Lyrics: By Martin F. Tupper :: :: University of Virginia Library

Again, THUS FAR: the world goes whirling on,
And each man's life is full of chance and change,
While all withal that seem'd so new and strange
Looks like an old familiar soon as done:
So must the Soul, that up and down doth range
Restless and energetic, set up straight
Its Runic record ever and anon,
Or pile its cairn of pebbles, one by one,
To mark the ways that lead to Duty's gate;
And I, much musing in mine ivied grange,
Thankful for life at such a busy time,
And earnest, though much erring every way,
Often fling out my way-side heap of rhyme
To rest some wearied traveller, as it may.

These Days.

Haste! the poor old Earth is dying,—
Do God service while you can;
Haste! too hurriedly is flying
All this halcyon chance of man;
Haste! for Time shall be no longer,—
All Creation's weepings tend
In a rapid ever stronger
To that cataract, The End!

Lo! the cycled years revolving
Turn to their first goal again,—
Every Sphynx-enigma solving,
Every riddle reading plain;
All things speak to man sublimely
With Apocalyptic mouth,
Nature's consummation timely
Telling out from North to South!

Yea, what privilege and gladness
Dwell with modern men and things,
Vainly waited for in sadness
By old prophets and old kings!
Children see what sages doubted,
Peasants know what patriarchs guess'd,—
And the sword of Truth has routed
Every lie from East to West.

Ancient wrongs are being righted,—
Ancient rights lift up the head;
Savage realms and tribes benighted
Rise to life as from the dead;
Ignorance is out of season,
Wickedness is glad to hide,—
Nothing stands but faith and reason,
Nothing falls but sin and pride.

We, in days so full and fleeting,
Spend our lives on eagles' wings,
Throng'd by marvels marvels meeting,
Flock'd about by wondrous things;
Every day the whole world's history
Spread out map-like stirs the mind,
Every day some ripen'd mystery
Stands consummate for mankind!

Nineveh with ghostly message
Rises from her mounded graves;
Polar Ice has clued the Passage
Winding through its hummock'd waves;
Saurian monsters crawl before us,—
Storms their whirling laws avow,—
All Creation shouts in chorus
“Nothing shall be secret now!”

Earth's forgotten wastes and corners,
Peopled thick through gold broadcast,
Tell the scoffers and the scorners
How she is “subdued” at last;
God commands; and nothing frees us
Till that word we all obey,—
Even China bows to Jesus,
Even Africa doth pray!

Ravel-skeins of old beginnings
Tapestried around the Cross,—
And Creation's final winnings
Well outbalancing her loss,—
All subdued, and all replenish'd,
All things sealing up the sum,
Preach, how nearly It is finish'd,
Tell how soon the Christ may come!

The Heart's Harvest.

How little we know of each other!
How lightly and loosely are known!
How seldom is brother with brother
The same as he is when alone!
Though relatives round a man gather,
Though cordial he seem with his friend,
Not even the child and its father
As spirit with spirit can blend.

The depths of a man are not sounded,
The heights of his thoughts are not seen,
The breadth of his feelings unbounded
Is veil'd by Society's screen;
We none of us heed what a greatness
Is hidden away in the Heart
That, mask'd in a well-bred sedateness,
Is playing its company part.

O Soul! that in solitude yearnest
For tenderer knowledge of friends,
The intimate, honest, and earnest,
Untainted by Self and its ends,—
Alas! for the lies of romances,
And stolid reality's truth;
Alas! for the generous fancies
That gladden'd a man in his youth!

Not here, where in spirit thou starvest,
Athirst for the flagons of love,
Not here—is the happy heart-harvest
That gladdens the blessed above;
In heavenly meads we may reap it,—
But now the heart's garden is found
With scarcely one flower to keep it
Mapp'd out from the wilderness round!

Those “spirits made perfect” in glory!
I long their companion to be,—
That Love's ever-musical story
Be sung by those reapers—and me;
That Heart may discover its treasures
Unfearing, to dear ones above,
And all the full harvest of pleasures
Be reap'd by the Spirit of Love!

Human Life.

By the waste of toil and treasure
For so slender gains,—
By the poor amount of pleasure
Bought of many pains,—
By the hopes and fears unceasing
Both in turn put out,—
By the worries still increasing
With their rabble rout,—

Human Life, thou robe of Nessus!
We are clad in cares;
And the very joys that bless us
Are but snakes and snares;
And the troubles and the trials,
Somehow wisely sent,
Turn to seem pernicious vials
Pour'd in punishment!

By each vast anticipation
And its meagre fact,—
By so slight appreciation
Of each generous act,—
By the coldness, and the meanness
In too many found,—
By the hard unkindly keenness
Watching all around,—

Human Life, thou face of Gorgon!
We are harden'd up,
And each sympathetic organ
Freezes at thy cup,
And affection's purest feeling
Curdles into gall,
And Religion's touch of healing
Does not sweeten all!

By the Past,—a word of sadness
Wet with silly tears;
By the Present,—promised gladness
Cheating us for years;
By the Future,—dread enigma,
Who shall guess its truth?
By Fame's breath, and Slander's stigma
Vexing Age and Youth;—

Human Life, O bitter sweetness,
Chequer'd white and black,—
Yet dost thou achieve a meetness
Which thy children lack;
Whatsoe'er the wind or weather,
Joy it is to tell
All things work for good together
And shall yet be well!

By the thousand tints of Beauty
Dropt on every side,—
By the magic thought of Duty
Whatsoe'er betide,—
By the mercies yet about us
Little understood,
By all else within, without us,
Ministering good,—

Human Life! O wondrous story!
Full of light and shade,
Soon shalt thou be lit with glory
That can never fade;
Soon Affection and Ambition
Shall be fully blown,
And Our Life achieve its mission
On a Royal Throne!

Railway Times.

O rapid days, electric hours,
Flashing with all that kindles life,—
O shifting scene of suns and showers,—
O melodrame of love and strife,—
Such stirring racing days as these
Are all too full of strong effects
For stale simplicity to please,
Or equal what the world expects.

Time was, a wonder lived nine days,
And sorry talents grew to fame;
But now, one minute's curious gaze
Is all we give to note or name:
Glutted with news of all things strange,
We scarcely care to watch the turns
Our quick kaleidoscope of Change
Is working in the world's concerns.

The foaming river of events
Rushes adown its rocky steep,
And causes, facts, and consequents
Are hurl'd together in a heap,
And keen Excitement's rainbow light
Hangs iridescent o'er the fall
Of waters rushing in their might,
Solemnly overwhelming all,—

Ay,—a Niagara-life is ours!
No rest, but ever hurried on
By the great deep's gigantic powers,
By the strong wind Euroclydon,—
Yea, by the mighty flood of fate,
Yea, by the gale of human crimes
We speed along, as if “too late”
Were the great terror of the times.

The lotus-eaters all are dead;
There is no nook for quiet thought;
The halcyon birds of peace are fled,
And calm contentments come to nought;
Spur on,—spur on! our steeds are strong,
No need to spare them in the pace;
With reckless energy headlong
We all resolve to win the race.

O day of hot competing strife!
O crowded scene of struggling sin!
What chance of any prize in life
Has any tyro battling in?
The rarest worth wins little gold;
Wisdom has barely wit to live;
What chance, compared with calms of old,
Does all our hurly-burly give?

What chance?—my counsel is, keep still;
They do not drown who lie afloat,—
And quietness sets free the will
To pilot well the crankest boat;
And,—he that stands aloof from strife,
Calmly resolved to thread the maze,
Shall quell to his Success in life
The riot of these rapid days.

Each One of Us.

Man! weak insect, poor and proud,
Atom, lost amid the crowd,
Ever pushing on through life
Buffeted by sinful strife,—
Man! mere drop of all those seas,
Leaf among the forest trees,
Paltry pebble on the shore
Heap'd by myriad myriads more,—
Man! mean item in the list,
Hardly counted, little miss'd,
Unconsider'd and unknown,
Lightly cared for, left alone,
Daily toiling in thy lot,
And, when dead, remember'd not,—
Man! how evil is thy state,
Cold, and stern, and desolate!

Man! rare chrysalis of Light
Watch'd and nurst by angels bright,
Heir of Grandeurs! soon to be
Ripen'd and reveal'd in thee,—
Man! true claimant of the Skies,
Owner of Creation's prize,
Waiting meek at Glory's door,
King among ten thousand more,—
Man! great end of all beside,
To the Lord of all allied,—
Undiscover'd lump of gold,
Spring unseal'd of joys untold,
In thy duties daily blest,
And—when all are done—at Rest;
Man! how beauteous and divine
Is this low estate of thine!

Warmth.

Writer, whosoe'er thou art,
Speaker, on whatever theme,
Write and speak from heart to heart,
Truly being what you seem;
Thoughts and words alone have power
When they reach us quick and fresh,
And the spirit of the hour
Turns these stones to hearts of flesh!

Living truth, that bubbles hot,
Like a Geyser in the soul,
Boils and steams and slackens not
Till it overflows its bowl,
Strongly runs the current then,
Swiftly all the sluices fill,
And the swollen hearts of men
Are a river to thy will!

Who can wonder that in vain
Scores of dullards preach for years,
Lulling conscience to its bane
Fast asleep in hopes and fears?
All is death: each fossil thought
Word-embedded lies in clay,
And no heart is touch'd or taught
To feel, to tremble, or to pray.

It is not eloquence, nor skill,
Nor any human power or art,
That surely sways another's will,
Controls his life and cheers his heart;
It is the frank and earnest plan
Of simple truth sincerely spoken,
That breaks the spirit of a man,
Or heals it up however broken!

Seek then a living Warmth within
To work with vital force without;
Drive from thee selfishness and sin,
And force thy fervent graces out;
Then write or speak what impulse wills,
And no man shall withstand the power
That from the lip of truth distils
In quicken'd feeling's thrilling hour!

The Mingled Cup.

Happier under other skies,
—So dreams man—
Happier, link'd with other ties,
Better, worthier, and more wise,
Were Life's plan:

Anyhow but as things are,
—So man dreams—
Born beneath some kindlier star
Surely Life were nobler far
Than now seems!

Most of us are dreamers here,
Wishing a change;
Athirst to spice our common cheer,
This dull routine of daily sphere,
With new and strange.

Most are murmurers, kicking still
Against our lot;
Unbelieving God's wise will,
That portions human good and ill,
And favours not.

Discontent looks on, and longs,
Envying other;
Counting up his scars and wrongs
Each man covets what belongs
To his brother!

Meantime, Duty's leaf and flower
Both must wither;
And, for Peace of Mind,—each hour
Breeds its harpies to devour,
Flapping hither.

Then does Life, so vain at best,
Pine more weakly,
Vampires draining it of rest,
Where Contentment had been blest
Bearing meekly.

Oh! let be; thy fate is fixt,
Cast by Heaven;
Future, Past, and all betwixt
Is a chalice shrewdly mixt,—
Must and leaven:

Well fermented, weal and woe
Make soul's wine,—
And hereafter thou shalt know
How Life's bitter yeast below
Doth refine.

Earth may make thee taste her gall,
Or drink it up;
But Heaven shall make amends for all
When thou dost keep high festival
At God's own cup.

Eheu! fugaces.

The flying years! the flying years!
How rapidly they wing away,—
With all their covey'd hopes and fears
A mingled flock of grave and gay!

Look on the Past,—a dream, a dream
Of saddening thoughts and cloudy things;
Look at the Future,—does it seem
Less than a Fate with folded wings?

Look to the Present,—this indeed
Is worth our all of cost and care,
And daily bread for daily need
Is Wisdom's solitary pray'r.

A Maxim of Peace.

Never have regrets, brother,
But for sake of sin;
The treacherous heart within
All too soon forgets, brother,
How it felt, and was, in thought,
Acting out the thing it ought.

All thy will was well, brother,
Well didst thou deserve;
Circumstance might swerve,
But, the truth to tell, brother,
Consequences none foresee
Never need be cares to thee.

Always for the best, brother,
Hourly hast thou striven;
Though to be forgiven,
This shall be thy test, brother,—
Did not honest zeal obey
Duty's impulse every day?

What seem'd then so right, brother,
Let no censure now,
No unkindly brow,
Damage in thy sight, brother;
Yesterday did what it could;
Scorn not thou its humbler good!

To thyself be true, brother;
Yield not to regret;
Nor thy spirit fret
To do, or to undo, brother,
What is now beyond thy skill;
Facts are facts, say what we will.

Every Present seems, brother,
Girt about with friends;
Every Future sends
Glory to thy dreams, brother;
But we all condemn too fast
The friendless and the hopeless Past.

Scorn not what thou wast, brother,—
Trust not what thou art;
Watch thy coward heart;
Look to that thou hast, brother;
Nothing is within thy power,
But the swiftly passing hour.

Therefore do not set, brother,
Sorrow on the past;
When the die is cast
Never nurse regret, brother:
Only for thy sin be sad,
For all beside be wisely glad!

A Word of Wisdom.

Make the best of all things,
As thy lot is cast;
Whatsoe'er we call things,
All is well at last
If meanwhile in cheerful power
Patience rules the suffering hour.

Make the best of all things,—
Howsoe'er they be;
Change may well befall things,
If it's ill with thee;
And if well, this present joy
Let no future fears destroy.

Make the best of all things,—
That is Wisdom's word;
In the day of small things
Is its comfort heard,—
And its blessing soothes not less
Any heyday of success.

Make the best of all things;
Discontent's old leaven
Falsely would forestall things
Antedating heaven,—
But smile thou and rest content,
Bearing trials wisely sent.

True Nobility.

Avaunt—Exclusions cold and proud!—
Your doom is come, your day is past;
Not even Fashion dares to cast
Contempt upon the common crowd.

The lofty noble now must bend
To own his humbler brother-man,
And stoop to teach the artisan
In hope betimes to make a friend.

It will not do to stand aside;
Rank has its duties, as its dues;
The latter will we not refuse,
If met with anything but pride.

It shall not serve, that old-time plan
Of making worship cling to birth;
A magnate shorn of private worth
Is but the scorn and shame of Man.

O Rank! from nobler sires derived,
O Wealth! purse-rich but nothing more,
Grow worthier of your state and store
Or of their homage go deprived.

The time is come for truer things,
When honour, love, and all beside,
Refused to supercilious pride,
Is paid to peasants as to kings.

For both alike are brethren true,
Each in his station doing right,—
Beheld in superhuman light
God's servants, earning wages due.

None will deny the first and best,
To king and noble gladly given,
If they but live as, under Heaven,
Set in high place to help the rest:

But let them heed this mighty truth,—
(Which, for their weakness, we would ken
Indulgently as due to men
Pamper'd in age and snared in youth)—

If pride, or lust, or sloth forlorn
Dim and defile their high estate,
Our willing love is turn'd to hate,
Our ready homage smiles in scorn.

Individuality.

Measure not thyself with others,—
Heed the work thou hast to do;
Each man's duty, not his brother's,
Is his goal to keep in view:
Nature, circumstance, and station,
With what God from each exacts
As his tribute to Creation,
These decide our aims and acts.

Every creature fitly fashion'd
Hath its being's final cause;
And our minds and hearts impassion'd
Beat with individual laws:
All are various, differing measures
Fill us each with power to work,
And the spirit's special treasures
Latent in each bosom lurk.

How shouldst thou declare the causes
That have wrought thy brother thus?
Plastic Wisdom never pauses
In such modelling of us:
How canst thou suggest the reasons
For his baser life or lot?
Matter has its changing seasons,
Why should spirit vary not?

Shall the Arctic blame the Torrid?
Shall the East defame the West?
Shall the foot rebuke the forehead
That it thinks in lazy rest?
Every creature to its mission,
Every bullet to its mark,
Every man in his condition
Wanted for the Church's Ark!

Scorn not,—envy not,—and judge not:
Scorn is Folly's cruel wife;
And, for Envy,—Churl, begrudge not
Some poor brother's luck in life;
And, for Judgment,—to our Master
Singly we must stand or fall;
Life's Foreknower, and Forecaster,
Wills, and weighs, and shapes it all!

The Sense of Wrong.

Swollen torrent, dark and deep,
Rushing down the rocky steep,—
Tempest-driven cloud on high
Scudding wildly through the sky,—
Dread volcano, muttering death
From red-hot lips with burning breath,—
Scarce shall these in type reveal
What the nobler spirits feel
When, in silence stern and strong,
They wrestle with the Sense of Wrong.

Ha!—when insult hisses near,
Or scorn drops hemlock on the ear,
Or fraud has triumph'd over right,
Or gentleness is mock'd by might,
Or only, worth is seen unprized,
Or only, honour goes despised,
Then, in a whirlwind chafes along
The soul beneath a Sense of Wrong!

Yes,—Patriot of a race downtrod;
Yes, Martyr for a slander'd God;
Yes, Man of large and liberal mind
Wroth with the meanness of mankind;
Yes, all who love the lovely still,
And hate the vile with right good will,—
Your hearts can echo to my song,
And ache beneath the Sense of Wrong!

The Sense of Right.

Calm in well-deserving,
Happy at the heart,
Duty does his part
Stedfast and unswerving.

How should it affect him
If some mocking-birds
Clamour at his words,
Or the world neglect him?

Conscience is the treasure
Lock'd within his breast,—
What were all the rest
To that inner pleasure?

Brother, sunk in sorrow,
Find thy balm within,
To-day a comfort win
Before the heavenly Morrow.

Feed upon this blessing
Though thy path be rough,
Let it be enough
Such a grace possessing:

And when wrongs come near thee
Crowding to the fight,
Let the Sense of Right
Make thee strong and cheer thee!

A Reflection.

Thou canst not help the thousand things
That might be better done;
Corruption its black shadow flings
On all beneath the sun;
Nor thought nor word or deed can reach
The purity our yearnings preach.

Nothing is perfect; be content,—
Thank God it is no worse;
Creation pays a bitter rent
And sins beneath a curse;
Thank God for blessing still bestow'd
And grace to lift guilt's crushing load.

Thou canst not work thy nobler will
Unvex'd by sin and strife;
A mingled draught of good and ill
Is still the cup of life;
Take it and drink; for it is meet
Thy spirit quaff that bitter sweet.

Detraction like a scorpion stands
To strike at men and things;
The spider with her hideous hands
Clings to the skirts of kings;
Be sure thy cot shall not escape
The poison of that dreaded shape.

Slander shall mar thy purest work,
And spot thy fairest robe;
The cancer-roots of evil lurk
Throughout the groaning globe;
The thing well-done might better be;
And there are thousand faults in thee.

What we all feel.

Ah! Life,—so purposeless yet steep'd in self,
I do confess thee, yea I do condemn thee,
So pack'd with pleasure, or so plann'd for pelf,
I do denounce thee, yea I do contemn thee.

Ah! Life,—so changeful, yet so dull and tame,
I dread and doubt thee, while I must despise thee,
So lotteried, and still so blank the same,
I wait and hope, despairing while I prize thee.

Ah! Life,—be better; yet thou hast no crime
Thus to abjure, for still thy will is worthy;
Only thou weepest for the flight of time,
And that thou art too useless and too earthy.

Ah! Life,—enduringly I watch and wait;
Winter is patient, till the day be lengthen'd,
And well-ripe fruit, delay'd but not too late,
Comes of a root by frosty sorrow strengthen'd.

Yes, Life! in hope for ever luring on
I fight my way and strive for better things,
Assured at last to find thy Battle won,
And Victory fanning me with purple wings.

The Gentleman.

Not alone by generous birth
(Greatly though it fashions men),
Not by all the wealth of earth,
Not by all the talents ten,
Not by beauty, nor by wit,
No, nor manners well refined,—
Is that name of honour writ
On the forehead of the mind.

Poverty retains it oft,
With the peasant it hath dwelt,
And its influence sweet and soft
In the scholarless been felt;
Lowly birth, and sorrow's power,
All that want of all things can,
Have not marr'd—nor made—one hour
That true knight, the Gentleman.

Charity,—unselfish zeal
Lest a sorrow or a shame
Any one be made to feel
Undeserving scorn or blame,—
Dignity,—the generous sense
That himself is heir outright
To that heritage immense,—
King and priest of worlds of light,—

Lowliness of heart withal,—
Purity of word and life—
Courage,—not for arms to call
But to quell insurgent strife,—
Honour,—for the good and true
With Bayard to guard the van,—
And what Courtesies are due,
These make up the Gentleman.

Ay, Sir calm and cold and proud,
Trust me, for the word is true,
There are thousands in the crowd
Finer gentlemen than you;
More,—for all your courtly birth
And each boon by fortune given,
Know that gentlemen of earth
Are always gentle sons of heaven.

Chesterfields, and modes, and rules
For polish'd age or stilted youth,
And high breeding's choicest schools
Need to learn this deeper truth,
That to act, whate'er betide,
Nobly on the Christian plan,
This is still the surest guide
How to be the Gentleman!

Warning.

Think not, O man, that strong Temptation's hour,
For all thy might of mind, is past to thee;
Dream not, presumptuous, that thy state is free
From evil chance and change and Satan's power.

Hot Nature still may vex thy soul within,
And fire its house with wantonness or strife,
Still can thy heart make shipwreck of its life,
And drown in gulphs of dark tumultuous sin.

How canst thou guess the trials coming near,
Or whether some lost spirit be not sent
To lure thy pride to some due punishment,
For that, high-minded, thou hast cast off fear?

O never is there safety for the soul
Out of true humbleness; the purest saint
Shall burst through grace, and habit's good constraint,
If lust and pride within him win control.

Then, be thou ware, frail creature! watch and pray;
Thou hast no stores, but only manna given;
Go, flee temptation at the gates of heaven,
And humbly ask thy daily bread to-day.

The Heart and the Mind.

Warm heart, soft heart, generous and gentle,
Full of sweet affections, sympathies, and loves,—
How thou transcendest all the merely mental,
How dost thou exceed in all The Holy One approves!
In affliction's hour
Gracious in thy power
Tenderly thou comfortest, a sister in distress,—

And when matters brighten,
How thy smiles enlighten
Every one that looks on thee, an angel sent to bless,
Every eye that lights from thee its torch of happiness!

Clear mind, keen mind, wall'd about with greatness,
Conqueror unconquerable over human ill,
Theban Colossus sitting in sedateness,
How art thou in majesty a mighty spirit still!
In the day of trouble,
Though its grief be double,
Gloriously thou triumphest above the battle-din,
And when, after sadness,
All is turn'd to gladness,
Thou remainest calm, a true philosopher within,
Calm amidst a universe of folly, strife and sin!

Great heart! great mind! be ye both united,
Knit in holy wedlock, mind and heart as man and wife,—
So shall the soul, to strength and beauty plighted,
Bring forth all its precious fruits in perfect Christian life!
Ever full of feeling,
Yet the spirit steeling
Sturdily against the wrongs and troubles of this earth,—
Ever strong and steady
Yet in spirit ready
Heartily to pity or to love where love is worth,
Lovingly to live the life begun at second birth!

The Common Complaint.

Tyrannic Circumstance! whose jealous power
Guards every turn, and watches every hour,
With secret influences controlling still
The conduct, and the spirits, and the will,
Alas,—that each of us is seen a slave,
In fetters from the cradle to the grave!
What?—am I free? each natural bent within,
Inherited infirmity and sin,
The brain, the disposition, and the shape,
And new-hatch'd passion, slumbering or agape
With tastes inclined for normal peace or strife,
These warp the man, and mould his heart and life.

What?—am I free? each artifice without,
Wherein convention hedges us about,
Family likenesses of make and mind,
Habit, example, usage harsh or kind,
And every tone and temper all around,
These link the chain to keep the freeman bound.

Poor Gulliver, the giant of the skies,
Is tied to earth by countless petty ties;
Helpless in head and body, hands and feet,
Worried by pigmies with their arrowy sleet,
Humbled to wants, and cow'd by disesteem,
And seeing things around as in a dream,
Prostrate he lies,—with all his wit and power
Made captive to the trifles of the hour!

Answered.

And yet,—What is this ruthless Circumstance?
A stolid Fate? or trivial thing of Chance?
What, O thou discontented! is this Power
Guiding thy way, and guarding every hour?
Is it aught else than God's paternal care,—
His Providence o'erruling everywhere,
His kind and mighty and mysterious Will
That fix'd thee where thou art, and holds thee still?
O blind and ignorant,—who dost not know
That all our checks and trials here below,
Our inner crosses, and our outer cares,
Our wants, temptations, sorrows, fears, and snares,

That all the disappointment and the strife
That baffle hope and break the rest of life,
All, all are sent,—and ordered from above
In strictest justice and profoundest Love!
A slave? in fetters?—Yes! for thou art bound
To toil awhile for everything around;
Not to himself may any creature live,—
Not to delights his time and talents give,—
Not think of Gain amidst a world of Loss,—
But duteously go forth, and bear—a cross!
Thou canst not choose: the lot is cast for thee:
Thy care be still in Duty's path to be;
Under all hindrance striving for the best,—
And leaving Heaven to care for all the rest.

Fact.

The die is cast,—be satisfied;
The chance is past,—be still:
For this, no more Occasion's tide
Can waft thee good or ill;
The hour is gone, the deed is done,
And all the battle lost or won.

Stand on the Fact in patience strong,
And never nurse regret;
Bid this stern Present, right or wrong,
That dreamy Past forget;
And work with all thy skill and power
The living duties of the hour.

All else is nought, all else is dead,
Disguise it as we may;
Causes with yesterday have sped,
Results are here to-day;
Take them, and use them as ye can
Right loyally for God and Man.

The Thought that was not born a Thing
Is only false Romance;
Reality is Nature's King,
Unfearing change or chance;
When men can stand upon a Fact,
Duty shows clear, and Faith may act.

To a Generous Youth.

Unworldly child of feeling,
With kindled eye and kindly heart
Incautiously revealing
How loving and how true thou art,—
Alas! for men will use thee,
And even while they use contemn,
And in their turn refuse thee
The help that thou hast yielded them.

Yet holy angels love thee,
And yearningly they shield from harm
As glorious guards above thee
A spirit found so fresh and warm;
And God Himself doth bless thee,
And all the souls made perfect now
In sympathy caress thee,
Kissing thine illumined brow!

Still, while I praise thy beauty,
Thy characters of lovely light,
In friendship's tender duty,
I counsel thee, dear youth, aright:
Remember one true sentence—
That “pearls should not be cast to swine,”—
And never shall repentance
Becloud one generous act of thine.

A Thought in a Thoroughfare.

Surging on in ceaseless shoals
Thousands of immortal souls,
Wave on wave of restless life
Crested rough with selfish strife,—
What a cavalcade comes nigh
In this crowd of passers by!

O the sorrows, pains, and cares,—
O the troubles, sins, and snares,—
O the histories past belief
Piled with wrong and soak'd in grief,—
O the hidden woes that lie
In this crowd of passers by!

Watch the faces as they pass;
What a strangely changeful mass,—
Business, pleasure, duty, sin,
War without, or peace within,
Glooms or gladdens every eye
In this crowd of passers by.

There, is vice and wanton youth,—
There, contented worth and truth,—
There, the sons of toil and skill,—
And the thousands gather still
—Ah! poor monad, what am I
In this crowd of passers by?

Each of all the multitude
Hath his evil and his good;
Every one his hopes and fears,
All alike their joys and tears;
All must suffer, all must die
In this crowd of passers by!

Craving body, yearning soul,
Each is to himself a whole;
And how little any cares
How his fainting brother fares;
And how frequent is the sigh
In this crowd of passers by!

Yet as thus I move along
Carried onward by the throng,
In a solitude I seem
Walking in a peopled dream,
Where around me phantoms fly
In this crowd of passers by.

All alone I stand aside
Listening to the human tide,
Till my shuddering spirit hears
Wailing down the gulph of years
An exceeding bitter cry
From that crowd of passers by.

Silence.

Dear Nurse of Thought, calm chaos-brooding dove,
Thee, Silence, well I love;
Mother of Fancy, friend and sister mine,
Silence, my heart is thine.

Rarer than Eloquence, and sweeter far
Thy dulcet pauses are;
Stronger than Music, charm she ne'er so well,
Is, Silence, thy soft spell.

The rushing crystals throb about my brain,
And thrill, and shoot again,—
Their teeming imagery crowds my sphere,
If Silence be but here.

Bodily rest is Sleep, the soothing sleep,
Spirit-rest, Silence deep;
O daily discord, cease, for mercy cease!
Break not this happy peace.

The melodies within alone are heard,
By their own stillness stirr'd;
O mute, and motionless,—O death of strife,
O precious lull in life!

Now know I how Pygmalion's spirit stern
Could on a statue yearn,—
The hush'd, the beautiful, the calmly fair,
The marble Silence there!

The Good and the True.

Nothing lasts that is not good;
Nothing stands that is not true:—
What a thing misunderstood,
What a thought kept out of view!
O pretences, shams, and cheats,
You may strut your little day,—
But Confusion swiftly meets
And surely drives you all away!

Never yet was Truth assail'd,
But the struggle gave it strength;
“Great is Truth and has prevail'd”
Always comes to pass at length:
Never yet was Good attack'd,
But the very foe that smote
Whiten'd up what slander black'd,
And abjured what malice wrote!

What is Good?—the pure and kind;
What is Truth?—the wise and right;
And, in Matter as in Mind,
Both will live in death's despite:
But the bad, the false, the base,
Barely breathe one feverish hour,
Dying out of every place
Like a rootless nosegay flower.

How then comes it, that so oft
Good men droop, and good things drown?
How, that Lies are throned aloft,
While so many Truths die down?
—How?—For just a little while,
And by just a herd of fools,
Cheats are praised, and shams beguile,
And sin is stout where Satan rules:

Ay,—but look a little higher,
Forward post your eager eye,
You that gloriously aspire,
And on God and Right rely;
Evil perishes—forsake it,—
Falsehood dies—renounce its sway,—
But the Good, for treasure take it,—
And secure the True to-day!

Chaos Crystallizing.

Give it only time enough,
Every thing shall find its place;
Every creature wins its race,
Though the course be rough.

All is not Mistake on earth;
Providence fulfils its plan;
And Creation, down to man,
Justifies its birth.

Folly builds her Babel tower,
Where,—since Wisdom well permits,—
Grey Old Sin a Nimrod sits
For his human hour:

Let a little time have fled,
And anon it topples down;
And we tear away the crown
From that usurper's head!

All shall yet be right at last;
Coming Day shall clear it up;
And Creation's stirrup-cup
Sweeten all the past.

Good achieves its glorious ends;
Soon for Evil's transient reign
Spite of guilt and grief and pain
Making rich amends.

Now, like crystallizing salts,
All is seen confusion here;
But right soon it shall appear
Wisdom makes no faults:

Atom to its atom flies,
Every bevill'd angle fits,
Till at length fair Order sits
Enthroned on earth and skies.

A Consolation.

God be thank'd that storms blow over,
God be praised that faith endures!
Nature, universal lover,
Ever works such timely cures;
Wolf-like fears may still be howling,
But they come not near us oft
If we scare them in their prowling
By the torch of hope aloft!

O the many dreads and troubles
Wisdom shows us,—only shows;
To the brim the cauldron bubbles
But it seldom overflows;
To correct us and to try us
Brood the black tempestuous skies,
But those terrors come not nigh us
If they find, or make us—wise.

He, that is the Source and Sender,
Knows how trouble chastens still;
But Himself is our defender
When that trouble works for ill:
Thus, our faith may trust Him blindly
Should He send us help or grief,
For His Majesty deals kindly
Both in trial and relief!

A Sigh.

O Life!—what a dream,
What a tale that is told!
How strangely I seem
On a sudden grown old;
With records behind me
Of years by the score,
And all to remind me
That they are no more!

The friends of my prime
Are dead, or grown grey,
Or distanced by time,
Or stolen away;
And as my thought ranges
O'er people and things,
Perpetual changes
My memory rings!

Ah! days that are past,—
How vague to mine eyes
As perishing fast
Recollections arise!
O pity and sorrow
That feelings decay,
And ev'ry To-morrow
Out-clamours To-day!

But solemn in sooth
Is Yesterday's page,—
Alas! for my youth,
Alas! for mine age,
Alas! is the sighing
From heart and from head,
For pleasures so flying
And pleasures so fled!

The Lost Arctic.

Poor Arctic! once awhile my floating home
Full of kind faces, my right royal yacht,
Alas! how swift and terrible a lot
Has caught and whelm'd thee in the billowy foam.

The gay saloon was ringing with its mirth,
—Sudden Collision comes with frightful crash,
And over all the riotous waters dash,
Rushing from deck to deck, from berth to berth!

I will not coldly try to paint in rhyme
Those thousand horrors; let the sobbing sea
Chant its wild requiem over thine and thee,
And darkness spread above its pall sublime.

Rather shall memory linger on the days
When, girt with friends, I somewhile paced thy deck,
Watching the distant iceberg's sparkling speck,
Or the broad sun down-setting in a blaze:

The nautilus would stretch its paper sail
Cresting the swell to catch our eager eyes,
Or petrels from the cradling trough would rise,
Or the sharp fin of some black basking whale:

And then, the merry games, and kindly looks
Of pleasant shipmates, and the noonday stakes,
How many knots an hour the good ship makes—
Rousing the dozers from their chess and books:

And then,—Woe, woe! that on such scenes as these
The Viking, Death, should like a pirate burst,
And drag them all, in gulphing waves immerst,
Down to the charnel-caverns of the sea!

All,—but the clingers to some sinking boat
Lost in the fog, or on that raft—Despair;
One—only one of seventy!—lingereth there,
While buoy'd around him upturn'd corpses float!

All,—but the Abdiel-captain of the crew,
Who, sinking nobly with his sinking ship,
Then battled back to life with dauntless lip,—
A righteous Jonah, faithful found and true.

All?—yet a remnant—(of five hundred souls
Hope breathes a tithe)—miraculously saved;
Above the rest, where first that Viking raved,
His mighty banner the dark Ocean rolls!

O Life, and luxury, and hope, and health,
And suddenly—Destruction! who can know
How huge the sum of man's and woman's woe
When my poor Arctic sank with all her wealth?

Truth.

Be true, be true! whate'er beside
Of wit or wealth or rank be thine,
Unless with simple truth allied,
The gold that glitters in thy mine
Is only dross, the brass of pride
Or vainer tinsel, made to shine.

Be true, be true! the prize of earth
From God alike with man forsooth,
The real nobility of birth
To age, maturity, or youth,
The very crown of creature-worth,
Is easy guileless open Truth.

Be true, be true! to nerve your arm
For any good ye wish to do;
To save yourselves from sin and harm,
And win all honours old and new;
To work on hearts as with a charm,—
The maxim is, Be true, be true!

Be true, be true! that easy prize
So loveable to human view,
So laudable beyond the skies,
Alas! is reach'd by very few—
The simple ones, though more than wise,
Whose motto is, Be true, be true!

Duty.

Duty! shorn of which the wisest
And the best were little worth,
How with dignity thou risest
O'er the littleness of earth;
How thou blessest each condition
Shedding peace and glory round,
Even binding hot Ambition
In thy service to be found!

Duty,—though the lot be lowly,
God's broad-arrow thou art seen
Marking very trifles holy,
And exalting what were mean;
In this thought the poor may revel
That obeying Duty's word,
Humblest want is on a level
With my lady or my lord.

Duty,—seen in lofty station
As the brightest jewel there,
Providence doth bless the nation
Where thy badge its rulers bear;
England! God regards with favour
Both thy Queen and People too,
For that Duty's precious savour
Still is found in all they do.

100

Moving on.

In vain,—there is no respite and no rest,
No flagging in our headlong reckless race;
In vain with clutching grasp and yearning breast
We strive to check the steeds of Time and Space.

All rushes on; no creature stops an hour;
The babe, the boy, the man, the dotard—dies;
Perpetual changes vex the wayside flower,
And the great worlds careering through the skies.

101

Yet is it sad that Beauty scarce can bloom,
Hardly can Wisdom drop one word of truth,
Before the sage is humbled to the tomb,
And wrinkles gather round the eyes of youth.

Alas! because it hardens us at heart,
This constant moving-on,—this phantom scene
Of daily hourly meetings soon to part,
And made to be as they had never been.

New hopes, new motives, all things ever new
Expelling all things old, however dear,
Uproot the mind from growing strong and true,
And the poor heart in all its longings sear.

A gloom, a solemn sadness, and a hope—
A mighty hope, but mixed with bitter fear,
All lie within this sad reflection's scope
That nothing—nothing—hath continuance here.

102

We wake,—and yesterday is thrown behind
To play to-day's half-masqueraded part;
Energy cheering on the hopeful mind,
But pale-faced memory holding back the heart.

Alas! I cannot read these thoughts aright;
I fain would say that we shall see once more
Some resurrection of the visions bright
That here, like mountain-mists, have swept us o'er:

I fain, in this perpetual moving-on,
Would see the shadowy type of stabler things;
Old loves renew'd, old victories rewon,
Old chords restruck upon the old heartstrings!

If otherwise, it were a waste,—a loss
Of truth and beauty, happiness and love;
But—there are all redemptions in the Cross,
And more than Space and Time in Heaven above!

103

Cruelty:

AS BETWEEN MAN AND HIS BROTHER.

Man's inhumanity to Man!
Oh hideous tale to tell,—
What cheek unblanch'd can calmly scan
Those characters of hell?
What pen, what poet, dares to paint
The terrors of that strife,
Wherein so many a martyr'd saint
Has moan'd away his life?

104

O Roman friars,—Spanish priests,
Ye wretched cruel men,
More bloody than infuriate beasts
Half-famish'd in their den,—
How dreadful are the human woes
Your secret vaults have seen,—
God's patient vengeance only knows
What horrors there have been!

And, Slavery! human nature's shame,
The curse of human-kind,
How hateful is thy very name
To ear, and heart, and mind!
The sugar-mill, the cotton-field,
The lash, the goad, the chain,—
Alas! how huge a crop they yield
Of wickedness and pain!

105

And, here at home, let childhood's shriek
On coalpit echoes borne,—
And starving woman's hollow cheek
In city streets forlorn,—
And mean oppression's heavy hand
On patient merit's head,—
Ask everywhere throughout the land,
—Whither has Mercy fled?

Yet is there comfort: God above
Long-suffering doth not sleep;
He treasures up with tenderest love
The tears of those who weep;
Holy, and Merciful, and Strong,
Be sure, His glorious Might
For all oppression, pain, and wrong
Will righteously requite!

106

And there is comfort: victim soul,
Go straight before that Judge;
With pitying care to hear the whole
His patience will not grudge;
So, out of harm, and hate, and pain,
If thou but kiss the rod,
Thou shalt attain the golden gain
Of Brotherhood with God!

107

Cruelty:

AS BETWEEN MAN AND HIS BEAST.

Man's cruel baseness to his beast!
—Poor uncomplaining brute,
Its wrongs are innocent at least,
And all its sorrows mute:
They cannot have deserved their woes,
As these bad masters can;
And evil is the lot of those
Who serve the tyrant, Man.

108

I dare not let my fever'd thought
Brood o'er the frightful page
By human malice writ and wrought
In every clime and age!
Alas! the catalogue of crime
Begun by cruel Cain
Has made the swollen stream of Time
One cataract of pain!

Lo! surgery's philosophic knife,
Too merciless to kill,
Dissecting out the strings of life
With calm and horrid skill,—
And bloody goads,—and wealing whips,
And many a torture fell,
Have wrung from every creature's lips
That Earth to them is Hell!

109

Yea: dream not that the Good and Wise
To these can be unjust;
Nor, if not claimants for the skies,
That all dissolve to dust:
They have a spirit which survives
This cauldron of unrest,
And here though wretched in their lives,
Elsewhere they shall be blest!

In the just Government and strong
Of such a God as ours,
Only for wickedness and wrong
Perpetual Judgment lours:
No creature ever ran a race
Of griefs not earn'd before,
Without some compensating grace
Of happiness in store!

110

Let this, then, comfort those who weep
For Crime and Pity too;
For if just judgment doth not sleep,
No more doth mercy true:
The cruel Man,—lament his fate,
For he can reach no bliss;—
The tortured beast,—its future state
Shall recompense for this.

111

Blucher's “Forwards!”

Bravo! brave old Teuton heart,
Noble “Marshal Forwards!”
Bravo! every better part,—
Nature, Providence, and Art,—
Agrees in going forwards;
If we gain, to gain the more,
Pressing on to things before,
Ever marching forwards;

112

If we lose,—by swift attack
Soon to win those losses back
By the rule of—Forwards!

Forwards! it's the way of life,
Always urging forwards,—
Be it peace, or be it strife,
Stagnant-ripe, or tempest-rife,
All is moving forwards;
Generations live and die,
Stars are journeying on the sky
By the law of forwards;
Space and Time, and you, and I,
And all—but God's Eternity—
Tend for ever forwards!

So, good youth, go on and win!
Conquest lives in forwards;

113

Go, if once you well begin,
Steering clear of self and sin,
Forwards, ever forwards!
Never could the foe withstand
Honest Blucher's one command,
Forwards, soldiers! forwards,—
Never shall the foe be met
Bold enough to front thee yet,
If thy face is Forwards!

114

Aspire.

Higher, higher, ever higher,—
Let thy watchword be “Aspire!”
Noble Christian youth;
Whatsoe'er be God's behest,
Try to do that duty best
In the strength of Truth.

Let a just Ambition fire
Every motive and desire
God and man to serve;
Man, with zeal and honour due,
God, with gratitude most true,
And all the spirit's nerve!

115

Let not Doubt thine efforts tire,
God will give what all require,—
Raiment, home, and food;
And with these contented well,
Bid thine aspirations swell
To the Highest Good!

From the perils deep and dire
Of Temptation's sensual mire
Keep thy chasten'd feet;
Dread, and hate, and turn away
From the lure that leads astray,
Satan's pleasure-cheat!

And, while thus a self-denier,
Stand the stalworth self-relier,—
Bravely battling on,
Though alone,—no soul alive
Ever stoutly dared to strive
But saw the battle won!

116

Though thy path be thorn and brier,
Every step shall bring thee nigher
To Creation's prize;
With “Excelsior” on thy flag,
Thou shalt tread the topmost crag,
And soar into the skies.

Higher, then, and always higher,—
Let thy motto be “Aspire!”
Whosoe'er thou be;
Holy liver! happy dier!
Earth's poor best, and Heaven's quire,
Are reserved for thee!

117

Calculated Comfort.

Recollect, as well you may,
(You that pine and brood in sorrow)
If there's little luck to-day,
More is left to come to-morrow;
Every present grows to past
Almost while the grumbler heeds it;
But, for pleasure made to last,
Look to where the future feeds it.

Coming chances must be more,
(Reason will herself remind us,)
And all prizes crowd before
If the blanks are all behind us;
Therefore never go downcast,
But let cares sit all the lighter,
Since a dark and luckless past
Argues all the future brighter.

121

Paradise Lost.

Alas for trouble and care and sin,
And bitterness, hate and strife!
That the heart grows cold and callous within,
As stoned by the hail and stunn'd by the din
Of the storm-driven desert of life.

Alas! that the world is winning the game,—
And—who then is counting the cost?
O speed,—for fear, for glory, for shame,
Let Satan be baulk'd of his murderous aim,
For, the stake is—a soul to be lost!

Where stands Paradise, after the fall?
Alas! it has wither'd away,—
The slime of the serpent is over us all,
And Nature has veil'd with a funeral-pall
Her beautiful face in decay!

122

Cheerfulness.

(IN DACTYLIC STANZAS.)

Lover of goodness, and friend to the beautiful,
Ever go forth with a smile on thy cheek,
Knowing that God will prosper the dutiful,
Gladden the holy, and honour the meek;
Ever go on, though fortune be rigorous,
Bearing as Providence wisely may will,
Strong in good conscience, with energy vigorous,
Building up good, and demolishing ill.

123

There is a spirit, that sadly and tearfully
Goes to its duties, a slave to its tasks;
There is a spirit that stoutly and cheerfully
Toils in the sunshine, and toils as it basks;
Both may be labouring, ripely and readily,
Christians and husbandmen tilling the soil,
But the one sings, while he labours so steadily,
And the sad other sheds tears at his toil.

Be of this wiser and better fraternity,
Nursing contentedness still in thy breast;
So shall thy heart, for time and eternity,
Ache though it must, be for ever at rest:
Peace is the portion of hopeful audacity,
Routing the worst and securing the best,
And the keen vision of Christian sagacity
Sees for us all that we all may be blest!

124

Liberty.

(IN ALCAIC STANZAS.)

Bulwark of England, God-given Liberty!
Name much malign'd yet noble and glorious,
How rarely the masses who claim thee
Judge as they ought of the fools that maim thee!

No part hast thou with clamorous demagogues,
Red revolution scares thee and scatters thee,
And despots have stolen thy standard
Only to render thee scorn'd and slander'd:

125

Still to enslave the credulous multitude
Is their intent in utter effrontery;
O treason, O shame, and O wonder.
That the one tramples the many under!

Man, when his Maker made him and fashion'd him,
Man stood as free as Mercy could order it,—
Free, saving Religion in season,
Saving the bridle and bit of Reason.

And when, as now, the Fall and its accidents
Drove him from God to human society,
Still Reason, Religion, and Frankness
Stand as the pruners of Freedom's rankness:

Reason, Religion, counsel and sanctify
Unto good order governing ministers,
And Frankness gives up to his brother
Much of his own, for the sake of other.

126

Freeman! thy neighbour also has liberties;
This may subtract his rights from thy heritage,—
But Freedom without moderations
Were but the licence of pirate nations.

England! in thee shines Liberty's excellence;
We are as free as serves for humanity,
Freespoken, freejudging, freeacting,
Nobody spying, and none exacting.

We love the Queen, and guard her with loyalty,
She loves the People, ruling us faithfully,
And those who amongst us are wiser
Counsel her, each as a free adviser.

Thus we reform whate'er is iniquitous,
Thus we remove whatever is obsolete,
Yet always resolve to deal fairly
Even with those who deserve it rarely:

127

Thus in the light of rational liberty
Each of us walks a patriot Englishman—
Courageous, but boasting it never;
Moderate, honest, and patient ever.

And we can love our brethren in slavery,
Giving them all, with prodigal sympathy,
Our prayers, our blood, our treasure—
All we can give without stint or measure:

And we can hate the base and tyrannical,
Vowing to crush oppression and cruelty—
And sharing with peoples and races
All Christianity's gifts and graces.

England the free is Europe's deliverer,
Standing with France, co-warders of Liberty;
And Englishmen know how to use it,—
Englishmen only will not abuse it!

128

Courage.

(IN SAPPHIC STANZAS.)

Never went man courageously to dangers,
Fear and his constant spirit being strangers,
But, while he faced his enemies and hew'd them,
Soon he subdued them:

As he goes onward, perils seem to scatter,
Mind ever shows the conqueror of matter;
Even the mountain crags that toppled o'er him
Open before him;

129

Even the torrents, riotously wrathful,
Are to his footsteps fordable and pathful;
Even the prowlers, in the desert roaming,
Fly at his coming.

O man of faith, of energy, and boldness,—
Onward! in spite of darkness and of coldness,—
Forward! for Conquest with triumphal pleasance
Waits for thy presence:

Never, on Right and Providence relying,
Fail'd of Success, while duteously trying,
He, who resolves and wrestles like a Roman,
Yielding to no man!

130

Long Ago.

What a gloom and what a chill
Hang about old haunts of ours,—
Where, at childhood's wayward will,
Long ago we gather'd flowers;
Where, in youth's romantic prime,
Long ago we met and parted,
In the olden golden time
When we went so eager-hearted!

Ah! but in those long agoes,
With their dreamy dear old places
And forgotten joys and woes
And their unforgotten faces,
How much sorrow ever hides,
Leaving what we loved behind us;
While how swift our life-dream glides
These sad long agoes remind us!

131

In a Drought.

Weep, relentless eye of Nature!
Drop some pity on the soil;
Every plant and every creature
Droops and faints in dusty toil:
Mother earth with bosom burning
Craves and pants athirst for rain;
Night and day her mighty yearning
Heaves to Heaven in silent pain!

132

O, how gratefully and dearly
Will Creation drink it up,
When to all his children cheerly
God shall give that happy cup:
When the cattle and the flowers
Yet shall raise their drooping heads,
And, refresh'd by precious showers,
Lie down joyful in their beds.

Graciously then, God the Giver,
Send that milk of mercy round,—
Let kind Heaven's luscious river
Bathe this dry and gaping ground;
Melt the furrows with its sluices,—
Make our wilted uplands laugh,—
And of all Earth's generous juices
Now let all her creatures quaff!

133

In a Frost.

The 25th of April, 1854.

Cruel, cutting, killing frost!
Hope destroy'd and labour lost,
Earth dishearten'd, man dismay'd,
Joy extinguish'd, life decay'd!
All the early sprouts cut down,—
All the blossoms burnt and brown,—
Every green and tender shoot
Black and rotted to its root,—

134

Every modest opening leaf
Rudely made to pine in grief,—
Every bud of promise nipt,
And Nature's every feather clipt!

Woe! for April skies were here,
Flush'd with warmth and summer cheer,—
April sun and April shower
Coaxing bud and leaf and flower,
Till the very fig had dared
To hope in pity to be spared.
But, one night, one bitter night,
Blasted all with angry spite,—
Seal'd the breasts of Nature up,—
Froze with hate her loving cup,—
Dash'd its honied milk with gall,
And in sheer envy ruin'd all!

135

Added, in August.

No hate, no envy; all was right;
In mercy came that bitter night,—
In mercy shear'd the fruit away,
Blasting the blossoms on the spray;
For if, in aftertimes like these
Of sore and terrible disease,
A heavy crop of luscious fruits
Had hung upon those frozen shoots,
Doubtless, the reaper Death had reap'd
A heavier crop of corpses heap'd!
O Man,—a wiser Head than thine,
And kinder than thy thoughts divine,
(While for all weightier things He cares
Or watches how a sparrow fares,)
In secret wisdom foreordains
Even these trifles,—frosts and rains.

136

Tangley Pond.

All on a happy summer's day
When the air is warm and still,
And thundery clouds are louring gray
Over the landscape green and gay
Around St. Martha's hill,—

How pleasant it is, with a cheerful friend
Of beautiful Nature fond,
Across the fields our ways to wend,
And here the calm sweet hours to spend
Fishing at Tangley Pond.

137

I love the tapering rod to wield,
And cast the sensitive float,
Till down it runs with the line outreel'd
And a fierce old pike, still scorning to yield,
Flounders about in the boat:

I love the angle,—to watch and wait
For the perch so subtle and still,
Till deep in his hole he has gorged the bait,
And gluttony fixes a tyrant's fate
With a good gimp-hook in his gill:

I love the quiet,—the lull from care,—
The lake, all clear and calm,—
The flowering reeds, and the wild fowl there,—
The trees asleep in the sultry air,
And all things breathing balm.

138

Old Tangley Pond,—my boyhood's haunt,
My manhood's holiday rest,—
Let any that will my fondness taunt,
And mock while thus thy praise I chaunt,
Lull'd on thy tranquil breast.

Oh, yes,—there is peace and quietness here
If nowhere found beyond;
The way one's spirit to soothe and cheer
Is—angle awhile, in the prime of the year,
At dear old Tangley Pond.

139

The Burnt Church.

(St. George's, Doncaster.)

O wreck of many good and precious things,
O thousand glories shatter'd to the ground!
O Ruin,—where Destruction's fiery wings
Have flapp'd, and scorch'd, and ravaged all around!
O Providence,—whose deep determinings
No wisdom can defeat, no thought can sound,—
Alas! how shall we well and wisely search
The Mind of God in this—a ruin'd church?

143

For lo, the loss! Religion's beauteous fane,
For eight long centuries her holy home,
Where sacred story stain'd each pictured pane,
And Learning archived many a rare old tome,—
Where Gothic sculpture, lofty, pure, and plain,
Stood a protesting trophy won from Rome,—
All burnt, all blasted!—Who may read aright
The will of Heav'n in this unholy sight?

Ye shall discern it, though your eyes be dim,
If teachably and humbly still ye search:—
God is a spirit; those who worship Him
Make not a mediate idol of His Church;
Mounting on eagle wings of cherubim,
They linger not to deck the temple-porch,—
But serving One whose temple is all space,
They seek Him always and in every place!

144

Yet, must we note the low estate of Man,
And help on earth his earthly nature still;
And, it is wise and duteous, where we can,
To counteract by good permitted ill;
And, if we work eternal Mercy's plan,
We glorify our God through man's free will;
And He that bade us worship Him aright
Said, Make My court and service your delight.

Therefore, with energy and zeal discreet,
Hasten to raise this holy house again;
With decent splendour, as is right and meet,
Give God once more His consecrated fane:
He waits in grace to bless your willing feet,
And those who serve Him, never serve in vain:
So bring your offerings, and your alms outpour,
And rear St. George for God and Man once more!

145

For the Madeira Famine-fund.

Madeira! fair haven of plenty and health,
Where luxury smiles on the vintage of wealth,
Where mountain and glen in the midst of the seas
Breathe Eden's own balm on the cheek of Disease,
Where nature's most beautiful pastoral scene,
With rock-built sublimity toppling between,
And rural contentment, and music, and mirth,
Make thee the bright gem, the oasis of Earth,—
Alas, for the change! that a bane and a blight
Hath wither'd thy beauty, and darken'd thy light,—
Alas! for the tropical breezes that waft
The moans of despair from thy death-stricken raft,—
Alas! for the sunsets of glory that glow
On famishing vineyards and hovels of woe,—
Alas! for the vial of judgment outpour'd
Madeira, on thee, from the hand of the Lord!

146

Of judgment,—and mercy!—Our Father and God
Not lightly nor gladly afflicts with His rod:
And well is He pleased, if His children make speed
To comfort the hearts whom He chastens with need;
And well is He glorified still in His gifts
When affluent bounty the fallen uplifts!
Then hasten, ye Rich,—whom Madeira lang syne
Hath often made glad with her generous wine,—
And chiefly ye fathers and lovers, sore tried
By the fast fading forms of some daughter or bride
Whom genial Madeira, by delicate stealth,
Hath gently suffused with the roses of health,—
O hasten to help her!—O speed ye to bless
With liberal mercy the sons of distress;
For the Land where your memory lingers in pray'r,
Is stricken with famine, and death, and despair!

147

A Song for Rifle-Clubs.

Hurrah for the Rifle!—In days long ago
Our fathers were fear'd for the bill and the bow,
And Edwards and Harrys in battles of old
Were proud of their archers so burly and bold:
While Agincourt, Cressy, and Poictiers long since,
With great John of Gaunt, and the gallant Black Prince,
Tell out from old pages of history still
What Englishmen did with the bow and the bill.

Hurrah for the Rifle!—When England requires,
She still shall be proud of the sons of our sires;
And rifle and bayonet then shall do more
Than ever did billhook or longbow of yore;
From hedgerow and coppice and cottage and farm
The foreigner's welcome, God wot! shall be warm,
And the crack of the rifle shall hint to the foe
How terrible once was the twang of the bow.

150

The Soldier Comforted.

Away to the War has the Soldier departed,
And with him both Husband and Father are gone,—
His children, half-orphans, are left broken-hearted,
His half-widow'd wife remains weeping alone!
He goes like a Soldier—courageously, cheerly
To fight for the Right at his country's command,
But leaves with a pang lest those he loves dearly
Should pine, in his absence, for Want in the land!

151

O when in his dreams those little ones prattle,
Let him not wake with the dread on his mind
That while he is fighting or dying in battle
The mother and babes may be starving behind!
And when at the bivouac stirring the embers
He chats with his mates of the deeds of the day,
Let him feel glad, as with thanks he remembers
That charity blesses his home far away!

A loaf for the day, and a crust for the morrow,
And school for his children, and work for his wife,
Enough, to be clear of affliction and sorrow
And able to stand in the battle of life,—
Give this to your Soldier, to comfort and shield him
In those who at home are the Wanderer's care,
And all that in kindliness Here you may yield him
Be sure he'll repay you in gallantry There!

152

The Gracious Message.

Wounded soldiers! lying weak,
Sick, or shot, or gash'd by swords,
Listen! for your Queen doth speak,
Hearken to her gracious words!
From her soul of courage calm,
Earnestly those words distil,
Dropping like a precious balm,
Every heart to cheer and thrill.

153

“Tell each wounded man apart,
“As they lie in ghastly groups,
“Tell them how our inmost heart
“Feels for our beloved troops:
“Noble fellows! say from us,
“No one yearns on such a scene
“With more sympathy than thus
“Yearns their own admiring Queen.

“Tell the men, my wounded sons,
“Simple privates in the ranks,
“That to those heroic ones,
“Queen and Prince have sent their thanks:
“Still we think of them in love,
“Praying for them day and night,
“And our trust is strong above,
“For such Champions of the Right.”

154

Woes for the Czar.

Guilty despot, God-forsaken,
And by Judgment overtaken,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Hypocrite, that didst dissemble,
Now in abject terror tremble,
Woe, woe to thee!

Hark! the dogs of war are gather'd,
Bear! to bait thee, closely tether'd,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Even Turkey's angry legions
Hunt thee up to thine own regions,
Woe, woe to thee!

155

Meaning mischief, we will do it,
Caitiff,—deeply shalt thou rue it,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
North and South our volley'd thunder
Shall thy carcase tear in sunder,
Woe, woe to thee!

France with tiger-fury hounds thee,
England's lion-might surrounds thee,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Sworn to havoc without pity,
Fleets and forts and field and city,
Woe, woe to thee!

Not that we would kill the People,
But, in sparing street and steeple,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
We will blow each fort and palace
To the bourn of Meshech's malice,
Woe, woe to thee!

156

Cronstadt shall be crush'd and batter'd,
As Sebastopol is shatter'd,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Meshech, Rosh, and Tubal—humbled,
To destruction shall be crumbled,
Woe, woe to thee!

We will raise the ghost of Poland,
Thine unlaid and fearful Foeland,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
We will arm the Fins and Tartars,
And Siberia's million martyrs,
Woe, woe to thee!

Moscow shall be curst as Edom
When we give thy serfs their freedom,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Petersburg shall be as Babel
When they find thy strength a fable,
Woe, woe to thee!

157

Think not kingcraft now can spare thee,
Nicholas, for doom prepare thee,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
No indulgent statesman's finger
Can avert what shall not linger,
Woe, woe to thee!

O thou tyrant, dread this hour,
When the People in its power
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
To the dust shall trample gladly
Thee, that durst to rule so madly,
Woe, woe to thee!

Greatest criminal, that ever
Roused mankind their yokes to sever,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Never more shall peace or slumber
Soothe thy moments, few in number,
Woe, woe to thee!

158

Conscience, with such sin to whelm it,
Shall be hell in crown and helmet,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Fear, thy sleepless pillow scaring,
Shall bemock thy guilty daring,—
Woe, woe to thee!

All men's strength, in wrath uprisen,
Shall stand round thee like a prison,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
All men's wrath shall tread thee under
Hated, hoof'd, and torn asunder,
Woe, woe to thee!

Dead!—How sudden was thy sentence,
Mercy-past, as past repentance,
(Woe, woe to thee,—)
Dead!—O sinner unforgiven,
Dragg'd before the bar of Heaven,—
Woe, woe to thee!

159

Hymns for our Day of Prayer, on the Declaration of War.

O God! our Refuge and Defence,
Most just, and merciful, and strong,
By Whose eternal Providence
The right is help'd against the wrong,
O Lord! our fathers' Friend of old,
Their children's only Succour now;
In grace forgivingly behold
Thy people who before Thee bow!

Great Judge of all in all the earth,
True Source of liberties and laws,
Thou seest that we now go forth
To combat in a righteous cause:
Duty commands our Nation's way
Reluctant to the battle-field,
And unto Thee we pray this day
To be for us both sword and shield!

164

Truly, we have deserved Thy wrath,—
For many sins it were most meet;
Yet, let us never tread the path
Of Thy correction in defeat:
Forgive, and speed us; for we stand
Thy combatants for truth and right;
And trust to see Thy guardian hand
Advance our standards in the fight!

We ask no glory,—but to bless,
By making wrongful wars to cease;
We seek no conquest,—but success
In leading men to live at peace:
We trust not in our ships or swords,
But in Thy Name, O Guard and Guide,
Because the battle is the Lord's,—
And God is seen on Duty's side!

165

Another.

Be gracious, Lord, to us
Who seek Thy face this day,
And in the time of trouble thus
To Thee devoutly pray.

Forgive all evil past,
And grant our Nation grace
To live to Thee, and pray, and fast,
And run the Christian race.

With alms for those in need
We come and trust on Thee,
That Thou wilt give us power to speed
The Right by land and sea.

166

From those who hate us now
All help and safety send;
Be Thou our rock, our champion Thou,
Our Queen-and-People's Friend!

Unwillingly we draw
The just avenging sword,
And in the name of Right and Law
Implore Thy blessing, Lord!

We strove for peace in vain,
And Mesech chose the fight;
Therefore, O Thou, by Whom kings reign,—
Our God! Defend the Right.

167

Two Harvest Hymns FOR MDCCCLIV.

[Give thanks, happy Nation! for Mercy rejoices]

Give thanks, happy Nation! for Mercy rejoices
O'er Judgment to triumph and fill us with food:
Be glad, O ye People! and lift up your voices
To Him who is ever the Giver of good.

What thanks shall we render?—Ah, sinful and earthy,
The praises we bring are too few and too cold,—
Redeemer! make Thou this poor offering worthy,
And pour out Thy Spirit on us, as of old.

168

For truly to Thee our fervent desire
Would go forth in grateful acknowledgment here;
But only Thy heart-stirring grace can inspire
The love that is life and that casteth out fear.

Ah! well may we fear Thee,—whose judgments are sounding
In thunders of wrath and in trumpets of woe;
And well may we love Thee,—whose mercies abounding
In rivers of peace and prosperity flow.

Yet let us not boast, like a Dives possessing
Garners of wheat with enough and to spare;
But humbly and thankfully taking the blessing
Praise the good Giver, and seek Him in pray'r!

169

Second Hymn. Dear heart of old England! be glad and rejoice

Dear heart of old England! be glad and rejoice
For blessed abundance on basket and store,—
And raise the thanksgiving with national voice
To Him, by whose bounty we live evermore.

While Judgment, in pestilence, famine and sword,
Might well have rebuked us for folly and sin,
Thy Mercy hath triumph'd, and fed us, good Lord!
With plenty and health and contentment within.

170

Too truly, the hurricane thunders of war
Are heard in the distance and soon shall increase,
But while the storm threatens and rages afar
Our dwellings are safe in the blessing of peace:

Too truly, the angel of death in the air
Is hovering, and scarcely withholdeth his hand,
But, King of that Angel! in pity forbear,
Remember Araunah, and favour the land!

O Nation! what People beside is so blest?
What People so thankful and holy should be?
O Father and Shepherd! who givest us rest,
Thy children and sheep of Thy pasture are we.

Then, Praise be to God, for the fruits of the field,
This harvest of gold in the lap of the soil,
This grateful return Earth hasteth to yield
By Heaven's own blessing on dutiful toil!

171

Heart in Office.

Ye Rulers in the Nation, ye Princes of our State,
Who in your starry orbits shine the Great among the great,—
A word unto your mightiness, a word for truth and good,
That may not lightly be ignored, nor harmlessly withstood.

We are a kindly People, a just and generous Race,
Slow to condemn, but swift to love, and frank in heart and face;
With honest sense of right and wrong, and wills to love or hate
According to your works and words the Great among the great.

173

We honour Duty in high place, nor less because highborn,—
But loathe official insolence, and answer scorn with scorn;
We pay to rank all homage due,—but claim of it in sooth
Humility, and courtesy, and kindliness, and truth.

To warmth we instantly respond, and render heart for heart,
Rejoicing on the weaker side, and in the better part,—
But frigid harshness dries us up, and half our generous soul
Is frozen by a cold neglect or insolent control!

O Rulers! meet us heartily, as we would come to you;
We own your individual worth as men both good and true,—
But let not Office stand a gulph of icy distance thus
(The Queen and People are not so!) between yourselves and us.

174

Quell not our friendliness to you by cold high-breeding's laws,
Check not our English ardour in the patriotic cause;
Be gracious, if you must refuse,—but be not too afraid
Of graciously accepting those who come to proffer aid.

Many there be who offer'd well, but ill were spurn'd away,
And many more would, but for such, have help'd from day to day;
But on their generous spirits, like an avalanche of snow
Was flung, with dreary due delay, the cold official No!

Be wiser, Rulers! we have hearts, and you may have them too;
You might keep England if you would right well in tune with you;
But not by distance, not by coldness; frank and generous ways
Alone can win for you from us all honour, love, andpraise!

175

Waterloo Avenged.

We thank thee, gracious Neighbour! we thank thee, glorious France!
We praise the Greatness that made haste to seize that golden chance,
The chance of taking vengeance, as of old ye swore to do,
And well redeem'd at Inkermann,—avenging Waterloo!

O this indeed is chivalry, returning good for ill
(Though we—ye know it—in those days did only duty still,—)
This is the way to be revenged, the noblest and most true,
Returning France's Inkermann for England's Waterloo!

Our gallant guards, not overmatch'd, though barely one to ten,
Could fight and die, but could not fly,—were demigods, not men,—

176

From foggy dawn to noon they fought that furious Russian crew,
Till France avenged at Inkermann her rival's Waterloo!

Avenged!—in coarse and common hate? by planting blow for blow?
Avenged!—in humbling Englishmen?—No! grateful England, No!
They heap'd the coals of vengeance as only Christians can,
And for our old-time Waterloo they gave us Inkermann!

So then, O brothers reconciled for ever and a day,
We own that you have conquer'd us, and in the grandest way;
Our patriot fathers made you bleed at Waterloo's red van,
But you more nobly bled for us, their sons, at Inkermann!

Yes! this is glory, this is conquest, this is fame indeed;
For you henceforth Old England's heart is vow'd to fight and bleed,—
Not front to front, like Waterloo,—but on the better plan
Of side by side, as when you bled for us at Inkermann!

177

The New Order.

Enough, enough of honours pour'd profusely on the Great;
Enough of stars and titles for the menials of the State;
A better brighter honour now must English heralds find,
An Order for the holy heart and for the mighty mind!

Our worthies lack a kindly smile for social good well-done,
A smile from Britain's gracious Queen on each best British son,—
Appreciation's blessed badge, so precious in their eyes,
Sufficing patient merit with its spiritual prize.

178

Our worthies,—what a brilliant band! not even friendly France
To make her Legion of the Good had such a noble chance;
Our worthies,—need we name their names,—who live in lip and pen,
Who live upon the nation's heart, and in the mouths of men?

O Queen, who also livest there, regard them in thy love!
Reward them as the type of Him who reigneth from above,—
Let honour issuing from the throne on excellence descend,
And make true worth in every rank thy helper and thy friend!

Look up and down the land, O Queen!—there is no lack of good
So that thou seek it not in men of place-and-party brood;
Look up and down the land and search for goodness everywhere,
And where thou findest honest merit,—give thine honours there!

179

Shed forth encouragement for good, and comfort sterling worth
In manhood, and in womanhood, in all the salt of earth,—
In those who for themselves have earn'd a right to honour's place,
Nor only owe to nobler sires the titles some disgrace.

Open the ranks; let in the best, the worthiest of the land,
Who, though unhackney'd in debate, are pure in heart and hand!
Open the ranks! no longer let an oligarchy rule,—
Lest under their disloyal sway the Nation's love grow cool!

Open the ranks! the People, thy true People, gracious Queen!
Are ever ranged on Order's side, and found in Duty's scene;
Let Honour then on such from Thee in copious torrent flow,
And God will bless Thee from above, as Man shall bless below!

180

The Gone Before.

O spirits made perfect! How dear will ye be
In the bright happy world, where affections are free,
Unfetter'd from all the heart-slavery here,
Unwarp'd by the world in its love or its fear,
Uncheck'd in their impulses—misunderstood,
Unchill'd in their warmth, and all glowing for good.
O glorious and glad! when in fulness and power
The soul shall expand like an amaranth flower,
And open her beauties for every eye,
And shed out her fragrance on all that come nigh,
And freely fly forth on the wings of a dove,
And float in a rapture of purified love!

182

—There, soon in the garments of praise shall I see
The spirits that here have been dearest to me,
Those beautiful darlings, by memory shrined
In the roots of the heart and the stem of the mind,
On the magical leaves of affection imprest
And burst into blossom, as spirits made blest!
How happy hereafter in union most sweet
Such cherish'd and glorified dear ones to meet!
And here, to look forward to those gone before
In the joy and the hope of such meeting once more!
And now, to look upward and feel without fear
That these are His messengers helping us here!

183

A. E. T.

My pretty one beneath the sod,
My pretty one beyond the sky,
My darling gone to be with God,
And nevermore to moan or die,—
My Alice! fast asleep in flowers
Beneath the shadow of the Cross,
How blest is such a loss as ours
When thou art gainer by that loss!

184

Beside the now deserted nave
Of dear old ivied Albury Church,
Beside our own ancestral grave,
Beside the desecrated porch,—
Our pretty darling lies beneath
Her matted quilt of flow'rets fair,
And at her head, as blessing death,
The cross of Jesus watches there.

Sweet spirit, pure and meek and mild,
O patient martyr gone to bliss,
I love thee, my most precious child,
Too deeply to repine at this:
I long indeed to see those eyes,
And kiss their beauty o'er and o'er,
But oh! I see thee in the skies,
And there shall kiss them evermore.

185

Alice-Evelyn.

Beautiful Alice, serene little saint,
My treasure!—O better than mine,—
What mind can imagine, or eloquence paint
Thy gladness and glory divine?
A bright happy spirit, made perfect and free,
On whom The Good Jesus hath smiled,
This ecstasy now hath beatified thee,
My blessed and beautiful child!

186

Ah! fairest, and purest, and dearest of all,
Sweet babe of two years and a half,
How painful a pleasure it is to recal
The ring of thy once merry laugh;
How touching to dream of that loved little face
With its martyr-expression of pain,
And the tender blue eyes, where angelical grace
Shone patiently smiling again!

What vision was ever more piteous than this,—
To watch her, so wan and so weak,
With white little hands reaching up for a kiss
When faint and unable to speak;
What memory ever so joyous,—that oft
Those dear little hands she would raise,
So tremblingly feeble, so small and so soft,
In prayer and the music of praise!

187

O Death, what a loveliness holy and calm,
All silently solemnly sweet,
Invested with bliss and anointed with balm
My babe from her face to her feet!
The silken-fringed eyelashes slept on her cheek,
And her mouth was a rosebud half-blown,
And her fingers were folded so prayerfully meek,
And her foot was a lily in stone!

In an ark snowy-white with its silvery sheen,
And scatter'd with flow'rets of spring,
Deep under the turf all mossy and green,
We have left thee, thou dear little thing!
In hope, though in grief,—in affection and prayer,
Assured of the soon coming hour
When that precious root, buried tearfully there,
Shall shoot up again as a flower!

188

With hyacinth bulbs we have yearningly traced
In her garden her musical name,
And know that wherever each bulb hath been placed
It surely shall blossom the same;
So thou, hidden rootlet of life and of light,
Though seeming to moulder away,
Shalt break away bright from the prison of Night
To bloom for Eternity's day!

My glorified Alice! look joyously down
Wherever in spirit thou art,
And suffer the gleam of thy wings and thy crown
To gladden the eyes of my heart!
Those thin picking fingers, at rest from all pain,
Stretch forth from the skies for a kiss,—
That faltering tongue, let me hear it again,
“P'aying p'ayers,” as a spirit in bliss!

189

My beauty! my darling! my precious! my prize!
My cherub, my saint, and my sweet!
My child that hast won the bright goal of the skies,
My herald in heaven to meet!
O thanks be to God, that his bountiful love
To me the glad blessing hath given,
My babe—to be heir of His glory above,
My daughter—His daughter in Heaven!

190

W. G. T.

Alas! how little have I known thee, Brother,
How lightly prized the riches of thy worth;
How seldom sought thee out to cherish thee,
And sun my spirit in thy light of love!
How have I let the world and all its ways,
Absence and distance, cares and interests,
The many poor excuses that we make
For lax communion with a brother's heart,—
How have I stood aside, and left such tares
To grow up rank, and choke the precious seed!
How have I let such fogbanks of reserve,
Such idle clouds of undesign'd neglect
Hide from my spirit thy most lovely light!

191

—Alas!—too late:—but that we meet again,—
Where spirits are made perfect; and shall glow
With happier fervour in each other's joy;
For this our introductory world doth lead
To one where all is open, heart with heart
Commingling intimately as flame with flame:
Oh, not too late, dear Brother! for my soul
Was ever yearning secretly on thee;
Was ever full of thoughts unshown, unspoken,
That from the censer of affection rose
In ceaseless love for thee, my gentle Brother!
For, if an angel ever walk'd this earth
In blessed ministration of all good,
In meekness, patience, purity and truth,
In self-denying, and self-sacrificing,
In holiness and cheerfulness of life,
And all things else of beautiful and kind,
—Alas! we little heeded all thy worth
Till we had lost this angel unawares!

198

The Paris Gathering.

Once more in the tourney of Science and Art
Our chivalrous millions contend;
Ready and willing with head and with heart
To do what we can on Humanity's part
As neighbour, and brother, and friend.

For Commerce and Freedom and Truth to advance,
For growth of the good and the wise,—
In generous rivalry breaking a lance
We go to be guests of magnanimous France,
And tilt for Utility's prize.

199

In generous rivalry,—seeing we must,—
Our armies have gone to the war,
To trample Ambition's brute force to the dust,
And succour the weak in the cause that is just,
And break the proud strength of the Czar.

In generous rivalry now, side by side,
We conquer by land and by sea,
From Aland to Alma as brothers allied
We fight and we bleed,—we have triumph'd and died—
Together, to set the world free!

And in the like kindliness, here in the West
As there in the storm-driven East,
We bring for each other the first and the best,
And spread—that the world may be better'd and blest—
Our great international feast.

200

Give glory to God for such hearty goodwill,
Uniting traditional foes,—
That both our ambitions are satisfied still
With conquests of science and triumphs of skill
And trophies unpurchased by woes.

How happily better than days that are past
When trophies were bought by the sword,—
When victories rode on the hurricane blast,
And enmities threaten'd for ever to last,
And neighbour his neighbour abhorr'd!

Yes! well to be cherish'd, O brothers and friends,
Is such an alliance as this,—
Where each in forgiveness sincerely extends
The right hand of fellowship, making amends,
And pays for a blow with a kiss.

201

Caste.

Would that a spirit kindlier and less cold,
More brotherly, more equal, could be seen
Those members of one family between,
Our troops and their commanders!—All are bold,
All heroes in the field; but hard routine
Too strongly separate makes all beside,
By dint of fashion, luxury, and pride:
O shame, to knit the brow and blanch the cheek!
The fierce-lipp'd major, rich and well-allied,
And pamper'd up for pleasures at his mess,
To these poor privates hardly deigns to speak
And has no heart to cheer them in distress:—
Haste, nobler natures,—those old barriers break,
And gladden comrades by new kindliness!

204

New Statesmen.

We want the Good; the men of just intent,
Lovers of right who will not wink at wrong,
Men of high principle and purpose strong,
On Duty and the common welfare bent;
We want no longer,—we have had too long—
The Siren-talkers false and eloquent,
Mighty in word, but paralysed in deed;
Too long the mere adventurers, whose aim
Is self-advancement from their country's need;
O party gamesters, hide yourselves for shame!
England calls out for Patriots good and true,
—What if plebeian, so they save the State
Men to diplomacy and office new,
Pure-hearted, and unhackney'd in debate.

205

θεω δοξα.