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.

The Anglo-Saxon Race.

England's Welcome to the World.

A Hymn for all Nations.

Britain, to Columbia.

Dieu, et mon Droit.

The Great Exhibition of 1851.

The Poet's Mission.

God bless the Queen.

The Moon and Moonshine.

“Nobody Feels or Cares!”

The “Clameur de Haro.”

Mont Orgueil: Jersey.

Come as you are.

St. Helier's Hermitage, Jersey.

St. Paul's, of St. Helena.

Rajah Brooke.

Low Spirits.

Fortitude.

“How much worse it might haue been!”

A Night-sail in the Race of Alderney,

The Manchester Athenæum.

Genius and Friends.

The Kingston Coronation Stone.

“The Lamp upon the Railway Engine.”

“God preserue the Queen!”

A Ballad for the Prince Alfred;

A National Anthem for Liberia in Africa.

The Liberian Beacon.

Courage!

A National Prayer against the Cholera.

A Prayer for the Land.

Praise!

“Liberty—Equality—Fraternity!”

King Veric.

Soho!

Reuisiting Charterhouse,

The Sisters.

Energy.

“Non Angli sed Angeli.”

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.