Ballads for the Times :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ballads for the Times

(Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised

Tupper, Martin Farquhar (1810-1889)

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Ballads for the Times, &c. &c.

A Thousand Lines, etc.

Six American Ballads.

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Ballads for the Times, &c. &c.

The Anglo-Saxon Race.

A Rhyme for Englishmen.

Stretch forth! stretch forth! from the south to the north,
From the east to the west,—stretch forth! stretch forth!
Strengthen thy stakes, and lengthen thy cords,—
The world is a tent for the world's true lords!
Break forth and spread over every place,
The world is a world for the Saxon Race!

England sowed the glorious seed,
In her wise old laws, and her pure old creed,
And her stout old heart, and her plain old tongue,
And her resolute energies, ever young,
And her free bold hand, and her frank fair face,
And her faith in the rule of the Saxon Race!

Feebly dwindling day by day,
All other races are fading away;
The sensual South, and the servile East,
And the tottering throne of the treacherous priest,
And every land is in evil case
But the wide-scatter'd realm of the Saxon Race!

Englishmen everywhere! brethren all!
By one great name on your millions I call,—
Norman, American, Gael, and Celt,
Into this fine mixed mass ye melt,
And all the best of your best I trace
In the golden brass of the Saxon Race!

Englishmen everywhere! faithful and free!
Lords of the land, and kings of the sea,—
Anglo-Saxons! honest and true,
By hundreds of millions my word is to you,—
Love one another! as brothers embrace!
That the World may be blest in the Saxon Race!

England's Welcome to the World.

A Ballad for 1851.

A Voice of happy greeting to the Nations of the World!
A Flag of peace for every shore, on every sea, unfurl'd!
A Word of brotherhood and love to each who hears the call,—
A Welcome to the World of Men, a Welcome, one and all!

O children of a common stock, O brothers all around,
In kindliness and sympathy receive the joyful sound;
Old England bids you welcome all, and wins you to her shore,
To see how men of every clime may help each other more.

Old England greets you lovingly, as friend should greet a friend,
And only prays that peaceful days may never have an end;
And only hopes, by doing good, the good of all to gain,
And so Goodwill from brethren still, right gladly to attain!

Come on then to this Tournament, of Peace, and skilful Art,
Come on, fair Europe's chivalry, and play the Bayard's part!
For honour, Austria, spur away! for honour, gentle France!
For honour, Russ, and Swede, and Turk,—come on with levell'd lance!

Come on amain, high-hearted Spain! industrious Holland, come!
Italy, Persia, Greece, and Ind,—fill up the Nations' sum!
And chiefly with us, heart to heart, come on, and tilt for fame,
Columbia,—thou that England art in everything but name!

Not, as long since, for deeds of death,—but deeds to gladden life;
Provoking each for others' good to join the generous strife!
As in those games at Pytho, or in old Nemæa's grove,
Where Græcia's best and worthiest for honour only strove.

Come, wrestle thus in peace with us, and vie for glory's prize,
Bring out your wares of rarest work, and wealthiest merchandise;
Let every Craft of every clime produce its brilliant best,
The dazzling zone of Venus, and Minerva's starry crest!

Let Science add the miracles that human reason works
When tracking out the Mind of God that in all Nature lurks,—
The Wonderful, that He hath made Beneficent to man,
And gives us wit to fathom it, and use it as we can!

O there are secrets choice and strange, that men have not found out,
Though up and down the earth we range, and forage round about,
The hidden things of Mercy's heart, the Beautiful-Sublime,
That God hath meant to cheer us on adown the stream of Time:

Adown the stream of Time, until—we reach that happier shore,
Where sin and pain come not again, and grief is grief no more;
For that, O nations, wisely strive to do all good you can,
And, gratefully as unto God, live brotherly with Man!

A Hymn for all Nations.

Polyglotted 1851.

Glorious God! on Thee we call,
Father, Friend, and Judge of all;
Holy Saviour, heavenly King,
Homage to Thy throne we bring!

In the wonders all around
Ever is Thy Spirit found,
And of each good thing we see
All the good is born of Thee!

Thine the beauteous skill that lurks
Everywhere in Nature's works;
Thine is Art, with all its worth,
Thine each masterpiece on earth!

Yea, and foremost in the van
Springs from Thee the Mind of Man;
On its light, for this is thine,
Shed abroad the love divine!

Lo, our God! Thy children here
From all realms are gather'd near,
Wisely gather'd,—gathering still—
For peace on earth, towards men good-will!

May we, with fraternal mind,
Bless our brothers of mankind;
May we, through redeeming love,
Be the blest of God above!

New Zealand.

A Song for the Antipodes.

Queen of the South! which the mighty Pacific
Claims for its Britain in ages to be,
Bright with fair visions and hopes beatific,
Glorious and happy thy future I see!
Thither the children of England are thronging,
There for true riches securely to search;
Not for thy gold, California, longing,
But for sweet home, with enough, and a Church!

There, a soft clime and a soil ever teeming,
Summer's December, and Winter's July,
The bright Southern Cross in the firmament gleaming,
The Dove, and the Crown, and the Altar on high,—
There, the broad prairies with forest and river,
There, the safe harbours are bidding men search
For Thy best blessings, O Heavenly Giver!
Home, with enough, and an Englishman's Church!

Yes; for Britannia, the Mother of Nations,
Sends out her children, as teeming old Greece,
Good men and great men, to stand in their stations,
Merchants of plenty, and heralds of peace:
Stout Anglo-Saxons! Port Victory calls you;
Take the glad omen, and speedily search
Where you shall gather, whatever befals you,
Truest of treasures, a Home and a Church!

Fifty years hence—look forward and see it,
Realm of New Zealand, what then shalt thou see?
(If the world lives, at The Father's So be it,)
All shall be greatness and glory with thee!
Even should Britain's decay be down-written
In the dread doom-book that no man may search,
Still shall an Oxford, a London, a Britain,
Gladden the South with a Home and a Church!

Canterbury Pilgrims.

A “God Speed.”

Heaven speed you, noble band!
Link'd together, heart and hand,
Sworn to seek that far-off land,
Canterbury pilgrims,—
Heaven speed you! brothers brave,
Waft you well by wind and wave;
Heaven shield you! Heaven save!
Canterbury pilgrims.

Like a Queen of swarming bees,
England, hived amid the seas,
Sends you by a favouring breeze,
Canterbury pilgrims,
With a mother's tender care,
To her Southern sister there,
Her young sister, fresh and fair,
Canterbury pilgrims!

Fresh the soil, and fair the clime,
Lightly touch'd by toil or time,
Scarcely tinged with care or crime,
Canterbury pilgrims,—
Go then, cheerfully go forth!
Hasten to replenish earth
With Old England's honest worth,
Canterbury pilgrims!

Aye—with industry—for gold,
Godliness—for wealth untold,
Go, in Christian duty bold,
Canterbury pilgrims,—
Glad New Zealand bids you share
Each man plenty, and to spare,—
God be with you then and there,
Canterbury pilgrims!

Sonnet.

By way of Postscript.

Go forth, in faith and patience, hope and love!
But think not, voyagers, to leave behind
Ills of the flesh or passions of the mind,
Nor to anticipate the bliss above
In this new home: for evil must be there,
Evil, that sails alike on every wind,
In spite of all your caution, all your care:
Then be ye tolerant; let no stern soul,
However right his ethics or his life,
Over the weaker brothers claim control,
Stirring the flock to bitterness of strife:
Honour man's conscience; from all shackles loose
The honest mind with freedom's instinct rife:
Take the Church with you, but no church-abuse.

The Canterbury Seal.

An Illustration.

Triple blessings on the plough,
Triple blessings on the fleece!
Heaven's Angel send you now
To be fruitful and increase:
“So your country shall remain,”
And all happiness be pour'd
Upon Canterbury plain,
From the Lord!

Triple blessings on the fleece,
Triple blessings on the plough!
For beneath the Cross of Peace
All your toil is hallow'd now:
While the Church, in sacred robe,
Is your help on either hand,
As the pillars of the globe
Ye shall stand!

Britain, to Columbia.

A Message of Peace.

Sister Empress, daughter dear,
Throned on yonder hemisphere,
With a grand career to run
Glorious as thy western sun,
Sister, Daughter—we are one!

One, in stories of the past,
One, in glories, still to last,
One in speech, and one in face,
One in honest pride of race,
One in faith, and hope, and grace!

Sister, we have sinn'd of old,
Both of us, through lust of gold;
We, for centuries, you, for years,
Undismay'd by judgment fears,
Throve on—human woes and tears!

Verily, our brothers' blood
Whelm'd us in its crimson flood!
Yet, at last we turn'd, and gave,
As a ransom from the grave,
Royal freedom to the slave!

Britain's penitential zeal
Let it work Columbia's weal;
Wisely hasten, as thou wilt,
Soon to wash away this guilt—
Man in chains, and life-blood spilt!

We are mute,—we may not chide;
Only pray thee, put aside
That which must be bane to thee,
If, as Christian, Strong, and Free,
Thou endure it still to be.

Yet, in frankness, we confess
We made too much haste to bless;
Not at once, be well assured,
But with gradual health allured,
Can this chronic plague be cured.

Through the wisdom of to-day
We have learnt a better way;
Sister,—it is thine own plan!
Take the poor degraded man,
Teach him kindly all you can,—

Then, with liberal hand restore
To his own Liberian shore
This poor son of wrong and night,
Newly blest with hope and light,
And the patriot freeman's Right!

So shall Africa blockade
Bloodlessly that dreadful trade:
And Liberia's “open door,”
School, and Church, and merchant-store,
Bless her children evermore.

Dieu, et mon Droit.

A Loyal Text.

No fanciful hope, and no cowardly fear
Shall ever be lord of my breast,
An Englishman gathers his comfort and cheer
From Duty by Providence blest;
The good royal motto, from Normandy won,
Upholds him by day and by night,
Adversity's moon, and prosperity's sun,
Are shining in “God and my Right!”

My God! the great guard, the good ruler, and friend,
Who made me, and guides as He will;
My Right! which His government helps to defend,
And bids me stand up for it still:

The heart that has trusted Him well does He love,
And fills it with heavenly light,
Rejoiced upon earth with all peace from above,
And resting on “God and my Right!”

My Right—the right way, and my Right—the right arm,
And my Right—the true rights of the case,—
Strong, honest, deserving, the triple-tied charm
That keeps a man firm in his place;
With these well about us, and God overhead,
We fear not whatever we fight,
There never was mortal who fail'd or who fled,
Whose motto was, “God and my Right!”

The Great Exhibition of 1851.

A Ballad for the Workman.

Hurrah! for honest Industry, hurrah! for handy skill,
Hurrah! for all the wondrous works achieved by Wit and Will!
The triumph of the Artizan has come about at length,
And Kings and Princes flock to praise his comeliness and strength.

Now, is the time, the blessed time, for brethren to agree,
And rich and poor of every clime at unity to be;
When Labour honour'd openly, and not alone by stealth,
With horny hand and glowing heart may greet his brother Wealth.

Aye, wealth and rank are labour's kin, twin brethren all his own,
For every high estate on earth, of labour it hath grown;
By duty and by prudence, and by study's midnight oil,
The wealth of all the world is won by God-rewarded toil!

Then hail! thou goodly Gathering, thou brotherhood indeed!
Where all the sons of men can meet as honest Labour's seed;
The tribes of turban'd Asia, and Afric's ebon skin,
And Europe and America, with all their kith and kin!

From East and West, from North and South, to England's happy coast
By tens of thousands, lo! they come, the great industrial host,—
By tens of thousands welcom'd for their handicraft and worth,
Behold they greet their brethren of the Workshop of the Earth.

Right gladly, brother workmen, will each English Artizan
Rejoice to make you welcome all, as honest man to man,
And teach, if aught he has to teach, and learn the much to learn,
And show to men in every land, how all the world may earn!

Whatever earth, man's heritage, of every sort can yield,
From mine and mountain, sea and air, from forest and from field;
Whatever reason, God's great gift, can add or take away,
To bring the worth of all the world beneath the human sway;

Whatever science hath found out, and industry hath earn'd,
And taste hath delicately touch'd, and high-bred art hath learn'd;
Whatever God's good handicraft, the man He made, hath made,
By man, God's earnest artizan, the best shall be display'd!

O think it not an idle show, for praise, or pride, or pelf,
No man on earth who gains a good can hide it for himself;
By any thought that anything can any how improve,
We help along the cause of all, and give the world a move!

It is a great and glorious end to bless the sons of man,
And meet for peace and doing good, in kindness while we can;
It is a greater and more blest, the Human Heart to raise
Up to the God who giveth all, with gratitude and praise!

The Poet's Mission.

A Protest.

Not to flatter kings,
Not to serve a Court,
Bent on nobler things
Than to make them sport;
Loyal, gentle, kind,
Yet honest, frank, and free,
Pure in life and mind,
Must the poet be!

Meekness at his heart,
Though triumph on his brow,
Well to do his part
In his daily vow;
Zealous for the best
His earnest spirit can,
And, at God's behest,
Swift to gladden Man!

Honour thou the Gift,
Count it no man's slave;
To the Lord uplift
What His bounty gave!
Let thy spirit spring
Up to Heaven's gate,
There, on quivering wing,
Song to consecrate!

Song,—it soothes the heart,
Song, it charms the world;
Song, it is a dart
By a giant hurl'd;
Song,—a torrent's strength
In its force is found
When, aroused at length,
Nations hear the sound!

Hark! they hear, and feel,
And may sleep no more!
Hark! the patriot peal
Rings from shore to shore;
And, in danger's hour,
Stands the poet then,
Girt about with power
As a King of men!

At his burning spell
Quakes the solid shore,
And with yearning swell
Rises ocean's roar,
Till the People's will
Like a storm is heard,
Conjured by the skill
Of their poet's word!

At his gentle voice
All that storm is calm,
And the woods rejoice,
And the breeze is balm,

And Hosannas rise
From a Nation's heart,
Flaming to the skies
Through the Poet's art!

Art? it is his breath,
The sighing of his soul!
Art? it might be Death
The fervour to control!
Not by such a name
Call the glorious birth
Of this heavenly flame
Lit to kindle earth!

As his heart may glow,
Freely must his song,
Like an overflow,
Gush out fresh and strong!
No constraint be there
His energies to tire;
Zeal, and love, and prayer
String the Poet's lyre!

God bless the Queen.

June 27, 1850.

[_]

(A loyal outburst, occasioned by the cowardly attack upon her Majesty.)

God bless the Queen! that echo darts
Electric through the land;
God save the Queen! a million hearts
Are with its fervour fann'd:

And, God be thank'd! He saves the Queen,
He blesses her in love;
His Providence is ever seen
To guard her from above!

O dastard! thus to strike that brow
Anointed, and so fair;
O brave young Queen! that bruise is now
The brightest jewel there!
In gentlest majesty sublime,
Courageous and serene,—
How nobly does so mean a crime
Add glories to the Queen!

Yes: evil men and evil deeds
Are like some monster chain'd,—
That, when its wickedness succeeds,
Works only good constrain'd:
O Queen! the deed a traitor dares
Is but a kindled spark
To set ablaze thy people's prayers
For Thee, the nation's Ark!

The Moon and Moonshine.

An Allegory.

Upon a slumbering lake at night
The moon looks down in love,
And there, in chasten'd beauty bright,
A sister sphere of silver light
Seems bathing from above.

Anon, an evil man comes near,
And a rude stone he flings,
Half in hate and half in fear,
To crush the calm accusing sphere
That looks such lovely things.

He flung, and struck; and in swift race
Round ran the startled waves;
He triumph'd for a little space;
But see! how soon that same calm face
Again her beauty laves.

So, friend, if envy hits thy name,
Be still, it passes soon;
Thy lamp is burning all the same,
And, even for that moonshine Fame,
It must reflect its Moon.

“Nobody Feels or Cares!”

A Lamentation.

The world is dying, its heart is cold,
And well nigh frozen dead,—
A sorrowful thing it is to grow old,
With all the feelings fled,—
Dull are its eyes, and dismal its voice,
And a mourner's cloak it wears,
For all have forgotten to love or rejoice,—
Nobody feels or cares!

Time was, when zeal and honour and joy,
And charities cheering life,
Mix'd grains of gold with the mass of alloy,
And starr'd this night of strife;
But now, it is all for a man's own self,
And not how his neighbour fares;
Except for pleasure, and pride, and pelf,
Nobody feels or cares!

Be wise, or a fool,—be good or be bad,
To others it's much the same;
They heed not a whit if you're merry or sad,
Or worthy of praise or blame:
The world is reaping its broadcast seed
Of briers and thorns and tares,
And the only word in which all are agreed
Is—Nobody feels or cares!

The “Clameur de Haro.”

An old Norman Appeal to the Sovereign; which saved Castle Cornet from demolition, in August 1850, Guernsey.

Haro, Haro! à l'aide, mon Prince!
A loyal people calls:
Bring out Duke Rollo's Norman lance
To stay destruction's fell advance
Against the Castle walls;—
Haro, Haro! à l'aide, ma Reine!
Thy duteous children not in vain
Plead for old Cornet yet again
To spare it, ere it falls!

What! shall Earl Rodolph's sturdy strength
After six hundred years at length
Be recklessly laid low?
His grey machicolated tower
Torn down within one outraged hour
By worse than Vandal's ruthless power?
Haro! à l'aide, Haro!

Nine years old Cornet, for the Throne,
Against rebellion stood alone,—
And honour'd still shall stand
For heroism so sublime,
A relic of the olden time,
Renown'd in Guernsey prose and rhyme,
The glory of her land!
Ay,—let your science scheme and plan
With better skill than so:
Touch not this dear old barbican,
Nor dare to lay it low!
On Vazon's ill-protected bay
Build and blow up, as best ye may,
And do your worst to scare away
Some visionary foe,—
But, if in brute and blundering power
You tear down Rodolph's granite tower,
Defeat, and scorn, and shame, that hour
Shall whelm you like an arrowy shower,—
Haro! à l'aide, Haro!

Mont Orgueil: Jersey.

An Historical Picture.

Mount of honour, Mount of Pride,
Throned above the stormy tide,—
Feudal eyrie, built on high,
As to flout the common sky,
Weather-beaten, ivied pile,
Glory of this Norman isle,—
Thee my song would praise to-day,
Dreaming of ages past away!

Woe! for those old evil times,
Foul with wrong, and full of crimes;
Woe! for those drear days of old,
Dark with horrors all untold!
Through the mist of centuries past,
Dimly cluster'd, thick and fast,
Shadowy forms of terror loom,
Shrouded in sepulchral gloom!
See! the Cromlech on this height,
Red with the Druid's bloody rite,—
The Beacon, blazing far away,
To beckon pirates to their prey,—
The Cairn, piled high above the wave,
Some rude Berserkir's gory grave,—
The rocky Fort, aloft that stood
To guard some Sea-king's briny brood,
When off he flew, for blood to roam,
Leaving his vulture flock at home,—
All these, with Shame, and Sin, and Fear,
Dimly vision'd, cluster here!

Then, Rome's vengeful cohorts came
To cleanse the nest by sword and flame;
With foss and mound secured the post,
And mann'd it with her iron host:
So on, so on; till Rollo's power
Tore down amain the Roman's tower,
And proudly flung against the sky
Old Gouray's battlements on high!
This was thine hour of pride and fame;
When gentle knight, and high-born dame,
In hall, and bower, and warder'd gate
Kept their high chivalric state:
Nor soon was this thy glory set;—
De Barentin, De Carteret,
Stand forth! and tell us of your might
Against Du Guesclin in the fight;
How the Great Captain lost the day,
And rash Maulevrier slunk away,
And our fifth Henry's favouring smile
Changed Gouray Fort to Mont Orgueil,
For patriot praise, and truth well tried,
Mount of honour, Mount of Pride!

So on, so on; and years flew by
That times were changed, and words ran high,
And fanatics stood charged with sin,
And foolish zeal imprison'd Prynne:
Then, Charles, in retribution's hour,
Felt here a despot people's power,
Hiding his wanderer head awhile,
Ere yet he left the loyal isle.

So, years flew on; by scores they past,
And kings and kingdoms perish'd fast;
Till a fair Queen, in happier days,
Bless'd all her realm with peaceful praise,
And gilt, with Her benignant smile,
Her royal castle, Mont Orgueil!

O, God be thank'd, for quiet hours,
When nought is known of feudal towers,
But the fair picture that they fill,
With sea, and sky, and wooded hill!
O, God be thank'd for times like these,
Of brother's love, and grateful ease,
When war no fiercer sight affords
Than ivied forts, and rusty swords!

Come as you are.

A Rhyme for Ragged Schools.

[_]

(Widely circulated.)

Come to the school that your friends are preparing,
Poor little brothers, come over to us!
Just as you stand, in the clothes you are wearing,
Though they be ragged and scanty as thus;
Come from the alley, the lane, and the passage,
Come in your rags,—but as clean as you can;
We have a mission to each, and a message,
Happy and true, of his rights as a Man.

Don't be downhearted, if fools for an hour
Laugh at your schooling and treat it with scorn;
Answer them truly, that “Knowledge is Power,”
And that a blockhead were better unborn;
Laugh as they may, your laugh will be longest,
Your's is for ever, their's but for once;
Soon shall they own you both wisest and strongest;
Scholars must govern the fool and the dunce!

Yes, my boys, come! without fear or suspicion,
All that we wish is your gain and your good:
Body and soul to improve your condition,
And we would better it more if we could;
But where we cannot, yourselves may be able,
Willingly coming to hear and to learn,
How, for the soul to be happy and stable,
And, for the body, your living to earn!

So then come over, young scholars, and listen,
Helping yourselves, as in honour you ought!
We'll tell you things that'll make your eyes glisten,
Brighten the spirit, and heighten the thought:
Come then, and welcome, in rags and in tatters,
Anyhow come,—but as clean as you can;
Come and learn gladly these glorious matters,
All the best rights in the duties of Man!

St. Helier's Hermitage, Jersey.

A Vindication.

Anchorite, whose rugged nest,
Swept by wind and wash'd by wave,
Perch'd on yonder rocky crest
Was thy dwelling, and thy grave,—
Should I mock thee, holy man?
Should I not revere thy name?
Nor do honour, if I can,
To St. Helier's martyr-fame?

Come, ye scoffers, and behold!
Here is the luxurious bed
Where your pamper'd monk of old
Nightly laid his aged head:
In this cave he wept, and pray'd,—
Till the Northman pirate came,
And achieved with bloody blade
Our poor hermit's martyr-fame!

True,—in venial error still
His devotion stood aloof
From the world and all its ill,
Under this low vaulted roof;
Yet, he wrestled in his cell
For high heav'n his soul to frame,—
O ye worldlings, it were well
Could ye win such martyr-fame!

St. Paul's, of St. Helena.

An Appeal, written by request.

Beautiful Isle! where the Exile of Glory
Sank to his rest, like the sun in the sea,—
Fair St. Helena,—his fate and his story
Are not the best that we boast of in thee;
No! nor is even the bloom of thy beauty
Finest and first in the glen or the height,
But—where thy children in love and in duty
Earnestly worship The Father aright!

Lo now! this fruit of their pious devotion
Grows, like a cedar on Lebanon's side;
Slowly, “St. Paul's,” the Church of the Ocean,
Rises to brighten Atlantic's dark tide!
Thither, shall soon be gladly repairing
Sons of the stranger, with sons of the soil,—
Thither, poor Africa's children, preparing
Thanks for their freedom from tyrannous toil.

Soon? but how soon?—Right heartily speed it,
Ye that fear God, and are loving to man!
Haste with your aid,—they ask it, and need it;
Help the good work with the best that you can:
What St. Helena is nobly beginning
Stand by her, England! to finish it all,
And, by the souls that your zeal will be winning,
Crown with its topstone The Church of St. Paul!

Rajah Brooke.

Noble heart, of purpose high,
Hasten on thy great career,
Heedless of the coward cry
Slander shouts in Envy's ear;
Even now the falsehoods die,
Half for shame and half for fear;
Even now the clouds go by,
And thy heaven again is clear!

Let them whisper what they can,
Lightly scoff, or loudly blame;
Still, O glorious friend of Man,
Such mean censure speeds thy fame;
Good men bless, where bad men ban;
Ever was it seen the same,
That the leader of the van
Won his way through foes and flame!

Rajah! throned on Indian seas,
Thou art there to bless Mankind,
Sent to sow by every breeze
Seeds of good for heart and mind,
Carrying out God's great decrees
To the Saxon race assign'd,
Which the Right all stoutly frees,
But is stern the Wrong to bind!

Low Spirits.

It is not Time,—I joy to see
My children growing up;
It is not Sin,—remorse for me
Holds out no bitter cup;
Nor doth Mammon's dreary din
Add its gloom to Time or Sin.

It is not that the Past was sweet,—
Many griefs were there;
It is not that the Future's feet
Are shrouded up in care;
Providence is wise and kind,
And I am strong for heart and mind.

Why then be sad? why thus, my heart,
Disquieted within?
Great is the mercy that thou art
Unseared by care and sin;
That Time to thee has small alloy,
And memory's thoughts are thoughts of joy.

Why then so sad?—My friends of old
Are dead and gone, or changed;
The poor dear nest of home is cold,
And each old haunt estranged;
So that I walk a stranger there,
With none to feel for how I fare!

True,—many new found friends may throng,
And make a passing show;
But ever as they stream along
Like dreams they come and go,—
And,—however kind they be,
They bring not back the Past to me!

Fortitude.

New Words to the fine Tune, “Mynheer van Dunk.”

Mine own stout heart!
You and I must never part,
But bravely get on together,—
Through calm and strife,
And the ups and downs of life,
In winter, or summer weather!
Singing, O! for a true bold heart shall be
Ever found in its warm old place with me,
Cheerful evermore, and frank, and free,
Though the Mountains be drown'd in the rolling Sea!

Troubles, well season'd, as being well sent,
No honest man dreams of scorning;
But he mixes them up in his cup of content,
And fears no foes
While he happily knows
That Night must end in Morning!
For a brave glad heart shall always be
Beating in its own warm nest with me,
Cheerful evermore, and frank, and free,
Though the Mountains be drown'd in the rolling Sea!

“How much worse it might haue been!”

A Text for the Discontented.

Honest fellow, sore beset,
Vext by troubles quick and keen,
Thankfully consider yet
“How much worse it might have been!”
Worthily thy faults deserve
More than all thine eyes have seen,
Think thou then with sterner nerve,
“How much worse it might have been!”

Though the night be dark and long,
Morning soon shall break serene,
And the burden of thy song,
“How much worse it might have been!”
God, the Good One, calls to us
On His Providence to lean,
Shout then out devoutly thus,
“How much worse it might have been!”

A Night-sail in the Race of Alderney,

Sept. 6, 1850.

Sprinkled thick with shining studs,
Stretches wide the tent of heaven,
Blue, begemm'd with golden buds,—
Calm, and bright, and deep, and clear,
Glory's hollow hemisphere

Arch'd above these frothing floods,
Right and left asunder riven,
As our cutter madly scuds,
By the fitful breezes driven,
When exultingly she sweeps
Like a dolphin through the deeps,
And from wave to wave she leaps,
Rolling in this yeasty leaven,—
Ragingly that never sleeps,
Like the wicked unforgiven!

Midnight, soft and fair above,
Midnight, fierce and dark beneath,—
All on high the smile of love,
All below the frown of death:
Waves that whirl in angry spite
With a phosphorescent light
Gleaming ghastly on the night,—
Like the pallid sneer of Doom,
So malicious, cold, and white,
Luring to this watery tomb,
Where in fury and in fright
Winds and waves together fight
Hideously amid the gloom,—
As our cutter gladly scuds,
Dipping deep her sheeted boom
Madly to the boiling sea,
Lighted in these furious floods
By that blaze of brilliant studs,
Glistening down like glory-buds
On the Race of Alderney!

The Manchester Athenæum.

[_]

(Stanzas, solicited, in aid of its Liabilities, Oct. 1850.)

A temple of generous health,
To gladden the spirit of youth;
A mine of intelligent wealth,
A treasury teeming with truth,—
Come, help in so happy a work,
Such pleasure and gain to secure,
Gain, where little evil can lurk,
And pleasure can only be pure!

How wise it must be and how blest,
After the toils of the day,
That body and mind be at rest,
Whiling their sorrows away;
Consider how grateful a thing
Such rational solace to find,
And Ignorance gladly to bring
To feast upon food for the Mind!

Remember, how wise for the young
So purely their evenings to spend
The poets and sages among,
With every good book for a friend!
Remember, how well for the old
To rub the dull heart from its rust,
That earthly pollutions and gold
Drag it not down to the dust!

Then freely and frankly make haste
To help, where your help is so worth;
And let not this temple of taste,
So full of the treasures of earth,
Through negligence go to decay;
But rather in truth and in deed,
May Manchester glory to-day,
That Britain has bid her God-speed!

Genius and Friends.

When the star of good fortune is rising,
And seems to the zenith to soar,
How tenderly friends will be prizing
The beauties forgotten before;
O! Genius will look very bright
In the blaze of Prosperity's light!

But let the dimm'd planet be setting
Below the horizon in cloud,
Right soon will your friends be forgetting
The gifts they so frankly allow'd;
Ah! Genius will show very slight
In the gloom of Adversity's night!

Yet none the less glorious and holy
Is shining that sun of the soul,
Let Fortune be lofty or lowly,
And Friendship rejoice or condole;
For Genius can claim as his right
True homage by day and by night!

The Kingston Coronation Stone.

[_]

(A Stave, solicited at its Inauguration, Oct. 1850.)

Rejoice! that Praise and Honour at length
Return to their ancient rest,—
As a wounded eagle gathers his strength
To recover his rock-built nest;
For of old, around yon rugged throne
Tradition tenderly clings,
To hail that stone, as its brother of Scone,
The Throne of the Seven Kings!

Edward the Elder there was crown'd,
Great Alfred's glorious son,—
And Athelstan, thro' the wide world renown'd
For merchant-trophies won,—
Edmund and Ethelred, in high state,
With Eldred, and Edwy the Fair.
And Edward, due to a Martyr's fate,
Were throned in honour there!

Thou then, such ancestry's Royal seed,
Britannia's Heiress-Queen!
In grace consider the loyal deed
Thy Saxon children mean;
To the time-hallowed Past its homage due
The Present wisely brings,
And thus would we pour our chrism anew
On the Throne of the Seven Kings!

A Staue of Sympathy.

[_]

(Offered, in lieu of a solicited Lecture, to the Young Men's Christian Association, Nov. 1850.)

My blessing, young brother! an honest God-speed,
A Christian and true British cheer!
The best and the wisest among us have need
Of hearty encouragement here:
And wholesome it is to be hail'd, as we go
Along the dark rapids of life,
By those who are weath'ring the perils, and know
The way to be steer'd in the strife!

By diligence, brother, and quiet content;
By purity, growing from prayer;
By looking on all things as order'd and sent
From God, in His fatherly care;
By thrusting the cup of temptation aside,
And tasting it—no! not a sip!
By cleansing the head from the cobwebs of pride,
And banishing scorn from the lip.

By reading, and working, and doing your best
In all that is duty to do;
By frankness, and fairness, and kindness exprest
To all that have dealings with you;
By cheerfulness, hopefulness, gratitude, truth;
By shunning the thing that is mean;
By looking to God as the guide of your youth,
And loving your country and Queen!

Steer thus, O young brother! and you will indeed
Ride safe, though the surges be vext;
In this world I warrant you well to succeed,
And better than well in the next:
Go on, and be prosper'd! “Enough, and to spare,”
To godliness ever is given;
By pureness and diligence, patience and prayer,
You conquer for Earth and for Heaven!

Encouragement.

A Companion Ballad to the “Stave of Sympathy.”

Yet one more cheer, one brotherly cheer,
To speed the good youth on his way!
There's plenty to hope, and little to fear
For those who have chosen the good part here,
While it is called to-day.

Ah! well do I wot the perils and snares
Of this bad world and its lust;
Temptations and sorrows, vexations and cares,
Grow with the heart's young wheat like tares,
And worry it down to the dust!

Yet, better I know, if the spirit will pray,
When trouble is near at hand,—
If the heart pleads hard for grace to obey,
Brother! no sin shall lure thee astray,—
By faith thou still shalt stand!

For Heaven bends over to help and to bless
With all a Redeemer's power
The spirit that strives, when evils oppress,
Its God to serve, and its Lord to confess
In dark temptation's hour.

Thou, then, fair brother, go cheerily forth,
And manfully do your best!
In all sincerity's warmth and worth
Go forth,—be pure, be happy on earth,
And so evermore be blest!

The Laurel Crown.

The laurel crown! for duty done,
For good achieved, and honours won,
For all of natural gift, or art,
That thrills and fills an earnest heart

With generous thoughts and stirring words
Struck from its own electric chords,—
On these your modern muses frown,
Yet these deserve the laurel crown!

The laurel crown! for soaring song
Eagle-pinion'd, free, and strong,
That, as God gives grace and power
Consecrates each hallow'd hour
Wisely, as a patriot ought,
By burning word and glowing thought,—
On this pour all your honours down,
To this belongs the laurel crown!

The laurel crown! in common eyes
A wreath of leaves, a paltry prize,
A silly, worthless, weed-like thing,
Fit coronet for folly's king:
The laurel crown! in wisdom's ken
A call from God to waken men,
Lest in these mammon depths they drown,—
This is thy glory, laurel crown!

Yes, laurel crown! if seen aright
A majesty of moral might
To lead the masses on to good,
And rule the surging multitude
By nobler and more manly songs
Than to some troubadour belongs,
Who feebly warbles for renown,—
Not such be thou my laurel crown!

Home.

A Ballad for Everybody.

I foraged all over this joy-dotted earth,
To pick its best nosegay of innocent mirth
Tied up with the bands of its wisdom and worth,—
And lo! its chief treasure,
Its innermost pleasure,
Was always at Home!

I went to the Palace, and there my fair Queen
On the arm of Her Husband did lovingly lean,
And all the dear babes in their beauty were seen,
In spite of the splendour,
So happy and tender,
For they were at Home!

I turn'd to the cottage, and there my poor hind
Lay sick of a fever,—all meekly resign'd,
For O! the good wife was so cheerful and kind,
In spite of all matters,
An angel in tatters,
And she was at Home!

I ask'd a glad mother, just come from the post
With a letter she kiss'd from a far-away coast,
What heart-thrilling news had rejoiced her the most—
And—gladness for mourning!
Her boy was returning
To love her—at Home!

I spoke to the soldiers and sailors at sea,
Where best in the world would they all of them be?
And hark! how they earnestly shouted to me,
With iron hearts throbbing,
And choking and sobbing,
—O land us at Home!

I came to the desk where old Commerce grew gray,
And ask'd him what help'd him this many a day
In his old smoky room with his ledger to stay?
And it all was the beauty,
The comfort and duty,
That cheer'd him at Home!

I ran to the court, where the sages of law
Were wrangling and jangling at quibble and flaw,—
O wondrous to me was the strife that I saw!
But all that fierce riot
Was calm'd by the quiet
That blest them at Home!

I call'd on the school-boy, poor love-stricken lad,
Who yearn'd in his loneliness, silent and sad,
For the days when again he should laugh and be glad
With his father and mother,
And sister and brother,
All happy at Home!

I tapp'd at the door of the year-stricken Eld,
Where age, as I thought, had old memories quell'd,—
But still all his garrulous fancies outwell'd
Strange old-fashion'd stories
Of pleasures and glories
That once were at Home!

I whisper'd the prodigal, wanton and wild,
—How changed from the heart that you had when a child,
So teachable, noble, and modest, and mild!—
Though Sin had undone him,
Thank God that I won him
By looking at Home!

And then, when he wept and he vow'd better life,
I hasten'd to snatch him from peril and strife,
By finding him wisely a tender young Wife,—
Whose love should allure him,
And gently secure him
A convert at Home!

So he that had raced after pleasure so fast,
And still as he ran had its goal overpast,
Found happiness, honour, and blessing at last
In all the kind dealings,
Affections and feelings,
That ripen at Home!

Rich and Poor.

A Ballad for Union.

O ladies, lords, and gentlemen,
Attend to what I say,
For well I wot you'll like it when
You listen to my lay;
And labourers and weavers too,
Come near, whoever can,
I want the best of all of you,
To build a Noble Man.

The time is past for lofty looks,
As well as vulgar deeds;
Religion, common-sense, and books,
O these are magic seeds!
They kill whate'er in man was proud,
And nourish what is wise,
And feed the humblest of the crowd
With manna from the skies.

Ay, dreary days of highbred scorn,
You've somewhile died away,—
And better were the fool unborn,
Who tries it on to-day:
Ay, wintry nights of lowbred sin,
You've stolen out of sight,
And all things base, without, within,
Are scatter'd by the light.

Take copy of the small, ye great!
In all that's free and frank;
Add cordial ways to courteous state,
And heartiness to rank:
Take copy of the great, ye small,
In all that's soft and fair,
Honourable to each and all,
And gentle everywhere!

The Gracious Source of all our wealth
In body, mind, or store,
Pours life and light and hope and health
Alike on rich and poor;
And though so many covet ill
Some neighbour's happier state,
They little heed how kind a Will
Has fix'd them in their fate.

Think, justly think, what liberal aids
Invention gives to all,
While Truth shines out, and Error fades,
Alike for great and small;

How well the rail, the post, the press,
Help universal Man,
The highest peer, and hardly less
The humblest artizan.

Religion, like an angel, stands
To solace every mind;
And Science, with her hundred hands,
Is blessing all mankind;
All eyes may see a beauteous sight,
All ears may hear sweet sound,
And sage-desirèd seeds of light
Are broadcast all around.

Lo, the high places levelling down!
The valleys filling up!
Magnates, who ought to wear a crown,
Drain Charity's cold cup;
While Industry, of humblest birth,
With Prudence well allied,
O'ertops the topmost peaks of earth,
The palaces of pride.

Be humble then, ye mighty men!
Be humble, poor of earth!
Be God alone exalted, when
He speaks by plague and dearth!
Let each be grateful, friendly, true,—
And that will be the plan,
To make of peer, and peasant too,
A truly Noble Man!

The Sabbath.

A Ballad for the Labourer.

Six days in the week do I toil for my bread,
And surely should feel like a slave,
Except for a Providence fix'd overhead
That hallow'd the duties it gave;
I work for my mother, my babes, and my wife,
And starving and stern is my toil,—
For who can tell truly how hard is the life
Of a labouring son of the soil?

A debt to the doctor, a score at the shop,
And plenty of trouble and strife,—
While backbreaking toil makes me ready to drop,
Worn out and aweary of life!
O, were there no gaps in the month or the year,
No comfort, or peace, or repose,
How long should I battle with miseries here,
How soon be weigh'd down by my woes?

Six days in the week, then, I struggle and strive,
And, O! but the seventh is blest;
Then only I seem to be free and alive,
My soul and my body at rest:
I needn't get up in the cold and the dark,
I needn't go work in the rain,
On that happy morning I wait till the lark
Has trill'd to the sunshine again!

Unhurried for once, well shaven and clean,
With babes and the mother at meals,
I gather what home and its happiness mean,
And feel as a gentleman feels:
Then drest in my best I go blithely to church,
And meet my old mates on the way,
To gossip awhile in the ivy'd old porch,
And hear all the news of the day.

And soon as the chimes of the merry bells cease,
—O rare is the bell-ringers' din!—
We calmly compose us to prayer and to peace,
As Jabez is tolling us in:
And then in the place where my fathers have pray'd,
I praise and I pray at my best,
And smile as their child when I hope to be laid
In the same bit of turf where they rest!

For wisely his Reverence tells of the dead
As living, and waiting indeed
A bright Resurrection,—'twas happily said,—
From earth and its misery freed!
And then do I know that though poor I am rich,
An heir of great glories above,
Till it seems like a throne,—my old seat in the niche
Of the wall of the church that I love!

So, praise the Good Lord for his sabbaths, I say,
So kindly reserved for the poor;
The wealthy can rest and be taught any day,
But we have but one and no more!

Aye,—what were the labouring man without these
His sabbaths of body and mind?
A workweary wretch without respite or ease,
The curse and reproach of his kind!

And don't you be telling me, sages of trade,
The seventh's a loss in my gain;
I pretty well guess of what stuff you are made,
And know what you mean in the main:
You mete out the work, and the wages you fix,
And care for the make, not the men;
For seven you'd pay us the same as for six,
And who would be day-winners then?

No, no, my shrewd masters, thank God that His law—
The Sabbath—is law of the land;
Thank God that His wisdom so truly foresaw
What mercy so lovingly plann'd:
My babes go to school; and my Bible is read;
And I walk in my holiday dress;
And I get better fed; and my bones lie abed,—
And my wages are nothing the less.

Then Praises to God,—and all health to the Queen,—
And thanks for the Sabbath, say I!
It is, as it shall be, and ever has been,
The earthgrubber's glimpse at the sky;
The Sabbath is ours, my mates of the field,—
A holyday once in the seven;
The Sabbath to Mammon we never will yield,
It is Poverty's foretaste of Heaven!

“The Lamp upon the Railway Engine.”

A Ballad of Composure.

Shining in its silver cell,
Like a Hermit calm and quiet,—
Though so near it, hot as hell,
Furious fires rave and riot,—
Posted as an eye in front,
'Mid the smoke and steam and singeing,
Steadily bears all the brunt,
The Lamp upon the railway engine.

So, thou traveller of life,
In the battle round thee crashing
Heed no more the stormy strife
Than a rock the billows dashing:
Through this dark and dreary night,
Vexing fears, and cares unhingeing,
Shine, O Mind, aloft, alight,
The Lamp upon the railway engine.

By the oil of Grace well fed,
Ever on the Future gazing,
Let the star within thy head
Steadily and calmly blazing
Hold upon its duteous way
Through each ordeal unflinching,
Trimm'd to burn till dawn of Day,
The Lamp upon the railway engine.

Safe behind a crystal shield,
Though the outer deluge drench us,
Faith forbids a soul to yield,
And no hurricane can quench us:
No! though forced along by fate
At a pace so swift and swingeing,
Calmly shine in silver state,
Ye Lamps on every railway engine.

Labour!

A Ballad for our Mines and Manufactories.

Fair work for fair wages!—it's all that we ask,
An Englishman loves what is fair,—
We'll never complain of the toil or the task,
If livelihood comes with the care;
Fair work for fair wages!—we hope nothing else
Of the mill, or the forge, or the soil,
For the rich man who buys, and the poor man who sells,
Must pay and be paid for his toil!

Fair work for fair wages!—we know that the claim
Is just between master and man;
If the tables were turn'd we would serve him the same,
And promise we will when we can!
We give to him industry, muscle, and thew,
And heartily work for his wealth;
So he will as honestly give what is due,
Fair wages for labour in health!

Enough for the day, and a bit to put by
Against illness, and slackness, and age;
For change and misfortune are ever too nigh
Alike to the fool and the sage;
But the fool in his harvest will wanton and waste,
Forgetting the winter once more,
While true British wisdom will timely make haste
And save for the “basket and store!”

Aye; wantonness freezes to want, be assured,
And drinking makes nothing to eat,
And penury's wasting by waste is secured,
And luxury starves in the street!
And many a father with little ones pale,
So rack'd by his cares and his pains,
Might now be all right if, when hearty and hale,
He never had squander'd his gains!

We know that prosperity's glittering sun
Can shine but a little, and then
The harvest is over, the summer is done,
Alike for the master and men:
If the factory ship with its Captain on board
Must beat in adversity's waves,
One lot is for all! for the great cotton lord
And the poorest of Commerce's slaves;

One lot! if extravagance reign'd in the home,
Then poverty's wormwood and gall;
If rational foresight of evils to come,
A cheerful complacence in all:

For sweet is the morsel that diligence earn'd,
And sweeter, that prudence put by;
And lessons of peace in affliction are learn'd,
And wisdom that comes from on high!

For God, in His providence ruling above,
And piloting all things below,
Is ever unchangeable justice and love,
In ordering welfare or woe:
He blesses the prudent for heaven and earth,
And gladdens the good at all times,—
But frowns on the sinner, and darkens his mirth,
And lashes his follies and crimes!

Alas! for the babes, and the poor pallid wife
Hurl'd down with the sot to despair,—
Yet,—God shall reward in a happier life
Their punishment, patience, and pray'r!
But woe to the caitiff, who, starved by his drinks,
Was starving his children as well,—
O Man, break away from the treacherous links
Of a chain that will drag you to Hell!

Come along, come along, man! it's never too late,
Though drowning, we throw you a rope!
Be quick and be quit of so fearful a fate,
For while there is life there is hope!
So wisely come with us, and work like the rest,
And save of your pay while you can;
And Heaven will bless you for doing your best,
And helping yourself like a man!

For Labour is money, and Labour is health,
And Labour is duty on earth;
And never was honour, or wisdom, or wealth,
But Labour has been at its birth!
The rich,—in his father, his friend, or himself,
By head or by hand must have toil'd,
And the brow, that is canopied over with pelf,
By Labour's own sweat has been soil'd!

The New Home.

A Rhyme for the Million.

Pent in wynds and closes narrow,
Breathing pestilential air,
Crush'd beneath oppression's harrow,
Faint with famine, bow'd with care,—
Gaunt Affliction's sons and daughters!
Why so slow to hear the call
Which The Voice upon the waters
Preaches solemnly to all?

Hark! Old Ocean's tongue of thunder
Hoarsely calling bids you speed
To the shores he held asunder
Only for these times of need;
Now, upon his friendly surges
Ever ever roaring Come,
All the sons of hope he urges
To a new, a richer home!

England and her sea-girt sisters
Pine for want in seeming wealth;
Though the gaudy surface glisters,
This is not the hue of health;
O! the honest labour trying
Vainly here to earn its bread,—
O! the willing workers dying,
Unemploy'd, untaught, unfed!

Thousand sights that melt to pity,—
Move to fear, or—tempt to scorn!
Wretched swarms in field and city,
Wherefore are these paupers born!—
Shall I tell you, heirs of pleasure?
Shall I teach you, sons of pain?
Unto both, each in his measure,
Stir I now this earnest strain.

Lo! to every human creature
Born upon this bounteous earth,
Speaks the God of grace and nature,
Speaks for plenty or for dearth;
Till the ground; if not, thou starvest;
Fear shall drive to duteous toil;
Till the ground; a golden harvest
Then shall wave on every soil!

And behold! the King All-glorious
Unto Britain tythes the world,—
Everywhere her crown victorious,
Everywhere her cross unfurl'd!

God hath giv'n her distant regions,
Broad and rich; and store of ships;
God hath added homeborn legions,
Steep'd in trouble to the lips!

Join then in one holy tether
Those whom Man hath put aside,
Those whom God would link together,
Earth and labour well-applied:
Ho! thou vast and wealthy nation,
Wing thy fleets to every place,
Fertilizing all Creation
With the Anglo-Saxon race!

England's frank and sturdy bearing,
Scotland's judgment, true and tried,
Erin's headlong headstrong daring,
And the Welchman's honest pride;—
Send these forth, and tame the savage,
Sow his realms with British homes,
Where till now wild monsters ravage,
Or the wilder Bushman roams!

Let, as erst in Magna Græcia,
Nobles, sages, join the ranks;
And for vacant Austral-Asia
Leave for good these swarming banks;
Not as exiled,—but with honour!
Told in tale, and sung in song;
With the Queen,—God's blessing on her!—
Speeding this good work along!

Then the wilderness shall blossom,
And the desert, as the rose;
While dear Earth's maternal bosom
With abundance overflows:
Then shall Britain gladly number
Crowds of children, now her dread,
That her onward march encumber
With the living and—the dead!

Ay! for bitter is the contest
As a struggle, life for life,
Where the very meal thou wantest
Was for little ones and wife,—
Where they slowly pine and perish
That the father may be strong,
Some taskmaster's wealth to cherish,
By his labour, right or wrong!

Haste, then, all ye better natures,
Help in what must bless the World:
See, those cellar-crowded creatures
To despair's own dungeon hurl'd;—
Send—or lead them o'er the waters
To the genial shores, that give
Britain's sacred sons and daughters
Man's great privilege—to Live!

There,—instead of scanty wages,
Grinding rent and parish tax,—
In the wood, unheard for ages,
Rings the cheerful freeman's axe;

Whilst in yonder cozy clearing,
Home, sweet Home, rejoices life,
Full of thoughts and things endearing,
Merry babes and rosy wife!

There,—instead of festering alleys,
Noisome dirt, and gnawing dearth,—
Sunny hills and smiling valleys
Wait to yield the wealth of Earth!
All She asks is—human labour,
Healthy in the open air;
All she gives is—every neighbour
Wealthy, hale, and happy There!

Calumny.

A Ballad for the Unlucky.

I came into trouble; and comforting friends
For charity hasten'd to find
The very just cause for such righteous amends
Rewarding a reprobate mind.

Some hinted, He lives upon victuals—and drink;
And so, to be honest, I do;
Some others,—No wonder, we cannot but think,
The false is unfortunate too:

One said, like a Solomon, Pride has a fall;
Another condemn'd me for Sloth;
Another thought neither accounted for all;
Another felt sure it was both.

Meanwhile was I diligent, humble, and pure,
And patiently kissing the rod,
And took it all well, for my spirit was sure
It came from a covenant God.

Then I look'd in His Bible, and found there a man,
Like me, with afflictions and friends;
And learnt that, let Satan do all that he can,
The Lord will make ample amends.

So, trouble went from me; and Job was made whole;
And friends slunk away in their shame:
For Heaven's rich mercy gave body and soul
Health, honour, good-fortune, and fame.

Mercy to Animals.

A Ballad of Humanity.

O boys and men of British mould,
With mother's milk within you!
A simple word for young and old,
A word to warm and win you;
You've each and all got human hearts
As well as human features,
So hear me, while I take the parts
Of all the poor dumb creatures.

I wot your lot is sometimes rough;
But theirs is something rougher,—
No hopes, no loves,—but pain enough,
And only sense to suffer:

You, men and boys, have friends and joys,
And homes, and hopes in measure,—
But these poor brutes are only mutes,
And never knew a pleasure!

A little water, chaff and hay,
And sleep, the boon of Heaven,
How great returns for these have they
To your advantage given:
And yet the worn-out horse, or ass,
Who makes your daily gaining,
Is paid with goad and thong, alas!
Though nobly uncomplaining.

Stop, cruel boy! you mean no ill,
But never thought about it,—
Why beat that patient donkey still?
He goes as well without it:
Here, taste and try a cut or two,—
Ha! you can shout and feel it;
Boy—that was Mercy's hint to you,—
In shorter measure deal it.

Stop, sullen man! 'tis true to tell
How ill the world has used you;
The farmers didn't treat you well,
The squire's self refused you:
But is that any reason why
A bad revenge you're wreaking
On that poor lame old horse,—whose eye
Rebukes you without speaking?

Oh think not thou that this dumb brute
Has no strong Friend to aid him;
Nor hope, because his wrongs are mute,
They rouse not God who made him!
A little while, and you are—dead,
With all your bitter feelings;
How will the Judge, so just and dread,
Reward your cruel dealings?

Go, do some good before you die
To those who make your living;
They will not ask you reasons why,
Nor tax you for forgiving:
Their mouths are mute; but most acute
The woes whereby you wear them;
Then come with me, and only see
How easy 'tis to spare them!

Load for'ard; neither goad, nor flog;
For rest your beast is flagging:
And do not let that willing dog
Tear out his heart with dragging:
Wait, wait awhile; those axles grease,
And shift this buckle's fretting;
And give that galling collar ease;—
How grateful is he getting!

So poor yourselves, and short of joys,
Unkindly used, unfairly,
I sometimes wonder, men and boys,
You're merciful so rarely:

If you have felt how hunger gripes,
Why famish and ill use 'em?
If you've been weal'd by sores and stripes,
How can you beat and bruise 'em?

Oh, fear! lest God has taught in vain,
And so your hearts you harden;
Oh, hope! for lo! He calls again,
And now's the time for pardon:
Yes, haste to-day to put away
Your cruelties and curses,—
And man at least, if not his beast,
Shall bless me for my verses.

The Dog's Petition:

Against “the Truck System.”

Babe pity, Master, on me! I scarce can drag the load,—
I all but pull my heartstrings out upon this stony road;
Yet, with a cudgel and a curse my willing toil you pay,
And leap upon the truck behind, to help me on my way!

Half-starved, and weal'd and bruised, and gall'd, in every bone I ache,
And strain beneath the crushing load, as if my back would break,
The while athirst I struggle on among these dusty ruts,
And dread the mended places where the flint so sharply cuts!

O Man, O Master! Nature's hand—(it is the hand of God!)
For roads like this made stubborn hoofs,—my soft foot for the sod;
Built the strong frame of beasts of draught to pull your cart or van,
But gave me nobler sense and wish to be the friend of Man!

With faithful zeal to watch the flock or homestead night and day,
To chase your game, or bravely hunt the prowling beasts of prey;
With joyous love to welcome you, with courage to defend;—
O Man, art thou “the friend of God?”—then let me be thy friend.

Yes,—learned lords and sporting men, who make or mar the laws,
Why hesitate such ills to cure,—for is there not a cause?
The town is quit of dog-truck-scamps and cruelties like these,
But in our lonely country lanes they torture as they please.

No eye to see, no hand to help,—(but His, long-suffering still,
Who yet shall bless good's bruiséd heel, and crush the head of ill!)
No pity in the cruel heart to stay the hand that flogs,—
O senators, consider well the case of country-dogs.

And for your clients, dog-truck-men,—ask all the country through,
In every village, who is worst of all their roughest crew?
They'll tell you, one and all alike, as honestly they can,
Our model rogue and thief and sot is—yonder dog-truck-man

“England's Heart!”

A Word of Comfort to the Loyal.

England's heart! Oh never fear
The sturdy good old stock;
Nothing's false or hollow here,
But solid as a rock:

England's heart is sound enough,
And safe in its old place,
Honest, loyal, blithe, and bluff,
And open as her face!

England's heart! With beating nerves
It rallies for the throne,—
And, with Luther, well preserves
The knee for God alone!
England's heart is sound enough,
Unshaken and serene,
Like her oak-trees true and tough
And old,—but glad and green!

England's heart! All Europe hurl'd
To ruin, strife, and dearth,
Sees yet one Zoar in the world,
The Goshen of the earth!
England's heart is sound enough,—
And—though the skies be dark,
Though winds be loud, and waves be rough—
Safe, as Noah's ark!

England's heart,—Ay, God be praised,
That thus, in patriot pride,
An English cheer can yet be raised
Above the stormy tide:
Safe enough, and sound enough,
It thrills the heart to feel
A man's a bit of English stuff,
True from head to heel!

My Own Place.

A Rhyme for all Good Men and True.

Whoever I am, wherever my lot,
Whatever I happen to be,
Contentment and Duty shall hallow the spot
That Providence orders for me;
No covetous straining and striving to gain
One feverish step in advance,—
I know my own place, and you tempt me in vain
To hazard a change and a chance!

I care for no riches that are not my right,
No honour that is not my due;
But stand in my station by day, or by night,
The will of my Master to do;
He lent me my lot, be it humble or high,
And set me my business here;
And whether I live in His service, or die,
My heart shall be found in my sphere!

If wealthy, I stand as the steward of my King;
If poor, as the friend of my Lord;
If feeble, my prayers and my praises I bring;
If stalwarth, my pen or my sword:
If wisdom be mine, I will cherish His gift;
If simpleness, bask in His love;
If sorrow, His hope shall my spirit uplift;
If joy, I will throne it above!

The good that it pleases my God to bestow,
I gratefully gather and prize;
The evil,—it can be no evil, I know,
But only a good in disguise;

And whether my station be lowly or great,
No duty ever be mean,
The factory-cripple is fix'd in his fate
As well as a King or a Queen!

For duty's bright livery glorifies all
With brotherhood, equal and free,
Obeying, as children, the heavenly call,
That places us where we should be;
A servant,—the badge of my servitude shines
As a jewel invested by Heaven;
A monarch,—remember that justice assigns
Much service, where so much is given!

Away then with “helpings” that humble and harm
Though “bettering” trips from your tongue,
Away! for your folly would scatter the charm
That round my proud poverty hung:
I felt that I stood like a man at my post,
Though peril and hardship were there,—
And all that your wisdom would counsel me most
Is—“Leave it;—do better elsewhere.”

If “better” were better indeed, and not “worse,”
I might go ahead with the rest;
But many a gain and joy is a curse,
And many a grief for the best:
No!—duties are all the “advantage” I use;
I pine not for praise or for pelf;
And as for ambition, I care not to choose
My better or worse for myself!

I will not, I dare not, I cannot!—I stand
Where God has ordain'd me to be,
An honest mechanic—or lord in the land,—
He fitted my calling for me:
Whatever my state, be it weak, be it strong,
With honour, or sweat, on my face,
This, this is my glory, my strength, and my song,
I stand, like a star, in my place.

“What is a Poet?”

A Rhyme for the Rhymesters.

No jingler of rhymes, and no mingler of phrases,
No tuner of times, and no pruner of daisies,
No lullaby lyrist, with nothing to say,
No small sentimentalist, fainting away,
No Ardert of albums, no trifling Tyrtæus,
No bilious misanthrope loathing to see us,
No gradus-and-prosody maker of verses,
No Hector of tragedy vapouring curses,—
In a word—though a long one—no mere poetaster,
The monkey that follows some troubadour master,
And, filching from Byron, or Shelley, or Keats,
With cunning mosaic his coterie cheats
Into voting the poor petty-larceny fool
A charming disciple of Wordsworth's own school.

Not a bit of it!—Pilferers, duncy and dreary,—
Human society's utterly weary
Of gilt insincerities, hopping in verse,
And stately hexameters plumed like a hearse,

And second-hand sentiment, sugar'd with ice,
And a third course of passion, warm'd up very nice,
And peaches of wax, and your sham wooden pine,
The fitting desert of a feast so divine!
With musical lies and mechanical stuff
The verse-ridden world has been pester'd enough:
But yet in its heart, if unsmother'd by words,
It thrills and it throbs from its innermost chords
To generous, truthful, melodious Sense,
To beautiful language and feelings intense,
To human affection sincerely pour'd out,
To eloquence,—tagg'd with a rhyme, or without;
To anything tasteful, and hearty, and true,
Delicate, graceful, and noble, and new!

Ay; find me the man—or the woman—or child,
Though modest, yet bold; and though spirited, mild;
With a mind that can think, and a heart that can feel,
And the tongue and the pen that are skill'd to reveal,
And the eye that hath wept, and the hand that will aid,
And the brow that in peril was never afraid;
With courage to dare, and with keenness to plan,
And tact to declare what is pleasant to man
While guiding and teaching and training his mind,
While spurring the lazy, and leading the blind;
With pureness in youth, and religion in age,
And cordial affections at every stage,—
The harp of this woman, this man, or this youth,
By genius well strung, and made tuneful by truth,
Shall charm and shall ravish the world at its will,
And make its old heart yet tremble and thrill,
While all men shall own it and feel it and know it
Gladly and gratefully,—Here is the Poet!

Envy.

A Word to the Few.

Whitelipp'd sneerer, well I wot
How you loathe the great and wise,—
How his brightness is a blot
On your thunder-mantled skies;
How his fame and good men's love
Make him hateful in your eyes,
And when thus he soars above,
How you ache to see him rise!

O you seeming friend, found out,
In detraction is your bliss,—
Whispering petty blame about,
With a subtle serpent's hiss:
Lo, the great man scorns it all;
Lo, the wise man makes it miss;
Lo, the good man greets your gall
With a kind forgiving kiss!

Brothers! who have nobly earn'd
Thanks and praise at least from man,
If your good with scorn is spurn'd,
And your blessing met by ban,
Brothers! heed we not their hate
Who would harm but never can,—
With the wise, the good, the great,
Let us conquer in the van!

Welcome!

A Word to the Many.

Yes! welcome, right welcome—and give us your hand,—
I like not to stand in the cold!
If new friends are true friends I can't understand
Why hearts should hold back till they're old;
For life is so short, and there's so much to do,
And so many pleasures and cares—
And somewhere I've read that, though angels are few,
They're frequently met unawares!

The eye of sincerity shines like a star
Through the clouds of suspicion and doubt;
I love its fair lustre, and lure it from far,
And wouldn't for worlds put it out:
Away with such wisdom, as risking the chance
Of killing young love with old fears—
The face that is honest is known at a glance,
And needn't be studied for years!

And when petty Prudence would put me to school
About caution, and care, and all that,
I trust that, like some folks, I yield to the rule
Of wearing a head in my hat;
But more that remains is better than brains,
And I know not that some folks are blest
Like me, with a share in a custom more rare,
Of wearing a heart in the breast!

Then come with all welcome! I fear not to fling
Reserve to the winds and the waves,
And never can cling to the cold-blooded thing
Society makes of its slaves:
Thou dignified dullard, so cloudy and cold,
Get out of the sunshine for me;
But, hearty good friend! whether new one or old,
A Welcome for Ever to thee!

Balm.

A Few Consolatory Stanzas.

Patience yet one little hour,
Pale, unloved, uncourted flower,
Seeing not the sun;
Patience,—heart of depth and duty,
Yearning for the smiles of beauty,
Never catching one:

Patience,—martyr following faintly,
Gentle nun, serene and saintly,
Kneeling in the dust;
Oh not vain thy long-enduring!
Still with meekest might securing
Triumph to thy trust!

Hushing every mutter'd murmur,
Tranquil Fortitude the firmer
Girdeth thee with strength;
While, no treason near her lurking,
Patience, in her perfect working,
Shall be Queen at length.

And, behold! thy pious daring
Is a glorious crown preparing
For thine own sweet brow;
Precious pearls of softest lustre
Shall with brightest jewels cluster
Where the thorns are now!

Faith and Patience! sister, brother,—
Lean in love on one another,
Calm for good or ill:
Comforted by surely knowing
That the Ruler is bestowing
Strength in sitting still!

O ye virgin spirits wasting,
O ye hearts of thousands, hasting
Darkly to decay,
Through the blight of disappointment,—
Tenderly, with precious ointment,
Lull those cares away,

Tenderly, with wise beguilings,
Court sweet Patience for her smilings
On that ruin drear;
Soon, with other sister graces,
Shall she make your hearts and faces
Laugh away their fear:

Soft Contentment, bright-eyed Duty,
Faith in his archangel beauty,
Joy, and Love sublime,
Follow,—Patience, where thy finger
Gently beckons Hope to linger
On the wrecks of time!

Selfishness.

A Ballad for the Worldly.

How little and how lightly
We care for one another!
How seldom and how slightly
Consider each a brother!
For all the world is every man
To his own self alone,
And all beside no better than
A thing he doesn't own.

And O, the shame and sadness,
To see how insincerely
The heart, that in its gladness,
Went forth to love men dearly,
Is chill'd, and all its warmth repell'd
As just a low mistake,
And half the cordial yearnings quell'd
It felt for others' sake.

The service it would render
Is call'd intrusive boldness,
And thus, that heart so tender,
Now hardening to coldness,
Returns, returns,—a blighted thing!
To scorn those early days,
The freshness of its green young spring,
Its beauty and its praise.

Self-Possession.

A Ballad for a Man's Own Inner World.

Whirling, eddying, ebbing Present,
Foamy tide of strife and noise,
Mingled-bitter, mingled-pleasant,
Loves and worries, cares and joys,—
O ye changing chancing surges!
Calmly doth my Mind forecast
How your restless spirit merges
In the Future and the Past!

Lo, I stand your master-pilot;
Though the cataracts be near,
Safe I swing round rock or islet,
Strong, and still, and godlike Here!
Stout I stand, and sway the tiller
Through these rapids glancing down,
While the very flood flows stiller,
Frozen by my monarch-frown!

O'er the rock-entangled shallows
Staunch I steer, adown the stream;
And the Past the Present hallows
With its melancholy dream,—
And the Future, nearing surely
Like Niagara's cliff ahead
Steadily I reach, securely
As a child that feels no dread!

Yea, though Earth be torn asunder,—
Or the secret heart be vext,—
Though with elemental thunder
Or by petty cares perplext,
Still I stand, and rule the riot;
Still my deep calm soul is blest
With its own imperial quiet,
The sublimity of Rest!

For, a staunch and stalwarth true man,
Fearing God, and none beside,—
Nothing more, nor less, than human,
Nothing human can betide
That may disenthrone a spirit
Doom'd to reign in Time's decay,
Grandly fated to inherit
Endless peace in endless Day!

Slander.

A Ballad of Comfort.

Never you fear; but go ahead
In self-relying strength:
What matters it, that malice said,
“We've found it out at length!”
Found out? found what?—An honest man
Is open as the light,
So, search as keenly as you can,
You'll only find—all right.

Yes, blot him black with slander's ink,
He stands as white as snow!
You serve him better than you think,
And kinder than you know:
What? is it not some credit, then,
That he provokes your blame?
This merely, with all better men,
Is quite a kind of fame!

Through good report, and ill report,
The good man goes his way,
Nor condescends to pay his court
To what the vile may say:—
Aye, be the scandal what you will
And whisper what you please,
You do but fan his glory still
By whistling up a breeze.

The little spark becomes a flame
If you won't hold your tongue;
Nobody pays you for your blame,
Nor cares to prove it wrong;
But if you will so kindly aid
And prop a good man's peace,
Why, really one is half afraid
Your ill report should cease!

Look you! two children playing there
With battledores in hand
To keep the shuttle in the air
Must strike it as they stand;
It flags and falls, if both should stop,
To look admiring on,—
And so Fame's shuttlecock would drop
Without a Pro and Con!

The Golden Mean.

A Ballad of Wisdom.

“Give me neither poverty nor riches.”

Pageants rare of splendid waste
Hurried on with glittering haste;
Honours high, and fashions gay,—
Teasing pomp by night and day;
Luxuries that never cease
Rich in every zest but—peace;
Flattering homage, sickly sweet,
Pleasures—pleasures? false and fleet,—
Who shall swear that rank and wealth
Have one bliss except by stealth
When the great, the rich, the proud
Stoop to imitate the crowd?

Aching toil, or starving rest;
Disappointment's bleeding breast;
Hopes of better, never here;
Luck a laggard in the rear;
Cellar, children, curses, cries,
Furious crime, or fawning lies,—
Food? the foulest, scantly dealt;
Pain? aye, pain, for ever felt;
Who, with Francis, who can praise,
Poverty, thy works and ways,
Till they rise above despair,
Till content hath smother'd care?

Give me, Blessed Father! give
Just enough in love to live;
Give me what is truly good—
Grace, and food, and gratitude;
Kindly give me patience, health,
Anything but wasteful Wealth;
Wisely in Thy mercy grant
Anything but wasting Want;
That I may not through excess
Sin from want or wantonness,—
That I may be clear and clean,
Lucid in the Golden Mean.

Time.

A Ballad for the Aged.

Light as flakes of falling snow
Drop the silent-footed hours;
And the days,—they come and go,
And the years—we scarcely know
How their frosts, and fruits, and flowers,
Transient crops of weal and woe,
Change, and pass, and perish so!
While we muse upon To-day
Lo! the dream has died away;
And there lives what was To-morrow,
With its present joy or sorrow,
Pains and pleasures, fear and hope,
A variable kaleidoscope:
So on, so on; till years have sped
By tens and twenties over head,
And those flakes that fell unfelt
Have grown to snows—that never melt!

“God preserue the Queen!”

A Loyal Ballad, April, 1848.

How glorious is thy calling,
My happy Fatherland,
While all the thrones are falling
In righteousness to stand,
Amid the earthquakes heaving thus
To rest in pastures green,—
Then, God be praised who helpeth us,
And—God preserve the Queen!

How glorious is thy calling!
In sun and moon and stars
To see the signs appalling
Of prodigies and wars,—
Yet by thy grand example still
From lies the world to wean,
Then, God be praised who guards from ill,
And—God preserve the Queen!

Within thy sacred border
Amid the sounding seas,
Religion, Right, and Order
Securely dwell at ease;
And if we lift this beacon bright,
Among the nations seen,
We bless the Lord who loves the right,
And—God preserve the Queen!

Fair pastures and still waters
Are ours withal to bless
The thronging sons and daughters
Of exile and distress;
For who so free, as English hearts
Are, shall be, and have been?
Then, God be thank'd on our parts,
And—God preserve the Queen!

Though strife and fear and madness
Are raging all around,
There still is peace and gladness
On Britain's holy ground;
But not to us the praise,—to us
Our glory is to lean
On Him who giveth freely thus,
And—God preserve the Queen!

O nation greatly favour'd,
If ever thou shouldst bring
A sacrifice well savour'd
Of praise to God the King,
Now, now, let all thy children raise
In faith and love serene,
The loyal patriot hymn of praise
Of—God preserve the Queen!

A Ballad for the Prince Alfred;

On his Birthday, August 6, 1849.

A thousand years ago,
A mighty spirit came
To earn himself through weal and woe
An everlasting name!

The Great, the Wise, the Good,
Was Alfred in his time,
And then before his God he stood
An heir of bliss sublime!

And many changes since
And wondrous things have been,
Till in another English prince,
Again is Alfred seen.

Though never call'd to rule,
Nor ever forced to fight,
May he grow up in Alfred's school
A child of love and light:

In Learning and in Grace
Exceeding great and wise,
With goodness run his happy race,
And reign beyond the skies!

A National Anthem for Liberia in Africa.

Praise ye the Lord! for this new-born Star,
On the blue firmament blazing afar,
Bless ye the Lord!—our souls to cheer
“The love of liberty brought us here!”

Hail to Liberia's beacon bright
Luring us home with its silver light,
Where we may sing without peril or fear
“The love of liberty brought us here!”

Hail! new home on the dear old shore
Where Ham's dark sons dwelt ever of yore,
Thou shalt be unto us doubly dear,
For “love of liberty brought us here!”

Come, ye children of Africa, come,
Bring hither the viol, the pipe, and the drum,
To herald this Star on its bright career,
For “love of liberty brought us here!”

Come,—with peace and to all good-will;
Yet ready to combat for insult or ill,—
Come, with the trumpet, the sword, and the spear,
For “love of liberty brought us here!”

Thanks unto God! who hath broken the chain
That bound us as slaves on the Western main;
Thanks, white brothers! Oh, thanks sincere,
Whose “love of liberty brought us here!”

Yes,—ye have rescued us as from the grave,
And a freeman made of the desperate slave,
That ye may call him both brother and peer,
For “love of liberty brought us here!”

Thanks! O raise that shout once more,—
Thanks! let it thrill Liberia's shore,—
Thanks! while we our standard rear,
“The love of liberty brought us here!”

Thine, Columbia, thine was the hand
That set us again on our own dear land,
We will remember thee far or near,
For “love of liberty brought us here!”

Yes, Liberia! freemen gave
Freedom and Thee to the ransom'd slave;
Then out with a shout both loud and clear,
“Love of liberty brought us here!”

The Liberian Beacon.

A thousand miles of rugged shore,
And not a lighthouse seen?
Alas, the thousand years of yore
That such a shame hath been!
Alas, that Afric's darkling race,
The savages and slaves,
Never have known the gleam of grace
On their Atlantic waves!

Never—till Now! O glorious light,
The beacon is ablaze!
And half the terrors of the night
Are scatter'd by its rays!
Forth from the starry-heaven'd West
Was lit this glowing torch,
For, dear Columbia's sons have blest
Liberia with—a Church!

Yes,—young Columbia leads the way,
And shows our hard old world
How slavery in the sight of day
Can wisest be downhurl'd;
Not by the bloody hand of power
That mangles while it frees,
But by Religion's calmer hour,
And Freedom of the seas!

Yes, brothers! Patience is the word,—
And Prudence in your zeal:
Where these sweet angels well are heard
They work the common weal:
The North must wait; the South be wise;
And both unite in love
To help the slave beneath the skies
Who is no slave above!

Courage!

A Ballad for Troublous Times.

Dangers do but dare me,
Terrors cannot scare me,
God my guide, I'll bear me
Manfully for ever,—
Trouble's darkest hour
Shall not make me cower
To the Spectre's power,—
Never, never, never!

Up, my heart, and brace thee,
While the perils face thee,
In thyself encase thee
Manfully for ever,—
Foes may howl around me,
Fears may hunt and hound me,—
Shall their yells confound me?
Never, never, never!

Constant, calm, unfearing,
Boldly persevering,
In good conscience steering
Manfully for ever,—
Winds and waves defying,
And on God relying,
Shall He find me flying?
Never, never, never!

A National Prayer against the Cholera.

O God! the Good, the Gracious, and the Just,
Consider Thou, and hear Thy people's prayer;
In Thee alone Thy trembling creatures trust,
And leave their sorrows to a Father's care.

Through Christ who died, we live again to Thee;
Through Christ who lives, we come before Thy throne;
Though all beside in us corruption be,
The good He gives we gladly claim and own.

Now, for His sake, (Thy gift to us, our God,)
In mercy look on us, in mercy save;
Take, take away this sharp and chast'ning rod,
And leave us humbly to the good it gave.

We would be kind to Thine own flock, the poor;
We would be wise, and temperate, and clean;
By alms be peaceful, and by prayer secure,
Trust to Thy help, and on Thy promise lean.

Grateful, courageous, penitent, and kind,
O thus let us Thy holy lesson learn;
Win through the body mercies on the mind,
And from this baneful plague Thy blessings earn.

Yea, Father! let Thy wrath be overpast,
Now bid the sunshine of Thy love appear;
Sweep from the land that pestilential blast,
And haste to save us from the foe we fear!

Who, who shall combat his mysterious might?
Who, but the “stronger than the strong man arm'd?”—
Help the poor captives in that hideous fight,
And be their terror by Thy mercy charm'd!

Heal Thou the sick; deliver Thou the whole;
Bid the fierce Angel spare, and not destroy;
With Thy salvation greet each parting soul,
And turn our sorrows into songs of joy.

A Hymn and a Chant

For the Harvest-home of 1847.

A HYMN.

O nation, Christian nation,
Lift high the hymn of praise!
The God of our salvation
Is love in all His ways;
He blesseth us, and feedeth
Every creature of His hand,
To succour him that needeth
And to gladden all the land!

Rejoice, ye happy people,
And peal the changing chime
From every belfried steeple
In symphony sublime;
Let cottage and let palace
Be thankful and rejoice,
And woods, and hills, and valleys,
Re-echo the glad voice!

From glen, and plain, and city
Let gracious incense rise,
The Lord of life in pity
Hath heard His creatures' cries;

And where in fierce oppressing
Stalk'd fever, fear, and dearth,
He pours a triple blessing
To fill and fatten earth!

Gaze round in deep emotion:
The rich and ripen'd grain
Is like a golden ocean
Becalm'd upon the plain;
And we, who late were weepers
Lest judgment should destroy,
Now sing because the reapers
Are come again with joy!

O praise the hand that giveth
—And giveth evermore,—
To every soul that liveth
Abundance flowing o'er!
For every soul He filleth
With manna from above,
And over all distilleth
The unction of His love.

Then gather, Christians, gather
To praise with heart and voice
The good Almighty Father,
Who biddeth you rejoice:
For He hath turn'd the sadness
Of His children into mirth,
And we will sing with gladness
The harvest-home of earth!

A CHANT.

O bless the God of harvest, praise Him through the land,
Thank Him for His precious gifts, His help, and liberal love:
Praise Him for the fields, that have render'd up their riches,
And, drest in sunny stubbles, take their sabbath after toil;
Praise Him for the close-shorn plains, and uplands lying bare,
And meadows, where the sweet-breath'd hay was stack'd in early summer;
Praise Him for the wheat-sheaves, gather'd safely into barn,
And scattering now their golden drops beneath the sounding flail;
Praise Him for the barley-mow, a little hill of sweetness,
Praise Him for the clustering hop, to add its fragrant bitter;
Praise Him for the wholesome root, that fatten'd in the furrow,
Praise Him for the mellow fruits, that bend the groaning bough:
For blessings on thy basket, and for blessings on thy store,
For skill and labour prosper'd well, by gracious suns and showers,
For mercies on the home, and for comforts on the hearth,
O happy heart of this broad land, praise the God of harvest!

All ye that have no tongue to praise, we will praise Him for you,
And offer on our kindling souls the tribute of your thanks:
Trees, and shrubs, and the multitude of herbs, gladdening the eyes with verdure,
For all your leaves and flowers and fruits, we praise the God of harvest!
Birds, and beetles in the dust, and insects flitting on the air,
And ye that swim the waters in your scaly coats of mail,
And steers, resting after labour, and timorous flocks afold,

And generous horses, yoked in teams to draw the creaking wains,
For all your lives, and every pleasure solacing that lot,
Your sleep, and food, and animal peace, we praise the God of harvest!
And ye, O some who never pray'd, and therefore cannot praise;
Poor darkling sons of care and toil and unillumined night,
Who rose betimes, but did not ask a blessing on your work,
Who lay down late, but render'd no thank-offering for that blessing
Which all unsought He sent, and all unknown ye gather'd,—
Alas, for you and in your stead, we praise the God of harvest!

O ye famine-stricken glens, whose children shriek'd for bread,
And noisome alleys of the town, where fever fed on hunger,—
O ye children of despair, bitterly bewailing Erin,
Come and join my cheerful praise, for God hath answer'd prayer:
Praise Him for the better hopes, and signs of better times,
Unity, gratitude, contentment; industry, peace, and plenty;
Bless Him that His chastening rod is now the sceptre of forgiveness,
And in your joy remember well to praise the God of harvest!

Come, come along with me, and swell this grateful song,
Ye nobler hearts, old England's own, her children of the soil:
All ye that sow'd the seed in faith, with those who reap'd in joy,
And he that drove the plough afield, with all the scatter'd gleaners,
And maids who milk the lowing kine, and boys that tend the sheep,
And men that load the sluggish wain or neatly thatch the rick,—
Shout and sing for happiness of heart, nor stint your thrilling cheers,
But make the merry farmer's hall resound with glad rejoicings,
And let him spread the hearty feast for joy at harvest-home,
And join this cheerful song of praise,—to bless the God of harvest!

Harvest Hymn

For 1849.

Again, through every county
Of Britain's happy shores
The Great Creator's bounty
Unstinted plenty pours;
Again to Him returning
In thankfulness we raise,
Our hearts within us burning,
The sacrifice of praise.

O great as is Thy glory,
Thy goodness doth excel!
What harp can hymn the story?
What tongue the tale can tell?
The boundless breadth of Nature
Is spread beneath Thy throne,
And every living creature
Is fed by Thee alone!

Rejoice! for overflowing
Is each abundant field;
The Lord has blest the sowing,
The Lord has blest the yield:
The mower has mown double,
The reaper doubly reap'd,
And from the shining stubble
Her head the gleaner heap'd!

Rejoice! for mercy blesses,
And judgment smites no more;
The God of grace possesses
Araunah's threshing-floor:
The gains of honest labour
Are shower'd from above,
And neighbour looks on neighbour
In happiness and love.

O men of all conditions,
The high, or humbly-born,—
Away with low seditions!
Away with lofty scorn!
Mix kindly with each other,—
For God has given to all
The common name of brother,
And gladdens great and small.

And Erin! thou that starvest
So patient on thy sod,—
To thee, to thee, this harvest
Is come, the gift of God!
Cheer up, though woes oppress thee;
Be diligent and true;
And, with thy Queen to bless thee,
Her King shall bless thee too!

A Harvest Hymn

For 1850.

Praise ye the Lord for His bountiful favour,—
O let the people be glad and rejoice!
High shall the hymn, an acceptable savour,
Rise to His throne from the heart and the voice:
For the Great King in His royal redundance
Fills us with blessings enough and to spare,
Fruits in full plenty, and bread in abundance,—
Glory to God for His fatherly care!

O all ye nations! from season to season
Kindly commands He the earth that it yield;
Then let us render in right and in reason
Gratitude due for the gifts of the field;
Diligence, faith, and contentment are Duty,
And if He blesses them all with increase
Thank Him, that earth in its bounty and beauty
Pours on us wealth, and abundance, and peace!

We are His children, and God our Father;
Then will we love one another the more;—
While He is generous, let us the rather
Thank Him for blessing the basket and store!
Earth is Man's heritage, granted by heaven;
If the Great Master has made us His heirs
Here and hereafter redeem'd and forgiven,—
O let us greet Him with praises and pray'rs!

A Short Reply

To one who “Disliked Poetry.”

Lady, thou lovest high and holy Thought,
And noble Deeds, and Hopes sublime or beauteous,
Thou lovest Charities in secret wrought,
And all things pure, and generous, and duteous;
What then if these be drest in robes of power,
Triumphant words, that thrill the heart of man,
Conquering for good beyond the flitting hour,
With stately march, and music in the van?

Charity!

A Word to the Rich.

[_]

Written for the Liverpool Hospitals, Aug. 1849.

For Charity's sake! to the poor of the land
Your generous blessing extend,—
While Need and Affliction with suppliant hand
Solicit your help as a friend;
Remember, the Master of these, as of us,
On earth was a brother in need,
And all that ye give to the desolate thus,
To Him do ye give it indeed!

To Him!—in his Judgment, a fiery sword
Hath smitten, and scatter'd, and slain:
To Him!—in His Mercy, the sword of the Lord
Returns to its scabbard again:
To Him! for the God who was pleased to be Man,
In reason expects of His kin
To strive against evil, and do what we can
To chase away sorrow and sin.

O Britain! dear home of the good and the great,
The kind, and the fair, and the free,—
The nations applaud thee for strength and for state,
And marvel thy glory to see:
Because—through the length and the breadth of thy land
True Charity scatters her seed;
And Heaven still strengthens the heart and the hand
That blesses a brother in need!

100

Aye, Britain! the destitute's refuge and rest,
O'ershadow'd with olives and palms,
In war thou art prosper'd, in peace thou art blest,
Because of thy prayers and thine alms:
The soft rain of heaven makes fertile thy fields,
And so in sweet incense again
It rises like dew o'er the harvest it yields,
To solace the children of pain.

Then hasten, ye wealthy! to bless and be blest,
By giving to God of His own:
He asks you to help the diseased and distrest,
He pleads in the pang and the moan!
In vain?—can it be?—shall the Saviour in vain
Petition His pensioners thus?
Oh no! with all gladness we give Him again
What He giveth gladly to us!

The Man about Town.

Evil-eyed loiterer, pilgrim of fashion,
Sunless and hard is thy frost-bitten heart;
Scoffing at nature's affection and passion,
Till thou hast made the sad angels depart:
Sinner and fool! to be searing and sealing
All the sweet fountains of spirit and truth—
Quick to be free from the freshness of feeling,
Swift to escape from the fervours of youth.

101

Woe to thee—woe! for thy criminal coldness;
Oh, I could pity thee, desolate man,
But that those eyes, in their insolent boldness,
Tempt me to scorn such a state, if I can:
Wearied of hunting the shadows of pleasures,
Thou art half dead in the prime of thy days,
Emptied of Heaven's and Earth's better treasures,
Victim and slave to the world and its ways!

Early and late at thy dull dissipation,
Listlessly indolent even in sin,
What is thy soul but a pool of stagnation,
Calmness without, and corruption within?
Happiness, honour, and peace, and affection—
These were thy heritage every one,—
But as thou meetest them all with rejection,
They have rejected thee, Prodigal Son!

O that humility, gracious as duteous,
Lighten'd those eyelids so heavy with scorn!
O that sincerity, blessed as beauteous,
Gilded thy night with the promise of morn!
Frankness of mind is the best of high breeding—
Kindness of soul the true Gentleman's part;
And the first fashion all fashions exceeding,
Is the warm gush of a generous heart!

102

A Prayer for the Land.

August 6, 1848.

Almighty Father! hearken,—
Forgive, and help, and bless,
Nor let thine anger darken
The night of our distress;
As sin and shame and weakness
Are all we call our own,
We turn to Thee in meekness,
And trust on Thee alone.

O God, remember Zion,—
And pardon all her sin!
Thy mercy we rely on
To rein Thy vengeance in:
Though dark pollution staineth
The temple Thou hast built,
Thy faithfulness remaineth,—
And that shall cleanse the guilt!

To Thee, then, Friend All-seeing,
Great source of grace and love,
In whom we have our being,
In whom we live and move,—
Jerusalem, obeying
Thy tender word, “Draw near,”
Would come securely, praying
In penitence and fear.

103

Thou knowest, Lord, the peril
Our ill deserts have wrought,
If earth for us is sterile
And all our labour nought!
Alas,—our righteous wages
Are famine, plague, and sword,
Unless Thy wrath assuages
In mercy, gracious Lord!

For lo! we know Thy terrors
Throughout the world are rife,
Seditions, frenzies, errors,
Perplexities and strife!
Thy woes are on the nations,
And Thou dost scatter them,—
Yet heed the supplications
Of Thy Jerusalem!

Truth, Lord, we are unworthy,
Unwise, untrue, unjust,
Our souls and minds are earthy,
And cleaving to the dust:
But pour Thy graces o'er us,
And quicken us at heart,—
Make straight Thy way before us,
And let us not depart!

Turn us, that we may fear Thee,
And worship day by day,—
Draw us, that we draw near Thee,
To honour and obey;

104

Be with us all in trouble,
And, as our Saviour still,
Lord, recompense us double
With good for all our ill!

Though we deserve not pity,
Yet, Lord, all bounty yield,—
All blessings in the city,
And blessings in the field,
On folded flocks and cattle,
On basket and on store,
In peace, and in the battle,
All blessings evermore!

All good for earth and heaven!—
For we are bold to plead
As through thy Son forgiven,
And in Him sons indeed!
Yea, Father! as possessing
In Thee our Father-God,
Give, give us every blessing,
And take away Thy rod!

105

Praise!

A Response to “The Prayer for the Land.”

September 18, 1848.

We thank Thee, King of Heaven!
We bless Thee, glorious Lord!
Because Thy grace hath given
The mercies we implored;
Because Thy love rejoices
To smile Thy wrath away,
We come with hearts and voices
To praise as well as pray!

O now regard with favour
The sacrifice we bring,
As incense of sweet savour,
As Abel's offering;
As Noah's, when he raised Thee
An altar near the ark;
As Jonah's, when he praised Thee
Beneath the waters dark!

For lo! Thy bounteous promise
Is sure to those who pray,
Averting evil from us
And helping us alway;
And though we all have wander'd
In sinfulness and shame,—
Yet once again our standard
We set up in Thy name!

106

Thy constant mercy deigneth
A covenant of peace;
So long as earth remaineth,
Its plenty shall not cease;
Still in Thy holy keeping
Our grateful eyes behold
The sowing and the reaping,
As in the days of old!

Yea,—though in righteous reason
Thy judgments might have frown'd,
The harvest in its season
Hath joyfully come round;
And while our sins are grievous
And make us fear the rod,
Thy pity doth relieve us
Because we hope in God!

Thee, Thee alone for ever
Thy children still shall praise,
And duteously endeavour
To walk in all Thy ways;
Still hoping and still asking
Thy pardon and Thy love,
And in the sunshine basking
Of blessings from above!

107

“Liberty—Equality—Fraternity!”

LIBERTY.

Liberty!—Who shall be free?—
The winds of the air, and the waves of the sea,
And the beast in his lair, and the bird on its tree,
And the savage who battles with boars and with bears
For the root that he grubs, or the flesh that he tears,—
Liberty, these are for thee!

Liberty?—How can it be
That reason, and duty, and science, and skill,
And order, and beauty, are lawgivers still,
And yet that responsible Man can be found
Untrammell'd by rules, and by harness unbound?—
Liberty, No man is free.

Liberty?—sadness to see
Were the heart without love, or the mind without fear
For The Father above, and His Family here;
And faith and affection, constraining or fond,
What are they but chains, an invincible bond,
Liberty, manacling Thee!

Liberty, look not on me
With a Siren's smile on thy beautiful face,
And a treacherous wile in thy warm embrace:
No! let me feel fetter'd,—a martyr, a slave
To honour and duty from cradle to grave!
Liberty, I'll none of Thee.

108

Liberty!—“fetter'd,” yet free:
For the chain that we wear is of roses and balm,
And the badge that we bear is The Conqueror's palm,
And the licence we loathe is a freedom to Sin,
And the thraldom we love is Obedience within,
Liberty, leading to Thee!

Liberty!—for thou shalt be
My glorious reward in a happier clime,
From the hand of my Lord, who hath bound me to Time
As a bondsman here for a year and a day
To reign as a King for ever and aye,
Holy, and happy, and Free!

EQUALITY.

Pining Envy's feeble hope,
Shipwreck's last despairing rope,
Idle wish from Satan sent,
Ruffian prize of Discontent,
Dull debasing sordid thing
Crushing down each generous spring,
Stern Procrustes' iron bed
To rack the feet or lop the head,—
Where in all life's social book
Shall your purblind statesman look,
Where,—Equality, to find
A sillier lie to cheat mankind?

Tell the truth, yea tell it out,
Nature, without fear or doubt;

109

Tell it out that never yet
Have two utter equals met:
Leaves and fruits on every tree,
Fowls and fish of air and sea,
Stars on high with all their host,
Pebbles from a kingdom's coast;
Search them all, some difference still
Clings to each for good or ill;
Search the world—all worlds—around,
Perfect twins were never found;
Babes of various realm and race,
Men of every age and place,
Gifts of God, or wise denials,
Pleasures, sorrows, triumphs, trials,
All things differ everywhere,—
Never two can start quite fair,—
Never two could keep the start
In soul or body, mind or heart,
While the shortest winter's day
To its morrow gloom'd away!

Would then Vanity, and Sloth,
And Disappointment, scorning both,
And Pride and Meanness, hand in hand,
With Crime and low Ambition stand
To scheme and plot a wholesome plan
Utterly to ruin Man,—
Then should they level love and hate,
And grind to atoms all things great,
Corrupt all good, befoul all fair,
Make gladness weep, and hope despair,

110

And, impotent to raise the dead,
Kill the living in their stead,
By working out the poison'd lie
Your sages call Equality.

No! thou phantom false and fair,
Rainbow-castle in the air,
Fit enough for fays or elves,
But not for mortals like ourselves,
In this hive of human kind
Where some can see, and some are blind,
Where some will work though others play,
And many swear while many pray,
Where disease and age at length
Must bend and bow to manhood's strength,
Where every one of God's good gifts
The favour'd from his fellow lifts,—
Equal!—equal?—tush: the word
In truer letters spells absurd.

Equal? there is One alone
Reigns Coequal on His throne;
Nor can any creature dare
With such Essence to compare.
All things else through change and chance,
And time and place and circumstance,
And partial Providence most just,
And man's ‘I will,’ and God's ‘you must,’—
All things, differing each from each,
Vainly still their lesson teach,
If Equality be thus
Possible or wise for us,

111

Where with various means and powers
In a trial-world like ours
We must work as best we may,
And leave it to The Judgment Day
To declare how ill or well
Earth's advantages may tell:
Then, shall equal meed be given
By the justice of High Heaven:
Then, shall compensation true
Set us all in places new:
And,—how many counted first
There shall stand the worst accurst!
And,—how many here so poor,
Lazarus laid at Dives' door,
There, instead of last and least,
First shall sit at Life's great feast!

FRATERNITY.

Away, away, Suspicion!
And hail, thou generous heat;
With tears of just contrition
Let me wash my brothers' feet:
For I have sinn'd,—how often!
While Charity stood by
This stony heart to soften,
And to melt this frozen eye!

Yes,—I have err'd, like others,
By coldness and constraint,
Forgetting we are brothers,
The sinner as the saint,—

112

All children of one Father,
All guilty and all weak,
And bound by these the rather
Every wanderer to seek!

Awake then! holy yearning
The hearts of men to thrill,—
Ascend! sweet incense burning
To warm the human will;
O let us dare with boldness
To burst this girdling chain
Of common social coldness,
And to love as babes again!

In frankness, and in fairness,
Go forth and reap the earth,—
Its richness and its rareness,
Its more than money's-worth;
Go forth, and win from others
Their honour and their love,
By treating them as brothers
And the sons of God above!

For in that brighter Sequel
To which our beings tend
At last we shall be equal
In One Redeeming Friend!
And He, who made us brothers,
Our Lord, and brother too,
Hath gone before the others
To prepare for them and you!

113

Thus then shall heirs of heaven,
But not the slaves of sin,—
Forgiving and forgiven
This holy triad win;
Free,—equal,—and fraternal,
In God's own way and time,
To live the life eternal,
And to love the love sublime!

King Veric.

[_]

(Suggested by a gold British coin, unique, of Veric Rex, found among some Roman remains at Farley Heath.)

Veric, the King, in his chariot of war,
Like a statue straight upstood,
As his scythèd wheels flash'd fast and far,
Smear'd with the Romans' blood;
His huge bronze celt was crimson with gore,
And, round his unkempt head,
The golden fillet his fathers wore
Was dabbled with drops of red!

And rage in the monarch's eye blazed bright,
And his cheek was deadly pale,
For Plautius Aulus had won the fight
With his mighty men in mail:
The carross of hide and the wicker targe
Were riddled far and near;
And terrible was the prætorian charge,
And keen the cohort's spear!

And over the hurt-wood, and over the heath,
Alone—alive he fled;
For the car bore straight to his stronghold of Leith
The living—and the dead!
Young Mepati lay at his father's feet,
Hew'd by the ruthless foe;
And the bloodhound may track on the trickling peat
The pathless way they go!

Young Mepati—well had he borne him then,
On Fair-lee's fatal day,
He boasted that ten of those bearded men
Had vanish'd from the fray;

115

His flinthead shafts went merrily home,
As four hard hearts had felt;
And six of the stalwarth guards of Rome
Had bow'd to the stripling's celt!

Young Mepati, come of the Comian stock,—
Ha! look! they hem him round,
And down is he hurl'd in the battle shock,
And trampled to the ground,—
But Veric has seen with his lightning eye,
And struck has the bolt, goodsooth!
Like thundering Thor with his hammer on high,
He has saved the gallant youth!

But, woe! for the foe had smitten him sore;
And eight deep wounds in his front
With red lips swore how well the boy bore
That hideous battle-brunt!
Proudly the monarch smiled on the child,
In his rescuing arms upborne,—
But—all of his son that Veric has won
Is a corpse by the tigers torn!

Then, deep as the ocean's distant roar,
The father gave a groan;
And the Attrebate king by his gods he swore
He should not die alone!
Back on their haunches swift he stopp'd
Those untamed fiery steeds;
As an eagle down on the dovecote dropp'd,
Or a whirlwind in the reeds!

116

And, was it then that the monarch's life
By the Waverley witch was charm'd?
The javelin sleet of that stern strife
Around him flew unharm'd!
And weary he cleft with his wedge of war
The hundredth foreign brow,
Before he would flee in his iron car,
As he is fleeing now!

For lo! to that false foe he has lost
All that a king can lose;
His veteran chiefs, his patriot host,
Scatter'd as early dews:
Treason had wink'd at the stranger's gold,
And faithless friends had fled,—
And Mepati's self—his darling bold—
Alas! that he is dead.

He flies, as only a king may fly,
In obstinate despair,—
On his hill-top high like a lion to die
At bay in his own lair!
And lo! the black horses are white with foam,
Strong straining up the steep;
To carry the king to his ancient home,
Yon far-seen castle keep!

But—woe upon woe! for the wily foe
Hath been before him there,
And while the lion was prowling below,
Hath spoil'd the lion's lair;

117

Dead, dead and stark, and smear'd with gore,
Beneath a smouldering heap,
Wife, daughters, and sons, and the grandsire hoar,
On death's red ashes sleep!

Then burst in agony, rage, and pain,
That noble broken heart;
And under his beetled brows like rain
The spouting tears did start:
And down like a pole-axed bull he drops,
And weak on the threshold lies;
The wellspring of life freezes and stops—
He dies—the hero dies!

But, look! a light on his royal brow,
A strange prophetic flame—
The spirit of Vola over him now
In solemn calmness came,
He saw the Gael at the gates of Rome,
And carnage on the track,
And Britain's spoilers hurrying home
To drive the terror back,—

He saw in the midst of his native plains
Fair-lee's polluted hill,—
Where Rome so long should forge her chains
To bind the Briton still,
He saw it ruin'd, and burnt, and bare;
And—from one mite of gold,
He saw a Saxon stranger there
Read off this tale of old!

118

Soho!

Cool and sweet is the breath of the morn,
And dew-beads glitter on thistle and thorn;
And linnets and larks are beginning to trill
Their psalm to the sun just over the hill,
And all things pleasant, and pure, and fair
Bathe in the balmy morning air.

Hist! the turf is under thy feet,
Over it steadily,—sure and fleet!
Steadily, Wonder!—quietly now;
Why, what a hot little fool art thou!
Wild and wanton!—it's very unkind
To leave poor Gael so panting behind;—

Ho! my greyhound! Soho!—a hare!
Good dog: after her!—soft and fair;
Off does she fly, and away does he bound,—
Glorious! how we are skimming the ground!
Heels above head,—over she goes!
And pussey squeals at my greyhound's nose.

Home: hark back!—the games are done,
Though Cæsar's self has barely begun:
Look! let him change the spur for the pen,
To hunt and to harry the hearts of men,—
Possibles do, and impossibles dare,
And gallop in spirit everywhere!

119

Reuisiting Charterhouse,

“After Long Years.”

Dec. 12, 1848.

A shadow, a vapour, a tale that is told,—
Ah! where is the figure so true
As justly to picture my bygones of old
Uprising in dreamy review?
Those dim recollections, sepulchral and cold,
The ancient obscured by the new,
As over these hill-tops are mistily roll'd
Those ghost-looking columns of dew!

I went to the place that had known me of yore,
To see its familiar face;
And mournfully stood,—for it knew me no more;
All strange did I stand in that place!
And it seem'd as if Hadës had render'd its dead
When, less by the sight than the sound,
At the hint of a voice, in a snow-sprinkled head
Some school-fellow's features I found.

O changes in feeling, O chances of life!
O mercies, and perils, and fears!
What ages of trial, and travail, and strife
Have sped since those holiday years!
In half-drowning vision, as seen in a glass,
On a sudden the sorrows and joys
Of twenty long winters all hurriedly pass,
And, look! for once more we are boys.

120

Yet here, like the remnant of some gallant crew
Just snatch'd from the deep in the dark,
We gaze on each other, a storm-batter'd few
Adrift on a perilous bark!
And mournful as Life, and mysterious as Death,
Our commonplace converse is heard,
For we feel as we speak that we live in a breath,
And haply might die in a word!

And feelings are fickle,—and riches have wings,
And nothing is steady or sure,
And even affections are changeable things,
And—where can a heart be secure?
Ah! clouded and dreary and solemn and still,
And as by some nightmare opprest,—
Come, heart! break away from this choke and this chill,
In God and thyself ever blest!

The Sisters.

A ROMAUNT, FOR MUSIC.

All-beauteous Lady Arabell
Glanced scornfully aside,—
Alas! for he hath loved her well,
In spite of all her pride;

121

Yet coldly to that noble heart
In all its glowing youth,
Away! she cried,—and spurn'd aside
Its tenderness and truth.

Away!—and at her feet he fell
As cold and white as stone!
And heartless Lady Arabell
Has left him all alone;
Alone, to live? alone, to die?
Alone?—Yet who art thou,—
Some guardian angel from the sky
To bless and aid him now?

Ah! Florence loves young Cecil well,
And pines this many a day,—
For star-eyed sister Arabell
Hath won his heart away,—
Hath won it all by treacherous arts
To fling it all aside,
And break a pair of loving hearts
For triumph and for pride!

Fair Florence with her eyes of blue
And locks of golden light;
Dark Arabell's of raven hue
With flashing orbs of night;
And has young Cecil chosen well
Between that sister pair,
The proud and brilliant Arabell
Or gentle Florence fair?

122

O bitter morn! O blessed morn!
For lo, he turns to love
No more that raven queen of scorn,
But this sweet sister dove:
In spite of lustrous Arabell
And all her envious pride,
Young Cecil loves his Florence well,
And—Florence is his bride.

Energy.

Indomitable merit
Of the Anglo-Saxon mind!
That makes a man inherit
The glories of his kind,
That scatters all around him
Until he stands sublime
With nothing to confound him
The conqueror of Time,—
O mighty Perseverance!
O Courage, stern and stout!
That wills and works a clearance
Of every rabble rout,—
That cannot brook denial
And scarce allows delay,
But wins from every trial
More strength for every day,—

123

Antagonistic Power!
I praise,—for praise I can,—
The God, the place, the hour
That makes a man a Man,—
The God—from whom all greatness,
The place, Old England's shore,
The hour, an hour of lateness
(For Time shall soon be o'er)
The Man,—aye, every brother
Of Anglo-Saxon race
Who owns an English mother
And Freedom's dwelling-place!

I feel, I feel within me
That courage self-possess'd,—
The force, that yet shall win me
The brightest and the best,—
The stalwarth English daring
That steadily steps on,
Unswerving and unsparing,
Until the world is won,—
The boldness and the quiet
That calmly go ahead,
In spite of wrath and riot,
In spite of quick and dead,—
Hot Energy to spur me,
Keen Enterprise to guide,
And Conscience to upstir me,
And Duty by my side,
And Hope before me singing
Assurance of success,

124

And rapid Action springing
At once to nothing less,
And all the mighty movings
That wrestle in my breast,
The longings and the lovings,
The Spirit's glad unrest,
That scorns excuse to tender
Or Fortune's favour ask,
And never will surrender
Whatever be the task!

I cannot wait for chances,
For luck I will not look;
In faith my spirit glances
At Providence, God's book;
And there discerning truly
That right is might at length,
I dare go forward duly
In quietness and strength,
Unflinching and unfearing,
The flatterer of none,
And in good courage wearing
The honours I have won!
Let circumstance oppose me,
I beat it to my will;
And if the flood o'erflows me,
I dive and stem it still;
No hindering dull Material
Shall conquer or control
My energies ethereal
My gladiator Soul!

125

I will contrive occasion,
Not tamely bide my time;
No Capture, but Creation
Shall make my sport sublime;
Let lower spirits linger
For hint and beck and nod,
I always see the finger
Of an onward-urging God!

Not selfish, not hard-hearted,
Not vain, nor deaf, nor blind,
From wisdom not departed,
But in humbleness of mind,
Still shall mine independence
Stand manfully alone,
Nor dance a dull attendance
At any mortal throne;
Disciple of no teacher
Except the One in Heaven,
And yielding to no creature
The Reason He hath given!
O thus, while contemplation
In faith beholds above
My glorious hope, Salvation,
Eternity of Love,
And while a Saxon spirit
Is bubbling from my heart
To strengthen and upstir it
To play a giant's part,
No hindrance, nor misfortune,
No man's neglect, nor ill,

126

Shall bend me to importune
One weak indulgence still,
But with my God to nerve me
My soul shall overwhelm
All circumstance to serve me
In my Spiritual Realm!

“Non Angli sed Angeli.”

[_]

In Illustration of the Anglo-Saxon Map.

Ho! ye swift messengers out of the North,
Mercy's ambassadors,—haste to go forth!
Speedily let your broad sails be unfurl'd,
Winging your errand all over the world,
Wafting your message of peace and goodwill,
Brotherhood, godliness, science, and skill!

Ye are the salt of the earth, and its health,—
Ye are its gladness, its wisdom, and wealth,—
Ye are its glory! O Britain, thy sons,
Thy stout Anglo-Saxons, thy resolute ones,
Ever triumphant on every shore,
Are only triumphant for Good evermore!

Ministers bright of the bounties of God,
Where is the land by these angels untrod?
Tell it out, Africa, China, and Scinde,
And Isles of the Sea, and the uttermost Inde,
Tell out their zeal, and their grandeur of soul,
From the sands of the Line, to the snows of the Pole!

127

Tell out the goodness, the greatness, the grace,
That follow their footsteps in every place!
Tell it out, thou, the first cradle of Man,
Teeming with millions, serene Hindostan,—
Tell how fair commerce, and just-dealing might,
Have blest thee with peace, and adorn'd thee with light!

Boundless Australia, help of the age,
And heirloom of hope on Futurity's page,
Lo! thy vast continent, silent and sad,
With the song of the Saxon has learnt to be glad;
Rejoicing to change the wild waste and the fen
Into wide-waving harvests and cities of men!

Mighty Columbia, Star of the West,
See, 'tis a world by the Saxon possest!
Glorious and glad, from the North to the South,
Your millions praise God with an Englishman's mouth!
And all love a land where at home they would be,
England, old England, the Home of the Free!

Dotted about on the width of the world,
Her beacon is blazing, her flag is unfurl'd;
Not a shore, not a sea, not a deep desert wild,
But pays its mute homage to Energy's child,—
Not a realm, not a people, or kingdom, or clan,
But owns him the chief of the children of Man!

The foaming Atlantic hath render'd its isles,
And the dark Caribbean its tropical smiles,

128

And Southern Pacific those many-hued flowers,
And Europe's Mid-Ocean these temples and towers,—
Their tribute the seas of Old India bring,
And Borneo is proud of her new British King!

Yes! for dear Britain, the Mother of Men,
Rules all, under God, by the sword and the pen:
She is the Delphi, the heart of the earth,
The rock-rushing spring of humanity's worth;
And, if two hemispheres prosper, the cause
Lies in old England's Religion and Laws!

Yes! for her realm is the Goshen of light;
The wings of these Angels have scatter'd the night!
Duteous and daring, as beauteous and strong,
They are helpers of Right, and avengers of Wrong,
Fair in their souls as their eyes and their locks,
Stout in their hearts as their oaks and their rocks!

Country Life.

[I]

Think not thou that fields and flowers,
Copses and Arcadian bowers,
Grow the crop of Peace:—
In this model life of ours
Worries seldom cease!

Think not Envy, Hatred, Malice
Seethe alone in town and palace;
For on Eden first,
Pour'd from evil's caldron-chalice,
Those hot geysers burst!

129

Though the scene be sweet and smiling,
And the silence most beguiling,
And so pure the air,—
Man, his paradise defiling,
Pours a poison there!

Look at yonder simple village,
With its church and peaceful tillage,
Seemingly so blest;—
Mutual hate and mutual pillage
Truly tell the rest!

With the tongue's destroying sabre,
Neighbour battles against neighbour,
Whilst each other's glance
Tyranny and servile Labour
Scowling watch askance!

Wealth, well fawn'd on, and—well-hated;
Want,—with brutal malice mated;
And, to teach the twain,
Shallow priestcraft, self-inflated,
Dreary, dull, and vain!

Aye, Charles Lamb, the wise and witty,
Gentle lover of the city,
Sensibly he spoke,
When he dealt his pungent pity
To us country folk:

All for arson insecurely,
All for slander little purely,
Vext with petty strife,—
Let no silly mortal surely
Covet country life.

130

II.

Stop!—malign not country pleasure;
For there is unminted treasure
In its quiet calm;
In its garden-loving leisure
Gilead's very balm!

In its duties, peace-bestowing,
In its beauties, overflowing
All the dewy ground,
In its mute religion, glowing
Everywhere around:

In its unobtrusive sweetness,
In its purity, and meetness
For contented minds,
And the beautiful completeness
Man in Nature finds.

Yes,—it is no fault of Nature's,
If the vice of fallen creatures
Spots her with a curse;
Man in towns hath viler features,
And his guilt is worse.

Troubles, cares, and self-denials,
These are no such special vials
Pour'd on fields and flowers;
But there always must be trials
In this world of ours.

131

Country life,—let us confess it,—
Man will little help to bless it,
Yet, for gladness there,
We may readily possess it
In its native air.

Rides and rambles, sports and farming,
Home, the heart for ever warming,
Books, and friends, and ease,—
Life must after all be charming,
Full of joys like these.

Yes, however little gaily,
And—for man, however frailly
Check'd with sin and strife,—
Wisdom rests contented daily
With a country life.

In the Union.

From a Unit.

Giant aggregate of nations,
Glorious Whole of glorious Parts,
Unto endless generations
Live United, hands and hearts!
Be it storm, or summer-weather,
Peaceful calm, or battle-jar,
Stand in beauteous strength together,
Sister States, as Now ye are!

132

Every petty class-dissension,
Heal it up, as quick as thought;
Every paltry place-pretension,
Crush it, as a thing of nought:
Let no narrow private treason
Your great onward progress bar,
But remain, in right and reason,
Sister States, as Now ye are!

Fling away absurd ambition!
People, leave that toy to kings:
Envy, jealousy, suspicion,
Be above such grovelling things!
In each other's joys delighted,
All your hate be—joys of war,
And by all means keep United
Sister States, as Now ye are!

Were I but some scornful stranger,
Still my counsel would be just;
Break the band, and all is danger,
Mutual fear and dark distrust:
But, you know me for a brother
And a friend who speak from far,
Be at one then with each other,
Sister States, as Now ye are!

If it seems a thing unholy
Freedom's soil by slaves to till,
Yet, be just! and sagely, slowly,
Nobly, cure that ancient ill:

133

Slowly,—haste is fatal ever;
Nobly,—lest good faith ye mar;
Sagely,—not in wrath to sever
Sister States, as Now ye are!

Charm'd with your commingled beauty
England sends the signal round,
“Every man must do his duty”
To redeem from bonds the bound!
Then indeed your banner's brightness
Shining clear from every star
Shall proclaim your joint uprightness,
Sister States, as Now ye are!

So, a peerless constellation
May those stars for ever blaze!
Three-and-ten-times-threefold nation,
Go a-head in power and praise!
Like the many-breasted goddess
Throned on her Ephesian car,
Be—one heart in many bodies!
Sister States, as Now ye are.

134

Fons Parnassi.

The Solace of Song.

Ever babbling, ever bubbling,
Bright as light, and calmly clear,
Cure for every trial troubling,
Solace ever new and near,
Fons Parnassi! free and flowing,
Fons Parnassi! glad and glowing,
Rarefied creative pleasure!
O they lie who say that Song
Is a merely graceful measure,
Just a luxury of leisure,
Not an anthem sweet and strong
Rich in spiritual treasure
That to Seraphs might belong,—
Not a tender consolation
All the cares of life among,
Not the balm of broad creation
In this maze of right and wrong,—
Not the secret soul's distilling,
Every nerve and fibre filling
With intense ecstatic thrilling,—
Evoe! Fons Parnassi,
Fons ebrie Parnassi!

Ah! thou fairy fount of sweetness,
Well I wot how dear thou art
In thy purity and meetness
To my hot and thirsty heart,

135

When, with sympathetic fleetness,
I have raced from thought to thought,
And, array'd in maiden neatness,
By her natural taste well taught,
Thy young Naiad, thy Pieria,
My melodious Egeria,
Winsomely finds out my fancies
Frank as Sappho, as unsought,—
And with innocent wife-like glances
Close beside my spirit dances,
As a sister Ariel ought,—
Tripping at her wanton will,
With unpremeditated skill,
Like a gushing mountain rill,
Or a bright Bacchante reeling
Through the flights of thought and feeling,
Half concealing, half revealing
Whatsoe'er of Spirit's fire,
Beauty kindling with desire,
Can be caught in Word's attire!
Evoe! Fons Parnassi,
Fons ebrie Parnassi!

136

St. Martha's,

Near Guildford, Surrey, 1838.

Holy precinct, mount of God,
Where saints have bled, and pilgrims trod,
Martyrs' hill—thy nobler name,
Martyrs' hill—thy fairer fame
Than as call'd of her, whose heart
Chose but late the better part,—
Unto thee my praise I bring,
Thee my soul delights to sing.

Lo, the glorious landscape round!
Tread we not enchanted ground?
From this bold and breezy height
The charm'd eye sends its eagle flight
O'er the panoramic scene,
Undulating, rich, and green;
And with various pleasure roves
From hill and dale, to fields and groves,
Till the prospect mingling grey
With the horizon fades away,
Shutting in the distant view
By fainter lines of glimmering blue.

Start we from the warm South-East;
Spread the fine pictorial feast:
There the landmark tower of Leith
Sentinels its purple heath;
Nearer, Holmbury's moated hill,
Highden-ball, and Ewhurst mill,

137

Dewy Hascomb's fir-fringed knoll,
Hind-head, and the Devil's-Bowl,
With peeps of far South-downs between
Seaward closing up the scene.

Like a thunder-cloud, beneath
Stretches drear the broad Blackheath:
Scatter'd coins have seal'd the sod
A classic site that Rome has trod,
Field of many a desperate strife
For conquest, liberty, or life,
When the legion's sullen tramp
Echoed oft from Farley-camp,
And some Cæsar's ruthless sword
Reap'd the rude barbarian horde,
Britons, patriots, free brave men,
But unskill'd to conquer—then.

Turn we to this woodland shade,
Beyond the Hanger's hazel glade:
Ah! tis sad, though little strange,
That times, and things, and men should change;
Sad, though little strange to see
Albury, such sad change in thee.
Thou wert in my infant dreams,
My childish pranks, my schoolday schemes;
My heart's young home, my pride and praise;
Playground of my boyish days;
Link'd with learning, goodness, truth,
To the story of my youth;
Mixt with hope's romantic plan,
And loved,—now years have made me man.

138

But, the brightness of thy praise
Perish'd with those early days,—
Thy sweet prime, too fair to last,
Spring-like came, and smiled, and past;
And I note, adown the Vale,
Thy good-angel wandering pale,
With folded wing and tearful eye
Mourning for the days gone by;
Now, like some white wounded deer
Hiding in the greenwood here;
Now, beside that old church, faint
Leaning, like a dying saint.

Away: regard we yet again
Nature's beauty,—and her bane:
Alas! that man should e'er intrude
Where all but he are glad and good,—
Alas, for yonder fairy glen,
Nature's Eden, vext with men!
Mammon, from those long white mills
With foggy steam the prospect fills;
Chimneys red with sulphurous smoke
Blight these hanging groves of oak;
And sylvan Quiet's gentle scenes
List—to the clatter of machines.
Yet more, in yonder rural dell,
Where sylphs and fauns might love to dwell,
Among those alders, by the stream
Stealing on with silver gleam,
Blacken'd huts, set wide apart,
Grind their dark grain for murder's mart,

139

Or, bursting with explosive might,
Rage, and roar, and blast, and blight.

Enough, enough of toilsome Art;
Fresh sweet Nature woos thy heart:
Gaze then on this western plain,
A woody, various, rich champaign;
Each in its hollow nestling down,
The farm, the village, or the town;
Field on field, and grove on grove,
Wavelike, far as eye can rove,
Till intersecting lines of hill
The blue horizon faintly fill.

And, while thy spirit praises Earth,
Its precious gifts, its wealth and worth,
Forget not thou this glorious Sky,
Oh! lift thine eyes, thy heart on high;
Forget not Him, whose mercy gave
All the good we hope, or have;
Him, whose Presence, far and near,
Man's best wisdom learns to fear
Where above the green glad world
Heaven's banners float unfurl'd,
Gorgeous in each mighty fold
Bathed in black, or fringed with gold;
Or, as clouds of fleecy white
Sail in seas of azure light;
Or, as streamers hurrying by
Tell of tempests in the Sky;
Or, like snow-clad mountains, stand
Giant wardens of the Land.

140

Earthward once again; the North!
Draw its good, its evil forth:
Mile beyond mile of waving field,
Rare to see, and rich to yield;
The frequent village round its spire;
The snug domain of rural squire;
Yon dusky tract of Waste and Moss;
That iron road-way drawn across;
Windsor, throned o'er half the land;
And gambling Epsom's far-famed stand;
While the dim distance in a shroud
Is wrapp'd by London's smoky cloud.

Near us, Guildford's ancient town
Between the hills is hiding down;
Decent Guildford, clean and steep,
Ranged about its castle-keep,
Relic of departed power,
Grey and crumbling square old tower.
Like some warder at his post
Honest Booker's lofty boast,
Fine and feudal, shames outright
Puny's telegraphic height,
While it overtops with pride
All the vassal scene beside,
And, above that verdant swell,
Sainted Catherine's Gothic cell.

Westward thence, a narrow track,
Stretches far the bare Hog's-back:
Ridging up, with hilly sides,
Lo, the bristling Boar divides

141

Right and left a kindred scene,
Purple moors and meadows green,
Or those seeming-vineyards wide,
Farnham's wealth, and Surrey's pride.

Forth from Merroe's happy plain
And noble Clandon's rich domain,
Newland's heights, and Coombe beyond,
And nutty Sherbourne's crystal pond,
Eastward to the landscape's end
The sloping chalky Downs extend,
Primal still, by man untamed,
Fresh, unbounded, unreclaim'd:
Now a lawn of herbage sweet
Smooth as velvet to the feet,
Now a jungle, matted dense,
A wilderness of briar-fence;
Here, an earthwork, fosse and mound;
There, a race-course curving round;
Hollow'd pits, where in old times
Bad marauders hid their crimes:
Sad sepulchral groves of yew
Solemn ranged in order due,
Seeming of primeval birth,
Solid as the ribs of earth,
Where white Druids, years of yore,
Roam'd those mystic circles o'er,
Or calm kneeling on the sod
Wisely worshipp'd Nature's God.

Yes, modern; would thy pride condemn
Or shall thy wisdom pity them?

142

They built no prisons for—the poor,
Freely fed from door to door;
Their foolish mercy did not strive
To give the least that keeps alive,
Their charity sought not to know
How little poor men need below.
But thou,—what means yon human pound,
Brick'd and barr'd, and well wall'd round?
But that to thy shame and scorn
Penal poverty may mourn
How ill-christen'd liberals prove
Words by deeds, and faith by love:
For here, unpitied, spurn'd, alone,
The British slave must grind and groan,
Torn from children, friends and wife,
And buried in the midst of life.

O Man, thy love is chill and small;
O Nature, thou art kind to all:
This full wide theatre of views
Bathed in Autumn's rainbow hues
Recreates my freshen'd sight
Soft with shade, and rich with light,
And, saved from thoughts of pride and pelf,
Restores me to my cheerful self.

Let then a lateborn son of Time
Shadow forth the Past sublime,
And while, the greensward laid along,
He weaves his meditative song,
Tell what various tribes have trod
With various hopes this ancient sod.

143

The painted Briton, long of yore,
Hunting down the wolf or boar;
The Roman watcher, posted here
Leaning on his iron spear;
The fair-hair'd Angle, piling high
Beacon-fires against the sky;
With vulture-eyes the hungry Dane
Gloating o'er the fertile plain;
Patriot Saxons, who withstood
The Norman, conquering for good;
Monks, to bless with book and bell;
Crusaders, bidding all farewell;
Footsore Pilgrims, hither come
Midway from St. Becket's tomb;
Round-heads, chaunting rebel prayers;
Gay devoted Cavaliers;
Rustics, on the Sabbath-day
Duly toiling up to pray;
Mourners, weeping round the bier
Brought for humble burial here;
And thousands, more, in dresses quaint,
Than tongue can tell, or pencil paint,
Have laugh'd, or wept, or fought their fill,
Or lived, or died, on Martyrs' Hill.

Martyrs' Hill!—before my mind
Rise the triumphs of Mankind;
Martyrs' Hill!—and to my thought
Back the crimes of men are brought:
Yea;—for on this sacred sod
Doubtless perish'd saints of God,

144

And Elijah's chariot came
Mingling with the martyrs' flame,
To bear them from that awestruck crowd
In robes of light, on thrones of cloud.

Then, the seed of holy blood
Gave its hundredfold of good;
Barbarians heard, and thought, and felt,
Glow'd, admired, and mourn'd, and knelt;
Their very murderers came in fear
To bless the sainted victims here;
Penitent, with zealous haste
Aloft the rustic temple placed,
Keyless arches, rough and round,
Spanning high the blood-stain'd ground,
Of iron-sandstone rudely built,
Memorial of their grief—and guilt.

Thereafter, Newark's princely priest
Added all this Gothic East,—
The modest choir and transepts twain,
Fitting well the Christian fane,
Windows, deck'd in colours rich,
The pointed arch and florid niche,—
Contrast to yon Saxon nave
That simply mark'd the martyr's grave.

Swept along fate's rolling tide
Generations lived, and died,
Thronging in succession there
With the sacrifice of prayer:

145

And a Martha's dubious name
Half eclipsed that better fame,
Symbol of degenerate years
When earth usurps our hopes and fears.
Ages came, and ages past;
Till the flood of Time at last
Wafted on the modern race
Loving gain, and hating grace:
So we draw to thy decay
Silent ruin of to-day,
An evil day of evil deeds,
Selfish sects and wrangling creeds,
When faith is dead, and zeal grown cold,
And churches can be bought and sold,
Or left a prey to rot and rain,
For lack of grace, and lust of gain.

Ruin, I have loved thee long,
And owed for years this humble song;
While I pay the grateful debt,
Hear me one petition yet.
When in God's good time and way
I wake upon my dying day,
Should I still beneath thee dwell,
As my spirit sighs farewell,
Let the shadows from thy wall
Be my hallow'd funeral pall;
Let no city's close church-yard
Steal from thee thy native bard;
But where now I careless lie
Make me welcome when I die:

146

On this thyme-enamell'd height
Let me bid the world good-night;
Sacred to my memory be
All the scene that circles thee;
And plant o'er me, in goodwill,
A plain stone cross on Martyrs' Hill.

Rebuilt.

A. D. 1849.

Ruin!—Ruin now no more,
To the Lord we thus restore
Thine old glories, holy place,
Consecrate again to grace:
Thine old glories shine again,
Sculptured stone, and jewell'd pane;
As a cross upon the hill,
Nave, quire, and aisles are mapp'd out still,
And thy Norman tower on high
Boldly stands against the sky.

Thanks to Him who blesseth us
That the Body riseth thus,—
Thanks to Him!—yet more we need
A resurrection rare indeed,
In this, and us, the Spirit-part
Flaming with a martyr's heart;
In old St. Martha's, thus made new
Religion's fervour, pure and true:
Send, O send that quickening might,
God of love, and life, and light!

Reconsecrated.

May 15, 1850.

The dews of Hermon rest upon thee now,
Fair saint and martyr! and yet once again
Faith, hope and charity, like gracious rain,
Fall on thy consecrated virgin brow:

148

For lo! the Lord is with thee, as of yore,
And dwelleth in these hallow'd walls once more,—
Rather,—hath never left them; for He heard
When in thy desolate gates our earnest vow
Rose from this ruin'd altar to His throne,—
And resolutely were thy children stirr'd
Not in thy sad estate, forlorn and lone,
To leave thee prayerless,—but to win The Word,
The living word and sacraments of grace
Back to the echoes of this Holy Place.

150

A Thousand Lines, etc.

1845.

Sloth.

“A little more sleep, a little more slumber,
A little more folding the hands to sleep,”
For quick-footed dreams, without order or number,
Over my mind are beginning to creep,—
Rare is the happiness thus to be raptured
By your wild whispers, my Fanciful train,
And, like a linnet, be carelessly captured
In the soft nets of my beautiful brain!

Touch not these curtains!—your hand will be tearing
Delicate tissues of thoughts and of things;—
Call me not!—your cruel voice will be scaring
Flocks of young visions on gossamer wings:
Leave me, O leave me,—for in your rude presence
Nothing of all my bright world can ramain,—
Thou art a blight to this garden of pleasance,
Thou art a blot on my beautiful brain!

Cease your dull lecture on cares and employment,
Let me forget awhile trouble and strife,
Leave me to peace,—let me husband enjoyment,—
This is the heart and the marrow of life!

151

For to my feeling the choicest of pleasures
Is to lie thus, without peril or pain,
Lazily listening the musical measures
Of the sweet voice in my beautiful brain!

Hush,—for the halo of calmness is spreading
Over my spirit as mild as a dove;
Hush,—for the angel of comfort is shedding
Over my body his vial of love;
Hush,—for new slumbers are over me stealing,
Thus would I court them again and again,
Hush,—for my heart is intoxicate,—reeling
In the swift waltz of my beautiful brain!

Activity.

Open the casement, and up with the Sun!
His gallant journey is just begun;
Over the hills his chariot is roll'd,
Banner'd with glory, and burnish'd with gold,—
Over the hills he comes sublime,
Bridegroom of Earth, and brother of Time!

Day hath broken, joyous and fair;
Fragrant and fresh is the morning air,—
Beauteous and bright those orient hues,
Balmy and sweet these early dews;
O, there is health, and wealth, and bliss
In dawning Nature's motherly kiss!

152

Lo, the wondering world awakes,
With its rosy-tipp'd mountains and gleaming lakes,
With its fields and cities, deserts and trees,
Its calm old cliffs, and its sounding seas,
In all their gratitude blessing Him
Who dwelleth between the Cherubim!

Break away boldly from Sleep's leaden chain;
Seek not to forge that fetter again;
Rather with vigour and resolute nerve,
Up, up, to bless man, and thy Master to serve,
Thankful and hopeful, and happy to raise
The offering of prayer, and the incense of praise!

Gird thee, and do thy watching well,
Duty's Christian sentinel!
Sloth and Slumber never had part
In the warrior's will, or the patriot's heart;
Soldier of God on an enemy's shore!
Slumber and sloth thrall thee no more.

Adventure.

How gladly would I wander through some strange and savage land,
The lasso at my saddle-bow, the rifle in my hand,
A leash of gallant mastiffs bounding by my side,
And, for a friend to love, the noble horse on which I ride!

153

Alone, alone—yet not alone, for God is with me there,
The tender hand of Providence shall guide me everywhere,
While happy thoughts and holy hopes, as spirits calm and mild,
Shall fan with their sweet wings the hermit-hunter of the wild!

Without a guide,—yet guided well,—young, buoyant, fresh, and free,
Without a road,—yet all the land a highway unto me,
Without a care, without a fear, without a grief or pain,
Exultingly I thread the woods, or gallop o'er the plain!

Or, brushing through the copse, from his leafy home I start
The stately elk, or tusky boar, the bison, or the hart,
And then,—with eager spur, to scour, away, away,
Nor stop,—until my dogs have brought the glorious brute to bay!

Or, if the gang of hungry wolves come yelling on my track,
I make my ready rifle speak, and scare the cowards back;
Or, if the lurking leopard's eyes among the branches shine,
A touch upon the trigger—and his spotted skin is mine!

And then the hunter's savoury fare at tranquil eventide,—
The dappled deer I shot to-day upon the green hill-side;
My feasted hounds are slumbering round beside the water-course,
And plenty of sweet prairie-grass for thee, my noble horse.

Hist! hist! I heard some prowler snarling in the wood;
I seized my knife and trusty gun, and face to face we stood!
The Grizzly Bear came rushing on,—and, as he rush'd, he fell!
Hie at him, dogs! my rifle has done its duty well!

154

Hie at him, dogs! one bullet cannot kill a foe so grim;
The God of battles nerve a Man to grapple now with him,—
And straight between his hugging arms I plunge my whetted knife,
Ha—ha! it splits his iron heart, and drinks the ruddy life!

Frantic struggles—welling blood—the strife is almost o'er,—
The shaggy monster, feebly panting, wallows in his gore,—
Here, lap it hot, my gallant hounds,—the blood of foes is sweet;
Here, gild withal your dewlapp'd throats, and wash your brawny feet!

So, shall we beard those tyrants in their dens another day,
Nor tamely wait, with slavish fear, their coming in the way;
And pleasant thoughts of peace and home shall fill our dreams to-night,
For lo, the God of battles has help'd us in the fight!

The Song of Sixteen.

Who shall guess what I may be?
Who can tell my fortune to me?
For, bravest and brightest that ever was sung
May be—and shall be—the lot of the young!

Hope, with her prizes and victories won,
Shines in the blaze of my morning sun,
Conquering Hope, with golden ray,
Blessing my landscape far away;

155

All my meadows and hills are green,
And rippling waters glance between,—
All my skies are rosy bright,
Laughing in triumph at yester-night:

My heart, my heart within me swells,
Panting, and stirring its hundred wells;—
For youth is a noble seed, that springs
Into the flower of heroes and kings!

Rich in the present, though poor in the past,
I yearn for the future, vague and vast;
And lo! what treasure of glorious things
Giant Futurity sheds from his wings;

Pleasures are there, like dropping balms,
And glory and honour with chaplets and palms,
And mind well at ease, and gladness, and health,
A river of peace, and a mine of wealth!

Away with your counsels, and hinder me not,—
On, on let me press to my brilliant lot;
Young and strong, and sanguine and free,
How knowest thou what I may be?

Forty.

Ah, poor youth! in pitiful truth,
Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth:
What thou shalt be well have I seen,—
Thou shalt be only what others have been.

156

Haply, within a few swift years,
A mind bow'd down with troubles and fears,
The commonest drudge of men and things,
Instead of your—conquering heroes and kings;

Haply, to follies an early wreck,—
For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck,
And with a whelming, sudden sweep
The storm of temptation roars over the deep;

Lower the sails of pride, rash youth,—
Stand to the lowly tiller of truth;
Quick, or your limber bark shall be
The sport of the winds on a stormy sea.

Care and peril in lieu of joy,—
Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy:
Lo, thy mantling chalice of life
Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife;

Cheated by pleasure, and sated with pain,—
Watching for honour, and watching in vain,—
Aching in heart, and ailing in head,
Wearily earning daily bread.

—It is well. I discern a tear on thy cheek:
It is well,—thou art humbled, and silent, and meek:
Now,—courage again! and, with peril to cope,
Gird thee with vigour, and helm thee with hope!

For life, good youth, hath never an ill
Which hope cannot scatter, and faith cannot kill;
And stubborn realities never shall bind
The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind.

157

The Song of Seventy.

I am not old,—I cannot be old,
Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men:

I am not old; though friends and foes
Alike have gone down to their graves,
And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves:

I am not old,—I cannot be old,
Though tottering, wrinkled, and grey;
Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold
Call me not old to-day.

For, early memories round me throng,
Old times, and manners, and men,
As I look behind on my journey so long
Of threescore miles and ten;

I look behind, and am once more young,
Buoyant, and brave, and bold,
And my heart can sing, as of yore it sung,
Before they call'd me old.

I do not see her—the old wife there—
Shrivell'd, and haggard, and grey,
But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day:

158

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men,
But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then:

And, as my own grandson rides on my knee,
Or plays with his hoop or kite,
I can well recollect I was merry as he—
The bright-eyed little wight!

'Tis not long since,—it cannot be long,—
My years so soon were spent,
Since I was a boy, both straight and strong,
Yet now am I feeble and bent.

A dream, a dream,—it is all a dream!
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth:

Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,
How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old,
Is the heart, for ever young;

For ever young,—though life's old age
Hath every nerve unstrung;
The heart, the heart is a heritage
That keeps the old man young!

159

Nature's Nobleman.

Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill,
Where pleasure itself cannot please;
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still
Affects to be quite at its ease;
For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank,
The freest is first of the band,
And nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
Is a man with his heart in his hand!

Fearless in honesty, gentle yet just,
He warmly can love,—and can hate,
Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust
To Fashion's intolerant state:
For best in good breeding, and highest in rank,
Though lowly or poor in the land,
Is nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
The man with his heart in his hand!

His fashion is passion, sincere and intense,
His impulses, simple and true,
Yet temper'd by judgment, and taught by good sense,
And cordial with me, and with you:
For the finest in manners, as highest in rank,
It is you, man! or you, man! who stand
Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,—
A man with his heart in his hand!

160

Never give up!

Never give up! it is wiser and better
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of Doubt's heavy fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care:
Never give up! or the burthen may sink you,—
Providence kindly has mingled the cup,
And in all trials or troubles, bethink you,
The watchword of life must be, Never give up!

Never give up! there are chances and changes
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one,
And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
Ever success,—if you'll only hope on:
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims the best, as the oldest,
Is the true watchword of Never give up!

Never give up!—though the grape-shot may rattle,
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst,
Stand like a rock,—and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst:
Never give up!—if adversity presses,
Providence wisely has mingled the cup,
And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of Never give up!

161

Forgive and Forget.

When streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung,—
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,
None, none but an angel or God can declare
“I now can forgive and forget.”

But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
And the lips are in penitence steep'd,
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heap'd;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,
And every one feels it is possible still
At once to forgive and forget.

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,
However his heart may forgive,
To blot out all insults and evils behind,
And but for the future to live:
Then how shall it be? for at every turn
Recollection the spirit will fret,
And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.

164

Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
And mind shall be partner with heart,
While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art:
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and—thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!
Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times
Been swift to forgive and forget!

Brood not on insults or injuries old,
For thou art injurious too,—
Count not their sum till the total is told,
For thou art unkind and untrue:
And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
Now mercy with justice is met,
Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,
Nor learn to forgive and forget?

Yes, yes; let a man, when his enemy weeps,
Be quick to receive him a friend;
For thus on his head in kindness he heaps
Hot coals,—to refine and amend;
And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,
As a nurse on her innocent pet,
Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,
And whisper, Forgive and forget.

165

“My Mind to me a Kingdom is.”

Eureka! this is truth sublime,
Defying change, outwrestling time—
Eureka! well that truth is told,
Wisely spake the bard of old—
Eureka! there is peace and praise
In this short and simple phrase,
A sea of comforts, wide and deep,
Wherein my conscious soul to steep,
A hoard of happy-making wealth
To doat on, miserly, by stealth,
Through Time my reason's ripest fruit,
For all eternity its root,
Earth's harvest, and the seed of heaven,
To me, to me, by mercy given!

Yes, Eureka,—I have found it,
And before the world will sound it;
This remains, and still shall stay
When life's gauds have past away,
This, of old my treasure-truth,
The bosom joy that warm'd my youth,
My happiness in manhood's prime,
My triumph down the stream of time,
Till death shall lull this heart in age,
And deathless glory crown my page,
My grace-born truth and treasure this,—
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

166

Noble solace, true and strong,
Great reward for human wrong,
With an inward blessing still
To compensate all earthly ill,
To recompense for adverse fates,
Woes, or wants, or scorns, or hates,
To cherish, after man's neglect,
When foes deride, and friends suspect,
To soothe and bless the spirit bow'd
Down by the selfish and the proud,
To lift the soul above this scene
Of petty troubles trite and mean,
O there is moral might in this,—
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Carve it deep, with letters bold,
In the imperishable gold,
Grave it on some primal rock
That hath stood the earthquake shock,
Make that word a citizen
Dwelling in the hearts of men,
Stamp it on the printed page,
Sound it in the ears of age,
Gladden sympathising youth
With the soft music of this truth,
This echo'd note of heavenly bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Aye, chide or scorn,—I will be proud,—
I am not of the common crowd;
No serf is here to outward things,—
He rules with chiefs! he reigns with kings!

167

Tell out thy secret joys, my mind,
Free and fearless as the wind,
And pour the triumphs of the soul
In words that like a river roll,
Foaming on with vital force
From their ever-gushing source,
Fountains of truth, that overwhelm
With swollen streams this royal realm,
And in Nilotic richness steep
My heart's Thebaid, rank and deep!
Or bolder, as my thoughts inspire,
Change that water into fire!
From the vext bowels of my soul
Lava currents roar and roll,
Bursting out in torrent wide
Through my crater's ragged side,
Rushing on from field to field
Till all with boiling stone is seal'd,
And my hot thoughts, in language pent,
Stand their own granite monument!

Yes! all the elements are mine,
To crush, create, dissolve, combine,—
All mine,—the confidence is just,
On God I ground my high-born trust
To stand, when pole is rent from pole,
Calm in my majesty of soul,
Watching the throes of this wreck'd world,
When from their thrones the Alps are hurl'd,
When fire consumes earth, sea and air,
To stand, unharm'd, undaunted there,

168

And grateful still to boast in this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Brother poet, dead so long,
Heed these echoes to thy song,
And love me now, where'er thou art,
Yearning with magnetic heart
From thy throne in some bright sphere
On this poor brother, grovelling here:
For I too, I, can stoutly sing
I am every inch a king!
A king of Thought, a Potentate
Of glorious spiritual state,
A king of Thought, a king of Mind,
Realms unmapp'd and undefined,—
A King! beneath no Man's control,
Invested with a royal soul,
Crown'd by God's imperial hand
Before Him as a King to stand,
And by His wisdom train'd and taught
To rule my realms as King of Thought.

O thoughts,—how ill my fellow-men,
O thoughts,—how scantly my poor pen
Can guess or tell the myriad host
Wherewith you crowd my kingdom's coast!
For I am hemm'd and throng'd about
With your triumphant rabble-rout,
Hurried along by that mad flood,
The joy-excited multitude,
A conqueror, borne upon the foam
Of his great people's gladness home,

169

A monarch in his grandest state,
On whom a thousand thousand wait!
Lo! they come—my Tribes of Thought,
Fierce and flush'd and fever-fraught!
From the horizon all around
I hear with pride their coming sound;
See! their banners circling near,—
Glittering groves of shield and spear,
Flying clouds of troopers gay,
Serried lines in dark array,
Veterans calm with temper'd sword,
And a dishevell'd frantic horde,—
On they come with furious force,
Tramping foot, and thundering horse,
On they come, converging loud,
With clanging arms, a glorious crowd,
Shouting impatient, fierce and free,
For me their Monarch, yea, for me!

Then, in my majesty and power,
I quell the madness of the hour,
Bid that tumultuous turmoil cease,
And frown my multitudes to peace.
Each to his peril and his post!
All hush'd throughout my mighty host:
Courage clear, and duty stern,—
Heads that freeze and hearts that burn;
Marshall'd straight in order due,
Legions! pass in swift review,
Bending to my blazon'd Will,
Loyal to that standard still,

170

And hailing me with homage then
King of Thoughts—and thus, of Men!

What? am I powerless to control
Nations, by my single soul?
What? have I not made thousands thrill
By the mere impulse of my will,
When the strong Thought goes forth, and binds
Captive a wondering herd of minds?
And is not this to reign alone
More than the ermine and the throne,
The jewell'd state, the gilded rooms,
The mindless jay in peacock plumes?
Yes,—if the inmate soul outweighs
Its dull clay house in power and praise,
Yes,—if Eternity be true,
And Time both false and fleeting too,
Then, humbler kings, my boast be this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

And what, though weak and slow of speech,
Ill to comfort, dull to teach?
What, though hiding from the ken
Of my small prying fellow-men,—
Still within my musing mind
Wisdom's secret stores I find,
And, little noticed, sweetly feed
On hidden manna, meat indeed,
Blessed thoughts I never told
Unconsider'd, uncontroll'd,
Rushing by as thick and fast
As autumn leaves upon the blast,

171

Or better like the gracious rain
Dropping on some thirsty plain.
And is not this to be a king,
To carry in my heart a spring
Of ceaseless pleasures, deep and pure,
Wealth cannot buy, nor power procure?
Yea,—by the poet's artless art,
And the sweet searchings of his heart,
By his unknown unheeded bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Place me on some desert shore
Foot of man ne'er wander'd o'er;
Lock me in a lonely cell
Beneath some prison citadel;
Still, here or there, within I find
My quiet kingdom of the Mind:
Nay,—mid the tempest fierce and dark,
Float me on peril's frailest bark,
My quenchless soul could sit and think
And smile at danger's dizziest brink:
And wherefore?—God, my God, is still
King of kings in good and ill,
And where He dwelleth—everywhere—
Safety supreme and peace are there;
And where He reigneth—all around—
Wisdom, and love, and power are found,
And reconciled to Him and bliss,
“My mind to me a kingdom is.”

Thus for my days; each waking hour
Grand with majesty and power,

172

Every minute rich in treasure,
Gems of peace, and pearls of pleasure.
And for my nights—those wondrous nights!
How manifold my Mind's delights,
When the young truant, gladly caught
In its own labyrinths of thought,
Finds there another realm to range,
The dynasties of Chance and Change.
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
Their name, their very essence, seems
A tender light, not dark nor clear,
A sad sweet mystery wild and dear,
A dull soft feeling unexplain'd,
A lie half true, a truth half feign'd:
O dreams,—what know I not of dreams?
When Reason, with inebriate gleams,
Looses from his wise control
The prancing Fancies of the soul,
And sober Judgment, slumbering still,
Sets free Caprice to guide the Will.
Within one night have I not spent
Years of adventurous banishment,
Strangely groping like the blind
In the dark caverns of my mind?
Have I not dwelt, from eve till morn,
Lifetimes in length for praise or scorn,
With fancied joys, ideal woes,
And all sensation's warmest glows,
Wondrously thus expanding Life
Through seeming scenes of peace or strife,
Until I verily reign sublime,
A great creative king of Time?

173

And there are people, things, and places,
Usual themes, familiar faces,
A second life, that looks as real
As this dull world's own unideal,
Another life of dreams by night,
That, still forgotten, wanes in light,
Yet seems itself to wake and sleep,
And in that sleep dreams doubly deep,
While those same dreams may dream anon,
Tangled mazes wandering on!
Yes, I have often, weak and worn,
Feebly waked at earliest morn,
As a shipwreck'd sailor, tost
By the wild waves on some rough coast,
Of perils past remembering nought
But some dim cataracts of thought,
And only roused betimes to know
That yesterday seems years ago!
And I can apprehend full well
What old Pythagoras could tell
Of other scenes, and other climes,
And other Selfs in other times;
For, oft my consciousness has reel'd
With scores of “Richmonds in the field,”
As, multiform, with no surprise,
I see myself in other guise,
And wonderless walk side by side
With mine own soul, self-multiplied!
If it be royal then to reign
Over an infinite domain,
If it be more than monarch can
To lengthen out the life of man,

174

Yea, if a godlike thing it be
To revel in ubiquity,
Is there but empty boast in this,
“My mind to me a kingdom is?”

—Peace, rash fool; be proud no more,
Count thy faults and follies o'er,
Turn aside, and note within
Thy secret charnel-house of Sin,
Thy bitter heart, thy covetous mind,
Evil thoughts, and words unkind:
Can so foul and mean a thing
Reign a spiritual King?
Art thou not—yea thou, myself,
In hope a slave to pride and pelf?
Art thou not,—yea thou, my mind,
Weak and naked, poor and blind?
Yea, be humble; yea, be still;
Meekly bow that rebel Will;
Seek not selfishly for praise;
Go more softly all thy days;
For to thee belongs no power,
Wretched insect of an hour,—
And if God, in bounteous dole,
Hath grafted life upon thy soul,
Know thou, there is out of Him
Nor light in mind, nor might in limb;
And, but for One, who from the grave
Of sin and death stood forth to save,
Thy mind, that royal mind, of thine,
So great, ambitious, and divine,

175

Would but a root of anguish be,
A madness and a misery,
A bitter fear, a hideous care
All too terrible to bear,
Kingly,—but king of pains and woes,
The sceptred slave to throbs and throes!
Justly then, my God, to Thee,
My royal soul shall bend the knee,
My royal soul, Thy glorious breath,
By Thee set free from guilt and death,
Before Thy majesty bows down,
Offering the homage of her crown,
Well pleased to sing in better bliss,
“My God to me a kingdom is.”

177

Counsel.

FOR MUSIC.

There is a time for praising,
And a better time for pray'r,—
The heart its anthem raising,
Or uttering its care:
One minute is for smiling,
Another for the tear,—
Hope, by turns, beguiling,
Or her haggard brother, Fear.

But, if in joy thou praisest
The generous Hand that gave,—
And if in woe thou raisest
The pray'r that He may save;
Thy griefs shall seem all pleasure
As the chidings of a Friend,
And thy joy's ecstatic measure
A beginning without end!

Home.

FOR MUSIC.

I never left the place that knew me,
And may never know me more,
Where the cords of kindness drew me,
And have gladden'd me of yore,
But my secret soul has smarted
With a feeling full of gloom
For the days that are departed
And the place I call'd my Home.

179

I am not of those who wander
Unaffection'd here and there,
But my heart must still be fonder
Of my sites of joy or care;
And I point sad memory's finger
(Though my faithless foot may roam)
Where I've most been made to linger
In the place I call'd my Home.

Byegones.

FOR MUSIC.

“Let byegones be byegones,”—they foolishly say,
And bid me be wise and forget them;
But old recollections are active to-day,
And I can do nought but regret them:
Though the present be pleasant, all joyous and gay,
And promising well for the morrow,
I love to look back on the years past away,
Embalming my byegones in sorrow.

If the morning of life has a mantle of grey,
Its noon will be blyther and brighter;
If March has its storm, there is sunshine in May,
And light out of darkness is lighter:
Thus the present is pleasant, a cheerful to-day,
With a wiser, a soberer gladness,
Because it is tinged with the mellowing ray
Of a yesterday's sunset of sadness.

180

Rule, Britannia!

A STIRRING SONG FOR PATRIOTS, IN THE YEAR 1860.

[_]

To the tune of “Wha wouldna fight for Charlie?”

Rise! ye gallant youth of Britain,
Gather to your country's call,
On your hearts her name is written,
Rise to help her, one and all!
Cast away each feud and faction,
Brood not over wrong nor ill,—
Rouse your virtues into action,
For we love our country still,—
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Raise that thrilling shout once more,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia,
Conqueror over sea and shore!

France is coming, full of bluster,
Hot to wipe away her stain,
Therefore, brothers, here we muster
Just to give it her again!
And if foemen, blind with fury,
Dare to cross our ocean-gulf,
Wait not then for judge nor jury,—
Shoot them as you would a wolf!
For Britannia, just Britannia,
Claims our chorus as before,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.

181

They may writhe, for we have gall'd them
With our guns in every clime,—
They may hate us, for we call'd them
Serfs and subjects in old time!
Boasting Gaul, we calmly scorn you
As old Æsop's bull the frogs,
Come and welcome! for, we warn you,
We shall fling you to our dogs!
For Britannia, our Britannia,
Thunders with a lion's roar,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.

See, uprear'd our holy standard!
Crowd around it, gallant hearts!
What? should Britain's fame be slander'd
As by fault on our parts?
Let the rabid Frenchman threaten,
Let the mad invader come,
We will hunt them out of Britain,
Or can die for hearth and home!
For Britannia, dear Britannia
Wakes our chorus evermore,
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Conqueror over sea and shore.

Rise then, patriots! name endearing,
Flock from Scotland's moors and dales,
From the green glad fields of Erin,
From the mountain homes of Wales,—

182

Rise! for sister England calls you,
Rise! our commonweal to serve,
Rise! while now the song enthralls you,
Thrilling every vein and nerve,
Hail, Britannia! hail, Britannia!
Conquer, as thou didst of yore!
Rule, Britannia! Rule, Britannia!
Over every sea and shore.

The Emigrant Ship.

FOR MUSIC.

Far away, far away,
The emigrant ship must sail to-day:
Cruel ship,—to look so gay
Bearing the exiles far away.

Sad and sore, sad and sore,
Many a fond heart bleeds at the core:
Cruel dread,—to meet no more,
Bitter sorrow, sad and sore.

Many years, many years
At best will they battle with perils and fears:
Cruel pilot,—for he steers
The exiles away for many years.

183

Long ago, long ago!
For the days that are gone their tears shall flow:
Cruel hour,—to tear them so
From all they cherish'd long ago.

Fare ye well, fare ye well!
To joy and to hope it sounds as a knell:
Cruel tale it were to tell
How the exile sighs farewell.

Far away, far away!
Is there indeed no hope to-day?
Cruel and false it were to say
There are no pleasures far away.

Far away, far away!
Every night and every day
Kind and wise it were to pray,
God be with them far away!

The Assurance of Horace.

I have achieved a tower of fame
More durable than gold,
And loftier than the royal frame
Of Pyramids of old,—
Which none inclemencies of clime,
Nor fiercest winds that blow,
Nor endless change, nor lapse of time,
Shall ever overthrow!

184

I cannot perish utterly:
The brighter part of me
Must live—and live—and never die,
But baffle Death's decree!
For I shall always grow, and spread
My new-blown honours still,
Long as the priest and vestal tread
The Capitolian hill.

I shall be sung, where thy rough waves,
My native river, foam,—
And where old Daunus scantly laves
And rules his rustic home;
As chief and first I shall be sung,
Though lowly, great in might
To tune my country's heart and tongue,
And tune them both aright.

Thou then, my soul, assume thy state,
And take thine honours due;
Be proud, as thy deserts are great,—
To thine own praise be true!
Thou too, celestial Muse, come down,
And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown
To weave thy Poet's hair.

[_]

Hor. Od. XXX. lib. iii.

185

The Assurance of Ovid.

Now have I done my work!—which not Jove's ire
Can make undone, nor sword, nor time, nor fire.
Whene'er that day, whose only powers extend
Against this body, my brief life shall end,
Still in my better portion evermore
Above the stars undying shall I soar!
My name shall never die: but through all time,
Wherever Rome shall reach a conquer'd clime,
There, in that people's tongue, shall this my page
Be read and glorified from age to age;—
Yea, if the bodings of my spirit give
True note of inspiration, I shall live!

[_]

Ovid. Met. sub finem.

Post-Letters.

Lottery tickets every day,—
And ever drawn a blank:
Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank:
Morn by morn, and week by week,
They cheat us, or amuse,
Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek
Some stirring daily news.

The heedless postman on his path
Is scattering joys and woes;
He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!

186

I never note him trudging near
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!

I hope—what hope I not?—vague things
Of wondrous possible good;
I dread—as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:
Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews
May now be hovering o'er,—
Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!

O Mystery, master-key to life,
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,
And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe
Is travailing in birth!

See, on my neighbour's threshold stands
Yon careless common man,
Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands
—My Being's alter'd plan!
My germs of pleasure, or of pain,
Of trouble, or of peace,
May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distill'd from Gideon's fleece!

187

Who knoweth? may not loves be dead,—
Or those we loved laid low,—
Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled,
And all the world my foe?
Or who can tell if Fortune's hour
(Which once on all doth shine)
Be not within this morning's dower,
A prosperous morn of mine?

Ah, cold Reality!—in spite
Of hopes, and endless chance,
That bitter postman, ruthless wight,
Has cheated poor Romance:
No letters! O the dreary phrase:
Another day forlorn:—
And thus I wend upon my ways
To watch another morn.

Cease, babbler!—let those doubtings cease:
What? should a son of heaven
With the pure manna of his Peace
Mix up this faithless leaven?
Not so!—for in the hands of God,
And in none earthly will,
Abides alike my staff, and rod,
My good, and seeming ill.

191

Hartenus, etc.

PUBLISHED IN 1848.

The New Year.

The old man he is dead, young heir,
And gone to his long account;
Come, stand on his hearth, and sit in his chair,
And into his saddle mount!

The old man's face was a face to be fear'd,
But thine both loving and gay;
O who would not choose for that stern white beard,
A bright young cheek alway?

The old man he had outlived them all,
His friends, he said, were gone;
But hundreds are wassailing now in the hall,
And true friends every one!

The old man moan'd both sore and long
Of pleasures past, he said;
But pleasures to come are the young heir's song,
The living, not the dead!

The old man babbled of old regrets,
Alack! how much he owed:
But the young heir has not a feather of debts
His heart withal to load!

192

The old man used to shudder, and seem
Remembering secret sin;
But the happy young heir is as if in a dream,
Paradise all within!

Alas! for the old man,—where is he now?
And fear for thyself, young heir;
For he was innocent once as thou,
As ruddy and blythe and fair:

Reap wisdom from his furrow'd face,
Cull counsel from his fear;
O speed thee, young heir, in gifts and in grace,
And blessings on thee,—New Year!

All's for the best!

All's for the best! be sanguine and cheerful,
Trouble and sorrow are friends in disguise,
Nothing but Folly goes faithless and fearful,
Courage for ever is happy and wise:
All for the best,—if a man would but know it
Providence wishes us all to be blest,
This is no dream of the pundit or poet,
Heaven is gracious, and—All's for the best!

All for the best! set this on your standard,
Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love,
Who to the shores of Despair may have wander'd,
A waywearied swallow, or heartstricken dove:

193

All for the best!—be a man but confiding,
Providence tenderly governs the rest,
And the frail bark of His creature is guiding
Wisely and warily all for the best.

All for the best! then fling away terrors,
Meet all your fears and your foes in the van,
And in the midst of your dangers or errors
Trust like a child, while you strive like a man:
All's for the best!—unbiass'd, unbounded,
Providence reigns from the East to the West;
And, by both wisdom and mercy surrounded,
Hope and be happy that All's for the best!

The Riddle read.

World of sorrow, care, and change,
Even to myself I seem,
As adown thy vale I range,
Wandering in a dream:
All things are so strange.

For, the dead who died this day,
Fair and young, or great and good,
Though we mourn them, where are they?
—With those before the flood;
Equally past away!

194

Living hearts have scantly time
To feel some other heart most dear,
Scarce can love the love sublime
Unselfishly sincere,—
Death nips it in its prime!

Minds have hardly power to learn
How much there is to know aright,
Can dimly through the mist discern
Some little glimpse of light,—
The order is, Return!

Willing hands but just begin
Wisely to work for God and man,
And some poor wages barely win
As one who well began,—
The Master calls, Come in!

Well,—this is well: for well begun
Is all the good man here may do;
He cannot hope to see half done;
A furlong is crept through,
And lo, the goal is won!

This is the life of sight and sense,
And other brighter lives depend
On all we here can just commence;
But long before an end
God calls His servant hence.

Take courage, courage: not in vain
The Ruler hath appointed thus;
Account it neither grief nor pain
His mercy spareth us—
It is the labourer's gain.

195

Here we begin to love and know;
And when God's willing grace perceives
The plant of Heav'n hath roots to grow,
He plucks the ranker leaves,
And doth transplant it so!

Old Haunts.

FOR MUSIC.

I love to linger on my track
Wherever I have dwelt and parted,
In after years to loiter back,
And feel as once I felt,—young-hearted!
My foot falls lightly on the sward
Yet leaves a deathless dint behind it,
With tenderness I still regard
Its unforgotten print, to find it!

Old places have a charm for me
The new can ne'er attain, for ever,
Old faces—how I long to see
Those looks that here can greet me never!
Yet, these are gone:—while all around
Is changing with each changing hour,
I'll anchor on the solid ground
And root my memories there in power!

196

The Battle of Roleia.

A Military Ballad.

Ye children of the veterans
Who fought for faithless Spain,
And for ungrateful Portugal
Pour'd out their blood like rain,—
Come near me, and hear me,
For I would tell you well
How gallantly your fathers fought,
Or gloriously they fell!

I sing Roleia's bloody strife,
The first of many frays,
When iron Wellesley led us on
Invincible always;
Roleia gay and evergreen,
Festoon'd with vines and flowers,
Roleia, scorch'd and blood-bedew'd,—
And half that blood was ours!

The seventeenth of August
It shone out bright and clear,
And still we press'd the Frenchman's flank,
And hung upon his rear;
From Brilos and Obidos
Had we driven the bold Laborde,
And now among the mountain rocks
We sought him with the sword!

197

All golden is the plain with wheat,
All purple are the hills
With luscious vineyards ripe and sweet,
And laced with crystal rills;
Yet must the rills run down with gore,
The corn be trampled red,
Before Roleia's threshing-floor
Is glutted with her dead!

O cheerily the bugles spoke,
And all our hearts beat high
When over Monte Junto broke
The sun upon the sky;
Right early from Obidos
We gladly sallied then
A goodly host, in columns three,
Of fourteen thousand men.

Brave Ferguson led on the left,
And Trant the flanking right,
With iron Arthur in the midst,
The focus of the fight;
And fast by Wellesley's gallant side
The Craufurd rode amain,
And Hill, the British soldier's pride,
And Nightingale, and Fane.

Crouching like a tiger,
In his high and rocky lair,
The Frenchman howl'd and show'd his teeth
And—wish'd he wasn't there;

198

For Craufurd, Hill, and Nightingale
Flew at him as he lay,
And up our gallant fellows sprang
As bloodhounds on the prey.

And look! we hunt the bold Laborde
To Zambugeira's height,—
While Trant with Fane and Ferguson
Outflank him left and right;
And then with cheers we charge the front,
With cheers the foe reply,—
No child's play was that battle brunt,
We swore to win or die!

Rattled loud the muskets' roar,—
We struggled man to man,—
The rugged rocks were wash'd in gore,
With gore the gullies ran!
Fiercely through those mountain paths
Our bloody way we force,—
And find in strength upon the heights
The Frenchman, foot and horse:

Ah, then, my Ninth, and Twenty-ninth,
Your courage was too hot,
For down on your disorder'd ranks
Secure they pour the shot;
But all their horse and foot and guns
Could never make you fly,—
The losing Frenchman fights and runs,
But Britons fight—and die!

199

Up to the rescue, Ferguson!
And keep the hard-fought hill;
Their chiefs are pick'd off, one by one,
And lo, they rally still;
They rally, and rush stoutly on,—
The bold Laborde gives way,—
The day is lost! the day is won!
And ours is the day!

Then well retreating sage and slow
Alternately in mass
With charging horse, the wily foe
Gains Runa's rocky pass;
And left us thus Roleia's field,
With other fields in store,
Vimiera, Torres Vedras,
And half a hundred more!

Retrospect.

How many years are fled,—
How many friends are dead:
Alas, how fast
The past hath past,—
How speedily life hath sped!

Places, that knew me of yore,
Know me for theirs no more;
And sore at the change
Quite strange I range
Where I was at home before.

200

Thoughts and things each day
Seem to be fading away;
Yet this is, I wot,
Their lot to be not
Continuing in one stay.

A mingled mesh it seems
Of facts and fancy's gleams;
I scarce have power
From hour to hour
To separate things from dreams.

Darkly, as in a glass,
Like a vain shadow they pass;
Their ways they wend
And tend to an end,
The goal of life, alas!

Alas? and wherefore so,—
Be glad for this passing show;
The world and its lust
Back must to their dust
Before the soul can grow.

Expand, my willing mind,
Thy nobler life to find,
Thy childhood leave
Nor grieve to bereave
Thine age of toys behind.

201

The Early Gallop.

[_]

(Written in the saddle, on the crown of my hat.)

At five on a dewy morning,
Before the blazing day,
To be up and off on a high-mettled horse
Over the hills away,—
To drink the rich sweet breath of the gorse
And bathe in the breeze of the Downs,
Ha! man, if you can, match bliss like this
In all the joys of towns!

With glad and grateful tongue to join
The lark at his matin hymn,
And thence on faith's own wing to spring
And sing with Cherubim!
To pray from a deep and tender heart,
With all things praying anew,
The birds and the bees, and the whispering trees,
And heather bedropt with dew,—
To be one with those early worshippers
And pour the carol too!

Then, off again with a slacken'd rein,
And a bounding heart within,
To dash at a gallop over the plain,
Health's golden cup to win!
This, this is the race for gain and grace
Richer than vases and crowns;
And you that boast your pleasures the most
Amid the steam of towns,
Come, taste true bliss in a morning like this,
Galloping over the Downs!

203

Waterloo.

A Ballad for the Soldier.

Thermopylae and Cannæ
Were glorious fields of yore,
Leonidas and Hannibal
Right famous evermore;
But we can claim a nobler name
A field more glorious too,
The chief who thus achieved for us
Victorious Waterloo.

Let others boast of Cæsar's host
Led on by Cæsar's skill,
And how fierce Attila could rout,
And Alaric could kill,—
But we—right well, O hear me tell
What British troops can do,
When marshall'd by a Wellington
To win a Waterloo!

O for a Pindar's harp to tune
The triumphs of that day!
O for a Homer's pictured words
To paint the fearful fray!—
Alas, my tongue and harp illstrung
In feeble tones and few,
Hath little skill—yet right good-will
To sing of Waterloo.

Then gather round, my comrades,
And hear a soldier tell
How full of honour was the day
When—every man did well!

205

And though a soldier's speech be rough,
His heart is hot and true
While thus he tells of Wellington
At hard-fought Waterloo.

Sublimely calm, our iron Duke,
A lion in his lair,
Waited and watch'd with sleepless eye
To see what France would dare,
Nor deign'd to stir from Brussels
Until he surely knew
The foe was rushing on his fate
At chosen Waterloo.

What? should the hunter waste his strength
Nor hold his good hounds back
Before he knows they near the foes
And open on the track?
No: let “surprise” blight Frenchmen's eyes,
For truly they shall rue
The giant skill that, stern and still,
Drew them to Waterloo!

Hotly the couriers gallop up
To Richmond's festive scene,—
Alone, alone the chieftain stood
Undaunted and serene;
Ready, ready,—staunch and steady,—
And forth the orders flew
That march'd us off to Quatre Bras,
And whelming Waterloo.

206

Begin, begin with Quatre Bras,
That twinborn field of flame,
Where many a gallant deed was done
By many a gallant name;
That battle-field, which seem'd to yield
An earnest and review
Of all that British courage dared
And did at Waterloo.

We heard from far old Blucher's guns,
At Ligny's blazing street,
And hurried on to Weimar's aid,
Right glad the foe to meet;
A score of miles to Quatre Bras;
But still to arms we stood
And cheerly rush'd without a pause
To win the Boissy wood:

Then, just like cowards, three to one,
Before we could deploy,
To crush us, Ney and Excelmans
Flew down with fiendish joy;
But stout we stood in hollow squares,
And fought, and kept the ground,
While lancer spears and cuirassiers
Were charging us all round!

Aye, aye, my men, we battled then
Like wolves and bears at bay,
And thousands there among the dead
With sable Brunswick lay:

207

And back to back in that attack
The ninety-second fought,—
And “steadily” the twenty-eighth
Behaved as Britons ought.

Then up came Maitland with the guards,
Hurrah! they clear the wood;
But still the furious Frenchman charged,
And still we stoutly stood,
Till gentle night drew on, and that
Drew off the treacherous Ney,
For when the morning dimly broke
—The fox had stole away!

Thus much, my lads, for Quatre Bras;
And now for Waterloo,
Where skill and courage did it all,
With God's good help in view!
For we were beardless raw recruits,
And they, more numerous far,
Were fierce mustachioed mighty men,
The veterans of war.

The God of battles help'd us soon,
As godless France drew nigh,
—It was the great eighteenth of June,
The sun was getting high;—
And suddenly two hundred guns
At once with thundering throats
Peal'd out their dreadful overture
In deep volcano notes!

208

Then, by ten thousands, horse and foot,
Came on the foaming Gaul,
And still with bristling front we stood
As solid as a wall:
And stout Macdonnell's Hougoumont,
The centre of the van,
Was storm'd and storm'd and storm'd—in vain,
—He held it like a man!

O who can count the myriad deeds
That hundreds did in fight?
Ponsonby falls, and Picton bleeds,
And—both are quench'd in night:
And many a hero subaltern
And hero private too
Beat Ajax and Achilles both
In winning Waterloo!

What shall I say on that dread day
Of Ferrier and his band?
Ten times he chased the foes away,
And charged them sword in hand;
Six of those ten he led his men
With blood upon his brow,—
And weakly in the eleventh died
To live in glory now!

Or, give a stave to Shaw the brave,
—In death the hero sleeps,—
Hemm'd by a score, he knock'd them o'er,
And hew'd them down in heaps;

209

Till, wearied out, the lion stout
Beset as by a pack
Of hungry hounds, fell full of wounds,
But none upon his back!

And Halkett then before his men
Dash'd forward and made prize
(While both the lines for wonderment
Could scarce believe their eyes)
Of a gaily-plumed French general
Haranguing his array,
—But Halkett caught him, speech and all,
And bore him right away!

Thee too, De Lancey, generous chief,
For thee a niche be found,—
Wounded to death, he scorn'd relief
Whilst others bled around:
And D'Oyley and Fitzgerald died,
Just as the day was won,—
And Gordon by his general's side—
The side of Wellington!

And Somerset and Uxbridge then
Gave each a limb to death;
Curzon and Canning cheer'd their men
With their last dying breath;
And gallant Miller stricken sore
With fainting utterance cries,
“Bring me my colours! wave them o'er
Your colonel till he dies!”

210

Then furious wax'd the Emperor
That Britons wouldn't run,
“Les bêtes, pourquoi ne fuient-ils pas?
Et donc, ce Vellington?”
But Vellington still holds his own
For eight red hours and more,
“Why comes not Marshal Blucher down?
—Ha!—there's his cannons' roar,—

“Up, guards, and at them! charge!”—the word
Like forkèd lightning passes,
And lance, and bayonet, and sword
Rush on in glittering masses!
Back, back, the surging columns roll
In terrified dismay,
And onward shout against the rout
The conquerors of the day!

O now, the tide of battle,
Is turn'd to seas of blood,
When case and grape-shot rattle
Among the multitude,
And Fates, led on by Furies,
Destroy the flying host,
And Chaos mated with Despair
Makes all the lost most lost!

Woe, woe! thou caitiff-hero,
Thou Emperor—and slave,
Why didst not thou, too, nobly bleed
With those devoted brave?

211

No, no,—the coward's thought was self,
And “Suave qui peut” his cry,
And verily at Waterloo
Did Great Napoleon die!

He died to fame, while yet his name
Was on ten thousand tongues
That trusted him, and pray'd to him
And—cursed him for their wrongs!
O noble souls! Imperial Guard,
Had your chief been but true,
Ye would have stood and stopp'd the rout
At crushing Waterloo!

Still as they fled from Wellington
To Blucher's arms they flew;
These two made up the Quatre Bras
To clutch a Waterloo!
Ha! Blucher's Prussian vengeance
Was fully sated then,
When hated France upon the field
Left forty thousand men.

Thus, comrades, hath a soldier told
What Wellington's calm skill,
When help'd by troops of British mould
And God's almighty will,
Against a veteran triple force
On battle-field can do:—
Then, three times three for Wellington,
The Prince of Waterloo!

212

All's right.

FOR MUSIC.

O never despair at the troubles of life,
All's right!
In the midst of anxiety, peril, and strife,
All's right!
The cheerful philosophy never was wrong
That ever puts this on the tip of my tongue,
And makes it my glory, my strength, and my song,
All's right!

214

The Pilot beside us is steering us still,
All's right!
The Champion above us is guarding from ill,
All's right!
Let others who know neither Father nor Friend
Go trembling and doubting in fear to the end,—
For me, on this motto I gladly depend,
All's right!

Farley Heath,

Near Guildford, Surrey.

Many a day have I whiled away
Upon hopeful Farley-heath,
In its antique soil digging for spoil
Of possible treasure beneath;
For celts, and querns, and funereal urns,
And rich red Samian ware,
And sculptured stones, and centurions' bones
May all lie buried there!

How calmly serene, and glad have I been
From morn till eve to stay,
My Surrey serfs turning the turfs
The happy live long day;

217

With eye still bright, and hope yet alight,
Wistfully watching the mould
As the spade brings up fragments of things
Fifteen centuries old!

Pleasant and rare it was to be there
On a joyous day of June,
With the circling scene all gay and green
Steep'd in the silent noon;
When beauty distils from the calm glad hills,—
From the downs and dimpling vales;
And every grove, lazy with love,
Whispereth tenderest tales!

O then to look back upon Time's old track
And dream of the days long past,
When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear
And loud was the clarion's blast—
As wild and shrill from Martyrs'-hill
Echoed the patriot-shout,
Or rush'd pell-mell with a midnight yell
The rude barbarian rout!

Yes; every stone has a tale of its own,
A volume of old lore;
And this white sand from many a brand
Has polish'd gouts of gore;
When Holmbury-height had its beacon light,
And Cantii held old Leith,
And Rome stood then with his iron men
On ancient Farley-heath!

218

How many a group of that exiled troop
Have here sung songs of home,
Chaunting aloud to a wondering crowd
The glories of old Rome!
Or lying at length have bask'd their strength
Amid this heather and gorse,
Or down by the well in the larch-grown dell
Water'd the black war-horse!

Look, look! my day-dream right ready would seem
The past with the present to join,—
For see! I have found in this rare ground
An eloquent green old coin,
With turquoise rust on its Emperor's bust—
Some Cæsar, august Lord,
And the legend terse, and the classic reverse,
“Victory, valour's reward!—”

Victory,—yes! and happiness
Kind comrade, to me and to you,
When such rich spoil has crown'd our toil
And proved the day-dream true;
With hearty acclaim how we hail'd by his name
The Cæsar of that coin,
And told with a shout his titles out
And drank his health in wine!

And then how blest the noon-day rest
Reclined on a grassy bank,
With hungry cheer and the brave old beer
Better than Odin drank;

219

And the secret balm of the spirit at calm,
And poetry, hope, and health,—
Aye, have I not found in that rare ground
A mine of more than wealth!

The Heart's Husband.

FOR MUSIC.

Go, leave me to weep for the years that are past,
For my youth, and its friends, and its pleasures all dead,
My spring and my summer are fading too fast,
And I long to live over the days that are fled;
It is not for sorrows or sins on my track
That I mournfully cast my fond yearnings behind,—
—Ah no,—from affection I love to look back,
It is only my Heart that has wedded my Mind.

220

And still, let the Mind that has married a Heart,
Though loving, be strong as a King in his pride,
And ever command that all weakness depart
From the realm that he rules in the soul of his bride;
For what, if all time and all pleasures decay?
My Mind is myself, an invincible chief,—
Like a child's broken toys are the years past away,
And my Heart half-ashamed has forgotten her grief.

The Happy Man.

A man of no regrets
He goes his sunny way,
Owing the past no load of debts
The present cannot pay:
He wedded his first love
Nor loved another since;
He sets his nobler hopes above;
He reigns in joy a Prince!

A man of no regrets,
He hath no cares to vex,
No secret griefs, nor mental nets
Nor troubles to perplex:
Forgiveness to his sin,
And help in every need,
Blessings around, and peace within,
Crown him a King indeed!

A man of no regrets,
Upon his Empire free
The sun of gladness never sets,—
Then who so rich as he?
Yea, God upon my heart
Hath pour'd all blessings down:
Then yield to Him, with all thou art,
The homage of thy crown!

223

Heraldic.

High in Battle's antler'd hall,
Ancient as its Abbey wall
Hangs a helmet, brown with rust,
Cobweb'd o'er, and thick in dust;
High it hangs, 'mid pikes and bows,
Scowling still at spectral foes,
Proud and stern, with visor down,
And fearful in its feudal frown.

When I saw, what ail'd thee, heart,
Wherefore should I stop, and start?—
That old helm, with that old crest,
Is more to me than all the rest;
Batter'd, broken, though it be,
That old helm is all to me.

Yon black greyhound know I well:
Many a tale hath it to tell
How in troublous times of old
Sires of mine, with bearing bold,
Bearing bold, but much mischance,
Sway'd the sword, or poised the lance,—
Much mischance, desponding still,
They fought and fell, foreboding ill.

And their scallop, gules with blood,
Fess'd amid the azure flood,

224

Show'd the pilgrim, slain afar
Over the sea in Holy War;
While that faithful greyhound black
Vainly watch'd the wild boar's track,
And the legend and the name
Proved all lost but hope and fame,—
Tout est perdu, fors l'honneur,
Mais “L'Espoir est ma force” sans peur.

Threnos.

Vanity, vanity! dead hopes and fears,
Dim flitting phantoms of departed years,
Unsatisfying shadows, vague and cold,
Of thoughts and things that made my joys of old,
Sad memories of the kindly words and ways
And looks and loves of friends in other days,—
Alas! all gone,—a dream, a very dream,
A dream is all you are, and all you seem!

O life, I do forget thee: I look back,
And lo, the desert wind has swept my track:
I stand upon this bare and solid ground
And, strangely waken'd, wonder all around;
How came I here? and whence? and whither tend?
Speak, friend!—if death and time have spared a friend:
Behold, the place that knew me well of yore
Knoweth me not; and that familiar floor
Where all my kith and kin were wont to meet
Is now grown strange, and throng'd by other feet.

225

O soul, my soul, consider thou that spot,
Root there thy gratitude, and leave it not;
Still let remembrance, with a swimming eye,
Live in those rooms, nor pass them coldly by;
Still let affection cling to those old days,
And, yearning fondly, paint them bright with praise:
O once my home—with all thy blessings fled,
O forms and faces—gather'd to the dead,
O scenes of joy and sorrow—faded fast!
—How hollow sound thy footsteps, ghostlike past!
An aching emptiness is all thou art,
A famine hid within the cavern'd heart.

Thou changeless One,—how blest to have no change,—
Only with Thee, my God, I feel not strange:
Thou art the same for ever and for aye,—
To-morrow and to-day as yesterday,
Thou art the same,—a tranquil Present still;
There I can hide, and bless Thy sovereign will:
Yea, bless Thee, O my Father, that Thy love
Call'd in an instant to the bliss above
From ills to come and grief and care and fear
Thy type to me, most honour'd and most dear!
O true and tender spirit, pure and good,
So vext on earth and little understood,
Thy gentle nature was not fit for strife,
But quail'd to meet the waking woes of life;
And therefore God Our Father kindly made
Thy sleep a death, lest thou shouldst feel afraid!

226

The Dead.

A DIRGE.

I love the dead!
The precious spirits gone before,
And waiting on that peaceful shore
To meet with welcome looks
and kiss me yet once more.

I love the dead!
And fondly doth my fancy paint
Each dear one, wash'd from earthly taint,
By patience and by hope
made a most gentle saint.

O glorious dead!
Without one spot upon the dress
Of your ethereal loveliness,
Ye linger round me still
with earnest will to bless.

Enfranchised dead!
Each fault and failing left behind
And nothing now to chill or bind,
How gloriously ye reign
in majesty of mind!

O royal dead!
The resting, free, unfetter'd dead,
The yearning, conscious, holy dead,
The hoping, waiting, calm,
the happy changeless dead!

I love the dead!
And well forget their little ill,
Eager to bask my memory still
In all their best of words
and deeds and ways and will.

227

I bless the dead!
Their good, half choked by this world's weeds,
Is blooming now in heavenly meads,
And ripening golden fruit
of all those early seeds.

I trust the dead!
They understand me frankly now,
There are no clouds on heart or brow,
But spirit, reading spirit,
answereth glow for glow.

I praise the dead!
All their tears are wiped away,
Their darkness turn'd to perfect day,—
How blessed are the dead,
how beautiful be they!

O gracious dead!
That watch me from your paradise
With happy tender starlike eyes,
Let your sweet influence rain
me blessings from the skies.

Yet, helpless dead,
Vainly my yearning nature dares
Such unpremeditated prayers;—
All vain it were for them;
as even for me theirs.

Immortal dead!
Ye in your lot are fix'd as fate
And man or angel is too late
To beckon back by prayer
one change upon your state.

228

O, godlike dead,
Ye that do rest, like Noah's dove,
Fearless I leave you to the love
Of Him who gave you peace,
to bear with you above!

And ye, the dead,
Godless on earth, and gone astray,
Alas, your hour is past away,—
The Judge is just; for you
it now were sin to pray.

Still, all ye dead,
First may be last and last be first,—
Charity counteth no man curst,
But hopeth still in Him
whose love would save the worst.

Therefore, ye dead,
I love you, be ye good or ill,
For God, our God, doth love me still,
And you He loved on earth
with love that nought could chill.

And some, just dead,
To me on earth most deeply dear,
Who loved and nursed and blest me here,
I love you with a love
that casteth out all fear:

Come near me, Dead!
In spirit come to me, and kiss,—
No!—I must wait awhile for this:
A few, few years or days,
And I too feed on bliss!

229

The Thanks of Parliament to Wellington and his Army.

Outspake a nation's voice,
Concentred in her king,
While cannons roar, and hearts rejoice,
And all the steeples ring:

Outspake old England then
By prelates and by peers:
By all her best and wisest men,
Her sages and her seers—

Old England and her pair
Of sisters, north and west,
The comely graces, fresh and fair,
Who charm the world to rest.

All honour to the brave!
The living and the dead,
Who only fought to bless and save,
And crush the hydra's head:

All honour and all thanks
To every mother's son,
Saxon, or Celt, or Gael, or Manx,
Who fought with Wellington!

For heroes were they all,
To conquer or to die,
By Ahmednuggra's bastion'd wall,
Or desperate Assye:

230

And, heroes still, they strive
Against the dangerous Dane,
When France stirr'd up the northern hive,
To sting us on the main:

All heroes, heroes still,
For Lusitania's right;
By red Roleia's hard-fought hill,
And Vimiera's fight:

And stout the heroes stood
On Talavera's day;
And wrote their conquering names in blood,
At Salamanca's fray:

Still heroes, on they went
O'er Cuidad's gory fosse,
And stern Sebastian's battlement,
And thundering Badajoz:

And, heroes ever, taught
Old Soult to fly and yield,
Shouting “Victory” as they fought
On red Vittoria's field;

And, heroes aye, they flew
To Orthez, conquering yet;
Until, at whelming Waterloo,
The Frenchman's sun had set!

Then, thanks! thou glorious chief,
And thanks! ye gallant band,
Who, under God, to man's relief
Stretch'd out the saving hand:

231

All Britain thanks you well,
By peasant, peer, and king;
To all who fought for us, or fell,
Immortal honours bring!

Peal fast the merry chime,
And bid the cannon roar
In praise of heroes, whom all time
Shall cherish evermore!

To Laura.

(From Petrarch.)

My Laura, my love, I behold in thine eyes
Twin daystars that Mercy has given,
To teach me on earth to be happy and wise
And guide me triumphant to heaven!

Their lessons of love through a lifetime have taught
My bosom thy pureness and sweetness;
They have roused me to virtue, exalted my thought,
And made my celestial meetness.

They have shed on my heart a delightful repose;
All else it hath barr'd from its portal;
So deeply the stream of my happiness flows,
I know that my soul is immortal.

232

No Surrender!

FOR MUSIC.

Ever constant, ever true,
Let the word be, No surrender:
Boldly dare and greatly do!
This shall bring us bravely through,
No surrender, No surrender!
And though Fortune's smiles be few
Hope is always springing new
Still inspiring me and you
With a magic—No surrender!

Nail the colours to the mast,
Shouting gladly, No surrender!
Troubles near are all but past—
Serve them as you did the last,
No surrender, No surrender!
Though the skies be overcast
And upon the sleety blast
Disappointments gather fast,
Beat them off with No surrender!

Constant and courageous still,
Mind, the word is No surrender;
Battle, though it be uphill,
Stagger not at seeming ill,
No surrender, No surrender!
Hope,—and thus your hope fulfil,—
There's a way where there's a will,
And the way all cares to kill
Is to give them—No surrender!

236

Neuer mind!

Soul, be strong, whate'er betide,
God himself is guard and guide,—
With my Father at my side,
Never mind!

Clouds and darkness hover near,
Men's hearts failing them for fear,
But be thou of right good cheer,
Never mind!

Come what may, some work is done,
Praise the Father through the Son,
Goals are gain'd and prizes won,
Never mind!

And if now the skies look black,
All the past behind my back
Is a bright and blessed track;
Never mind!

Stand in patient courage still,
Working out thy Master's will,
Compass good, and conquer ill;
Never mind!

Fight, for all their bullying boast,
Dark temptation's evil host,
This is thy predestined post;
Never mind!

237

Be then tranquil as a dove;
Through these thunder-clouds above
Shines afar the heaven of love;
Never mind!

The Cromlech du Tus, Guernsey.

Hoary relic, stern and old,—
Heaving huge above the mould
Like some mammoth, lull'd to sleep
By the magic-murmuring deep
Till those grey gigantic bones
Gorgon-time hath frown'd to stones,—
Who shall tell thine awful tale,
Massy Cromlech, at “The Vale?”
Ruthless altar, hungry tomb!
Superstition's throne of gloom,
Where in black sepulchral state
High the hooded Spectre sate
Terrible and throng'd by fears
Brooding for a thousand years
As a thunder-cloud above
All that wretched men may love,—
Is there no grim witness near
That shall whisper words of fear,
Every brother's heart to thrill,
Every brother's blood to chill,
While thy records are reveal'd
And thy mysteries unseal'd?—

238

Lift, with Titan toil and pain,
Lift the lid by might and main,—
Lift the lid and look within
On—this charnel-house of Sin!
O twin brethren, how and when
Dwelt ye in this rocky den?
Rise, dread martyrs! for your bones
Chronicle these Cromlech-stones;
Rise, ye grisly, ghastly pair,
—Skeletons! how came ye there—
Kneeling starkly side by side
More like life than those who died?
More like life?—O what a spell
Of horror cowers in that cell!
More like life!—Alive they went
Into that stone tenement,
Bound as in religious ease
Meekly kneeling on their knees,
And the cruel thongs confined
All but the distracted mind
That with terror raved to see
Woe! how slow such death would be:
Woe! how slow and full of dread:
Pining, dying, but not dead,—
Pining, dying in the tomb,
Drown'd in gulfs of starving gloom,
With corruption, hideous fear,
Creeping noiselessly more near,
While the victims slowly died
Link'd together side by side
Till in manacled mad strife
Both had struggled out of life!

239

Yea: some idol claim'd the price
Of this living sacrifice;
Some grim demon's dark high priest
Bound these slaves for Odin's feast,
Offering up with rites of hell
Human pangs to Thor or Bel!—

Christians, ponder on these bones;
Kneel around the Cromlech-stones:
Kneel and thank our God above
That His name, His heart is Love:
That His thirst is—not for blood
But—for joy and gratitude;
That He bids no soul be sad
But is glad to make us glad;
That He loves not man's despair,
But delights to bless his prayer!

My Children.—1845.

My little ones, my darling ones, my precious things of earth,
How gladly do I triumph in the blessing of your birth;
How heartily for praises, and how earnestly for prayers,
I yearn upon your loveliness, my dear delightful cares!

O children, happy word of peace, my jewels and my gold,
My truest friends till now, and still my truest friends when old,
I will be everything to you, your playmate and your guide,
Both Mentor and Telemachus for ever at your side!

240

I will be everything to you, your sympathising friend,
To teach and help and lead and bless and comfort and defend;
O come to me and tell me all, and ye shall find me true,
A brother in adversity to fight it out for you!

Yea, sins or follies, griefs or cares, or young affection's thrall,
Fear not, for I am one with you, and I have felt them all;
I will be tender, just, and kind, unwilling to reprove,
I will do all to bless you all by wisdom and by love.

My little ones, delighted I review you as ye stand
A pretty troop of fairies and young cherubs hand in hand,
And tell out all your names to be a dear familiar sound
Wherever English hearths and hearts about the world abound.

My eldest, of the speaking eyes, my Ellin, nine years old,
Thou thoughtful good example of the loving little fold,
My Ellin, they shall hear of thee, fair spirit, holy child,
The truthful and the well-resolved, the liberal and the mild.

And thee, my Mary, what of thee?—the beauty of thy face?
The coyly-pretty whims and ways that ray thee round with grace?
—O more than these; a dear warm heart that still must thrill and glow
With pure affection's sunshine, and with feeling's overflow!

Thou too, my gentle five-year-old, fair Margaret the pearl,
A quiet sick and suffering child, sweet patient little girl,—
Yet gay withal and frolicsome at times wilt thou appear,
And like a bell thy merry voice rings musical and clear.

241

And next my Selwyn, precious boy, a glorious young mind,
The sensitive, the passionate, the noble, and the kind,
Whose light-brown locks bedropt with gold, and large eyes full of love,
And generous nature mingle well the lion and the dove.

The last, an infant toothless one, now prattling on my knee,
Whose bland benevolent soft face is shining upon me;
Another silver star upon our calm domestic sky,
Another seed of happy hope, dropt kindly from on high.

A happy man,—be this my praise,—not riches, rank, or fame,
A happy man, with means enough,—no other lot or name;
A happy man, with you for friends, my children and my wife,—
—Ambition is o'ervaulted here in all that gladdens life!

A Debt of Love.—1838.

Thou, more than all endear'd to this glad heart
By gentle smiles, and patience under pain,
I bless my God, and thee, for all thou art,
My crowning joy, my richest earthly gain!
To thee is due this tributary strain
For all the well-observed kind offices
That spring spontaneous from a heart, imbued
With the sweet wish of living but to please;
Due for thy liberal hand, thy frugal mind,
Thy pitying eye, thy voice for ever kind,
For tenderness, truth, confidence,—all these:
My heaven-blest vine, that hast thy tendrils twined
Round one who loves and won thee, not unsued,
Accept thy best reward,—thy husband's gratitude.

242

Henry de B. T.—1847.

Hail then a sixth! my doubly triple joy,
Another blessing in a third-born boy,
Another soul by generous Favour sent
To teach and train for heaven through content,
Another second-self with hopes like mine
In better worlds beyond the stars to shine,
Another little hostage from above
The pledge and promise of Our Father's love!
God guard the babe: and cherish the young child;
And bless the boy with nurture wise and mild;
And lead the lad; and yearn upon the youth;
And make the man a man of trust and truth;
Through life and death uphold him all his days,
And then translate him to Thyself with praise!

245

Errata.

AN AUTHOR'S COMPLAINT.

O friends and brothers, judge me not unheard;
Make not a man offender for a word:
For often have I noted seeming fault
That harm'd my rhymes, and made my reasons halt,
Whilst all that error was some printer's sloth,
Who scorning rhyme and reason slew them both:
Be ye then liberal to your far-off friend,
Where garbled, guess him; and where maim'd amend;
Trust him for wit, when types have marr'd the word,
And wisdom too, where only blockheads err'd.

246

Venus.

[_]

A Reply to Longfellow's Poem on Mars, in “Voices of the Night.”

Thou lover of the blaze of Mars,
Come out with me to-night,
For I have found among the stars
A name of nobler light.

Thy boast is of the unconquer'd Mind,
The strong, the stern, the still;
Mine of the happier Heart, resign'd
To Wisdom's holy will.

They call my star by beauty's name,
The gentle Queen of Love;
And look! how fair its tender flame
Is flickering above:

O star of peace, O torch of hope,
I hail thy precious ray
A diamond on the ebon cope
To shine the dark away.

Within my heart there is no light
But cometh from above,
I give the first watch of the night
To the sweet planet, Love:

The star of Charity and Truth,
Of cheerful thoughts and sage,
The lamp to guide my steps in youth
And gladden mine old age!

247

O brother, yield: thy fiery Mars
For all his mailèd might
Is not so strong among the stars
As mine, the Queen of night:

A Queen to shine all nights away,
And make the morn more clear,
Contentment gilding every day,—
—There is no twilight here!

Yes; in a trial world like this
Where all that comes—is sent,
Learn how divine a thing it is
To smile and be content!

“The warm young Heart.”

FOR MUSIC.

A beautiful face, and a form of grace
Were a pleasant sight to see,
And gold, and gems, and diadems,
Right excellent they be:
But beauty and gold, though both be untold,
Are things of a worldly mart,
The wealth that I prize, above ingots or eyes,
Is a heart,—a warm young heart!

248

O face most fair, shall thy beauty compare
With affection's glowing light?
O riches and pride, how pale ye beside
Love's wealth, serene and bright!
I spurn thee away, as a cold thing of clay,
Though gilded and carved thou art,
For all that I prize, in its smiles and its sighs,
Is a heart—a warm young heart!

To Cidli, asleep.

[_]

(From Klopstock.)

She slumbers.—O blessed sleep, rain from thy wings
Thy life-giving balm on her delicate frame;
And send thou from Eden's ambrosial springs
A few flashing drops of their crystallous flame,—

Then spread them, soft painter, upon her white cheek
Where sickness hath eaten the roses away;
Love's gentle refresher, Care's comforter meek,
Thou moon of sweet blessings, pour down the kind ray—

To smile on my Cidli: she slumbers: be still,
Hush'd be thy soft-flowing notes, O my lyre,
Thy laurels mine anger shall scathe and shall kill,
If idly thou waken my sleeping desire.

249

Alfred,

Born at Wantage, in Berkshire, Oct. 25, 849.

Come, every trueborn Englishman! come Anglo-Saxons all!
I wake a tune to-day to take and hold your hearts in thrall;
I sing The King, the Saxon king, the glorious and the great,
The root and spring of everything we love in Church and State.

'Tis just a thousand years to-day,—Oh! years are swift and brief,—
Since erst uprose in majesty the daystar of our Chief,
Since Wantage bred a wondrous child, whom God hath made the Cause
Of half the best we boast in British liberties and laws.

Last-born of royal Ethelwolf, he left his island home,
Ulysses-like, to study men and marvels in old Rome;
And, thence in wrath returning, overthrew the pirate Dane,
And, young as Pitt, at twenty-two, began a Hero's reign.

Oh! Guthran swore, and Hubba smote, and sturdy Hinguar storm'd,
And still like locusts o'er the land the red marauders swarm'd;
But Alfred was a David, to scatter every foe,—
The shepherd, psalmist, warrior, king, unblamed in weal and woe.

Aye, hiding with the herdsman, or harping in the camp,
Or earnestly redeeming time beneath the midnight lamp,
Or ruling on his quiet throne, or fighting in the fen,
Our Alfred was indeed an Agamemnon, king of Men!

Unshrinking champion of the Right, in patriot strength he stood,—
Declare it, threescore fields of fight! and mark it down in blood:
Unflinching chief, unerring judge, he stoutly held the helm,—
Tell out those thirty years of praise, all Albion's happy realm!

250

A Solomon for wisdom's choice,—that he loved learning well
Let Oxford chimes with grateful voice from all their turrets tell;
A Numa, and Justinian too, let every parish sound
His birthday on the merry bells through all the country round!

A Nestor, while in years a youth, he taught as Plato taught,
A Constantine, a Washington, he fought as Scipio fought,
A Wellington,—his laurell'd sword with Peace was glory-gilt,
And Nelson's earliest wooden walls of Alfred's oaks were built!

O gallant Britons, bless the God who gave you such a prince,
His like was never known before, nor ever hath been since,
The fountain of your liberties, your honours and your health,
The mountain of your sturdy strength, the Ophir of your wealth.

And now, arouse thee, Royal Ghost! in majesty look round;
On every shore, in every clime, thy conquering sons are found;
By kingdoms and dominions, by continents and isles,
The Anglo-Saxon realm is fifty hundred thousand miles!

Aye, smile on us, and bless us in thy loftiness of love,—
The name of Anglo-Saxon is all other names above,
By peoples and by nations, by tribe and sept and clan,
Two hundred millions claim it in the family of Man!

They claim it, and they claim Thee too, their father and their king!
O mighty Shade! behold the crowds who claim thy sheltering wing:
Thou hast o'ershadow'd, like an Alp, the half of this broad earth,
And where thy shadow falls is Light, and Anglo-Saxon worth!

The energy, the daring, the cheerfulness, the pride,
The stalwarth love of freedom, with Religion well allied,
The trust in God for ever, and the hope in Man for time,
These characters they learnt of thee, and stand like thee sublime.

251

Where'er thy gracious children come, a blessing there they bring,
The sweet securities of Home around that place they fling,
Warm Comfort, and pure Charity, and Duty's bright blue eye,
And Enterprize, and Industry, are stars upon that sky!

Stout Husbandry amid those fields with soft Contentment meets,
And honest Commerce, early up, is stirring in those streets;
And all the glories of the sword, and honours of the pen,
Make us the Wonder of the world, the Cynosure of men!

And, hark! upon my harp and tongue a sweeter note of praise,
How should a Saxon leave unsung what best he loves always?
O dearer, deeper, nobler songs to thrill the heart and mind,—
The crown of womanhood belongs to English womankind!

Young maiden, modest as the morn, yet glowing like the noon,
True wife, in placid tenderness as lustrous silver moon,
Dear mother, loving unto death and better loved than life,
Where can the wide world match me such a mother, maid, or wife?

Fair Athelswytha, Alfred's own, is still your spirit's queen,
The faithful, the courageous, the tender, the serene,
The pious heroine of home, the solace, friend, and nurse,
The height of self-forgetfulness, the climax of all verse!

And now, Great Alfred's countrymen and countrywomen all,—
Victoria! Albert! graciously regard your minstrel's call!
Up, royal, gentle, simple folk! up first, ye men of Berks!
And give a nation's monument to Alfred's mighty works!

In Anglo-Saxon majesty, simplicity and strength,
O children, build your Father's tomb, for very shame at length:
The birthday of your king has dawn'd a thousand times this day,
It must not die before you set your seal to what I say!

252

The Order of Alfred.—1849.

Alfred the Great upon his thousandth year!—
Who would not give him honour far and near?
Where is the mind of Anglo-Saxon mould
Unstirr'd by those brave memories of old,
When the seed-acorn of our English oak
First from the soil with stubborn sinews broke,
Put forth its towering leader, and, ere long,
Grew like a giant, lusty, straight, and strong,
Up to the zenith flung its leafy crown,
Down—to the centre struck its taproot—down,
Clung to the very ribs of mother earth,
Her sturdy son, her never-dying birth,
And now, more vigorous for a thousand years,
Has overgrown a brace of hemispheres!

O royal Alfred, look on me thy son,
Thy faithful Abdiel, if thine only one!
In thee the Saxon David I behold,
Meek as the lamb and as the lion bold,
Tinged with some fault as may become a man,
But doing yet the best a mortal can,
In weal and woe the bright exemplar still
To kings who compass good and combat ill.
Fear'd by thy foes, as by thy friends admired,
And changing foes to friends with love inspired,
Great in adversity, but greater far
In the full blaze of fortune's favouring star,

253

All things to all men was thy bright career,
A man for saints to love, and fiends to fear!

For, well I wot thy greatness of old time,
Well do I note that greatness still sublime:
From thee, as root, old England's glory grew,
Thee the first-fruit, and trunk, and acorn too.
Father and founder of this ruling race,
King in all climes, and priests in every place,—
Lawgiver, statesman, teaching now as then,
For ever living in the hearts of men,
Thee may thy children title, as they can,
The pattern prince, the model Englishman!

Through thee, fair Order rested on the land,
Mercy and Justice walking hand in hand;
Each village church is thine, with all its good;
Each hamlet stands where at thy word it stood:
Merchants, who waft your venture on the breeze,
He gave you first the freedom of the seas;
Sailors, ten centuries our British boast,
He sent you first afloat on every coast;
Yeomen, who guard your homes and their increase,
He arm'd your prowess, and decreed your peace;
Soldiers, whose valour rings from pole to pole,
Your glory dates from Alfred's royal soul!

And where was Oxford with her beacon light
Before this meteor blazed upon the night?
Before his mind, illumining the world,
Flash'd o'er the nations like a flag unfurl'd,
And princely gifts, as well as student-toil,
Fed learning's golden lamp with midnight oil!

254

Remember, London! once so desolate,
Through him, thine Ezra, thou art grown so great;
Sing, ye dark places of the land made fair,
For Nehemiah breathed in Alfred there!

And see, how Science at his fostering voice
With sister Art could at their task rejoice:
Never, since Alfred was a king of men
Has honour gilt the pencil or the pen
With half the richness of that generous age
When he stood by the student or the sage;
Never has King, or Queen, or Royal Prince,
To his true nobles been an Alfred since!

Aye; and to these, the Lawgiver, the King,
The statesman, chieftain, patron, everything,
Under whose laws we live, whose light yet shines,
Whose character with England's intertwines,—
Add the calm virtues of a Christian mind,
The glorious will and power to bless mankind,
The guileless heart scarce mix'd with worldly leaven,
The meekness of a sainted child of heaven,
And tell me, Earth our Mother, where and when
Hadst thou another such a man of men?

Yea! for his greatness, faintly seen from far,
Is as the glimmering greatness of a star
Which common ignorance, with vacant stare,
Sees as a petty spangle shining there!
Yea! for his glory, like the noonday sun,
So little praised by that it shines upon,
Has lighten'd church and state in every way,
And men think nothing of the common day!

255

To us he was, as to the Hebrew stock
Stood father Abraham, both root and rock,
To us the Noah of our shipwreck'd helm,
The Adam of this Anglo-Saxon realm!

Forgetful Britain! haste, redeem the day,
Before this grand occasion dies away:
There yet is time one trophied Praise to rear
To Alfred's honour on his thousandth year,
Better than statues or a tardy tomb
To one who lives beyond the crack of doom,
A Praise like him to live, and be, and grow
In hearts that still for God and goodness glow,
A Praise, where Alfred's own example stood,
Himself the paragon of all things good.

Stablish, O Queen! a new found honour here,
King Alfred's Order on his Thousandth Year;
For peaceful merit of whatever kind,
The duteous martyr, or the master-mind,
For keen invention, and for high-toned art,
For every excellence of head and heart,
For wit and wisdom, holiness and skill,
For Man's and Woman's God-devoted will,
For all things wise, and generous, and good,
Stablish this seal of England's gratitude!

Let Alfred's badge,—his collar, bâton, star,
Decorate Worth, more worth than that of War:
The pure and patient labourers for truth,
Neglected Mentors of our wayward youth;
The pastor, and the poet, and the sage,
Forgotten comforters from youth to age;

256

The good physician, quick to cheat the grave
Of dying want, whom skill and science save;
The poor man's advocate; the outcast's friend,
Who heals the wounds that woes unkindly rend;
The Hero, whatsoe'er his rank or name,
Who does his duty well, and finds it fame;
And the wise phalanx of untitled men
Who wield with giant force the generous pen,
And do more good through all creation still
Than cut-and-dried diplomacy does ill:
O, there are many who would scorn to share
The bloodstain'd ribbon with those courtiers there,
Many, who marvel that for peace and worth
Is dealt a badge most worthless upon earth!

True: these have their Reward, more glorious far,—
And take small comfort from a tinsel star:
Yet, for the good encouragement of all,
God's creature, Honour, is a mighty call;
And none may scorn, however pure or wise,
Such earthly symbol of a heavenly prize,
Because our Sovereign's praise betokens thus
The praise of God, Her Sovereign, upon us!

So then, let Alfred's bright Memorial be
A smile reflected, Gracious Queen, from Thee!
A smile on merit, wheresoever found,
Topping the clouds or cowering on the ground,—
An honour, which the Good, though poor, may gain,
And Evil in high places seek in vain,
A wise new bulwark to our Church and State,
King Alfred's Order for the Good and Great!

257

The Day of a Thousand Years!

849. October 25, 1849.

To-day is the day of a thousand years!
Bless it, O brothers, with heart-thrilling cheers!
Alfred for ever!—to-day was He born,
Daystar of England to herald her morn,
That, everywhere breaking and brightening soon,
Sheds on us now the full sunshine of noon,
And fills us with blessing in Church and in State,
Children of Alfred, the Good and the Great!

Chorus,—
Hail to his Jubilee Day,
The Day of a thousand years!

Anglo-Saxons!—In love are we met,
To honour a name we can never forget!
Father, and Founder, and King of a race
That reigns and rejoices in every place,—
Root of a tree that o'ershadows the earth,
First of a Family blest from his birth,
Blest in this stem of their strength and their state,
Alfred the Wise, and the Good, and the Great!

Chorus,—
Hail to his Jubilee Day,
The Day of a thousand years!

Children of Alfred, from every clime,
Your glory shall live to the deathday of Time!
And then in bliss shall ever expand
O'er measureless realms of the Heavenly Land!
For you, like him, serve God and your Race,
And gratefully look on the birthday of Grace.—
Then honour to Alfred! with heart-stirring cheers!
To-day is the Day of a thousand years!

Chorus,—
Hail to his Jubilee Day,
The Day of a thousand years!

258

The Memorial Window

Of the Anglo-Saxon Race. An Illustration.

Honour and Arms! The seals of Grace
upon this oriel glow;
Arms, as when brothers may embrace,
and not to fight a foe;
The arms of peace, heraldic arms,
with blazon richly dight,
Made gorgeous with chivalric charms,
and gilt with glory's light!

Honour and Arms! O brethren dear,
I see your flashing eyes,
I feel your true hearts hurrying near
from all outlandish skies,
To bask one hour in one dear spot,
the kernel of your love,
In poor old England unforgot,
the blest of God above!

Centre of all, Britannia's shield
in praise unsullied shines,
Rose, shamrock, thistle, round its field
a wreath of beauty twines;
Sweet Erin's harp of melody,
with Scotia's canton fair,
And thine own royal lions three
majestic roaming there.

261

Next, to thy right, a mighty son,
a stalwarth giant grown,
A wanton and a truant one,
and yet a child to own!
The sturdy stripes,—the glittering stars,
long may they blaze above,
Not on the bloody helm of Mars,
but in the crown of love!

Nearer thy heart another stands,
a twin, but one in two,
And bringing homage with both hands
from one wide heart most true,
Stern Caledonia's thistly praise
reveals her hardy child,
Where Canada's mild beaver strays
to stock the western wild.

Shining above, in orient light
the morning sun upsoars,—
Hindústan's elephantine might
is shadow'd on those shores;
Their luscious fruits of tropic toil
the sea-girt Indies breed,
And forth from Afric's southern soil
springs Anglo-Saxon seed.

Beneath old Britain's blazon fair
Australia's emu stands,
And kangaroos are skipping there
on rich unpeopled lands;

262

New Zealand's war-boat paddles fast;
and Borneo's royal ship
Makes many a pirate scuffling past
beware “the Badger's” grip!

Old Egbert's cross in golden light
is shining over all,
And, on its right, no viper's bite
harms Malta's holy Paul;
While huge Gibraltar's rock outstands,
for bristling cannon cleft,
Like Hercules with Samson's hands
to pillar up the left.

Below, with praise each lesser star
in mingled lustre smiles,
The storm-swept Falklands seen afar
and soft Ionian Isles,
With dark Sierra's libell'd beach,
And Mandarin'd Hong Kong,
And all who speak in English speech,
or sing an English song.

O heralds! when and where before
were Earth's true honours seen,
In brightness and in beauty more
than on this Gothic screen?
Where Britain, like a mother hen,
is gathering to her wings
The world of Anglo-Saxon men,
creation's priests and kings!

263

A Call to poor Sempstresses.

Daughters of poverty, jaded and ill,
So vainly prolonging the strife,
How scarce for to-day, the day's task to fulfil,
And, as for to-morrow, despondingly still
In dread of the battle of life,—

Toiling in pain for a pittance of bread,
Or starving, with nothing to do,
Friendless, and fever'd in heart and in head,
And longing for rest to lie down with the dead,
—A word, my poor sisters, with you!

There is a fair land in a sweet southern clime,
Another young England indeed,
Which God, in His providence working sublime,
Has kindly reserved till the fulness of time,
To succour His children in need;

A happy new home, which He wills you to seek,
With plenty to have and to spare,
And hope in your bosom, and health on your cheek,
And human affections all eager to speak
Of tenderness waiting you there!

The valleys are rich, and the mountains are green,
And the woods in magnificent state
To the distant horizon o'ershadow the scene,
Where never till now Adam's footstep has been,
And Eve is delaying so late.

264

Then, haste for your happiness,—joyfully haste
From perils and pains to be free;
For, Providence calls you to gladden the waste,
And freedom, and plenty, and pleasure to taste
In homes that are over the sea.

Our Thanksgiving Hymn.

November 15, 1849.

O Father of mercies, O Spirit of love,
O Son of the Blessed who reignest above,
Thou Good One, and Great One! in homage to Thee,
We bring the glad heart, and we bend the true knee.

Thy people would praise Thee, O Thou beyond praise!
For wondrous in love are Thy works and Thy ways;
Thy children would pour from the heart and the voice
Their psalm of thanksgiving in God to rejoice!

Because Thou hast heard us! and answer'd the pray'r
We made in the season of death and despair;
Because over judgment, and terror, and pain,
Thy mercy hath triumph'd, and saved us again!

Ah! well we remember how dark and how dread
The pestilence brooded o'er living and dead;
And can we forget with what mercy and might
The prayer which Thou blessest hath scatter'd the blight!

Yet more! for the fulness of plenty and peace
Hath made us in wealth as in health to increase,
And so would we thank Thee, because Thou hast given
The fatness of earth, and the favour of heaven!

Then, Father of mercies, accept what we bring,—
Our incense of praise to the Saviour and King!
Hosannah!—to Thee let us gratefully live,—
Hallelujah!—O Lord, when Thou hearest, forgive.

266

Acceptable Thanks!

A Sequel to “Our Thanksgiving Hymn.”

Thanksgiving! O brothers, how pleasant a thing
It is the glad anthem to raise
In deep adoration of Heaven's High King,
So far above blessing and praise!

Thanksgiving! O children of God in all ranks,
How then shall we worthily give
A holy oblation, acceptable thanks,
To Him in whose favour we live?—

By penitence, patience, contentment, and prayer,
By peace upon earth and goodwill,
By speeding the woes of affliction to share,
And hasting the hungry to fill:

By making, as masters, this Thanksgiving Day
A holiday, happy and true,
Not meanly withholding the journeyman's pay,
But giving it all as his due!

By bringing an Englishman's home to the poor,
A home of clean comfort, and peace;
By driving disease and despair from his door,
And making his hardships to cease:

By Water, and Air,—the free bounties of Heaven;
By wise recreation and rest;
By fairly earn'd wages ungrudgingly given
For Labour,—the honest man's test!

267

O thus, if the rich for the poor man will move
To better his home and his hearth,—
O thus, if the poor his rich brother will love,
And honour his betters on earth,—

Then God will be pleased! and this Thanksgiving Day
Will indeed be a Summer of days,
For Man will be gladden'd by Man as he may,
And God by acceptable praise!

A Song.

Ah Memory! why reproach me so
With shadows of the past,
The thrilling hopes of long ago
That came and went so fast?
Ye tender tones of that dear voice,
Ye looks of those loved eyes,—
Return,—and bid my heart rejoice,
For true love never dies!

Rejoice?—O word of hope! I may
When those indeed return;
For looks and tones so past away
In solitude I yearn!
Let others fancy I forget
The light of those dear eyes,—
I love,—O how I love thee yet!
For true love never dies.

Cheer up!

FOR MUSIC.

Never go gloomily, man with a mind!
Hope is a better companion than fear,
Providence, ever benignant and kind,
Gives with a smile what you take with a tear;
All will be right,
Look to the light,—
Morning is ever the daughter of night,
All that was black will be all that is bright,
Cheerily, cheerily then! cheer up!

270

Many a foe is a friend in disguise,
Many a sorrow a blessing most true,
Helping the heart to be happy and wise
With lore ever precious and joys ever new;
Stand in the van,
Strive like a man!
This is the bravest and cleverest plan,
Trusting in God, while you do what you can,
Cheerily, cheerily then! cheer up!

“Together.”

FOR MUSIC.

The elm-tree of old felt lonely and cold
When wintry winds blew high,
And, looking below, he saw in the snow
The ivy wandering nigh:
And he said, Come twine with those tendrils of thine
My scathed and frozen form,
For heart and hand together we'll stand
And mock at the baffled storm,
Ha, ha! Together.

And so when grief is withering the leaf
And checking hope's young flower,
And frosts do bite with their teeth so white
In disappointment's hour,
Though it might overwhelm either ivy or elm
If alone each stood the strife,
If heart and hand together they stand
They may laugh at the troubles of life,
Ha, ha! Together.

271

“The last Time.”

Another year? another year!
Who dare depend on other years?
The judgment of this world is near,
And all its children faint for fears:
Famine, pestilence, and war,
Mixt with praises, prayers, and tears,
Civil strife and social jar,
Spurr'd by pen, and stirr'd by sword,
Herald Him who comes from far
In Elijah's fiery car,
Our own returning Lord!

Look around,—the nations quail!
All the elements of ill
Crowd like locusts on the gale
And the dark horizon fill:
Woe to earth, and all her seed!
Woe they run to ruin still:—
He that runneth well may read
Texts of truth the times afford,
How, in earth's extremest need
Cometh, cometh soon indeed
Our own redeeming Lord!

Lo, the marvels passing strange
Every teeming minute brings;
Daily turns with sudden change
The kaleidoscope of things;

274

But the Ruler, just and wise,
Orders all, as King of kings,—
Hark! His thunders shake the skies,
Lo! His vials are outpour'd!
Earth in bitter travail lies
And creation groans and cries
For our expected Lord!

Stand in courage, stand in faith!
Tremble not as others may;
He that conquers hell and death
Is the friend of those who pray:
And in this world's destined woe
He will save his own alway
From the trial's furnace glow,—
Till the harvest all is stored,
Rescued from each earthly foe
And the terrible ones below
By our avenging Lord!

Yea, come quickly! Saviour, come!
Take us to thy glorious rest,
All thy children yearn for home,
Home, the heaven of thy breast!
Help, with instant gracious aid!
That in just assurance blest
We may watch,—nor feel afraid,
Every warning in thy word,
Signs and tokens all array'd
In proof of that for which we pray'd,
The coming of the Lord!

275

A Greeting.

It were not well to vex thee with my praises,
Yet am I quick to read thy gifts aright;
Loving, sincere, and wise,—in three best phases,
Young heart, I note thy characters of light:
Spirits are keen to make such instant guesses
For time is nothing to the Soul that lives;
Therefore my spirit thy good spirit blesses,
Therefore my Mind its cordial greeting gives,—
Its greeting?—of a moment, sad to tell,
For all my greeting is a true Farewell!

311

Geraldine:

A SEQUEL TO COLERIDGE'S CHRISTABEL.

(Published in 1838.)

I. PART I.

BEING THE THIRD OF CHRISTABEL.

It is the wolf, on stealthy prowl,
Hath startled the night with a dismal howl;
It is the raven, whose hoarse croak
Comes like a groan from the sear old oak;
It is the owl, whose curdling screech
Hath peopled with terrors the spectral beech!
For again the clock hath toll'd out twelve,
And sent to their gambols the gnome and the elve,
And awoken the friar his beads to tell,
And taught the magician the time for his spell,
And to her caldron hath hurried the witch,
And aroused the deep bay of the mastiff-bitch.
The gibbous moon, all chilling and wan,
Like a sleepless eyeball looketh on,
Like an eyeball of sorrow behind a shroud
Forth looketh she from a torn grey cloud,
Pouring sad radiance on the black air,—
Sun of the night,—what sees she there?

312

O lonely one, O lovely one,
What dost thou here in the forest dun,
Fair truant,—like an angel of light
Hiding from heaven in deep midnight?
Alas! there is guilt in thy glittering eye
As fearfully dark it looks up to the sky;
Alas! a dull unearthly light
Like a dead star, bluely white,
A seal of sin, I note it now,
Flickers upon thy ghastly brow;
And about the huge old oak
Thickly curls a poisonous smoke,
And terrible shapes with evil names
Are leaping around a circle of flames,
And the tost air whirls, storm-driven,
And the rent earth quakes, charm-riven,—
And—art thou not afraid?
All dauntless stands the maid
In mystical robe array'd,
And still with flashing eyes
She dares the sorrowful skies,
And to the moon, like one possest,
Hath shown,—O dread! that face so fair
Should smile above so shrunk a breast,
Haggard and brown, as hangeth there,—
O evil sight!—wrinkled and old,
The dug of a witch, and clammy cold,—
Where in warm beauty's rarest mould
Is fashion'd all the rest;
O evil sight! for, by the light

313

From those large eyes streaming bright,
By thy beauty's wondrous sheen,
Lofty gait and graceful mien,
By that bosom half reveal'd,
Wither'd, and as in death congeal'd,
By the guilt upon thy brow,
Ah! Geraldine, 'tis thou!
Muttering wildly through her set teeth,
She seeketh and stirreth the demons beneath,
And—hist!—the magical mandate is spoken,
The bonds of the spirits of evil are broken,
There is a rush of invisible wings
Amid shrieks, and distant thunderings,
And now one nearer than others is heard
Flapping this way, as a huge sea-bird,
Or liker the deep-dwelling ravenous shark
Cleaving thorough the waters dark,—
It is the hour, the spell hath power!
Now haste thee, e'er the tempest lour,—
Her mouth grows wide, and her face falls in,
And her beautiful brow becomes flat and thin,
And sulphurous flashes blear and singe
That sweetest of eyes with its delicate fringe,
Till, all its loveliness blasted and dead,
The eye of a snake blinks deep in her head;
For raven locks flowing loose and long
Bristles a red mane, stiff and strong,
And sea-green scales are beginning to speck
Her shrunken breasts, and lengthening neck;

314

The white round arms are sunk in her sides,—
As when in chrysalis canoe
A may-fly down the river glides,
Struggling for life and liberty too,—
Her body convulsively twists and twirls,
This way and that it bows and curls,
And now her soft limbs melt into one
Strangely and horribly tapering down,
Till on the burnt grass dimly is seen
A serpent-monster, scaly and green,
Horror!—can this be Geraldine?
Haste, O haste,—'tis almost past,
The sand is dripping thick and fast,
And distant roars the coming blast,—
Swiftly the dragon-maid unroll'd
The burnish'd strength of each sinewy fold,
And round the old oak trunk with toil
Hath wound and trail'd each tortuous coil,
Then with one crush hath splitten and broke
To the hollow black heart of the sear old oak!
The hour is fled, the spell hath sped;
And heavily dropping down as dead,
All in her own beauty drest,
Brightest, softest, loveliest,
Fair faint Geraldine lies on the ground,
Moaning sadly;
And forth from the oak
In a whirl of thick smoke
Grinning gladly,

315

Leaps with a hideous howl at a bound
A squat black dwarf of visage grim,
With crutches beside each twisted limb
Half hidden in many a flame-colour'd rag,—
It is Ryxa the Hag!
Ho, ho! what wouldst thou, daughter mine,
Wishes three, or curses nine?
Wishes three to work thy will,
Or curses nine thy hate to fulfil?
Ryxa, spite of thy last strong charm,
Some pure spirit saves from harm
Her, who before me was loved too well,
Our holy hated Christabel;
Her, who stole my heart from him
One of the guardian cherubim
Hovers around, and cheers in dreams,
Thwarting from heaven my hell-bought schemes;
Now,—for another five hundred years,
O mother mine, will I be thine,
To writhe in pains, and shriek in fears,
And toil in chains, and waste in tears,
So thy might will scorch and smite
The beautiful face of Christabel,
And will drain by jealous pain
Love from the heart of Christabel,
And her own betrothed knight,
O glad sight! shall scorn and slight
The pale one he hath loved so well,
While in my arms, by stolen charms

316

And borrow'd mien, for Geraldine
He shall forget his Christabel!
It is done, it is done, thy cause is won!
Quoth Ryxa the Hag to Geraldine;
Thus have I prest my seal on thy breast,
Twelve circling scales from a dragon's crest,
And still thy bosom and half thy side
Must shrivel and shrink at eventide,
And still, as every Sabbath breaks,
Thy large dark eyes must blink as a snake's.
Now, for mine aid:—De Vaux will come
To lead his seeming daughter home,
Therefore I fit thee a shape and a face
Differing, yet of twin-born grace,
That all who see thee may fall down
Heart-worshippers before thy throne,
Forgetting in that vision sweet
Thy former tale of dull deceit,
And, tranced in deep oblivious joy,
Bask in bliss without alloy:
He too, thou lovest, in thine arms
Shall grace the triumph of thy charms,
While the thirst of rage thou satest
In the woes of her thou hatest.
Yet, daughter, hark! my warning mark!
Hallow'd deed, or word, or thought,
Is with deadliest peril fraught;
And if, where true lovers meet
Thou hearest hymning wild and sweet,
O stop thine ears, lest all be marr'd,—
Beware, beware of holy bard!

317

For that the power of hymn and harp
Thine innermost being shall wither and warp,
And the same hour they touch thine ears,
A serpent thou art for a thousand years.
Hush! how heavily droops the night
In sultry silence, calm as death!
Gloomy and hot and yet no light,
Save where the glowworm wandereth;
For the moon hath stolen by,
Mantled in the stormy sky,
And there is a stillness strange,
An awful stillness, boding change,
As if live nature held her breath,
And all in agony listeneth
Some terror undefined to hear,
Coming, coming, coming near;
Hush'd is the beetle's drowsy hum,
And the death-watch's roll on his warning drum,
Hush'd the raven, and screech owl,
And the famishing wolf on his midnight prowl,—
Silent as death.
—Hark, hark! he is here, he has come from afar,
The black-robed storm in his terrible car;
Vivid the forkèd lightning flashes,
Quick behind the thunder crashes,
Clattering hail, a shingly flood,
Rattles like grapeshot in the wood;
And the whole forest is bent one way,
Bowing as slaves to a tyrant's sway,

318

While the foot of the tempest hath trampled and broke
Many a stout old elm and oak!
And Geraldine?—O who could tell
That thou who by sweet Christabel
Softly liest in innocent sleep,
Like an infant's calm and deep,
Smiling faintly, as it seems
From thy bright and rosy dreams,
Who could augur thou art she
That, around the hollow tree,
With bad charm and hellish rite
Shook the heavens, and scared the night?
Alas! for gentle Christabel,
Alas! for wasting Christabel:
From evil eye, and powers of hell,
And the strong magic of the spell,
Holy Mary, shield her well!

Conclusion to Part I.

The murderer's knife is a fearful thing,
But what, were it edged with a scorpion's sting?
A dagger of glass hath death in its stroke,
But what, should venom gush out as it broke?
And hatred in a man's deep heart
Festereth there like the barb of a dart,
Maddening the fibres at every beat,
And filling its caverns with fever-heat;

319

But jealous rage in a woman's soul
Simmers and steams as a poison-bowl;
A drop were death, but the rival maid
Must drain all dry, e'er the passion be stay'd;
It floodeth the bosom with bitterest gall,
It drowneth the young virtues all,
And the sweet milk of the heart's own fountain,
Choked and crush'd by a heavy mountain,
All curdled, and harden'd, and blacken'd, doth shrink
Into the fossil sepia's ink:
The eye of suspicion deep sunk in the head
Shrinks and blinks with malice and dread,
And the cheek without and the heart within
Are blister'd and blighted with searing sin,
Till charity's self no more can trace
Aught that is lovely in feature or face;
But the rose-bud is canker'd, and shall not bloom,
Corruption hath scented the rich perfume,
The angel of light is a demon of gloom,
And the bruise on his brow is the seal of his doom!

Ah! poor unconscious rival maid,
How drearily must thou sicken and fade
In the foul air of that Upas-shade!

Her heart must be tried, and trampled, and torn
With fear, and care, and slander, and scorn;
Her love must look upon love estranged,
Her eye must meet his eye, how changed,
Her hand must take his hand unpressing,
Her hope must die, without confessing;

320

And still she'll strive her love to smother,
While in the triumphs of another
The shadow of her joys departed
Shall scare and haunt her broken-hearted;
And he, who once loved her, his purest, his first,
Must hate her and hold her defiled and accurst,
Till, wasted and desolate, calumny's breath
Must taint with all guilt her innocent death.

II. Part II.

BEING THE FOURTH OF CHRISTABEL.

How fresh and fair is morn!
The dewbeads dropping bright
Each humble flower adorn,
With coronets of light,
And jewel the rough thorn
With sparks of chrysolite,—
How beautiful is morn!
Her scatter'd gems how bright!
There is a quiet gladness
In the waking earth,
Like the face of sadness
Lit with chasten'd mirth;
There is a mine of treasure
In those hours of health,
Filling up the measure
Of creation's wealth.

321

The eye of day hath open'd grey,
And the gallant sun
Hath trick'd his beams by Rydal's streams,
And waveless Coniston;
From Langdale Pikes his glory strikes,
From heath and giant hill,
From many a tairn, and stone-built-cairn,
And many a mountain rill:
Helvellyn bares his forehead black,
And Eagle-crag, and Saddleback,
And Skiddaw hails the dawning day
And rolls his robe of clouds away.
Ho, warder, ho! in chivalrous state,
A stranger-knight to the castle gate,
With trumpet, and banner, and mailèd men,
Comes this way winding up the glen:
His vizor is down, and he will not proclaim
To the challenge within his lineage or name,
Yet by his herald, and esquires eight,
And five-score spearmen, tall and straight,
And blazon rich with bearings rare,
And highbred ease, and noble air,
And golden spurs, and sword, can he be
Nought but a knight of high degree!
Alas! they had loved too soon, too well,
Young Amador and Christabel;
Life's dawn beheld them, blythe and bland,
Little playmates, hand in hand,

322

Over fell and field and heather
Wandering innocent together,
Alone in childhood's rosy hours
Straying far to find wild flowers;
Life's sun above its eastern hill
Saw them inseparable still
In the bower, or by the brook,
Or spelling out the monkish book,
Or as with songs they wont to wake
The echoes on the hill-bound lake,
Or as with tales to while away
The winter's night, or summer's day;
Life's noon was blazing bright and fair,
To smile upon the same fond pair,
The handsome youth, the beauteous maid,
Together still in sun or shade;
Warmer, good sooth, than wont with friends,
While he supports, and she depends,
As to some dangerous craggy height
They climb with terror and delight,
Nor guess that the strange joy they feel,
The rapture making their hearts reel,
Springs from aught else, than—sweet Grasmere,
Or hill and valley far and near,
Or Derwent's banks and glassy tide,
Lowdore, or hawthorn'd Ambleside:
Nor reck they what dear danger lies
In gazing on each other's eyes;
On her bright cheek, fresh and fair,
Blooming in the mountain air,

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On his strong and agile limbs,
As from rock to rock he climbs,
Her unstudied natural grace,
Loosen'd vest and tresses flowing,
Or his fine and manly face
With delighted ardour glowing.
Thus they grew up in each other,
Till to ripen'd youth
They had grown up for each other;
Yet, to say but sooth,
She had not loved him, as other
Than a sister doth,
And he to her was but a brother,
With a brother's troth:
But selfish craft, that slept so long,
And, if wrong were, had done the wrong,
Now, just awake, with dull surprise
Read the strange truth,
And from their own accusing eyes
Condemn'd them both,—
That they, who only for each other
Gladly drew their daily breath,
Now must curb, and check, and smother,
Through all life, love strong as death;
While the dear hope they just have learnt to prize,
And fondly cherish,
The hope that in their hearts deep-rooted lies,
Must pine and perish!
For the slow prudence of the worldly wise
In cruel coldness still denies

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The foundling youth to woo and win
The heiress daughter of Leoline.
And yet how little had he err'd,
That on his ear the bitter word
Of harsh reproach should fall,—
“Is it then thus, ungrateful boy,
Thou wouldst his dearest hope destroy
Who lent thee life and all?
Why did I save thee, years agone,
Beneath the tottering Bowther-stone,
Misfortune's outcast son?
Why did I warm thee on my hearth,
Nor crush the viper in its birth,
O thou presumptuous one?”
They met once more in sweet sad fear
At the old oak-tree in the forest drear,
And, as enamour'd of bitterness, they
Wept the sad hour of parting away:
The bursting tear, the stifled sob,
The tortured bosom's first-felt throb,
The fervent vow, the broken gold,
Their hapless hopes too truly told;
For, alas! till now they never had known
How deep and how strong their loves had grown,
But just as they sip the full cup of the heart,
It is dash'd from the lip,—and they must part!
Alas! they had loved, yet never before
The wealth of love had counted o'er,

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And just as they find the treasure so great,
It is lost, it is sunk in the billows of fate.
Yea, it must be with a fearful shock
That the pine can be torn from its root-clasp'd rock,
Or the broad oak-stump as it stands on the farm
Be rent asunder by strength of arm;
So, when the cords of love are twined
Among the fibres of the mind,
And kindred souls by secret ties
Mingle thoughts and sympathies,
O what a wrench to tear in twain
Those that are loved and love again,—
To drag the magnet from its pole,
To chain the freedom of the soul,
To freeze in ice desires that boil,
To root the mandrake from the soil,
With groans, and blood, and tears, and toil!
He is gone to the land of the holy war,
The sad, the brave young Amador,
Not to return,—by Leoline's oath,
When all in wrath he bound them both,
Not to return,—by that last kiss,
Till name, and fame, and fortune are his.
Aye, he is gone:—and with him went,
As into chosen banishment,
The bloom of her cheek, and the light of her eye,
And the hope of her heart, so near to die:
He is gone, o'er Paynim lands to roam,
But leaves his heart, his all, at home;

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And years have glided, day by day,
To watch him warring far away,
Where, upon Gideon's hallowed banks
His prowess hath scatter'd the Saracen ranks,
And the Lion-king with his own right hand
Hath dubb'd him knight of Holy-Land:
The crescent waned wherever he came,
And Christendom rung with his deeds of fame,
And Saladin trembled at the name
Of Amador de-Ramothaim.
He hath won him in battle a goodly shield,
Three wild boars Or on an azure field,
While scallop-shells three on an argent fess
Proclaim him a pilgrim and knight no less;
Enchased in gold on his helmet of steel
A deer-hound stands on the high-plumed keel,
Hafiz his hound, who hath rescued his life
From the wily Assassin's secret knife,
Hafiz his friend, whom he loveth so well
As the last gift of Christabel:
And over his vizor, and round his arm,
And graved on his sword as a favourite charm,
And on his banner emblazon'd at length,
Love's motto, “Hope is all my strength.”
Oh then, with how much pride and joy,
And hope, which fear could scarce alloy,
With heart how leaping, eye how bright,
And fair cheek flush'd with deep delight,

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Heard Christabel the wafted story
Of her far-off lover's glory;
For her inmost soul knew well
That he hoped and spake and thought
Only of his Christabel,
That he lived and loved and fought
Only for his Christabel:
So, she felt his honour hers,
His welfare hers, his being hers,
And did reward with rich largesse
The stray astonish'd messengers
Who brought her so much happiness!
—Behold! it is past,—that many a year;
The harvest of her hope is near;
Behold! it is come,—behold him here!
Yes, in pomp and power and pride,
And joy and love how true, how tried,
He comes to claim his long-loved bride;
Her own true knight, O bliss to tell,
Her Amador she loves so well
Returns for his sweet Christabel!
He leapt the moat, the portal past,
He flung him from his horse in haste,
And in the hall
He met her! but how pale and wan!—
He started back, as she upon
His neck would fall;
He started back,—for by her side
(O blessed vision!) he espied

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A thing divine,—
Poor Christabel was lean and white,
But oh, how soft, and fair, and bright,
Was Geraldine!
Fairer and brighter, as he gazes
All celestial beauty blazes
From those glorious eyes,
And Amador no more can brook
The jealous air and peevish look
That in the other lies!
Alas, for wasting Christabel,
Alas, for stricken Christabel,—
How had she long'd to see this day,
And now her all is dash'd away!
How many slow sad years, poor maid,
Had she for this day wept and pray'd,
And now the bitterest tears destroy
That honied hope of cherish'd joy,
For he hath ceased,—O withering thought,
With burning anguish fully fraught,—
To love his Christabel!
Her full heart bursts, and she doth fall
Unheeded in her father's hall,
And, oh, the heaviest stroke of all,
By him she loves so well.
O save her, Mary Mother, save!
Let not the damnèd sorceress have
Her evil will;
O save thine own sweet Christabel,
Thy saint, thine innocent Christabel,
And guard her still!

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Conclusion to Part II.

For it doth mark a god-like mind,
Prudence, and power, and truth combined,
A rare self-steering moral strength,
To over-love the dreary length
Of ten successive anxious years,
Unwarp'd by hopes, untired by fears;
Still, as every teeming hour
Glides away in sun or shower,
Though the pilgrim foot may range,
The heart at home to feel no change,
But to live and linger on,
Fond and warm and true—to one!
O love like this, in life's young spring,
Is a rare and precious thing;
A pledge that man hath claims above,
A sister-twin to martyrs' love,
A shooting-star of blessed light
Glancing on the world's midnight,
A drop of sweet, where all beside
Is bitterest gall in life's dull tide,
One faithful found, where all was lost,
An Abdiel in Satan's host!

To love, unshrinking and unshaken,
Albeit by all but hope forsaken,
To love, through slander, craft, and fear,
And fairer faces smiling near,

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Through absence, stirring scenes among,
And harrowing silence, suffering long,
Still to love on,—and pray and weep
For that dear one, while others sleep,
To dwell upon each precious word
Which the charm'd ear in whispers heard,
To treasure up a lock of hair,
To watch the heart with jealous care,
To live on a remember'd smile,
And still the wearisome days beguile
With rosy sweet imaginings
And all the soft and sunny things
Look'd and spoken, e'er they parted,
Full of hope, though broken-hearted,—
O there is very virtue here,
Retiring, holy, deep, sincere,
A self-poised virtue, working still
To compass good, and combat ill,
Which none but worldlings count earth-born,
And they who know it not, can scorn.

Ah yes, let common sinners jeer,
And Mammon's slaves suspect and sneer,
While each idolator of pelf
Judging from his gross-hearted self
Counts Love no purer and no higher
Than the low plot of base desire;—
Let worldly cunning nurse its dreams
Of happiness, from selfish schemes
By heartless hungry parents plann'd,
Of wedded fortune, rank, and land,—

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There is more wisdom, and more wealth,
More rank in being, more soul's health,
In wedded love for one short hour,
Than lifelong wedded pelf and power!
Yes, there is virtue in these things;
A balm to heal the scorpion-stings
That others' sins and sorrows make
In hearts that still can weep and ache;
There is a heavenly influence,
A secret spiritual fence,
Circling the soul with present power
In temptation's darkest hour,
Walling it round from outward sin,
While all is soft and pure within.

III. Part III.

BEING THE FIFTH AND LAST OF CHRISTAPEL.

Hast thou not seen, world-weary man,
Life's poor pilgrim white and wan,—
A gentle beauty for the cheek
Which nothing gives but sorrow,
A sweet expression, soft and weak,
Joy can never borrow?
Where lingering on the pale wet face
The rival tears run their slow race
Each in its wonted furrow;

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And patience, eloquently meek,
From the threaten'd stroke unshrinking,
In mild boldness can but speak
The burden of its sadden'd thinking,—
“Dreary as to-day has been,
And sad and cheerless yestereen,
'Twill dawn as dark to-morrow!”
Desolate-hearted Christabel,
Hapless, hopeless Christabel,—
Nightly tears have dimm'd the lustre
Of thy blue eyes, once so bright,
And, as when dank willows cluster
Weeping over marble rocks,
O'er thy forehead white
Droop thy flaxen locks:
Yet art thou beautiful, poor girl,
As angels in distress,
Yea, comforting the soul, fair pearl,
With thy loveliness;
For thy beauty's light subdued
Hath a soothing charm
In sympathy with all things good
That weep for hate and harm;
And none can ever see unmoved
Thy poor wet face, with sorrow white,
O none have seen, who have not loved,
The sadly sweet religious light
That doth with pearly radiance shine
From those sainted eyes of thine.

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A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port,—
A hundred horse in the castle-court!
From border-wastes, a weary way,
Through Halegarth wood and Knorren moor,
A mingled numerous array
On panting palfreys black and grey
With foam and mud bespatter'd o'er
Hastily cross the flooded Irt,
And rich Waswater's beauty skirt,
And Sparkling-Tairn, and rough Scathwaite,
And now that day is dropping late,
Have pass'd the drawbridge and the gate.
By thy white flowing beard, and reverend mien,
And gilded harp, and chaplet of green,
And milk-white mare in the castle-yard,
Welcome, glad welcome to Bracy the bard!
And,—by thy struggle still to hide
This generous conquest of thy pride,
More than by yon princely train,
And blazon'd banner standing near,
And snorting steed with slacken'd rein,—
Hail, O too long a stranger here,
Hail, to Langdale's friendly hall,
Thou noble spirit, most of all,
Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!
Like aspens tall beside the brook
The stalwarth warriors stood and shook,
And each advancing fear'd to look
Into the other's eye;

334

'Tis fifty years ago to-day
Since in disdain and passion they
Had flung each other's love away
With words of insult high:
How had they long'd and pray'd to meet!
But memories cling; and pride is sweet;
And—which could be the first to greet
The haply scornful other?
What if De Vaux were haughty still,—
Or Leoline's unbridled will
Consented not his rankling ill
In charity to smother?
Their knees give way, their faces are pale,
And loudly beneath the corslets of mail
Their aged hearts in generous heat
Almost to bursting boil and beat;
The white lips quiver, the pulses throb,
They stifle and swallow the rising sob,—
And there they stand, faint and unmann'd,
As each holds forth his bare right hand!
Yes, the mail-clad warriors tremble,
All unable to dissemble
Penitence and love confest,
As within each aching breast
The flood of affection grows deeper and stronger
Till they can refrain no longer,
But with,—“Oh, my long-lost brother,”—
To their hearts they clasp each other,
Vowing in the face of heaven
All forgotten and forgiven!

335

Then, the full luxury of grief
That brings the smother'd soul relief,
Within them both so fiercely rush'd
That from their vanquish'd eyes out-gush'd
A tide of tears, as pure and deep
As children, yea as cherubs weep!
Quoth Roland de Vaux to Sir Leoline;
“No lady lost can be daughter of mine,
For yestereen at this same hour
My Geraldine sat in her latticed bower,
And merrily marvell'd much to hear
She had been found in the forest drear:
Nathless, of thee, old friend, to crave
Once more the love I long to have
E'er yet I drop into the grave,
Behold me here!
I hail'd the rich offer, and hither I sped,
Glad to reclaim our friendship fled,
And see that face,—e'er yet it be dead,—
I feel so dear;
And my old heart danced with the joy of a child
When out of school he leaps half-wild
To think we could be reconciled.”
“Thy tale is strange,” quoth Leoline,
“As thy return is sweet;
Yet might it please thee, brother mine,
In knightly sort to greet
This wondrous new-found Geraldine;
Certes, she is a thing divine,—

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So bright in her doth beauty shine
From head to feet,
A wondrous creature, most divine,
For angels meet.”
O glorious in thy loveliness!
Victorious in thy loveliness!
From what strong magnetic zone
Circling some strange world unknown,
Hast thou stol'n sweet influence
To lull in bliss each ravish'd sense?
That thine eyes rain light and love
Kindlier than the heavens above,—
That the sunshine of thy face
Shows richly ripe each winning grace,—
That thine innocent laughing dimple,
And thy tresses curling simple,
Thy soft cheek, and rounded arm,
And foot unsandall'd, white and warm,
And every sweet luxurious charm
Fair, and full, and flush'd, and bright,
Fascinate the dazzled sight
As with a halo of delight?
Her beauty hath conquer'd: a sunny smile
Laughs into goodness her seeming guile.
Aye, was she not in mercy sent
To heal the friendships pride had rent?
Is she not here a blessed saint
To work all good by subtle feint?
Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame,
Our Lady of Furness?—the same, the same

337

O holy one, we know thee now,
O gracious one, before thee bow,
Help us, Mary, hallow'd one,
Bless us, for thy wondrous Son—
The name was half-spoken,—the spell was half-broken,—
And suddenly, from his bent knee
Upleapt each knight in fear!
All warily they look'd around,
Sure, they had heard a hissing sound
And one quick moment on the ground
Had seen a dragon here!
But now before their wilder'd eyes
Bright Geraldine, all sweet surprise,
With her fair hands, in courteous guise
Hath touch'd them both, and bade them rise;
“Alas, kind sirs,” she calmly said,
“I am but a poor hunted maid,
Hunted, ah me! and sore afraid,
That all too far from home have stray'd,
For love of one who flies and hates me,
For hate of one who loves and waits me.”
Wonder-stricken were they then,
And full of love, those ancient men,
Full-fired with guilty love, as when
In times of old
To young Susannah's fairness knelt
Those elders twain, and fiercely felt
The lava-streams of passion melt
Their bosoms cold:

338

They loved,—they started from the floor,—
But, hist! within the chamber-door
Softly stole Sir Amador;—
Nor look'd, nor wonder'd as they past,
(Speeding by in shame and haste,
Meekly thinking of each other
As a weak and guilty brother,)
For all to him in that dark room,
All the light to pierce its gloom,
All he thought of, cared for, there,
Was that loved one, smiling fair,
Wondrous in her charms divine,
Glad and glorious Geraldine.
The eye of a hawk is fierce and bright
As a facet-cut diamond scattering light,
Soft and ray'd with invincible love
As a pure pearl is the eye of a dove;
And so in flashes quick and keen
Look'd Amador on Geraldine,
And so, in sweet subduing rays,
On Amador did fondly gaze
In gentle power of beauty's blaze
Imperial Geraldine.
His head is cushion'd on her breast,
Her dark eyes shed love on his,
And his changing cheek is prest
By her hot and thrilling kiss,
While again from her moist lips
The honeydew of joy he sips,

339

And views, with rising transport warm,
Her half-unveil'd bewitching form—
A step on the threshold!—the chamber is dim,
And gliding ghost-like up to him,
While entranced in conscious fear
He feels an injured angel near,
Sad Christabel with wringing hands
Beside her faithless lover stands,
Sad Christabel with streaming eyes
In silent anguish stands and sighs.
Ave, Maria! send her aid,
Bless, oh bless the wretched maid!
It is done,—he is won!—stung with remorse
He hath dropt at her feet as a clay-cold corse,
And Christabel with trembling dread
Hath raised on her knee his pale dear head,
And bathed his brow with many a tear,
And listen'd for his breath in fear,
And when she thought that none was near
But guardian saints, and God above,
Set on his lips the seal of her love!
But Geraldine had watch'd that kiss,
And with involuntary hiss
And malice in her snake-like stare
She gnash'd her teeth on the loving pair
And glared on them both with a deadly glare.

340

Softly through the sounding hall
In rich melodious notes,
With many a gentle swell and fall,
Holy music floats,
Like gossamer in a sultry sky
Dropping low, or sailing high:
Bard Bracy, bard Bracy, that touch was thine
On Cambria's harp with triple strings,
Wild and sweet is the hymn divine,
Fanning the air like unseen wings,—
What aileth thee, O Geraldine?
What horror is hunting thee, Geraldine?—
Thy body convulsed groweth lank and lean,
Thy smooth white neck is shrivell'd and green,
Thine eyes are blear'd and sunk and keen,—
Away!—for the love, and the wild sweet harp,
Thine innermost being do wither and warp,
Away! to the pains, and the chains, and the fears,
Away! to the torments, the toils, and the tears,
Away! for a thousand years.

Conclusion to Part III.

Sweet Christabel, my Christabel,
I have riven thy heart that loved so well:
O weak, O wicked, to rend in its home
The love that I cherish wherever I roam!

341

As when with his glory the morning sun
Floods on a sudden the tropical sky,
And startled twilight, dim and dun,
Flies from the fear of his conquering eye,
So flash'd across the lighten'd breast
Of Christabel, no more to moan,
A dawn of love, the happiest
Her maiden heart had ever known;
For yea, it was only through powers of hell,
And evil eye, and potent spell,
That Amador to Christabel
Could faithless prove,—
And when she saw him kneeling near,
Contrite, yet more in hope than fear,
Oh then she felt him doubly dear,
Her rescued love.

Ave, Maria! unto thee
All the thanks and glory be,
For thy gracious arm and aid
Saved the youth, and blest the maid.
So falls it out, that vanquish'd ill
Breeds only good to good men still,
And while its poison seethes and works
It yields a healing antidote,
Which, whether mortals use or not,
Like a friend in ambush, lurks
Deepest in the deadliest plot.

Not swift, though soon, next day at noon,—
Just at the wedding-hour

342

As hand-in-hand betroth'd they stand
Beneath the chapel tower,
A holy light,—a vision bright,—
'Twas twelve o'clock at noon,
A spirit good before them stood,
Her garments fair and flowing hair
Shone brighter than the moon.
And thus in musical voice most sweet,—
“Daughter, this hour to grace and greet,
To bless this day, as is most meet,
Thy mother stoops from heaven:
And, ancient men, who all so late
Have stopp'd at Death's half-open'd gate,
In tears of love to drown your hate,
Forgiving and forgiven,
Hear, noble spirits reconciled,
Hear, gracious souls, now meek and mild
Albeit with guilt so long defiled,
Love's lingering boon receive;
Roland de Vaux,—thy long-lost child,
Whom border-troopers, fierce and wild,
An infant from his home beguiled,
Thy soul to gall and grieve,
In Amador—behold!”

The spirit said, and all in light
Melted away that vision bright:
My tale is told.

343

SOME EARLY POEMS.

Imagination.

Thou fair enchantress of my willing heart,
Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie,—
Thou Siren, who, with lovelit eyes, and voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea
Or quaking sands of untried theory
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway through the deep,—
Imagination, I am thine own child:
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad,
All silent outwardly, but loud within
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answer'd it,)
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?
And taught by thee, angelic visitant,

344

Have I not learnt to love the tuneful lyre,
Draining from every chord its musical soul?
Have I not learnt to find in all that is,
Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind,
Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise
Alike in small and great things? and this power,
This clearing of the eye, this path made straight
Even to the heart's own heart, its innermost core,
This keenness to perceive and seek and find
And love and prize all-present harmony,
This, more than choosing words to clothe the thought,
Makes the true poet; this thy glorious gift,
Imagination, rescues me thy son
(Thy son, albeit least worthy,) from the lust
Of mammon, and the cares of animal life,
And the dull thraldom of this work-day world.

Indulgent lover, I am all thine own;
What art thou not to me?—ah, little know
The worshippers of cold reality,
The grosser minds, who most sincerely think
That sense is the broad avenue to bliss,
Little know they the thrilling ecstasy
The delicate refinement in delight
That cheers the thoughtful spirit, as it soars
Far above all these petty things of life;
And strengthen'd by the flight and cordial joys
Can then come down to earth and common men
Better in motive, stronger in resolve,
Apter to use all means that compass good,
And of more charitable mind to all.

345

Imagination, art thou not my friend
In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear,
Brother, and sister, mine own other self,
The Hector to my soul's Andromache?

Triumphant beauty, bright intelligence!
The chasten'd fire of ecstasy suppress'd
Beams from thine eye; because thy secret heart,
Like that strange sight burning yet unconsumed,
Is all on flame a censer fill'd with odours;
And to my mind, who feel thy fearful power,
Suggesting passive terrors and delights,
A slumbering volcano: thy dark cheek,
Warm and transparent, by its half-form'd dimple
Reveals an under-world of wondrous things
Ripe in their richness,—as among the bays
Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep
Ruddy and white fantastically branch
The coral groves; thy broad and sunny brow,
Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven,
Shoots up an hundred-fold the glorious crop
Of arabesque ideas; forth from thy curls
Half hidden in their black luxuriance
The twining sister-graces lightly spring,
The muses, and the passions, and young love,
Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx,
Atlas, Briareus, Phaeton, and Cyclops,
Centaurs, and shapes uncouth and wild conceits;
And in the midst blazes the star of mind,
Illumining the classic portico
That leads to the high dome where Learning sits:

346

On either side of that broad sunny brow
Flame-colour'd pinions, streak'd with gold and blue,
Burst from the teeming brain; while under them
The forkèd lightning, and the cloud-robed thunder,
And fearful shadows, and unhallow'd eyes,
And strange foreboding forms of terrible things
Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks!

And thou hast been the sunshine to my landscape,
Imagination; thou hast wreathed me smiles,
And hung them on a statue's marble lips;
Hast made earth's dullest pebbles bright like gems;
Hast lent me thine own silken clue, to rove
The ideal labyrinths of a thousand spheres;
Hast lengthen'd out my nights with life-long dreams,
And with glad seeming gilt my darkest day;
Help'd me to scale in thought the walls of heaven,
While journeying wearily this busy world;
Sent me to pierce the palpable clouds with eagles,
And with leviathan the silent deep;
Hast taught my youthful spirit to expand
Beyond himself, and live in other scenes,
And other times, and among other men;
Hast bid me cherish, silent and alone,
First feelings, and young hopes, and better aims,
And sensibilities of delicate sort,
Like timorous mimosas, which the breath
The cold and cautious breath of daily life
Hath not as yet had power to blight and kill
From my heart's garden; for they stand retired,
Screen'd from the north by groves of rooted thought.

347

Without thine aid, how cheerless were all time,
But chief the short sweet hours of earliest love;
When the young mind, athirst for happiness,
And all-exulting in that new-found treasure,
The wealth of being loved, as well as loving,
Sees not, and hears not, knows not, thinks not, speaks not,
Except it be of her, his one desire;
And thy rose-colour'd glass on every scene
With more than earthly promise cheats the eye,
While the charm'd ear drinks thy melodious words,
And the heart reels, drunk with ideal beauty.
So too the memory of departed joy,
Walking in black with sprinkled tears of pearl,
Passes before the mind with look less stern
And foot more lighten'd, when thine inward power,
Most gentle friend, upon that clouded face
Sheds the fair light of better joy to come,
And throws round Grief the azure scarf of Hope.

As the wild chamois bounds from rock to rock,
Oft on the granite steeples nicely poised,
Unconscious that the cliff from which he hangs
Was once a fiery sea of molten stone
Shot up ten thousand feet and crystallized
When earth was labouring with her kraken brood;
So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love,
Imagination, over pathless wilds,
Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful of
The fever of my soul that shot them up
And made a ready footing for my speed,
As in a whirlwind I have flown along

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Wing'd with ecstatic mind, and carried away
Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida,
Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores
Of Arctic or Antarctic,—stolen from earth
Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes
That watch her from afar, to the pure seat
Of rarest Matter's last created world,
And brilliant halls of self-existing Light!

The Song of an Alpine Elf.

Ha! ha! ha!—My coy Jungfra
Is tall and robed in snow,—
Yet at a leap to the topmost steep
I bound from the glen below;
On her dizziest peak I sit and shriek
To the winds that around me blow,
And heard from afar is my ha! ha! ha!
The wild laugh echoes so.
In the forests dun round Lauterbrunn
That line each dark ravine,
I hide me away from the garish day
Till the howling winter's e'en;
Then I jump on high through the coal-black sky,
And light on some cliff of snow
That nods to its fall like a tottering wall,
And I rock it to and fro!
My summer home is the cataract's foam
As it floats in a frothing heap,

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My winter's rest is the weasel's nest,
Or deep with the mole I sleep;
Or I ride for a freak on the lightning-streak,
Or climb till I reach in the clouds
The terrible form of the Thunder-storm,
Wrapp'd in his sable shrouds!
Often I launch the huge avalanche,
And make it my milk-white sledge,
When unappall'd to the Grindlewald
I slide from the Shrikehorn's edge;
Silent and soft to the ibex oft
I have stolen, and hurried him o'er
The precipice to the bristling ice
That smokes with his scarlet gore:
But my greatest joy is to lure and decoy
To the snow-drift's slippery brink
The hunter bold, when he's weary and cold,
And there let him suddenly sink,—
A thousand feet—dead! he dropp'd like lead,
Ha, he couldn't leap like me;
With broken back, as a felon on rack,
He hangs in a split pine-tree!
And there mid his bones, that echoed with groans,
I make me a nest of his hair;
The ribs dry and white rattle loud as in spite
When I rock in my cradle there:
Hurrah, hurrah, and ha, ha, ha!
I'm in a madman's mood,
For I'm all alone in my palace of bone
That's tapestried fair with the old man's hair
And dappled with clots of blood;

350

And when I look out all around and about,
The storm shouts high to the coalblack sky,
And the icicle sleet falls thick and fleet,
And all that I hear on the mountains drear,
And all I behold on the valleys cold,
Is Death in Solitude!

Dreams.

A dream—mysterious word, a dream!
What joys and sorrows are enshrined
In those dark hours we fondly deem
A playtime for the truant mind:

It is a happy thing to dream,
When rosy thoughts and visions bright
Pour on the soul a golden stream
Of rich luxurious delight;

It is a weary thing to dream,
When from the hot and aching brain
As from a boiling cauldron steam
The myriad forms in fancy's train;

It is a curious thing to dream,
When shapes grotesque of all quaint things
Like laughing water-witches seem
To sport in reason's turbid springs;

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It is a glorious thing to dream,
When full of wings and full of eyes
Borne on the whirlwind or sun-beam
We race along the startled skies;

It is a wondrous thing to dream
Of tumbling with a fearful shock
From some tall cliff where eagles scream,
—To light upon a feather rock;

It is a terrible thing to dream
Of strangled throats and heart-blood spilt,
And ghosts that in the darkness gleam,
And horrid eyes of midnight guilt:—

Who shall tell me what I dream?
Ages lingering in a night,—
Thronging thoughts of things that teem
With wonder, terror, and delight!

Infant Christ, with Flowers.

Yes,—I can fancy, in the spring
Of childhood's sunny hours,
That Nature's infant Priest and King
Loved to gaze on flowers;

352

For lightly, mid the wreck of all,
When torn from Eden's bowers,
Above the billows of the fall
Floated gentle flowers:

Unfallen, sinless, undefiled,
Fresh bathed in summer showers,
What wonder that the holy Child
Loved to play with flowers?

In these he saw his Father's face,
All Godhead's varied powers,
And joy'd each attribute to trace
In sweet unconscious flowers:

In these he found where Wisdom hides
And modest Beauty cowers,
And where Omnipotence resides,
And Tenderness,—in flowers!

Innocent Child, a little while,
Ere yet the tempest lours,
Bask thy young heart in Nature's smile,
Her lovely smile of flowers;

Thy young heart,—is it not array'd
In feelings such as ours?—
Yes, being now of thorns afraid,
I see thee crown'd with flowers.

353

Past, Present, and Future.

A sad sweet gladness, full of tears,
And thoughts that never cloy
Of careless childhood's happier years,
Is Memory's tranquil joy;

A rapturous and delusive dream
Of pleasures ne'er to be,
That o'er life's troubled waters gleam,
Is Hope's sweet reverie:

Yet, before Memory can look back,
When Hope is lost in sight,
Ah! where is Memory's fairy track,
Ah! where is Hope's delight?

The present is a weary scene,
And always wish'd away;
We live on “to be” and “has been,”
But never on “to-day.”

A Short Gospel.

Wisdom framed the wondrous plan
Love had hoped for fallen man;
Justice bade the blood be spilt
Mercy bore imputed guilt;
Truth rejoiced, and smiled to see
Power had set the captive free.

354

On a Bulbous Root,

WHICH BLOSSOMED, AFTER HAVING LAIN FOR AGES IN THE HAND OF AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY.

What, wide awake, sweet stranger, wide awake?
And laughing coyly at an English sun,
And blessing him with smiles for having thaw'd
Thine icy chain, for having woke thee gently
From thy long slumber of three thousand years?
Methinks I see the eye of wonder peering
From thy tall pistil, looking strangely forth
As from a watch-tow'r at thy fellow-flowers,
Admiring much the rich variety
Of many a gem in nature's jewel-case
Unknown to thee,—the drooping hyacinth,
The prim ranunculus, and gay geranium,
And dahlias rare, and heartsease of all hues,
Mealy auriculas, and spotted lilies,
Gaudy carnations, and the modest face
Of the moss-rose: methinks thy wondering leaves
And curious petals at the long-lost sun
Gaze with a lingering love, bedizen'd o'er
With a small firmament of eyes to catch
The luxury of his smile; as o'er the pool
Hovering midway the gorgeous dragon-fly
Watches his mates with thousand-facet vision;
Or as when underneath the waterfall
Floating in sunny wreaths the fretted foam

355

Mirrors blue heaven in its million orbs:
Methinks I see thy fair and foreign face
Blush with the glowing ardour of first love,
(Mindful of ancient Nile, and those warm skies,
And tender tales of insect coquetry,)
When some bright butterfly descends to sip
The exotic fragrance of thy nectarous dew:
Even so, Jubal's daughters in old time
Welcomed the sons of God, who sprang from heaven
To gaze with rapture on earth's fairest creatures,
And fan them with their rainbow-colour'd wings.

Didst ever dream of such a day as this,
A day of life and sunshine, when entranced
In the cold tomb of yonder shrivell'd hand?
Didst ever try to shoot thy fibres forth
Through thy close prison-bars, those parchment-fingers,
And strive to blossom in a charnel-house?
Didst ever struggle to be free,—to leap
From that forced wedlock with a clammy corpse,—
To burst thy bonds asunder, and spring up
A thing of light to commerce with the skies?
Or didst thou rather, with endurance strong,
(That might have taught a Newton passive power,)
Baffle corruption, and live on unharm'd
Amid the pestilent steams that wrapp'd thee round,
Like Mithridates, when he would not die,
But conquer'd poison by his strong resolve?

O Life, thy name is mystery,—that couldst
Thus energize inert, be, yet not be,

356

Concentrating thy powers in one small point;
Couldst mail a germ, in seeming weakness strong,
And arm it as thy champion against Death;
Couldst give a weed, dug from the common field,
What Egypt hath not, Immortality;
Couldst lull it off to sleep ere Carthage was,
And wake it up when Carthage is no more!
It may be, suns and stars that walk'd the heavens
While thou wert in thy slumber, gentle flower,
Have sprung from chaos, blazed their age, and burst:
It may be, that thou seest the world worn out,
And look'st on meadows of a paler green,
Flow'rs of a duskier hue, and all creation
Down to degenerate man more and more dead,
Than in those golden hours, nearest to Eden,
When mother earth and thou and all were young.

And he that held thee,—this bituminous shape,
This fossil shell once tenanted by life,
This chrysalis husk of the poor insect man,
This leathern coat, this carcase of a soul,—
What was thy story, O mine elder brother?
I note thee now, swathed like a Milanese babe,
But thine are tinctured grave-clothes, fathoms long;
On thy shrunk breast the mystic beetle lies
Commending thee to Earth, and to the Sun
Regenerating all; a curious scroll
Full of strange written lore rests at thy side;
While a quaint rosary of bestial gods,
Ammon, Bubastes, Thoth, Osiris, Apis,
And Horus with the curl, Typhon and Phthah,

357

Amulets cipher'd with forgotten tongues,
And charm'd religious beads circle thy throat.
Greatly thy children honour'd thee in death,
And for the light vouchsafed them they did well,—
In that they hoped, and not unwisely hoped,
Again in his own flesh to see their sire;
And their affections spared not, so the form
They loved in life might rest adorn'd in death.

But this dry hand,—was it once terrible
When among warrior bands thou wentest forth
With Ramses, or Sesostris, yet again
To crush the rebel Æthiop?—wast thou set
A taskmaster to toiling Israël
When Cheops and Cephrenes raised to heaven
Their giant sepulchres?—or did this hand,
That lately held a flow'r, with murderous grasp
Tear from the Hebrew mother her poor babe
To fling it to the crocodile?—Or rather
Wert thou some garden-lover, and this bulb,
Perchance most rare and fine, prized above gold,
(As in the mad world's dotage yesterday
A tulip-root could fetch a prince's ransom,)—
Was to be buried with thee, as thy praise,
Thy Rosicrucian lamp, thine idol weed?—
Perchance, O kinder thought and better hope,
Some priest of Isis shrined this root with thee
As nature's hieroglyphic, her half-guess
Of glimmering faith, that soul will never die:
What emblem liker, or more eloquent
Of immortality,—whether the Sphinx,

358

Scarab, or circled snake, or wide-wing'd orb,
The azure-colour'd arch, the sleepless eye,
The pyramid four-square, or flowing river,
Or all whatever else were symbols apt
In Egypt's alphabet,—than this dry root,
So full of living promise?—Yes, I see
Nature's “resurgam” sculptured there in words
That all of every clime may run and read:
I see the better hope of better times,
Hope against hope, wrapp'd in the dusky coats
Of a poor leek,—I note glad tidings there
Of happier things; this undecaying corpse
A little longer, yet a little longer
Must slumber on, but shall awake at last;
A little longer, yet a little longer,—
And at the trumpet's voice, shall this dry shape
Start up, instinct with life, the same though changed,
And put on incorruption's glorious garb:
Perchance for second death,—perchance to shine,
If aught of Israel's God he knew and loved,
Brighter than seraphs, and beyond the sun!

359

Cruelty.

Will none befriend that poor dumb brute,
Will no man rescue him?—
With weaker effort, gasping, mute,
He strains in every limb;

Spare him, O spare:—he feels,—he feels!
Big tears roll from his eyes;
Another crushing blow!—he reels,
Staggers,—and falls,—and dies.

Poor jaded horse, my blood runs cold
Thy guiltless wrongs to see;
To heav'n, O starved one, lame and old,
Thy dim eye pleads for thee.

Thou too, O dog, whose faithful zeal
Fawns on some ruffian grim,—
He stripes thy skin with many a weal,
And yet,—thou lovest him.

Shame! that of all the living chain
That links creation's plan,
There is but one delights in pain,
The savage monarch,—man!

O cruelty,—who could rehearse
Thy million dismal deeds,
Or track the workings of the curse
By which all nature bleeds?

360

Thou meanest crime,—thou coward sin,—
Thou base flint-hearted vice,—
Scorpion!—to sting thy heart within
Thyself shalt all suffice;

The merciless is doubly curst,
As mercy is “twice blest;”
Vengeance, though slow, shall come,—but first
The vengeance of the breast!

Why add another woe to life,
Man,—are there not enough?
Why lay thy weapon to the strife?
Why make the road more rough?

Faint, hunger-sick, old, blind, and ill,
The poor, or man or beast,
Can battle on with life uphill,
And bear its griefs at least;

Truly, their cup of gall o'erflows!
But, when the spite of men
Adds poison to the draught of woes,
Who, who can drink it then?

Heard ye that shriek?—O wretch, forbear,
Fling down thy bloody knife:
In fear, if not in pity, spare
A woman, and a wife!

For thee she toils, unchiding, mild,
And for thy children wan,
Beaten, and starved,—with famine wild,
To feast thee, monster-man:

361

Husband, and father,—drunkard, fiend!
Thy wife's, thy children's moan
Has won for innocence a Friend,
Has reach'd thy Judge's throne;

Their lives thou madest sad; but worse
Thy deathless doom shall be,
“No mercy!” is the withering curse
Thy Judge hath pass'd on thee:

Heap on,—heap on, fresh torments add,—
New schemes of torture plan,
No mercy! Mercy's self is glad
To damn the cruel man.

God! God! Thy whole creation groans,
Thy fair world writhes in pain;
Shall the dread incense of its moans
Arise to Thee in vain?

The hollow eye of famine pleads,
The face with weeping pale,
The heart that all in secret bleeds,
The grief that tells no tale,

Oppression's victim, weak and mild,
Scarce shrinking from the blow,
And the poor wearied factory child,
Join in the dirge of woe.

O cruel world! O sickening fear
Of goad, or knife, or thong;
O load of evils ill to bear!
—How long, good God, how long?

362

Monsieur d'Alueron.

An Incident, founded on Fact.

Poor Monsieur d'Alveron! I well remember
The day I visited his ruinous cot,
And heard the story of his fallen fortunes.
It was a fine May morning, and the flowers
Spread their fair faces to the laughing sun,
And look'd like small terrestrial stars, that beam'd
With life and joy; the merry lark was high
Careering in the heavens, and now and then
A throstle from the neighbouring thicket pour'd
His musical and hearty orisons.
The cot too truly told that poverty
Found it a home with misery and scorn:
No clambering jessamine, no well-train'd roses
There linger'd, like sweet charity, to hide
The rents unseemly of the plaster'd wall;
No tight trimm'd rows of box, or daisy prim,
Mark'd a clean pathway through the miry clay;
But all around was want and cold neglect.
With curious hand, (and heart that beat with warm
Benevolence,)—I knock'd, lifted the latch,
And in the language of his mother-land
Besought a welcome; quick with courteous phrase,
And joy unfeign'd to hear his native tongue,
He bade me enter.—'Twas a ruin'd hovel;
Disease and penury had done their worst

363

To hunt a wretched exile to despair,
But still with spirit unbroken he lived on,
And with a Frenchman's national levity
Bounded elastic from his weight of woes.
I listed long his fond garrulity,
For sympathy and confidence are aye
Each other's echoes, and I won his heart
By pitying his sorrows; long he told
Of friends, and wife, and darling little ones,
Fortune, and title, and long-cherish'd hopes
By frenzied Revolution marr'd and crush'd:
But oft my patience flicker'd, and my eye
Wander'd inquisitive round the murky room
To see wherein I best might mitigate
The misery my bosom bled to view.
I sat upon his crazy couch, and there
With many sordid rags, a roebuck's skin
Show'd sleek and mottled; swift the clear grey eye
Of the poor sufferer had mark'd my wonder,
And as in simple guise this touching tale
He told me, in the tongue his youth had loved,
Many a tear stole down his wrinkled cheek.

“Yon glossy skin is all that now remains
To tell me that the past is not a dream!
Oft up my château's avenue of limes
To be caress'd in mine ancestral hall
Poor ‘Louis’ bounded, (I had call'd him Louis,
Because I loved my King;)—my little ones
Have on his rounded antlers often hung
Their garlands of spring flowers, and fed him with

364

Sweet heads of clover from their darling hands.
But on a sorrowful day a random-shot
Of some bold thief, or well-skill'd forester,
Struck him to death, and many a tear and sob
Were the unwritten epitaph upon him.
The children would not lose him utterly,
But pray'd to have his mottled beautiful skin
A rug to their new pony-chaise, that they
Might oftener think of their lost favourite:
Ay—there it is!—that precious treasury
Of fond remembrances,—that glossy skin!
O thou chief solace in the wintry nights
That warms my poor old heart, and thaws my breast
With tears of—Mais, Monsieur, asseyez-vous!”—
But I had started up, and turn'd aside
To weep in solitude.—

Wisdom's Wish.

Ah, might I but escape to some sweet spot,
Oasis of my hopes, to fancy dear,
Where rural virtues are not yet forgot,
And good old customs crown the circling year;
Where still contented peasants love their lot,
And trade's vile din offends not nature's ear,
But hospitable hearths, and welcomes warm
To country quiet add their social charm;

365

Some smiling bay of Cambria's happy shore,
A wooded dingle on a mountain-side,
Within the distant sound of ocean's roar,
And looking down on valley fair and wide,
Nigh to the village church, to please me more
Than vast cathedrals in their Gothic pride,
And blest with pious pastor, who has trod
Himself the way, and leads his flock to God,—

“There would I dwell, for I delight therein!”
Far from the evil ways of evil men,
Untainted by the soil of others' sin,
My own repented of, and clean again;
With health and plenty crown'd, and peace within,
Choice books, and guiltless pleasures of the pen,
And mountain-rambles with a welcome friend,
And dear domestic joys, that never end.

There from the flowery mead, or shingled shore,
To cull the gems that bounteous Nature gave,
From the rent mountain pick the brilliant ore,
Or seek the curious crystal in its cave;
And learning nature's Master to adore,
Know more of Him who came the lost to save;
Drink deep the pleasures contemplation gives,
And learn to love the meanest thing that lives.

No envious wish my fellows to excel,
No sordid money-getting cares be mine;
No low ambition in high state to dwell,
Nor meanly grand among the poor to shine:

366

But, sweet Benevolence, regale me well
With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,
And meek-eyed Piety, be always near,
With calm Content, and Gratitude sincere.

Rescued from cities, and forensic strife,
And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
Oh thus to wear away my useful life,
And, when I'm call'd, in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,
And challenge earth to show a happier man!

The Mother's Lament.

My own little darling—dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,
But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:

No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
No more on my arm
Nestled up warm
Shall my fair darling rest:

367

Alas, for that dear glazed eye,
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft
I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?

Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,—
Have I not treasure
Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?

O harrowing sight to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,
Deep in the charnel-mould!

Where is each heart-winning way,
Thy prattle, and innocent play?
Alas, they are gone,
And left me alone
To weep for them night and day:

Yet why should I linger behind?
Kill me too,—death most kind;
Where can I go
To meet thy blow
And my sweet babe to find?

368

I know it, I rave half-wild!
But who can be calm and mild
When the deep heart
Is riven apart
Over a dear dead child?

I know it, I should not speak
So boldly,—I ought to be meek,
But love, it is strong;
And my spirit is wrong,—
Help me, my God! I am weak!

Trust.

“My times are in thy hand.”

Yet will I trust, in all my fears,
Thy mercy, gracious Lord, appears,
To guide me through this vale of tears,
And be my strength;

Thy mercy guides the ebb and flow
Of health and joy, or pain and woe,
To wean my heart from all below
To Thee at length.

Yes,—welcome pain,—which Thou hast sent,—
Yes,—farewell blessings,—Thou hast lent,
With Thee alone I rest content,
For Thou art Heav'n,—

369

My trust reposes, safe and still,
On the wise goodness of Thy will,
Grateful for earthly good—or ill,
Which Thou has giv'n.

O blessed friend! O blissful thought!
With happiest consolation fraught,—
Trust Thee I may, I will, I ought,—
To doubt were sin;

Then let whatever storms arise,
Their Ruler sits above the skies,
And lifting unto Him mine eyes,
'Tis calm within.

Danger may threaten, foes molest,
Poverty brood, disease infest,
Yea, torn affections wound the breast
For one sad hour,

But Faith looks to her home on high,
Hope casts around a cheerful eye,
And Love puts all the terrors by
With gladdening power.

The Stammerer's Complaint.

Ah, think it not a light calamity
To be denied free converse with my kind,
To be debarr'd from man's true attribute,
The proper glorious privilege of Speech.
Hast thou beheld an eagle chain'd to earth?
A restless panther in his cage immured?
A swift trout by the wily fisher check'd?

370

A wild bird hopeless strain its broken wing?
Or ever felt, at the dark dead of night,
Some undefined and horrid incubus
Press down the very soul,—and paralyse
The limbs in their imaginary flight
From shadowy terrors in unhallow'd sleep?
Or ever known the sudden icy chill
Of dreary disappointment, as it dashes
The sweet cup of anticipated bliss
From the parch'd lips of long-enduring hope?

Then thou canst picture,—aye, in sober truth,
In honest unexaggerated truth,—
The constant, galling, festering chain that binds
Captive my mute interpreter of thought;
The seal of lead enstamp'd upon my lips,
The load of iron on my labouring chest,
The mocking demon that at every step
Haunts me,—and spurs me on—to burst with silence!
Oh! tis a sore affliction, to restrain,
From mere necessity, the glowing thought;
To feel the fluent cataract of speech
Check'd by some wintry spell, and frozen up,
Just as it leapeth from the precipice!
To be the butt of wordy captious fools,
And see the sneering self-complacent smile
Of victory on their lips, when I might prove,
(But for some little word I dare not utter,)
That innate truth is not a specious lie;
To hear foul slander blast an honour'd name,
Yet breathe no fact to drive the fiend away;

371

To mark neglected virtue in the dust,
Yet have no word to pity or console;
To feel just indignation swell my breast,
Yet know the fountain of my wrath is seal'd;
To see my fellow-mortals hurrying on
Down the steep cliff of crime, down to perdition,
Yet have no voice to warn,—no voice to win!

'Tis to be mortified in every point,
Baffled at every turn of life, for want
Of that most common privilege of man,
The merest drug of gorged society,
Words,—windy words.

And is it not in truth
A poison'd sting in every social joy,
A thorn that rankles in the writhing flesh,
A drop of gall in each domestic sweet,
An irritating petty misery,
That I can never look on one I love
And speak the fulness of my burning thoughts?
That I can never with unmingled joy
Meet a long-loved and long-expected friend,
Because I feel, but cannot vent my feelings,—
Because I know I ought,—but must not speak,
Because I mark his quick impatient eye
Striving in kindness to anticipate
The word of welcome, strangled in its birth!
Is it not sorrow, while I truly love
Sweet social converse, to be forced to shun
The happy circle, from a nervous sense,

372

An agonizing poignant consciousness
That I must stand aloof, nor mingle with
The wise and good, in rational argument,
The young in brilliant quickness of reply,
Friendship's ingenuous interchange of mind,
Affection's open-hearted sympathies,
But feel myself an isolated being,
A very wilderness of widow'd thought!

Aye, this is very bitter,—not less bitter
Because it is not reckon'd in the ills,
“The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to;”
Yet the full ocean is but countless drops,
And misery is an aggregate of tears,
And life replete with small annoyances
Is but one long protracted scene of sorrow.

I scarce would wonder, if a godless man,
(I name not him whose hope is heavenward,)
A man, whom lying vanities have scathed
And harden'd from all fear,—if such an one
By this tyrannical Argus goaded on,
Were to be wearied of his very life,
And daily, hourly foil'd in social converse,
By the slow simmering of disappointment
Become a sour'd and apathetic being,
Were to be glad to fling away his life,
And long for death to free him from his chain.

1830.

373

Benevolence.

There is indeed one crowning joy,
A pleasure that can never cloy,
The bliss of doing good;
And to it a reward is given
Most precious in the sight of heaven,
The tear of gratitude.

To raise the fallen from the dust,
To right the poor by judgment just,
The broken heart to heal,
Pour on the soul a stream as bright
Of satisfying deep delight
As happy spirits feel:

Yes, high archangels wing their way
Far from the golden founts of day
To scenes of earthly sadness,
That they may comfort the distress'd,—
And feel in blessing, deeply blest,
In gladd'ning, full of gladness.

The choicest happiness there is,
The glorious Godhead's perfect bliss,
Is born of doing good;
He looks around, and sees the eye
Of all creation spangled by
The tear of gratitude!

374

All hail, my country's noble sons,
Ye Heaven-Sent unselfish ones,
Who every realm have trod
Smit with the love of doing good,—
O that my portion with you stood!
For ye are like your God!

And lives there one, who never felt
His heart with zeal or kindness melt,
Nor ever dropt a tear
Of sympathy for other's woe?
If such a man exist below
A fiend in flesh is here.

Brethren, unsatisfied with earth,
Who feel how heartless is its mirth
How transient is its joy,
Ye may,—there only wants the will,—
Your dearest hope of bliss fulfil,
Of bliss without alloy:

Most glad a thing it is and sweet,
To sit and learn at Wisdom's feet,
And hear her blessed voice;
First in her comforts to be glad,
And then, to comfort other sad,
And teach them to rejoice.

How sweet it is to link again
Estranged affection's broken chain,
And soothe the sorrowing breast;
To be the favour'd one that may
Recall to love hearts torn away,
And thus by both be blest.

375

Rich men and proud, who fain would find
Some new indulgence for the mind,
Some scheme to gladden self,
If ye will feed the famish'd poor,
Happiness shall ye buy, far more
Than with a mint of pelf:

Ye cannot see the tearful eye,
Ye cannot hear the grateful sigh,
Nor feel yourselves beloved
By the pale children of distress
Whom ye have been the gods to bless,—
With hearts unthrill'd, unmoved.

And you, who love your fellow-men,
And feel a sacred transport, when
Ye can that love fulfil,—
Go, rescue yonder tortured brute,
Its gratitude indeed is mute,
But, oh! it loves you still.

Children of science, who delight
To track out wisdom's beauty bright
In earth, or sea, or sky,—
While nature's lovely face you scan,
Go, seek and save some erring man,
And set his hope on high!

But still reflect that all the good
Ye do, demands your gratitude,
For 'tis a heav'nly boon,
That should for its own sake be sought,
Though to itself is kindly brought
A blessing sweet and soon:

376

It is reward to imitate,
In comforting the desolate,
That gracious One who stood
A ransom for a ruin'd world,
And still, Himself to ruin hurl'd,
Found evil for His good:

And what an argument for pray'r
Hath yearning Mercy written there,
For if indeed “to give
Is blessed rather than the gift”—
Go ye, to heaven the voice uplift,
And then ye must receive.

A Cabinet of Fossils.

Come, and behold with curious eye
These records of a world gone by,
These tell-tales of the youth of time,—
When changes, sudden, vast, sublime,
(From Chaos, and fair Order's birth,
To the last flood that drown'd the earth,—)
Shatter'd the crust of this young world,
Into the seas its mountains hurl'd,
And upon boisterous surges strong
Bore the broad ruins far along
To pave old ocean's shingly bed,
While bursting upwards in their stead

377

The lowest granites towering rose
To pierce the clouds with crested snows,
Where future Apennine or Alp
Bared to high heav'n its icy scalp.

Look on these coins of kingdoms old,
These medals of a broken mould:
These corals in the green hill-side,
These fruits and flowers beneath the tide,
These struggling flies in amber found,
These huge pine-forests underground,
These flint sea-eggs, with curious bosses,
These fibred ferns, and fruited mosses
Lying as in water spread,
And stone-struck by some Gorgon's head!
The chambers of this graceful shell,
So delicately form'd,—so well,
None can declare what years have past
Since life hath tenanted it last,
What countless centuries have flown
Since age hath made the shell a stone:
Gaze with me on those jointed stems,
A living plant of starry gems,
And on that sea-flower, light and fair,
Which shoots its leaves in agate there:
Behold these giant ribs in stone
Of mighty monsters, long unknown,
That in some antemundane flood
Wallow'd on continents of mud,
A lizard race, but well for man,
Dead long before his day began,

378

Monsters, through Providence extinct,
That crocodiles to fishes link'd;
And shreds of other forms beside
That sported in the yeasty tide,
Or, flapping far with dragon-wing,
On the slow tortoise wont to spring,
Or, ambush'd in the rushes rank,
Watch'd the dull mammoth on the bank,
Or loved the green and silent deep,
Or on the coral-reef to sleep,
Where many a rood, in passive strength,
The scaly reptiles lay at length.

For there are wonders, wondrous strange,
To those who will through nature range,
And use the mind, and clear the eye,
And let instruction not pass by:
There are deep thoughts of tranquil joy
For those who thus their hearts employ,
And trace the wise design that lurks
In holy nature's meanest works,
And by the torch of truth discern
The happy lessons good men learn:
O there are pleasures, sweet and new,
To those who thus creation view,
And, as on this wide world they look,
Regard it as one mighty book,
Inscribed within, before, behind,
With workings of the Master-mind;
Ray'd with that Wisdom, which excels
In framing worlds,—or fretting shells,—

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Fill'd with that Mercy, which delights
In blessing mammoths, men, or mites,—
With silent deep Benevolence,
With hidden mild Omnipotence,
With order's everlasting laws,
With seen effect, and secret cause,
Justice and truth in all things rife,
Filling the world with love and life,
And teaching from creation round
How good the God of all is found,
His handiwork how vast, how kind,
How prearranged by clearest mind,
How glorious in His own estate,
And in His smallest works how great!

Five Psalms.

I.— PSALM I.

Blest is the man who walketh not
In sinners' evil ways;
Nor with the wicked joins his lot,
Nor gives the scorner praise:

But all his solace and delight
Is in his Father's word,—
His meditation day and night,
The doctrine of the Lord.

380

As some green tree near flowing streams
That yields its timely fruit,
Unblighted still his foliage seems,—
He prospers, branch and root.

Not so the ungodly; they are all
Like chaff before the blast;
In the dread judgment they shall fall,
And perish at the last:

For the Lord loveth, and doth keep
The good man day by day;
But as for sinners, He shall sweep
And scatter them away!

II.— PSALM XIX.

Heaven declares its Maker's glory,
And the firmanent His might;
Day to day the wondrous story
Echoes on, and night to night;
All is silence, yet Creation
Knows and hears that voiceless speech
Which to every tribe and nation
Doth their Maker's glory teach.

381

From his chamber bright in heaven
Lo, the bridegroom of the earth
Gladness by his smile hath given,
And awakes the morn to mirth:
Not less full of life and pleasure
Is God's truth nor less complete;
'Tis more precious than all treasure,
Than the honeycomb more sweet.

It rejoices, heals, and teaches,
Ever holy, just, and good;
To the inmost feeling reaches,
And leads up the heart to God:
Warn'd by that, thy servant turneth
To the path that tends to bliss;
Yet, who all his faults discerneth?
Cleanse me, if I err in this.

Let not pride be ruler in me,
But deliver, guide, forgive:
Thus, corruption quench'd within me,
I shall be upright and live.
Let my words and meditation,
Ever pleasing in Thy sight,
Meet with gracious acceptation,
My Redeemer and my Might!

382

III.— PSALM XX.

God in time of trouble hear thee,
And the name of Jacob's Lord
From His sanctuary near thee,
Out of Zion help afford;
Crown thy sacrifice with fire,
All thy gifts remember still,
Grant thee all thy heart's desire,
And thy choicest wish fulfil!

We will joy in Thy salvation,
And will set our banners high
In our God!—Thy supplication
Be accomplish'd at thy cry.
Now I know the Lord from heaven
Saveth still His Christ from harm;
Now to Him will strength be given
By the might of His right-arm.

Some in chariots, some in horses,—
We in God Jehovah trust;
And while He our sure Resource is,
They are fallen in the dust:
Save, Jehovah, save and hear us,
King of glory, King of might!
When we call be ever near us,—
Ever for Thy servants fight!

383

IV.— PSALM LXXXV.

Lord, Thou hast shower'd on Thy land
Thy favourable grace;
Thou hast brought home again the band
Of Jacob's captive race:
Thou hast forgiven Thy people's crimes
And wash'd away their sin,
From Thy fierce anger turn'd betimes,
And rein'd Thy vengeance in!

Turn us, O God that saveth us,—
And bid Thine anger cease:
Wilt Thou in wrath be ever thus,
Nor smile on us in peace?
O wilt Thou not Thy work revive,
That we may joy in Thee?
Yea, Lord, Thy constant mercy give,
And Thy salvation free!

V.— PSALM CXLIV.

Blessed be the Lord my might,
Who hath taught my soul to fight,
Castle, Saviour, hope, and friend,
Whom I trust all help to send.

384

Lord, what is man, or what his son
That thou regardest such an one?
A thing of nought: his little day
Passeth shadow-like away.

Bow Thy heavens, Lord! return,
Touch the mountains that they burn,
Forth Thy scathing lightnings cast,
With Thy shafts consume them fast!

Send Thy power from on high,
Rescue me, for ever nigh,
Save me from the drowning wave,
From these wicked children save!

God, to Thee new songs I sing,
On my lute new praise I bring,—
To kings Thou givest victory, Lord,
And savest David from the sword.

Help, and save me from the hand
Of children, strangers in the land;
For their mouths are lies within,
And their right hands red with sin.

That our sons may grow in good
Like young saplings of the wood,
And our daughters may be seen
As Thy temple pure and clean.

385

That our garners more and more
May be full with various store,
That our teeming sheep may yield
Thousand-fold in street and field:

That our oxen's sturdy toil
Drain the treasures of the soil;
None in bonds be led away,
No complaining, no decay.

Happy people! prosper'd so,
Blest beyond all bliss below;
Blest who have, all gods above,
For their God the Lord of love!

The Mourner comforted.—1833.

Brother, dear brother, weep no more for me!
My lot is blessedness,—an heritage
Of Praise, and Peace, and Immortality,
And Joy unspeakable! above me smiles
The Eye of tenderest love, and underneath
Sustain me safe the Everlasting Arms!
I am not dead,—my spirit is not dead,
But rests in Jesus, the dear hiding-place
Of ransom'd happy souls,—for I am His;—
My God hath wiped all sorrow from mine eye,

386

All sin from my fair soul; Eternal Love
For pain hath given me Peace,—for fear, fixt hope,
For Life's deceitful cup of bitterness,
Rivers of pleasantness and seas of joy.
Ah, who can speak it, who can think it, there,—
Where the frail prison of Mortality
Holds pent the slumbering soul? Earth hath no words,
And earthborn no ideas of infinite,
Unutterable, overwhelming bliss.
O blest exchange! O gain beyond compare!
O Glory, brighter for the foil of Time,
O deepest happiness, more exquisite
For a short Life's remember'd tale of sorrow!
Weep not, dear brother,—weep no more for me.

Yes,—from the dream of Time I woke in peace:
And one fierce struggle over, all was calm.
Awhile I lay entranced,—in that sweet rest
The Sabbath of the Soul, e'er yet it speeds
To choirs of perfect praise, and bliss intense.
And soon two infant cherubs on bright wings
—My sainted little brothers,—flew to me,
Kiss'd me, and wept for joy, as angels weep.
“For it is ours,” they said, “our great reward,
By His dear will preferr'd before all others,
On either hand to lead thee to our God.”
Wing'd with ecstatic hope upsprung my Soul,—
And through the glorious hosts of happy ones,
From bliss to bliss, from heav'n to heav'n, upsprung,
Catching swift echoes of melodious praise,
Till at the rapturous height of highest joy

387

I stood before the Throne! and there was He,
He, whom a brother's counsel bade me seek,
He, whom at midnight's hour a mother's ear
With tears and prayers had often heard me seek,—
O there was He! my Saviour and my Friend,—
My Sacrifice, my Heav'n, my All, my God!
—Brother, in earthly words and earthly thoughts
I cannot tell thee more: but would speak peace,
Peace to thy troubled soul,—where peace there is.
O climax to my joys,—strength to your hopes,
In the bright book of Life are written fair
The names of those I loved! Blest family,
Children of hope, and Heaven, and God! His love
With tears of chasten'd grief hath gemm'd your crowns,
That, by a Father's wisdom mingling well
Life's cup with sorrows, ye may deeper drink
Of grace on earth, of glory with our God.
Yes, there are crowns and mansions for you all,
Ye loved, and happy ones! a crown for thee,
Dear mother, who so tenderly hast led
Our infant steps to paths of pleasantness;—
Crowns for you both, my sisters;—and for thee,
Whom the dark storm of unbelieving fears
Hath sorely tost,—my brother,—even for thee
From deeper trouble rises higher bliss!
Peace to you all, for Jesus is your peace,
Your peace and mine: be comforted with me,
For we are one, as ever, one in Him.

Though now ye see me not, I can see you;
Though ye hear not my praise, your groans I hear.

388

I watch'd, unwatch'd, and long'd to wipe away
The bitter tears that fell to weep my gain:
I watch'd, when on my prison-house of lead,
That held the alter'd form ye lately loved,
A mother's fondness wildly prest a kiss;
I watch'd the friend approved, on whom she leant;
And to their mournful homes in cot or hall
I watch'd the dark procession silent creep.
Then was I with you, and am with you still,
A free, unshackled spirit,—loving you,
And ministering grace to you from God!
Think not of what I was, but what I am,—
Gaze not on those “dear lineaments defaced,”
Nor brood on foul corruption's gloomy pit:
Rather look up;—I live!—O speed, blest hour,
When to the spirit made perfect the bright body,
Bursting the bars of Death, shall reunite,
And meet the King of Glory in the skies!

The Souls of Brutes.—1832.

“Incertus erro per loca devia.”
—Hor.

Are these then made in vain? is man alone
Of all the marvels of creative love
Blest with a scintillation of His essence,
The heavenly spark of reasonable soul?
And hath not yon sagacious dog, that finds
A meaning in the shepherd's idiot face,
Or the huge elephant, that lends his strength

389

To drag the stranded galley to the shore,
And strives with emulative pride to excel
The mindless crowd of slaves that toil beside him,
Or the young generous war-horse, when he sniffs
The distant field of blood, and quick and shrill
Neighing for joy, instils a desperate courage
Into the veteran trooper's quailing heart,—
Have they not all an evidence of soul
(Of soul, the proper attribute of man,)
The same in kind, though meaner in degree?
Why should not that which hath been,—be for ever?
And death,—O can it be annihilation?
No,—though the stolid atheist fondly clings
To that last hope, how kindred to despair!
No,—'tis the struggling spirit's hour of joy,
The glad emancipation of the soul,
The moment when the cumbrous fetters drop,
And the bright spirit wings its way to heaven!
To say that God annihilated aught
Were to declare that in an unwise hour
He plann'd and made somewhat superfluous:
Why should not the mysterious life, that dwells
In reptiles as in men, and shows itself
In memory, gratitude, love, hate, and pride,
Still energize, and be, though death may crush
Yon frugal ant, or thoughtless butterfly,
Or with the simoom's pestilential gale
Strike down the patient camel in the desert?

There is one chain of intellectual soul,
In many links and various grades, throughout

390

The scale of nature; from the climax bright
The first great Cause of all, Spirit supreme,
Incomprehensible and unconfined,
To high archangels blazing near the throne,
Seraphim, cherubim, virtues, aids, and powers,
All capable of perfection in their kind;—
To man, as holy from his Maker's hand
He stood, in possible excellence complete,
(Man, who is destined now to brighter glories,
As nearer to the present God, in One
His Lord and substitute,—than angels reach;)
Then man as fall'n, with every varied shade
Of character and capability,
From him who reads his title to the skies,
Or grasps with giant mind all nature's wonders,
Down to the monster shaped in human form,
Maniac, slavering fool, or blood-stain'd savage:
Then to the prudent elephant, the dog
Half-humanized, the docile Arab horse,
The social beaver, and contriving fox,
The parrot, quick in pertinent reply,
The kind-affection'd seal, and patriot bee,
The merchant-storing ant, and wintering swallow,
With all those other palpable emanations
And energies of one eternal Mind
Pervading and instructing all that live,
Down to the sentient grass, and shrinking clay.
In truth, I see not why the breath of life,
Thus omnipresent and upholding all,
Should not return to Him, and be immortal,
(I dare not say the same) in some glad state

391

Originally destined for creation,
As well from brutish bodies, as from man.
The uncertain glimmer of analogy
Suggests the thought, and reason's shrewder guess;
Yet revelation whispers nought but this,
“Our Father careth when a sparrow dies,”
And that “the spirit of a brute descends”
As to some secret and preserving Hadès.

But for some better life, in what strange sort
Were justice, mix'd with mercy, dealt to these?—
Innocent slaves of sordid guilty man,
Poor unthank'd drudges, toiling at his will,
Pamper'd in youth, and haply starved in age,
Obedient, faithful, gentle,—though the spur
Wantonly cruel, or unsparing thong
Weal your gall'd hides, or your strain'd sinews crack
Beneath the crushing load,—what recompense
Can He, who gave you being, render you
If in the rank full harvest of your griefs
Ye sink annihilated, to the shame
Of government unequal?—In that day
When crime is sentenced, shall the cruel heart
Boast uncondemn'd, because no tortured brute
Stands there accusing? shall the embodied deeds
Of man not follow him, nor the rescued fly
Bear its kind witness to the saving hand?
Shall the mild Brahmin stand in equal sin
Regarding nature's menials, with the wretch
Who flays the moaning Abyssinian ox,
Or roasts the living bird, or flogs to death

392

The famishing pointer?—and must these again,
These poor unguilty uncomplaining victims
Have no reward for life with its sharp pains?—
They have my suffrage: Nineveh was spared,
Though Jonah prophesied its doom, for sake
Of six-score thousand infants, and “much cattle;”
And space is wide enough, for every grain
Of the broad sands that curb our swelling seas
Each separate in its sphere to stand apart
As far as sun from sun: there lacks not room,
Nor time, nor care, where all is infinite:
And still I doubt: it is a Gordian knot,
A dark deep riddle, rich with curious thoughts;
Yet let me tell a trivial incident,
And draw thine own conclusion from my tale.

Paris kept holiday; a merrier sight
The crowded Champs Elysées never saw:
Loud pealing laughter, songs, and flageolets,
And giddy dances round the shadowing elms,
Green vistas thronged with thoughtless multitudes,
Traitorous processions, frivolous pursuits,
And pleasures full of sin,—the loud “hurra!”
And fierce enthusiastic “Vive la nation!”—
Were these thy ways and works, O godlike man,
Monopolist of mind, great patentee
Of truth, and sense, and reasonable soul?—
My heart was sick with gaiety; nor less,
When (sad, sad contrast to the sensual scene)
I mark'd a single hearse through the dense crowd
Move on its noiseless melancholy way:

393

The blazing sun half quench'd it with his beams,
And show'd it but more sorrowful: I gazed
And gazed with wonder that no feeling heart,
No solitary Man follow'd to note
The spot where poor mortality must sleep:
Alas! it was a friendless child of sorrow,
That stole unheeded to the house of Death!
My heart beat strong with sympathy, and loathed
The noisy follies that were buzzing round me,
And I resolved to watch him to his grave,
And give a man his fellow-sinner's tear:
I left the laughing crowd, and quickly gain'd
That dreary hearse, and found,—he was not friendless!
Yes, there was one, one only, faithful found
To that forgotten wanderer,—his dog!
And there, with measured step, and drooping head,
And tearful eye, paced on the stricken mourner.
Yes, I remember how my bosom ached
To see its sensible face look up to mine
As in confiding sympathy;—and howl:
Yes, I can never forget what grief unfeign'd,
What true love, and unselfish gratitude,
That poor, bereaved, and soulless dog betray'd.

Ah, give me, give me such a friend, I cried;
Yon myriad fools and knaves in human guise
Compared with thee, poor cur, are vain and worthless,
While man, who claims a soul exclusively,
Is shamed by yonder “mere machine,”—a dog!

—“Equidem credo quia sit Divinitus illis
Ingenium.”

—Virg.

394

The Chamois Hunter.—1829.

A LESSON OF LIFE.

The scene was bathed in beauty rare,
For Alpine grandeur toppled there,
With emerald spots between;
A summer-evening's blush of rose
All faintly warm'd the crested snows
And tinged the valleys green;

Night gloom'd apace, and dark on high
The thousand banners of the sky
Their awful width unfurl'd,
Veiling Mont Blanc's majestic brow,
That seem'd among its cloud-wrapt snow,
The ghost of some dead world:

When Pierre the hunter cheerly went
To scale the Catton's battlement
Before the peep of day;
He took his rifle, pole, and rope,
His heart and eyes alight with hope,
He hasted on his way.

He cross'd the vale, he hurried on,
He forded the cold Arveron,
The first rough terrace gain'd,
Threaded the fir-wood's gloomy belt,
And trod the snows that never melt,
And to the summit strain'd.

395

Over the top, as he knew well,
Beyond the glacier in the dell
A herd of chamois slept,
So down the other dreary side,
With cautious tread, or careless slide,
He bounded, or he crept.

And now he nears the chasmed ice;
He stoops to leap,—and in a trice,
His foot hath slipp'd,—O heaven!
He hath leapt in, and down he falls
Between those blue tremendous walls,
Standing asunder riven!

But quick his clutching nervous grasp
Contrives a jutting crag to clasp,
And thus he hangs in air;—
O moment of exulting bliss!
Yet hope so nearly hopeless is
Twin-brother to despair.

He look'd beneath,—a horrible doom!
Some thousand yards of deepening gloom,
Where he must drop to die!
He look'd above, and many a rood
Upright the frozen ramparts stood
Around a speck of sky.

Seven long dreadful hours he hung,
And often by strong breezes swung
His fainting body twists;
Scarce can he cling one moment more,
His half-dead hands are ice, and sore
His burning bursting wrists;

396

His head grows dizzy,—he must drop,
He half resolves,—but stop, O stop,
Hold on to the last spasm,
Never in life give up your hope,—
Behold, behold a friendly rope
Is dropping down the chasm!

They call thee, Pierre,—see, see them here,
Thy gather'd neighbours far and near,
Courage! man, hold on fast:—
And so from out that terrible place,
With death's pale paint upon his face
They drew him up at last.

And he came home an alter'd man,
For many harrowing terrors ran
Through his poor heart that day;
He thought how all through life, though young,
Upon a thread, a hair, he hung,
Over a gulf midway:

He thought what fear it were to fall
Into the pit that swallows all,
Unwing'd with hope and love;
And when the succour came at last,
O then he learnt how firm and fast
Was his best Friend above.

397

Reproof.

Be ashamed for your reserve,
Be ashamed;—
It is not what I deserve,
Be ashamed;—
By my heart, and by my mind
Willing, warm, and well-inclined,
Let your greeting be more kind,—
Be ashamed.

Be assured it's little wise,
Be assured,—
So to chill your hand and eyes,
Be assured;—
My humility can wait,
But your love may come too late,
Pride will soon be out of date,—
Be assured.

398

CONTRASTED SONNETS.

402

Light.

A glorious vision: as I walk'd at noon
The children of the sun came thronging round me,
In shining robes and diamond-studded shoon;
And they did wing me up with them, and soon
In a bright dome of wondrous width I found me,
Set all with beautiful eyes, whose wizard rays,
Shed on my soul, in strong enchantment bound me;
And so I look'd and look'd with dazzled gaze,
Until my spirit drank in so much light
That I grew like the sons of that glad place,
Transparent, lovely, pure, serene, and bright:
Then did they call me brother; and there grew
Swift from my sides broad pinions gold and white,
And with that happy flock a brilliant thing I flew!

Darkness.

A terrible dream: I lay at dead of night
Tortured by some vague fear; it seem'd at first
Like a small ink-spot on the ceiling white,
To a black bubble swelling in my sight,
And then it grew to a balloon and burst;
Then I was drown'd, as with an ebon stream,
And those dark waves quench'd all mine inward light,
That in my saturated mind no gleam
Remain'd of beauty, peace, or love, or right:
I was a spirit of darkness!—yet I knew
I could not thus be left; it was but a dream;
Still felt I full of horror; for a crew
Of shadowy its hemm'd in my harried mind,
And all my dread was waking mad and blind.

404

Ellen Gray.

The Excuse of an Unfortunate.

A starless night, and bitter cold;
The low dun clouds all wildly roll'd,
Scudding before the blast,
And cheerlessly the frozen sleet
Adown the melancholy street
Swept onward thick and fast;

When crouched at an unfriendly door,
Faint, sick, and miserably poor,
A silent woman sate,
She might be young, and had been fair,
But from her eye look'd out despair,
All dim and desolate.

Was I to pass her coldly by,
Leaving her there to pine and die,
The live-long freezing night?
The secret answer of my heart
Told me I had not done my part
In flinging her a mite;

She look'd her thanks,—then droop'd her head;
“Have you no friend, no home?” I said:
“Get up, poor creature, come,—
You seem unhappy, faint, and weak,
How can I serve or save you,—speak,
Or whither help you home?”

414

“Alas, kind sir, poor Ellen Gray
Has had no friend this many a day,
And, but that you seem kind,—
She has not found the face of late
That look'd on her in aught but hate,
And still despairs to find:

And for a home,—would I had none!
The home I have, a wicked one,
They will not let me in,
Till I can fee my jailor's hands
With the vile tribute she demands,
The wages of my sin:

I see your goodness on me frown;
Yet hear the veriest wretch on town,
While yet in life she may,
Tell the sad story of her grief,—
Though heaven alone can bring relief
To guilty Ellen Gray.

My mother died when I was born:
And I was flung, a babe forlorn,
Upon the workhouse floor;
My father,—would I knew him not!
A squalid thief, a reckless sot,
—I dare not tell you more.

And I was bound an infant-slave,
With no one near to love, or save
From cruel sordid men,
A friendless, famish'd, factory child,
Morn, noon, and night I toil'd and toil'd,—
Yet was I happy then.

415

My heart was pure, my face was fair;
Ah, would to God a cancer there
Had eaten out its way!
For soon my tasker, dreaded man,
With treacherous wiles and arts began
To mark me for his prey.

And week by week he vainly strove
To light the flame of lawless love
In my most loathing breast;
Oh, how I fear'd and hated him,
So basely kind, so smoothly grim,
My terror, and my pest!

Till one day, at that prison-mill,—
Thenceforward droop'd my stricken head;
I lived,—I died, a life of dread,
Lest they should guess my shame;
But weeks and months would pass away,
And all too soon the bitter day
Of wrath and ruin came;

I could not hide my alter'd form:
Then on my head the fearful storm
Of jibe and insult burst:
Men only mock'd me for my fate,
But women's scorn and women's hate
Me, their poor sister, curst.

O woman, had thy kindless face
But gentler look'd on my disgrace,
And heal'd the wounds it gave!—
I was a drowning sinking wretch,
Whom no one loved enough to stretch
A finger out to save.

416

They tore my baby from my heart,
And lock'd it in some hole apart
Where I could hear its cry,
Such was the horrid poor-house law;—
Its little throes I never saw,
Although I heard it die!

Still the stone hearts that ruled the place
Let me not kiss my darling's face,
My little darling dead;
Oh! I was mad with rage and hate,
And yet all sullenly I sate,
And not a word I said.

I would not stay, I could not bear
To breathe the same infected air
That kill'd my precious child;
I watch'd my time, and fled away
The livelong night, the livelong day,
With fear and anguish wild:

Till down upon a river's bank,
Twenty leagues off, fainting, I sank,
And only long'd to die;
I had no hope, no home, no friend,
No God!—I sought but for an end
To life and misery.

Ah, lightly heed the righteous few,
How little to themselves is due,
But all things given to them;
Yet the unwise, because untaught,
The wandering sheep, because unsought,
They heartlessly condemn:

417

And little can the untempted dream,
While gliding smoothly down life's stream
They keep the letter-laws,
What they would be, if, tost like me
Hopeless upon life's barren sea,
They knew how hunger gnaws.

I was half-starved, I tried in vain
To get me work my bread to gain;
Before me flew my shame;
Cold Charity put up her purse,
And none look'd on me but to curse
The daughter of ill-fame.

Alas, why need I count by links
The heavy lengthening chain that sinks
My heart, my soul, my all?
I still was fair, though hope was dead,
And so I sold myself for bread,
And lived upon my fall:

Now was I reckless, bold and bad,
My love was hate,—I grew half-mad
With thinking on my wrongs;
Disease, and pain, and giant-sin
Rent body and soul, and raged within!
Such meed to guilt belongs.

And what I was,—such still am I;
Afraid to live, unfit to die,—
And yet I hoped I might
Meet my best friend and lover—Death
In the fierce frowns and frozen breath
Of this December night.

418

My tale is told: my heart grows cold;
I cannot stir,—yet,—kind good sir,
I know that you will stay,—
And God is kinder e'en than you,—
Can He not look with pity too
On wretched Ellen Gray?”

Her eye was fix'd; she said no more,
But propp'd against the cold street-door
She lean'd her fainting head;
One moment she look'd up and smiled
Full of new hope, as Mercy's child,
—And Ellen Gray was dead.

Charity.

Fair Charity, thou rarest, best, and brightest!
Who would not gladly hide thee in his heart,
With all thine angel-guests? for thou delightest
To bring such with thee,—guests that ne'er depart;
Cherub, with what enticement thou invitest,
Perfect in winning beauty as thou art,
World-wearied man to plant thee in his bosom
And graft upon his cares thy balmy blossom.

Fain would he be frank-hearted, generous, cheerful,
Forgiving, aiding, loving, trusting all,—
But knowledge of his kind has made him fearful,
All are not friends, whom friends he longs to call;

419

For prudence makes men cold, and misery tearful,
And interest bids them rise upon his fall,
And while they seek their selfish own to cherish,
They leave the wounded stag alone to perish.

Man may rejoice that thy sweet influence hallows
His intercourse with all he loves—in heaven:
But canst thou make him love his sordid fellows,
And mix with them untainted by their leaven?
How can he not grow cautious, cold, and callous,
When he forgives to seventy-times seven,
And still-repeated wrongs, unwept for, harden
The heart that's never sued nor sought to pardon?

Reserve's cold breath has chill'd each warmer feeling,
Ingratitude has frozen up his blood,
Unjust neglect has pierced him, past all healing,
And scarr'd a heart that panted to do good;
Slowly, but surely, has distrust been steeling
His mind, much wronged, and little understood:
Would charity unseal affection's fountain?
Alas! 'tis crush'd beneath a marble mountain.

Yet the belief that he was loved by other
Could root and hurl that mountain in the sea,
Oblivion's depth the height of ill would smother,
And all forgiven, all forgotten be;
Man then could love his once injurious brother
With such a love as none can give but he;
The sun of love, and that alone has power
To bring to bright perfection love's sweet flower.

420

Soft rains, and zephyrs, and warm noons can vanquish
The stubborn tyranny of winter's frost;
Once more the smiling valleys cease to languish,
Drest out in fresher beauties than they lost:
So springs with gladness from its bed of anguish
The heart that loved not, when reviled and crost,
But, once beloved,—oh then not once but often
Love's sunny smile the rockiest heart will soften.

To my Book, “Prouerbial Philosophy,”

Before Publication; 1837.

My soul's own son, dear image of my mind,
I would not without blessing send thee forth
Into the bleak wide world, whose voice unkind
Perchance will mock at thee as nothing worth;
For the cold critic's jealous eye may find
In all thy purposed good little but ill,
May taunt thy simple garb as quaintly wrought,
And praise thee for no more than the small skill
Of masking as thine own another's thought:
What then?—count envious sneers as less than nought:
Fair is thine aim, and, having done thy best,
Lo, thus I bless thee; yea, thou shalt be blest!

421

To the same,

AFTER PUBLICATION.

That they have praised thee well, and cheer'd thee on
With kinder tones than critics deign to few,
Child of my thoughts, my fancy's favourite son,
Our courteous thanks, our heartfelt thanks are due.
Despise not thou thine equal's honest praise;
Yet feast not of such dainties; thou shalt rue
Their sweetness else; let rather generous pride
Those golden apples straightly spurn aside,
And gird thee all unshackled to the race:
On to the goal of honour, fair beginner,
A thousand ducats thou shalt yet be winner!

To the same,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION.

Yet once again, not after many days
Since first I dared this voyage in the dark,
Borne on the prosperous gale of good men's praise
To the wide waters I commit mine ark,
And bid God speed thy venture, gallant bark!
For I have launch'd thee on a thousand prayers,
Freighted thee well with all my mind and heart,—
And if some contraband error unawares
Like Achan's wedge, lie hid in any part,
Stand it condemn'd, as it most justly ought:
Yet be the thinker spared, if not his thought;
For he that with a honest purpose errs
Merits more kind excuse than the shrewd world confers.

422

Wedding Gifts.

FOR MUSIC.

Young bride,—a wreath for thee!
Of sweet and gentle flowers;
For wedded love was pure and free
In Eden's happy bowers.

Young bride,—a song for thee!
A song of joyous measure,
For thy cup of hope shall be
Fill'd with honied pleasure.

Young bride,—a tear for thee!
A tear in all thy gladness;
For thy young heart shall not see
Joy unmix'd with sadness.

Young bride,—a smile for thee!
To shine away thy sorrow,
For heaven is kind to-day, and we
Will hope as well to-morrow.

Young bride,—a prayer for thee!
That, all thy hopes possessing,
Thy soul may praise her God, and He
May crown thee with His blessing.

Children.

Harmless, happy little treasures,
Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Richest wealth, and purest pleasures
In this mean and guilty earth,

423

How I love you, pretty creatures,
Lamb-like flock of little things,
Where the love that lights your features
From the heart in beauty springs:

On these laughing rosy faces
There are no deep lines of sin,
None of passion's dreary traces
That betray the wounds within;

But yours is the sunny dimple
Radiant with untutor'd smiles,
Yours the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles;

Yours the natural curling tresses,
Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
Tottering steps, and kind caresses,
Pure with health, and warm with joy.

The dull slaves of gain, or passion
Cannot love you as they should,
The poor worldly fools of fashion
Would not love you if they could:

Write them childless, those cold-hearted,
Who can scorn Thy generous boon,
And whose souls with fear have smarted,
Lest—Thy blessings come too soon.

While he hath a child to love him
No man can be poor indeed,
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need.

424

But for thee, whose hearth is lonely
And unwarm'd by children's mirth,
Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth:

All unkiss'd by innocent beauty,
All unloved by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Childless one, how poor thou art!

Reserve.

Thou dark and frozen fiend, Love's mortal bane,
Lethargic poison of the moral sense,
Killing those high-soul'd children of the brain
Warm enterprise and noble confidence,
Fly from my threshold, traitor, get thee hence!
Without thee, we are open, cheerful, kind,
Mistrusting none but self, injurious self,
Of and to others wishing only good;
With thee, suspicions crowd the gloomy mind,
Suggesting all the world a viperous brood,
That acts a base bad part in hope of pelf:
Virtue stands shamed, Truth mute misunderstood,
Honour unhonour'd, Courage lacking nerve,
Beneath thy dull domestic curse, Reserve!

Home.

FRAGMENTS OF A POSSIBLE EPIC.

Home, happy word, dear England's ancient boast,
Thou strongest castle on her sea-girt coast,
Thou full fair name for comfort, love, and rest,
Haven of refuge found and peace possest,
Oasis in the desert, star of light
Spangling the dreary dark of this world's night,
All-hallow'd spot of angel-trodden ground
Where Jacob's ladder plants its lowest round,
Imperial realm amid the slavish world,
Where Freedom's banner ever floats unfurl'd,

429

Fair island of the blest, earth's richest wealth,
Her plague-struck body's little all of health,—
Home, gentle name, I woo thee to my song,
To thee my praise, to thee my prayers belong;
Inspire me with thy beauty, bid me teem
With gracious musings worthy of my theme!
Spirit of Love, the soul of Home thou art,
Fan with divinest thoughts my kindling heart;
Spirit of Power, in prayers thine aid I ask,
Uphold me, bless me to my holy task;
Spirit of Truth, guide thou my wayward wing:
Love, Power, and Truth, be with me while I sing.[OMITTED]

The Wife.

Behold, how fair of eye, and mild of mien,
Walks forth of marriage yonder gentle queen:
What chaste sobriety whene'er she speaks,
What glad content sits smiling on her cheeks,
What plans of goodness in that bosom glow,
What prudent care is throned upon her brow,
What tender truth in all she does or says,
What pleasantness and peace in all her ways!
For ever blooming on that cheerful face
Home's best affections grow divine in grace;
Her eyes are ray'd with love, serene and bright;
Charity wreathes her lips with smiles of light;
Her kindly voice hath music in its notes;
And Heaven's own atmosphere around her floats![OMITTED]

430

Days gone by.

Though we charge to-day with fleetness,
Though we dread to-morrow's sky,
There's a melancholy sweetness
In the name of days gone by:

Yes, though Time has laid his finger
On them, still with streaming eye
There are spots where I can linger
Sacred to the days gone by.

Oft as memory's glance is ranging
Over scenes that cannot die,
Then I feel that all is changing,
Then I weep the days gone by:

Sorrowful should I be, and lonely,
Were not all the same as I,
'Tis for all, not my lot only,
To lament the days gone by.

Cease, fond heart,—to thee are given
Hopes of better things on high,
There is still a coming heaven
Better than the days gone by;

434

Faith lifts off the sable curtain
Hiding huge eternity,
Hope accounts her prize as certain,
And forgets the days gone by;

Love, in grateful adoration
Bids distrust and sorrow fly,
And with glad anticipation
Calms regret for days gone by.

1830.

The Crisis.

Hush—O heaven! a moment more,
A breath, a step, and all is o'er;
Hark—beneath the waters wild,
Save, O mercy, save my child.

Swiftly from her heaving breast
The mother tore the snowy vest,—
Her little truant saw and smiled,
Turn'd,—and mercy saved the child.

Thus, the face of love can win
Where fear is weak to scare from sin;
Thus, when faith and conscience slept,
Jesus look'd,—and Peter wept.

1829.

435

Lament.—1837.

Alas! poor Muse, thy songs are out of time;
Thy lot hath fallen on an iron age,
When unrelenting war the sordid wage
Against thee,—counting it no venial crime
To fling down in thy cause the champion's gage,
And utterly scorning him, who dares to rhyme:
O that thy thoughts had fill'd an earlier page,
And won the favouring ears of holier men!
Whose spirits might with thee have soar'd sublime
Far above selfish Mammon's crowded den:
Thou hadst been more at home, and happier then:
Yet be thou of good courage; there are still
Those “left sev'n thousand,” whose affections will
Yearn on thy little good, and pardon thy much ill.

Down with Foreign Priestcraft.—1851.

Christian England! where so long
Freedom's trumpet, clear and strong,
Still has stirr'd the patriot song—
Down with foreign priestcraft!
England! Truth's own island-nest,
Pure Religion's happy rest,
Ever shall thy sons protest
Down with foreign priestcraft!

436

What! shall these Italian knaves
Dream again to make us slaves
From our cradles to our graves
With their foreign priestcraft?
Out on every false pretence!
Common right and common sense
Shout against such insolence
Down with foreign priestcraft!

Aye,—insidious fawning foe,
Little as you thought it so,
England's wrath is all aglow,
Scorning foreign priestcraft—
Take our Jesuits, if you will,
England's heart rejects their ill,
And her mouth is thundering still,
Down with foreign priestcraft!

Hark! in ancient warmth and worth,
East and west and south and north,
Flies the loyal spirit forth,
Loathing foreign priestcraft;
Evermore with Rome to cope,
We will bate nor heart nor hope,
But our shout shall stun the Pope,
Down with foreign priestcraft!

444

Six American Ballads.

1849.

I.— To Brother Jonathan.

Ho! Brother, I'm a Britisher,
A chip of heart of oak
That wouldn't warp or swerve or stir
From what I thought or spoke,—
And you—a blunt and honest man,
Straightforward, kind, and true,
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you're a Briton too.

I know your heart, an open heart,
I read your mind and will,
A greyhound ever on the start
To run for honour still;
And shrewd to scheme a likely plan,
And stout to see it done,
I tell you, Brother Jonathan,
That you and I are one!

There may be jealousies and strife,
For men have selfish ends,
But petty quarrels ginger life,
And help to season friends;

445

And pundits who, with solemn scan,
Judge humans most aright,
Decide it, testy Jonathan,
That brothers always fight.

Two fledgling sparrows in one nest
Will chirp about a worm,
Then how should eaglets meekly rest,
The children of the storm?
No! while their rustled pinions fan
The eyrie's dizzy side,
Like you and me, my Jonathan,
It's all for Love and Pride!

“God save the Queen” delights you still,
And “British Grenadiers,”
The good old strains your heartstrings thrill,
And catch you by both ears;
And we,—O hate us if you can,
For we are proud of you,
We like you, Brother Jonathan,
And “Yankee Doodle” too!

There's nothing foreign in your face,
Nor strange upon your tongue,
You come not of another race
From baser lineage sprung;
No, brother! though away you ran,
As truant boys will do,
Still true it is, young Jonathan,
My fathers father'd you.

446

Time was,—it wasn't long ago,
Your grandsire went with mine
To battle traitors, blow for blow,
For England's royal line;
Or tripp'd to court to kiss Queen Anne,
Or worship mighty Bess,
And you and I, good Jonathan,
Went with them then, I guess.

Together both,—'twas long ago,
Among the Roses fought,
Or charging fierce the Paynim foe
Did all knight-errants ought:
As Cavalier or Puritan
Together pray'd or swore,
For John's own Brother Jonathan
Was only John of yore!

There lived a man, a man of men,
A King on fancy's throne,
We ne'er shall see his like again,
The globe is all his own;
And, if we claim him of our clan,
He half belongs to you,
For Shakspeare, happy Jonathan,
Is yours and Britain's too!

There was another glorious name,
A poet for all time,
Who gain'd the double-first of fame,
The beautiful-sublime;

447

And let us hide him as we can,
More miserly than pelf,
Our Yankee brother Jonathan
Cries halves in Milton's self!

Well, well: and every praise of old,
That makes us famous still,
You would be just, and may be bold
To share it if you will,—
Since England's glory first began,
Till—just the other day,
The half is yours! but, Jonathan,
Why did you run away?

O Brother, could we both be one
In nation and in name,
How gladly would the very sun
Lie basking in our fame!
In either world to lead the van
And go ahead for good,
While earth to John and Jonathan
Yields tribute gratitude!

Add but your stripes and golden stars
To brave St. George's cross,
And never dream of mutual wars
Two dunces' mutual loss;
Let us two bless where others ban,
And love when others hate,
And so, my cordial Jonathan,
We'll fit, I calculate.

448

What more? I touch not holier strings
A loftier strain to win,
Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings,
Or heavenly kith or kin;
As friend with friend, and man with man,
O let our hearts be thus,
As David's love to Jonathan,
Be Jonathan's to us!

II.— “Ye Thirty noble Nations.”

Ye Thirty noble Nations
Confederate in One!
That keep your starry stations
Around the Western Sun,—
I have a glorious mission,
And must obey the call,—
A claim! and a petition!
To set before you All.

Away with party blindness,
Away with petty spite!
My Claim is one of Kindness,
My Prayer is one of Right;
And while in grace ye listen,—
For tenderness, I know
Your eyes shall dim and glisten,
Your hearts shall thrill and glow.

449

For, on those hearts is written
The spirit of my song,—
I claim your love for Britain,
In spite of every wrong!
I claim it for—your mother,
Your sister, and your spouse,
Your father, friend, and brother,
The “Hector” of your vows!

In spite of all the evils
That statesmen ever brew'd,
Or busy printers'-devils,
Or Celtic gratitude,—
In spite of politicians
And diplomatic fuss,
Your feelings and traditions
Are cordially with us!

O yes! your recollections
Look back with streaming eye
To pour those old affections
On scenes and days gone by;
Your Eagle well remembers
His dear old island-nest,
And sorrow stirs the embers
Of love within his breast!

Ah! need I tell of places
You dream and dwell on still?
Those old familiar faces
Of English vale and hill,—

450

The sites you think of, sobbing,
And seek as pilgrims seek,
With brows and bosoms throbbing
And tears upon your cheek!

Or should I touch on glories
That date in ages gone,
Those dear historic stories
When England's fame was won,—
The tales your children thronging
So gladly hear you tell,
And note their father's longing,
And love that longing well!

For language, follies, fashions,
Religion, honour, shame,
And human loves and passions,
Oh! we are just the same;
You, you are England, growing
To Continental state,
And we Columbia, glowing
With all that makes you great!

Yes, Anglo-Saxon brother,
I see your heart is right,—
And we will warm each other
With all our loves alight;
In feeling and in reason
My Claim is stow'd away,—
And kissing is in season
For ever and a day!—

451

And now in frank contrition,
O brother mine, give heed,—
And hear the just Petition
My feeble tongue would plead;
I plead across the waters,
So deeply crimson-stain'd,
For Afric's sons and daughters
Whom freemen hold enchain'd!

I taunt you not unkindly
With ills you didn't make,
I would not wish you blindly
In haste the bond to break;
But tenderly and truly
To file away the chain,
And render justice duly
To Man's Estate again!

O judge ye how degrading,—
A Christian bought and sold!
And human monsters trading
In human flesh for gold!
When ruthlessly they plunder
Poor Afric's homes defiled,
And all to sell—asunder!
The mother, and her child.

O free and fearless Nation,
Wipe out this damning spot,
Earth's worst abomination,
And nature's blackest blot;

452

Begin and speed the rather
To help with hand and eye
The children of your Father
Beneath His tropic sky.

He—He who form'd and frees us
And makes us white within,
Who knows how Holy Jesus
May love that tinted skin!
For none can tell how darkly
The sun of Jewry shed
Its burning shadows starkly
On Jesu's homeless head!

And lo! One great salvation
Hath burst upon the World,—
And God's Illumination
Like noonday shines unfurl'd;
Shall bonds or colour pale it?
Candace's Eunuch—say!—
The first, though black, to hail it,
And love the Gospel Day!

Columbia, well I note it,
That half your sons are strong
Against this ill, and vote it
A folly and a wrong;
Yet, lurks there not a loathing,
Aye, with your best inclined,
Against that sable clothing
Of Man's own heart and mind?

453

I charge you by your power,
Your freedom and your fame,
To speed the blessed hour
That wipes away this Shame:
By all life's hopes and wishes
And fears beyond the grave,
Renounce these blood-bought riches,
And frankly free the slave!

So let whatever threaten,
While God is on our side,
Columbia and Britain
The world shall well divide,—
Divide?—No! in one tether
Of Anglo-Saxon might
We'll hold the world together
In peace and love and right!

III.— John's Rejoinder.

Buzzah for guessing—brother mine!
I guess'd we loved each other;
Huzzah! I scarce can drop a line
Without the tag of—brother;
Huzzah! for all the kind Replies
Wherewith you bless and love me,—
They thrill my heart and fill my eyes
With thanks to God above me!

454

From East to West, from North to South,
Through all your boundless regions,
The staves that tumble from my mouth
Have stirr'd your thousand legions;
Have made the hearts of women ache,
The minds of men to flutter,
Because you felt before I spake
The words that I would utter!

You felt that Britain loved you still,
Your foolish fond old mother,—
And gave her,—not against your will,—
The love you cannot smother!
You felt that you, though new, are Old
As England's ancient glories,—
You throbb'd to feel your triumphs told
In all her strains and stories!

O yes! dear brethren o'er the sea,
Your verses, loves, and letters
Have been a mix'd account with me
Where both of us are debtors;
I owe you gratitude and praise
For gratitude and praises,
And when in thanks your heart you raise
His thanks my heart upraises!

Not that, good Jonathan, we try
The game of mutual scratching,—
You, Yankee true, and John Bull I
Breed fowls of purer hatching;

455

We tell the truth; not less nor more;
So be it kindly spoken;
For thus, no heart was e'er made sore,
No head was ever broken.

When Pegasus I sit astride
I fill my saddle squarely,—
No fence so high, no ditch so wide,
But I will take it fairly;
I hate the nambypamby plan
Of lounging upon pillions,—
What I would say to one plain man
I'll sing to fifty millions!

No truckling tricks will do for us,
The this-and-that-way swerving;
If John is pleased to praise you thus,
It's that you're well-deserving:
But should he fawn your faults forsooth?
Such meanness—I abhor it,—
No,—since in love I speak the truth,
Come, kiss your brother for it!

Now, lately, with a faithful hand
I touch'd, in love and lightness,
The one black spot upon your land,
The shadow to your brightness;
I know how hard it is to cure
That sore,—and how you rue it,—
But, Jonathan, of this I'm sure,
You'll soon and somehow—do it!

456

More haste, less speed; so speed apace,
As prudent duty bids you;
'Twill be indeed a year of grace
That of this scandal rids you:
The land of liberty and light,
The Beacon on the Waters,
Shall soon be quit of blame and blight
For Afric's sons and daughters!

You best know how, and why, and when;
For us, we cannot teach you;
But simply,—by the rights of Men
And Women,—we beseech you!
Take copy, brother, only here,—
By Britain's good intentions;
For all beside a conscience clear
We've got but bad inventions!

Our faults were haste, and wanton waste,
Disinterested ruin!
Don Quixote stood to tilt for good,
And lo! his own undoing:
But, Jonathan, a shrewder man,
A very early riser,—
I credit you to find a plan
To manage matters wiser!

The wise, my Jonathan, he knows
That all things here need mending;
And best of friends are always those
Who never fear offending;

457

O blind, and halt, and full of fault
Are men of every nation,
Then how should we, true friend, be free
From that which dims Creation?

Never again shall we two part
In hatred or rejection,—
Nor ever meet, but either heart
Shall beat with true affection;
Our “brother banners” we will rear
For Fatherland and Sonland,
Because, Columbia near and dear,
We twain are truly one-land!

Aye, Jonathan,—take John for this,
Your brother staunch and steady,
The very mind and man, I wis,
To like old “Rough and Ready!”
Then—cheers for Taylor,—great and wise
Because un-glory-bitten,—
And—yes, I see it in your eyes,
Nine more for Vic. and Britain!

458

IV.— The “International.”

Charles Lester! a noble and generous mind,
I pray you to print what I send you,
Nor count it a matter unwise and unkind,
Because to your face I commend you;
I love what I love, and I hate what I hate,
And I speak what I choose to be spoken,
As free as your free and imperial state,
And as cordial—by the same token.

To-day I've concluded to throw into rhyme
A welcome to this your endeavour
To bind in a friendship sincere and sublime
Two nations for ever and ever!
Two nations? why two? They are one, true and fast,
A Mother, well-blest in a Daughter;
The bygones of both are in ages long past,
Their future is—over the water.

You know me of old, a “proverbial” friend,
A “pyramid-climber” and “poet,”
Of great “probabilities” some to offend,
And “heart” enough always to show it;
With a small “crock of gold,” an “authorial mind,”
And “twins,” and a rare lot of ba-bi-es,
And a spirit [not wife] that was never confined,
Except with poetical ra-bi-es.

459

So, trust me to speak to the toast of to-day,—
“Your New International! vivat!”
A very good thought, let a Britisher say,
For Jonathan's mind to arrive at:
I wot not, how should I? the name that you give
To your frank and fraternal endeavour;
But, liking the fancy, I shout, “May it live,
With editor Lester, for ever!”

You'll see me some day, (and I may as well fling
This advertisement into your pages,)
A homesick, and seasick, and travelsick thing
Haul'd over to visit your sages!
Your Irving, and Willis, and Webster, and Poe;
Your Longfellow, Bryant, and Prescott,
And fifty good fellows I'm longing to know,
With each a good heart in his waistcoat.

There's Fuller besides, and Sigourney, and Childs,
And all of the rest of the Muses;
And Stephens, released from his Yucatan wilds,
And Dana, forgetting his cruises;
And “Puritan fathers” and sons by the score,
And many a friendly Far-Wester;
And Abbot and Anthon, and three dozen more,
Dodge, Matthews, and Edwards, and—Lester.

Then bless us! I want to be going to Court
To pay my respects to king Taylor:
Don't kill him, good Brutus! 'Twas only in sport,
So don't let it make you look paler;

460

No king, but a colleague of highminded men
Set over your heads for good reason,
To pilot the state and be captain,—and then
To come Cincinnatus in season.

I'm a Tory, you know, and a monarchy man,
And think that “legitimate” steering
Is something more shipshape and sailorlike than
Con-tin-u-al e-lect-ion-eer-ing:
Yet, honestly, brother, I hardly see how
Your fathers could well have done better
Than choose their own rulers, as you do it now,
Without the old royalist fetter.

So, say to your Governor, say it for me,
That Jonathan's brother salutes him;
And wishes him honour; and glad will he be
To pay him as much,—when it suits him:
I'm free as you see; and enlighten'd, a few,—
For I dare to call no man my master:
So, Lester, I sympathise truly with you,
Remaining your warm poetaster.

461

V.— A Stave for the South.

I knew it, I guess'd it! you do what you can;
It's hardly your fault if you can't:
You wish better things; but a man is but Man,
And often must wait and must want:
For System, and matters and things as they are
Have order'd and settled it so,
That we who are judging your case from afar
Know little—how little we know!

Aye, glad would ye be, (let me credit you this,)
If on your American shore
Slavery never had been as it is,
And never should be any more!
But how to get rid of so ancient an ill,
And safely and sagely to heal
A canker so deep, is the mystery still,
And who shall its riddle reveal?

Moreover,—and, Conscience, I give thee this nudge,
A sinner, but yesterday shriven,
How dare he set up in the seat of the judge
The culprit so lately forgiven?
But yesterday, half Britain's colonies rung
With slavery's echoing chain,—
And ill it becomes us with Pharisee tongue
To mock at a planter again!

462

Yet more: for that planter's own father—and our's,
This sin as a legacy left,
A fly in the ointment, a snake in the flowers,
An Achan's inherited theft!
O Britain, thy child, thy Columbian child
Received at thy step-mother hand
The gain—or the curse, that we hold him defiled
If he leaves, as he found, in the land!

And well do I gather, O friends in the South,
That zealots dishonestly rave
With bitter intent and a slanderous mouth
Of the woes that you deal to the slave;
Not cruel, not careless of body or mind,
Not heartless, nor heedless are ye,—
But good and true masters, indulgent and kind,
Aye, kinder than we to the free!

For sadly I note that on Liberty's coast
The Briton may starve at his toil,
Though loud be profession, and principle's boast
That here are no serfs of the soil!
Ah, tell me how freedom is freedom, if Life
Depends upon servitude stern?
And perishing children and famishing wife
Live only so long as you earn?

No! words are not things: unfairly we speak
As if freedom were freedom indeed;
While pallid and hollow is poverty's cheek,
And deeply her bosom doth bleed:

463

Let Britain and Erin and all the world o'er,
Though boasting of liberty still,
Be humble and dumb, when the weak and the poor
Drain Slavery's bitterest ill!

And more: for of old a mysterious curse
Dark Canäan mark'd for its prey;
And Prophecy knew that their lot should be worse,
“The servants of servants” are they!
And if the glad Gospel has scatter'd that harm
With a Catholic message of peace,
It is not at once that it shatters the charm
And calls on the sorrow to cease!

So then, loving brother! consider my speech;
I judge not; I dare not condemn;
But let the great nations of History teach
How slavery's curse ruin'd them!
Let Babylon, Persia, and Athens, and Tyre,
And Egypt, and Carthage, and Rome,
Declare the dark doom that they saw drawing nigher,
As slavery swarm'd in the home!

With shame I confess that so late and so long
We, Britons and Christians and all,
Against our Father and brethren did wrong
By holding those brethren in thrall:
Yet now have we turn'd from the sin and the shame
And tenderly pray and expect
The child whom we love to do sagely the same
Before he be ruin'd and wreck'd!

464

Move wisely and warily; haste is but waste
Of mercy, and safety, and wealth:
Remember that prudence was never misplaced,
And good may be compass'd by stealth:
For Prudence is Providence all the world o'er,
And wiser than we were, be ye;
Teach, train, and instruct, ere you open the door
To let the born bondman go free.

In wisdom and mercy, redeem when you can;
Let good willing service be paid;
Remember the rights and the wrongs of a Man,
And that “of one blood we are made;”
Hold sacred Affections, in black as in white;
No babe from the mother divide;
And welcome, as friendly, Religion's true Light;
And lay the red lashes aside!

Then, in the full season, with caution and care
Join England in freeing the slave;
And all the degenerate world shall not dare
Take from him the gift that we gave!
If glorious Columbia with Britain unite
In killing this hydra of earth,
Oh! Man shall have gain'd more of Good and of Right,
Than all California's worth!

465

VI.— “Yet once again.”

Yet once again, my Jonathan!
Your loving brother greets you,
To do you all the good he can,
Yes, every time he meets you;
To speak with true and tender tongue,
Not like a scolding Stentor,
But (though a year or so too young)
A frank and faithful Mentor.

See! from my tassell'd wrist upsprings
No falcon with its jesses,
But a fair dove, whose silver wings
Were made for soft caresses;
Right glad the olive-branch to bear
Across the sounding ocean,
And find a welcome everywhere
In every heart's emotion!

And here to-day my carrier dove
Is burden'd with a packet,
Which, well inscribed with peace and love,
Has justice too to back it;
For many sterner souls there be
Who nurse their wrongs intently,
And well it were, if all, like me,
Could judge and chide you gently.

They say,—aye, many sorts of men,
In bitterness they say it,—
You borrow'd of the world, and then
Resolve you won't repay it;

466

That sundry of the thirty States
Which heap your giant nation,
Disgrace their honourable mates
By rank “Repudiation.”

They say,—and make believe you say,—
“What fools they were to lend it;
We calculate that everyway
They gave it us to spend it:
And since it's sunk in road and rail,
Canal, and dock, and clearing,—
Our creditors are out of hail,
And we'll be hard of hearing!”

I don't believe it, Jonathan;
You're wiser, truer, better:
I know you'll pay us when you can,
And blush to be a debtor:
Not Illinois, nor Michigan,
Florida, nor Arkansas,
Nor Mississippi, to a man,
Would give such shabby answers:

I don't believe it; never did;
I'd buy your stocks to-morrow;
I only wish my purse could bid
For all that you can borrow;
I'd lend in faith and patience too,
But cannot quite afford it,—
Because in lending cash to you
I know we do but hoard it.

467

For, men must wait at any rate
(It stands to rhyme and reason,)
Till Labour in a rising State
Produces in its season;
Till banks, canals, and roads, and rails
Are well in working order,
And better hap and prosperous gales
Are every one's rewarder.

Now then!—Behold that better hap!
A mighty store of treasure
Is pour'd into Columbia's lap
In Californian measure;
Commerce, and labour, land, and gold,
And spirited migration
Now bless your shores an hundredfold
And—shame Repudiation!

Up, worthies all! up, kindly stock!
Up, all my honest hearties!
And bring to shame's own whipping-block
The few defaulting parties:
Why should a tythe of all your States
Throw scorn upon the others,
And lay dishonour'd debts as rates
Upon their better brothers?

No! ten long years is long enough
Without a longer dating:
And times are smooth that once were rough,
And all the world's awaiting:

468

And many sneers at Jonathan
Will no more get a hearing,
And spite have lived its little span
In bygone pamphleteering:

And many a widow's heart for joy
Will brighten into gladness,—
And many an orphan girl and boy
Forget their years of sadness,—
And many an honest poor old man
Shall have outlived his ruin,
If you, my brother Jonathan,
Be only up and doing!

Pull one, pull all! and break away
From this reproachful halter,
Let not one witling have to say,
One Yankee's a defaulter:
Kick out the rogues, if rogues there be;
Why should they blot your brightness?
And let all Europe shout to see
Your honour and uprightness!

O children of a noble race,
Go on and prosper greatly!
I love your Anglo-Saxon face,
A British face so lately:
Let Spain alone be found in fraud,
And scorn be found upon her;
But stand with us, and blaze abroad
In Anglo-Saxon honour!

ΘΕΩ ΔΟΞΑ.