st thou some favour'd spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find
The bliss for which he sighs?
Where Sorrow never lives,
And Friendship never dies?
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopp'd for a while, and sigh'd to answer, “No!”

III

And thou, serenest moon,
That, with such holy face,
Dost look upon the earth
Asleep in night's embrace,

323

Tell me, in all thy round
Hast thou not seen some spot,
Where miserable man
Might find a happier lot?
Behind a cloud, the moon withdrew in woe,
And a voice sweet, but sad, responded, “No!”

IV

Tell me, my secret soul,
Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot
Where mortals may be bless'd—
Where grief may find a balm,
And weariness a rest?
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings, and whisper'd, “Yes! in Heaven!”

324

THE KISSING-GATE.

[_]

[In some of the rural villages of England, to catch a young woman in the stile, or gate, leading to the churchyard, confers the same privilege as the mistletoe at Christmas.]

I

Should I ask you to come to the valley to-night,
And shame the fair Moon by a lovelier light,
With a smile on your lips, on your bosom a rose;
Your bright eyes might answer, “I will, Love!”
Who knows?

II

Should I ask you next Sunday, when service is o'er,
To stop in the gate half a minute—no more;
To give me the sweet little chance it bestows,
Your blushes might answer: “I will, Love.”
Who knows?

III

Should I tell you I've purchased the plain golden ring,
And ask you to name some bright morn of the spring,
When on your third finger that ring might repose,
Your ripe lips might answer: “To-morrow.”
Who knows?

325

A MISPLACED AFFECTION.

I

Quoth “I” to “Me:” “I love but thee,
“And this affection strong,
“Whoever flouts, or scorns, or doubts,
“Shall last my whole life long.
“With thee I'll laugh, with thee I'll quaff—
“To thee I'll pass the wine;
“And share no grief that seeks relief,
“Except, dear ‘Me,’ 'tis thine!
“Thy hopes and fears, thy smiles and tears,
“Shall ever be mine own;—
“My best good friend, till life shall end!
“I'll cling to thee alone.”

II

But Love so true—as Love will do—
Went piteously awry,
And sorrows keen and bickerings mean
Fell out 'twixt “Me” and “I.”
It came to pass that “Me”—alas!
Lay sick on bed of pain,
And none came near to soothe or cheer,
But “I,” who came in vain.
And “I” could see no hope for “Me,”
For scorning Nature's law;—
And so they sigh'd, and pined and died—
And nobody cared a straw!

326

FORTUNE.

[_]

[Air: The Keel Row.]

I

Fortune came to my door
My door—my door!
Fortune came to my door,
And bade me let her in.
“But say,” quoth I, “who these may be,
“Who follow in the wake with thee,
“And turn their guilty eyes on me,
“Before I let thee in.”

II

“'Tis Cheating come to thy door,
“Thy door—thy door!
“'Tis Lying come to thy door,
“So rise and let us in.”
Quoth I: “My Conscience lives at ease,
“And wants no comrades such as these;
“So pass, dame Fortune, if you please,—
“I cannot let you in.

III

“But if you'll come to my door,
“My door—my door,
“And knock alone at my door,
“Perhaps I'll let you in.
“Or, if you'll come with honest hand,
“With Truth that all men understand,
“And Virtue spotless in the land;—
“Oh, then, I'll let you in!”

327

THE SWEETHEART.

I

And so they smiled a scornful smile,
Because, in naming thee,
I used the people's simple word,
That speaks affection free.
Well! let them smile—devoid of heart—
And to the sweet unknown;
And I will call thee, as before,
My sweetheart, and mine own.

II

My heart of hearts—my sweet of sweets—
I love the words to twine,
That breathe such truths 'twixt thee and me,
And sympathies divine!
Wert thou a queen and I a king,—
To raise thee to my throne,
I'd woo thee with no other words—
My sweetheart, and mine own.

328

HER WAYS.

I

When there is something to be said,
In pleasure or in pain,
To brighten joy, like sunlight shed,
Or dry affliction's rain;
When she'd console, rebuke, control,
With yes, or no, as clear—
She's such a way of saying it,
'Tis pleasantness to hear.

II

And when there's something to be done,
At need's or duty's call—
A courtesy, a charity,
A kindness, great or small,
A daily grief that needs relief—
Whate'er the action be,
She's such a way of doing it,
She wins all hearts to see.

III

But saying, doing, night or day,
'Tis difficult to tell
The sweetest grace of mind or face
That marks her to excel!
She seldom breathes the love I crave,
But from her eyes divine
She's such a way of looking it,
I know that she is mine!

329

MY DOG.

I

My dog looked wistful in my face,
Said I: “My friends are gone;
“They left me when my money went—
“They left me every one.
“But nought care I; I've health and strength,
“And hope that shall not fail;
And thou, true friend, that ne'er deceived.”—
And Towler wagg'd his tail.

II

My dog was glad when I came home,
Said I: “There's pleasure here,
“My flute to play, my book to read,
“My wife and children dear;
“What need I care how kingdoms fare,
“Who's hammer, or who's nail;
“Who's out or in—who lose or win?”—
And Towler wagg'd his tail.

III

My dog ran frisking at my side;
Said I: “Let bigots fight,
“And lose themselves in mazes dim
“Of wrong confused with right;
“What call have I to prove my faith,
“Or other men's assail?—
“Or hunt a ray that leads astray?”
And Towler wagg'd his tail.

330

IV

My dog lay snoozing by the fire;
Said I: “My realm is fed,
“And this right hand, that oweth none,
“Hath earn'd my children's bread;
“What need have I to weep or sigh
“For Luxury and its trail?—
“For Pomp that palls—for Power that falls?”
And Towler wagg'd his tail.

V

My dog came coaxing to my knees,
Quoth he to me: “Bow-wow!”
Quoth I: “My thoughts are always thine,
“There's wisdom on thy brow;
“Thou tak'st advice, but givest none!
“True friend! thy worth I hail!”—
And Towler jump'd into my lap,
And wagg'd his honest tail.

THE OLD MAN TO THE SWALLOW.

I

Why dost thou linger, Swallow?
Why dost thou linger here?
For the summer, it is gone,
And the frosts are coming on,
And the gray and hoary locks of the year.

331

II

Thou art wrong to flit about me;
All the butterflies are dead,
And the blue and yellow flowers
Bloom no longer in the bowers,
And the leaves fall brown and sere where I tread.

III

Get thee gone to warmer regions!
Here, no more, hath music birth;
Not a cheep in all the sky—
Not an echo floating by
Of the melody and harmony of earth.

IV

Get thee gone, thou foolish Swallow!
Get thee gone! the days are cold,
And the nights are dark and long,
And the wind is bitter strong,
And my heart, like the year, is growing old.

332

MISERRIMUS.

I

There's nothing I prize beneath the sky,
Or great, or small.
And were I happy, I could die,
And go to the bourne where goeth all.

II

I once prized wealth, but it brought me grief—
Ah me, forlorn!
And I fancied every man a thief,
And cursed the hour that I was born.

III

I once prized a woman, and loved her well—
Ah, weary day!
But great was the misery that befell,
And crown'd my hair with silvery gray.

IV

I once prized the love of a little child—
Unhappy me!
It grew to a man, and drove me wild
With ingratitude and treachery.

V

I once prized a friend, and thought him true;
But hard my fate!
There was no wrong he would not do,
And he made my fireside desolate.

333

VI

I once prized Fame, and follow'd its light—
O dupe! to care
For such a false and wayward sprite,
Born of the foulness of the air!

VII

There's nothing I prize or value more;
Nothing at all!
Nothing behind me, nothing before!
Nothing at all! Oh, nothing at all!

A LOVE-CURSE.

I

Fare thee ill—and not well! And whenever, hereafter,
The world in my presence shall speak of a knave,
And utter his name, amid curses or laughter,
As greatest or meanest—half tyrant, half slave;
I will tell them of thee, till they're forced to confess
That none can be greater, as none can be less.

II

With the tale of thy deeds shall the pure air be tainted;
And lips that have named thee, need balsams to free;
And villains more monstrous than thought ever painted
Shall seem but as pigmies when measured with thee.
Fare thee ill—and not well! And till life shall depart,
May Misery track thee wherever thou art!

334

THE SHIP.

I

A King, a Pope, and a Kaiser,
And a Queen—most fair was she—
Went sailing, sailing, sailing,
Over a sunny sea.
And amid them sat a beggar,—
A churl of low degree;
And they all went sailing, sailing,
Over the sunny sea.

II

And the King said to the Kaiser,
And his comrades fair and free,
“Let us turn adrift this beggar,
“This churl of low degree;
“For he taints the balmy odours
“That blow to you and me,
“As we travel,—sailing, sailing,
“Over the sunny sea.”

III

“The ship is mine,” said the beggar,—
That churl of low degree;—
“And we're all of us sailing, sailing,
“To the grave, o'er the sunny sea.
“And you may not, and you cannot,
“Get rid of mine, or me;
“No! not for your crowns and sceptres—
“And my name is Death!” quoth he.

335

HIGHLAND MAIDENS.

I

Oh, bonnie are the heather-bells
Upon the mountains growing;
Oh, bonnie are the bluebells bright
That peep where streams are flowing;
And bonnie are the harebell cups
That wave on moorlands fenny,
But the human blossoms of the North
Are bonnier than any.

II

Ye prosperous Fates look kindly down
Upon each Highland maiden;
Still may their hearts with virtue glow,
Their lips with smiles be laden.
May innocence and peace of mind
Forsake their pathway never,
And all the joys of happy love
Encircle them for ever.

III

So let them grow, the Highland flowers,
As lovely as the morning;
Fair as the heather on the hills,
A rugged soil adorning;
So, like the bluebell of the wood,
And harebell of the meadow,
Gleam on the country of their birth
In sunshine or in shadow!

336

IV

In sunshine or in shadow still,
By northern loch or mountain,
As fair as prouder flowers that grow
By southern grove or fountain.
Fair and not proud, with virtue crown'd,
Sweet-scented in the by-lands,
Still may they bloom, the bonnie flowers,
The maidens of the Highlands!

THE TWO BOOKS.

I

A lover and his lass
Lay reading on the grass
A book of olden story,
Of love, and grief, and glory.
The maiden's eyes were bright
With pity and delight,
And stray'd not from the book,
E'en for a casual look
At him her life's dear lord—
Beside her on the sward;
But read, with lips apart,
The too entrancing tale that thrill'd through all her heart.

337

II

The lover's eyes, twin thieves,
Stole glances from the leaves—
Now to those milk-white shoulders,
The charm of all beholders;
Now to those sunny eyes,
Blue-bright as Paradise;
Now to her streaming curls,
Or ruby-cover'd pearls,
Whence issued sweeter breath
Than south wind scattereth,
Then to her dainty hand,
Or little fairy feet, star-twinklers in the land.

III

“Ah well-a-day!” quoth he,
“Thy book 's no book for me.
“The page I read is rarer,
“And tenderer, and fairer;
“For thine contains, at best,
“Life-shadows—love's unrest;
“But mine contains all truth,
“All beauty and all youth,
“All feelings fond and coy,
“And deep and passionate joy.
“Be books upon the shelf!
“My stories are thine eyes; my poem is Thyself!”

338

THE DAISIES.

I

My heart is full of joy to-day,
The air hath music in it;
Once more I roam the wild-wood way,
And prize the passing minute;
The balms of heaven are on my cheek,
My feet in meadow mazes.
Let me alone, and I will speak
My blessings on the daisies.

II

I have not seen for half a year,
Sore pent in cares and labours,
These gems of earth, these blossoms dear,
These free and gladsome neighbours;
They smile upon me as of old,
Through Memory's shifting phases.
My blessings on your white and gold,
Ye well-belovèd daisies!

III

I love ye for yourselves alone,
Ye bright perennial comers;
Ye ease my brow of winters known,
And crown my locks with summers.
Ye give me back the thoughts of youth,
Its feelings and its phrases,
Its careless joys, its simple truth.
My blessings on the daisies!

339

IV

If only once each hundred springs
Ye bloom'd the long grass under,
The crowd, with all its priests and kings,
Would throng to see and wonder:
Religion's self would kneel and pray,
And hymn your Maker's praises;
But you, ye blossom every day!
My blessings on the daisies!

BACK AGAIN.

[_]

[In the United States and Canada there are neither primroses nor daisies; larks nor nightingales.]

I

Back again to the land where the primroses blow,
And the thrush and the nightingale build in the thorn;
Where the hedges are white with the blossoming sloe,
And the lark in mid air sings his hymn to the morn!
Back again to the land where the daisies of Earth
In beauty compete with the stars of the Sky;
Back again! Back again to the land of our birth,
For whose glory we'd live! for whose safety we'd die!

340

II

Back again to the land where the women are kind,
And glitter in beauty like roses in dew;
Where the men have stout arms, as their enemies find,
And hearts that are soft as their actions are true.
Back again to the cliffs that no foeman shall climb,
To the land of the honest, the brave, and the free;
Whose story 's a light in the darkness of Time—
Back again! Back again! dearest England, to thee!

Boston, Massachusetts, May 18th, 1858.

THE ENGLISHMAN.

I

I've sail'd the seas from East to West,
From North to South, the wide world through;
I've seen mankind both worst and best,
And loved them, whatsoe'er their hue.
But never found, on any ground,
Where sunlight fell or rivers ran,
Where blossoms grew or wild winds blew,
The equal of the Englishman.

341

The Englishman, the Englishman!
The upright, downright Englishman!
His word is sure, his heart is pure—
The ready, steady Englishman!

II

In work he labours with a will;
In play he's playful as a child;
And when its wild wind whistles shrill,
He braves Misfortune undefiled.
On all that's just he builds his trust:
On all that's base he hurls his ban.
And, ladies bright, his heart is right;
He loves you well, the Englishman.
The Englishman, the Englishman!
The upright, downright Englishman!
In friendship clear, in love sincere—
The ready, steady Englishman!

III

He bears himself like heart of oak—
Of courage high, of purpose strong;
And when he fights, beware his stroke,
Ye props and agents of the wrong.
On fallen foes he aims no blows,
But strives to lift them if he can;
And scorns to wreak upon the weak
The vengeance of the Englishman.
The Englishman, the Englishman!
The upright, downright Englishman!
In love or hate he's always great—
The ready, steady Englishman!

342

IV

Oppression dreads his lifted hand;
The slave draws courage from his eye;
And Freedom, timorous in the land,
Shouts at his voice her rallying cry.
O'er all the girth of mother earth
You find his mark, you trace his plan;
And some may fear, and some revere,
But none despise the Englishman!
The Englishman, the Englishman,
The upright, downright Englishman!
He scorns a lie, for truth he'd die—
The ready, steady Englishman!

ROLLING HOME.

On board the Europa, homeward bound, May 26th, 1858.

I

Up aloft amid the rigging sings the fresh exulting gale,
Strong as spring-time in the blossoms filling out each blooming sail;
And the wild waves, cleft behind us, seem to murmur as they flow:
“There are kindly hearts that wait you in the land to which ye go.”
Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home, dear land, to thee!
Rolling home to merry England, rolling home across the sea!

343

II

Twice a thousand miles behind us, and a thousand miles before,
Ancient Ocean heaves to bear us to the well-remember'd shore;
New-born breezes swell to waft us to our childhood's balmy skies,
To the glow of friendly faces, to the light of loving eyes.
Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home, dear land, to thee!
Rolling home to merry England, rolling home across the sea!

III

Every motion of the vessel, every dip of mast or spar,
Is a dance and a rejoicing, and a promise from afar;
And we love the light above us, as it tips the waves around,
All the more because, ere coming, it has beam'd on English ground.
Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home, dear land, to thee!
Rolling home to merry England, rolling home across the sea!

IV

And 'tis nearer, ever nearer, to the rising of the morn,
And 'tis eastward, ever eastward, to the land where we were born.

344

And we'll sing in joyous chorus through the watches of the night:
We shall see the shores of England at the dawning of the light.
Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home, dear land, to thee!
Rolling home to merry England,—rolling home across the sea!

V

Rolling home to little England—though so little, yet so great—
With her face of sunny beauty, and her heart as strong as fate,
With her men of honest nature, with her women good and fair,
With her courage and her virtue that can do as well as bear.
Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home, dear land, to thee!
Rolling home to merry England,—rolling home across the sea!

345

THE CUP OF OBLIVION.

I

High to my lips I held Oblivion's cup:
“Drink,” said Despair, “this liquor, creaming up,
“And so forget all pain that Fate has cast—
“All grief, all pleasure of the dreadful past.”
I raised the cup; I peer'd into its deeps,
And whisper'd to myself: “Here Sorrow sleeps,
“Never to waken; never, never more
“To plague me with the memories of yore.”

II

“What?” said a little voice, remember'd well,
That on my spirit, rich as sunlight, fell;
“Wouldst thou forget me, father? Ah, not so!”
I look'd into the cup, and, far below,
Saw that angelic face and golden hair.
“Never, oh never, even in despair—
“However frantic, reasonless, and wild,
“Will I forget thee, O thou heavenly child!”

III

And then another and most winning voice,
That oft before had bid my heart rejoice,
Came sparkling from the bottom of the bowl,
And shot electric throbbings through my soul;
And the dark eyes—God's windows from God's heaven—
Blazed love upon me: “Be thy thought forgiven;
“But wilt thou, canst thou do thy heart such wrong,
“As to forget me and my love, death-strong?”

346

IV

I turn'd away my lips, threw down the cup,
With its dark liquor, creaming ever up:
“I will not taste it! Let my sorrow live,
“Link'd with the joy that Heaven vouchsafes to give!
“I will not lose the mem'ry of these twain,
“For all Oblivion's wealth! Let Grief remain!
“And I will hallow all the forms it takes,
“And love dear Memory for their dearer sakes.”

IF I DIE FIRST.

I

If I die first, dear love,
My mournful soul, made free,
Shall sit at heaven's high portal,
To wait and watch for thee—
To wait and watch for thee, love,
And through the deep, dark space
To peer, with human longings,
For thy radiant face.

II

'Mid all the stars of heaven,
One only shall I see,
The Earth, star of my passion,
Half Heaven for holding thee—

347

All Heaven for holding thee, love,
And brightest of the spheres,
By thy smile illumined,
Or hallow'd by thy tears.

III

If I die first, dear love,—
I feel that this shall be,
For Heaven will not be Heaven
Until it's shared with thee,—
Until it's shared with thee, love
I'll linger at the gate,
Or be thy guardian angel,
To teach thee how to wait.

IV

And when thine hour shall come,
And through the yielding night
I see thy happy spirit
Upsoaring, robed in light,
Mine shall go forth to meet thee,
And, through th' eternal door,
Pass in with thee, rejoicing,
Made one for evermore.

348

PITY!

I

How lovely, both in form and mind,
Three years ago I thought thee,
When grace, with purity combined,
To mould angelic wrought thee,—
A rose in June; a perfect tune;
A morning sky, unclouded.
But now, alas! the charm is lost,
And all the light enshrouded.

II

The smiling sea hath wreck'd a heart
That sail'd its bright skies under;
The sky itself had lightning's dart,
Without its warning thunder.
The beauty 's gone, the glory 's flown,—
They live with falsehood never.
Deceiver, though I cannot hate,
I pity thee for ever!

349

THAT IS THE WAY.

I

To leave your business all day long,
To pass your time in jest and song,
To haunt casinos, taverns, plays,
Or in your bed to spend your days;
To look for bread to dead men's wills,
To ask a Jew to cash your bills,
Or trust the word of all you meet,—
That is the way to Portugal Street.

II

To overtax your weary brain;
To drink deep draughts and fill again;
To go to law and think it sport
To hunt your cause from court to court;
To muse too fiercely on a wrong,
To look at darkness all day long;
To grieve and pine, to scorn and hate,—
That is the way to Bedlam-gate.

III

To give a woman all her will,
Rebellious but submissive still;
To love your quiet more than right,
And rather be oppress'd than fight;
To fear short-commons, not the Bench;
To borrow when you should retrench;
From duns to hide, from writs to flee,—
That is the way to slavery.

350

IV

To yield to pleasures like a rage,
And spend in youth the strength of age;
To think, with silver on your hair,
That you are young, as once you were;
To feed your fever, scorn your cold;
To marry when you're crazy old,
Or trust to quacks your health to save,—
That is the way, the way to the grave.

V

To love your art, and at its call
To yield your health, your wealth, your all,
And live on humble bread and cheese;
To love it more than fame or ease;
To heed no scorn of rival schools,
And laugh at critics when they're fools;
To please the wise, and not the town,—
That is the way to high renown.

VI

To keep life's balance true and fair,
To breathe contentment like the air;
To live but as your purse allows,
To love your children and your spouse;
To take delight in Nature's plan,
Adoring God, nor fearing man,
Avoiding anger, pride, excess,—
That is the way to happiness.

351

A CORONACH.

I

Wail! Wail!
For a sun hath set,
Which no returning morrow
Shall ever call
From the darksome pall,
To beam upon our sorrow!
Moan! Moan!
O'er his dwelling lone,
As ye heap the clod above him:
Dead! Dead!
His soul hath fled
From the hearts that lived to love him!

II

Wail! Wail!
Though our tears be vain,
For the soul in glory shining!
Yet how can those
Who have seen his close
Forbear for awhile repining?
Moan! Moan!
O'er the narrow stone;
Body and soul must sever!
Dead! Dead!
His spirit hath fled,
And a star hath set for ever!

352

BLACKBERRIES.

I

Black as Beauty's tresses,
Sweet as Love's caresses,
Darlings of the people, beloved of high and low,
Dear to age and childhood,
Gleaming in the wild wood,
Peeping to the sunshine in every green hedgerow,
Berries of the bramble,
How I love to ramble
Through the shady valleys, and pluck you as I go!

II

Your luxuriant treasure,
Stintless, out of measure,
Fills me with such feeling of recklessness and joy;
With such sense of rapture,
At the wealth of capture,
Prodigal as sunbeams where the wavelets toy,
I laugh at Time and trial,
And on his sunny dial
Turn back the creeping shadows, and feel I'm yet a boy.

III

Come hither, little maiden,
With wicker basket laden;
And thou, O peasant urchin, with cheeks like dawning day;

353

We'll all go forth together,
Free as the wind and weather,
And pluck the luscious blackberries that ripen by the way;
You of the world unweeting,
I from the world retreating,
To taste a simple pleasure, and prize it while I may!

FORLORN.

“Gelebt und Geliebt.”

I have lived and I have loved;
I have waked and I have slept;
I have sung and I have danced;
I have smiled and I have wept;
I have won and wasted treasure;
I have had my fill of pleasure;
And all these things were weariness,
And some of them were dreariness;—
All these things, but two things,
Were emptiness and pain:
And Love—it was the best of them,—
And Sleep—worth all the rest of them,
Worth everything but Love to my spirit and my brain.
Be still, my friend, O Slumber!
Till my days complete their number,
For Love shall never, never return to me again!

354

AN INDIAN WAR-SONG.

I

I saw a stain on the last year's snow,
Brothers! a stain of blood!
But the cold hath past, and the warm winds blow,
And the trees are in the bud.
The snow hath melted from dale and hill—
But the blood—the blood remaineth still!

II

I heard a voice on the winter blast,
Brothers! a voice of woe!
And it cried for vengeance as it pass'd
O'er the cold, blood-crimson snow.
That wind hath sunk over wood and hill,
But the voice—the voice—I hear it still!

III

I saw a spirit in my sleep,
Brothers! its hand was red!
Its eye was fierce, and its scowl was deep,
And it cried, “Revenge the dead!”
Shall we not hear what the spirit saith?
Onwards, my brothers!—Revenge or Death!

355

BY THE MEADOW STILE.

THE LAD.

A hundred years ago
The birds made music merry,
The warm wind thaw'd the snow,
And ripen'd peach and cherry;
Green grew the vernal grass,
Sweet hope consoled the sad,
And a lad would love a lass,
And a lass accept a lad.
Heigho! heigho!
This chanced, I know,
A hundred happy years ago!

THE LASS.

A hundred years ago
The ship would choose its haven,
And doves as white as snow
Object to kiss the raven;
And scythes would mow the grass,
And hope forsake the sad;
And a lad mistake a lass,
And a lass refuse the lad.
Heigho! heigho!
This chanced, I know,
A minute and a half ago.

356

IN THE PINE-WOOD.

I

In the pine-wood near the city,
Half in sunshine, half in shade,
Singing to herself her ditty,
Sat the melancholy maid.
And her song was: “Ever—ever—
“Falls the blossom from the tree,
“Runs the bright rejoicing river
“To the broad and thankless sea;
“And true love runs down to sorrow!
“Woe for ever! woe is me!”

II

In the pine-wood near the city,
In the spring-time thus she sang;
But she died, alas, the pity!
Long ere winter's tempests rang,—
Pined and died for secret sadness;
Nipp'd like blossom on the tree;
Blighted in her youthful gladness;
Deathward borne like stream to sea!
And his heart for whom she suffer'd
Never knew it. Woe is me!

357

THE BARD'S RECOMPENSE:—LIVING.

I

What shall we give him who teaches the nations,
And cheers the sad heart with the magic of song,
Now melting to sorrow—subsiding to patience,
Or pealing like thunder in hatred of wrong?
What shall we give him for spreading, like Homer,
A halo of light o'er the land of his birth—
Augmenting its glory, embalming its story,
And sowing its language like seed o'er the earth?

II

Give him?—The scorn of the rich and exalted!
If virtuous, ignore him; if erring, assail!
Proclaim when he stumbled! make known how he halted,
And point with his follies your venomous tale.
Give him?—Neglect, and a crust for his pittance;
And when he is dead, and his glory lives on,
A stone o'er his grave shall be all the acquittance
The nation shall pay to the greatness that's gone!

III

But living? Grown old? with his splendours around him?
Unable to toil? shall he starve as you bade?
Or handle some besom that pity has found him,
To ply at a crossing the mendicant's trade?

358

Ah, no! 'twere too bad! What's the fee of a butler?
Half that—if not all—shall the nation award;
And say it was granted exactly when wanted—
To cheer the last hours of the perishing Bard.

THE BARD'S RECOMPENSE:—DEAD.

I

The Great King scorn'd the poet
A hundred years ago,
And the man of might despised him,
And the Sage refused to know;
And Beauty, clad in purple,
Had not a smile to throw
On one so poor and humble,
Singing his joy and woe.

II

But the Great King's crown is shatter'd,
The Captain's sword is rust,
The worm is in Beauty's roses,
And the Sage lies low in dust;
And they're all of them forgotten,
Save by their God;—we trust!
But the Song and the Singer flourish
In the memory of the just.

359

THE BARD'S GRAVE.

When my soul flies to the great Giver,
Friends of the bard! let my dwelling be
By the green bank of that rippling river,
Under the shade of yon tall beech-tree.
Bury me there, ye lovers of song,
When the prayers for the dead are spoken,
With my hands on my breast,
Like a child at rest,
And my lyre in the grave unbroken!
There, untouch'd by the plough or harrow,
Let the grave of the minstrel be,
Where the bank is green and the stream is narrow,
Under the shade of yon tall beech-tree!

THE BARD'S EPITAPH.

If to this grave should pilgrims stray,
And wonder why no pompous stone
Is raised above the mouldering clay,
To make the minstrel's merits known;—
Let them but say,—his heart's delight
Found noblest utterance in a song;—
He loved, and strove to aid the right;
And hated—if he did—the wrong;—
And his poor clay in darkness pent,
Shall need no other monument.