m 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 < '■' 
 
 m 
 
 M 
 
 iiM;& 
 
 1 
 
 m 
 
 M 
 
 
 H 
 
 mm 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 m 
 
 
 Wi?!5»fR?JfflS3a!¥Jfrf, 
 
 t:K'.-t'-w7mm. 
 
 EMict mn:EBMXL ; 
 
 
 ■lifft/^;;; 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013567619 
 
it,, %. % $iMktmu 
 
 62, Waterloo. 
 
Itelta ItpFi 
 
 HENEY WATEEFALL. 
 
 " My father took me there ; 
 For he his boj-hood spent 
 In Rivelin Valley " 
 
 SHEFFIELD : 
 
 J. EOBEETSHAW, PRINTER, ETC., ST. PETEE's CLOSE, HARTSHEAD. 
 
 1880. 
 
 l/. 
 
The Eev. ALFEED GATTY, D.D., 
 
 vicae op ecclesfibld, 
 
 Stjb-Dean op Yoek, &c. 
 
 Eeverend Sib, 
 
 I come to dedicate to you my book 
 of "Eivelin Ehymes," and hope it maybe 
 worthy of your care. Your worth and wis- 
 dom, and your high and divine mission in 
 the service of the Christian Church, inspire 
 me vdth those respectful, obedient, and 
 trustful feelings with which I come. 
 
 You will not find in " Eivelin Ehymes " 
 that wonderful language, that intellect and 
 ever-increasing brightness of creative power 
 which the great poets have, who have made 
 
IV. DEDICATION. 
 
 the principal efforts of mankind their themes, 
 but the simpler effusions of one who has 
 spent many of his leisure hours in the de- 
 lightful valley of the Eivelin, reading the 
 beautiful pages of Goldsmith, Burns, Words- 
 worth, and of our own James Montgomery 
 and Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 In Bivelin, I " paddlet i' the burn, Frae 
 morning sun till dine;" — there, in hot 
 summer, the brooks "have little voice or 
 none;" — and where a homestead has once 
 been, " still many a garden flower grows 
 vsald:" — and there, "Beneath the milk- 
 white thorn that scents the evening gale," 
 I first read some of my verses (with critical 
 notices and good counsel to myseK in a 
 magazine from your pen) to someone who 
 was with me. Your kindness has ever since 
 been cherished, if the good counsel has not 
 been quite followed. But I hope you will 
 
DEDICATION. V. 
 
 spare my faults ; and among my many 
 roughnesses, I hope you will be able to 
 perceive some traces of art ; as when men 
 find a slab or metal plate with design on, 
 they rub it to see what it is. 
 
 I sincerely hope your days may be long 
 yet, and that you will enjoy them with your 
 usual health and cheerfulness. 
 
 Yours, with respectful obedience, 
 
 HENEY WATEEFALL. 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 It would have been better if my verses had 
 been smoother, not so fragmentary, and more 
 in accordance with the requirements of 
 acknowledged poetry ; but I have not made 
 much progress in the art ; so, I must let 
 them go as they are. In these days of book 
 reading, it is perhaps, not quite as imperative 
 that rhyme and measure should be so exact 
 as when they had to assist memory in the 
 days of tradition. But I must leave myseK 
 in the hands of my readers in this respect. 
 
 I pubhsh my verses, because I think they 
 express some of those feelings that affect 
 the heart for good : — as when we gaze on the 
 bold outlines of distant hills, mingling with 
 clouds, we can fancy that there the souls of 
 those we love and that love us, in changing 
 shade and sunshine for ever dwell ; or as 
 when we hear the summer's breath sighing 
 
Vm. PRBFACB. 
 
 through the trembhng grass on the edge of 
 a precipice, we might fancy it to be a faint 
 rustle of passing moments, or the leaves of a 
 daughter's book that she lets slip whisperingly 
 from her waxy fingers : or as when we reflect 
 on the responsibility and dignity of finding 
 ourselves in existence, and having a part to 
 act ; when the world's trials do not appear 
 so much like evils as exercises for those higher 
 powers which God has given us. And by 
 which exercises and His help, we may so 
 gain in strength, that we may do much in 
 the way of mastering the poverty, ignorance, 
 and brutality which beset us, to smoothen 
 down the asperities of our tempers, to keep 
 watch over our hearts, and claim a victory. 
 
 I have gone after worldly pleasures, even 
 when I have been conscious that I was de- 
 parting from those virtues of pure, simple, 
 and industrious life on which happiness 
 depends. And that I might be at ease in 
 the pursuit of these pleasures, I have sought 
 them in common vnth inferior grades of 
 men, and where it was not likely I should 
 meet with reproof. I have slighted the 
 
PREPACK. IX. 
 
 opportunities I have had of proraoting my 
 social standing and spiritual welfare. I am 
 soiled in the field of earth, and He whom I 
 honour is far from me, and His face is turned 
 the other way. Yet with none need this be 
 so to the end of life ; for although the past 
 must for ever remain as we have left it, we 
 may yet, in the days we have to come, merit 
 the material blessings of well-spent time ; 
 and in our leisure hours and at home we 
 may enjoy the charms of poetry (to which 
 stock, may I add a little !) and in the hour 
 of death we may have the consolations of 
 religion. 
 
 The composing of these rhymes has been 
 a benefit to myself; it has led me to read 
 more diligently our best authors ; made me 
 better acquainted with our language, and 
 above all, convinced me that virtue and piety 
 give the best charms to poetry, and the most 
 lasting enjoyments to life. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Flowers 1 
 
 Wild Flowers '2 
 
 The Primrose 3 
 
 The Daisy 4 
 
 Forget-me-not 5 
 
 The Brier 7 
 
 A Showery Morning in Spring 8 
 
 The Edge of Dark in Winter 10 
 
 The Empty House 12 
 
 Old William's Freehold 13 
 
 May Morn 15' 
 
 Christmas-Morn 24 
 
 Little Annie's Lamentation 28 
 
 Leila 30 
 
 The Lover's Leap 31 
 
 A Dirge 33 
 
 A Prayer 35 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOE. 
 
 High Noon in Summer 36 
 
 The Setting Sun 42 
 
 A Morning Walk in Eivelin 43 
 
 Cold Well 48 
 
 The Bracken Fire 63 
 
 The Thrush 58 
 
 The Titlark 60 
 
 The Blackcap Warbler 62 
 
 The Robin 63 
 
 The Bkd-Oatcher 65 
 
 The Hedgehog 67 
 
 The Kitten 68 
 
 My own Beloved Boy 69 
 
 To a Dead Leaf Tinged with Hoar Frost . . . . 73 
 
 Betsy Wait 75 
 
 The Lost Lad 76 
 
 Old Ruth 81 
 
 Evening in June.— The Fall of Night 85 
 
 A Moonlight Frosty Night 89 
 
 The Solitary Fir Tree 92 
 
 The Witch 97 
 
 The Quarryman 100 
 
 Rivelin's Waters, Song, and Sunrise 102 
 
PAaE. 
 
 The Dandelion lOo 
 
 My Native Rivelin 109 
 
 On Presenting a Wild Rose to my First Sweetheart 111 
 
 Song 112 
 
 Bob Winnmoor 118 
 
 Cricket . . . . : 114 
 
 The Lion 115 
 
 The Hyena 118 
 
 To Lizzie 120 
 
 Ellen 121 
 
 Far from Thee 123 
 
 Emma 124 
 
 Mary 125 
 
 Martha 127 
 
 Jinny 128 
 
jtt^Hii li^^^m^s. 
 
 FLOWEES. 
 
 Man, spurn not flowers from the soil, 
 
 But with thy fruits and herbs 
 Give them a place, where no turmoil 
 
 Their paradise disturbs ; 
 For they were thy first playmates, meant 
 
 To sanctify thy heart ; 
 For canst thou smell a flow'ret's scent, 
 
 Nor sinful thoughts depart ? 
 
WILD FLOWEES. 
 
 E'en early spring-time 
 Brings thein forth, and then 
 
 In any lowly nook, 
 Where poor thin soil is laid, ' 
 
 You find them, if you look. 
 
 Like the children 
 
 Of a drunken father, that are 
 
 Poor, sweet, and kindly spoken ; 
 So long as grief has not 
 
 Their mother's spirit broken. 
 
 How many fair 
 
 And lovely things the moulds 
 
 Of earth send forth awhile ; 
 And then they fade again 
 
 To cold and clammy soil. 
 
 A child's first thoughts 
 
 Of heaven are best ; it hopes 
 
 To meet once more with those, 
 Who gathered with it here. 
 
 The daisy and vnld rose. 
 
THE PEIMEOSE. 
 
 Pale flow'ret of the field, beside 
 The storm-torn hedgerows, thou 
 Hast come forth, even now. 
 
 Ere blust'ring Winter's face is dried. 
 
 The clammy sod, that lies below 
 The woodbine, is the bed 
 Where thou hast raised thy head. 
 
 Wet with the showers of rain and snow. 
 
 Still as the spring-time hours advance, 
 
 The sun comes out awhile, 
 
 And then a brightened smile 
 Is on thy modest upward glance. 
 
 Anon the sky is dark with rain. 
 
 And gusty showers rush 
 
 Through ev'ry tree and bush, 
 And strike thy tender bloom again. 
 
 Though chilly be thy lot on earth, 
 
 Sweet flower, a brighter day, 
 
 I trust will yet repay. 
 The hardships of thy hapless birth. 
 
 And though we 're here with sorrows laden. 
 
 The weary soul must be 
 
 Eefreshed with joy, to see 
 In thee, a relic left of Eden. 
 
THE DAISY. 
 
 Primroses, pinks, 
 Violets, and daffodils 
 
 Have all the happy power 
 Of bringing pure days back ; 
 
 So has this little flower. 
 
 Its field-wild scent, 
 
 And crimson edge, refresh 
 
 Those memories of the past, 
 Which sweetest are through life. 
 
 And dearest to the last. 
 
 And if the soul 
 
 Has dear remembrances 
 
 Of earth in heaven, they '11 be. 
 Sweet flower, youth's happy days. 
 
 And sinless things like thee. 
 
 Who seem'st to be 
 
 The very one, that made 
 
 The first inapression on 
 My boyish mind, and not 
 
 A charm with time bygone. 
 
FOEGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Alone, sweet flower, 
 There whiling away alone 
 
 The sunny hour. 
 
 It is thy lot 
 To bloom on life's wayside alone, 
 
 Forget-me-not. 
 
 Mid herbage green. 
 Thy half- wild blooms alone, 
 
 I might have seen, 
 
 Or seen them not. 
 Blooming on life's wayside alone, 
 
 Eorget-me-not. 
 
 If not for me 
 Thy heavenly blue alone. 
 
 Whose can they be. 
 
 Or why ? for what 
 Bloomest thou on life's wayside alone. 
 
 Forget-me-not ? 
 
Is there an eye 
 That sees thee when alone ? 
 
 In summer's sky, 
 
 That heeds thy lot, 
 Blooming on life's wayside alone. 
 
 Forget-me-not ? 
 
 Some country child, 
 That 's poorly clad alone, 
 
 Blue posies wild. 
 
 Of thine has got. 
 And says on life's wayside alone, 
 
 Forget-me-not. 
 
 The freckled face, 
 The sunburnt hands alone, 
 
 In many a place, 
 
 When days are hot, 
 Are seen on life's wayside alone. 
 
 Forget-me-not. 
 
THE BEIEE. 
 
 AVhere are those tender, silken roses gone, 
 
 That late adorned thine arched, elastic 
 stem; 
 
 Alas ! they 've shed their petals one by one ; 
 
 Enamoured zephyrs have eloped with 
 them. 
 
 With some eloped, with some a moment 
 toyed. 
 
 And left them shrinking, shrivelled on thy 
 thorn. 
 
 Where thou heholdest them with charms 
 destroyed, 
 
 And seem'st to me in silent grief to mourn. 
 
 But do not let that grief become despair ; 
 
 Let faith outlive the day of transient pain ; 
 
 For summer's glow shall winter's hurts re- 
 pair. 
 
 And thou in primal glory bloom again. 
 
 May even those that now are withered flowers, 
 Eling perfumes forth to every passing wind ; 
 
 As recollections of our happy hours 
 
 Bring soothing sweets to cheer the troubled 
 mind. 
 
A SHOWEEY MOENING IN SPEING. 
 
 How is the morning ? 
 By the noise of the trees, 
 It rains — it rains ! 
 And the flow'rets adorning 
 The grassy plains 
 And the leas, 
 Are nodding and dancing, 
 In the drops 
 That are glancing, 
 As glad as can be, 
 Rejoicing merrily — 
 And again and again. 
 The incessant rain 
 Pours ! — it pours — 
 It roars — it roars — 
 It showers — it showers 
 On the new opened leaves, the grass and the 
 flowers. 
 
 The child stands 
 At the kitchen door ; 
 And holds out its hands 
 
To catch the drops 
 Of the rain that never stops ; 
 And again, and again, 
 The incessant rain 
 Pours — it pours — 
 It roars — it roars — 
 It showers — it showers 
 On the new opened leaves, the grass and the 
 jflowers. 
 
 The housewife 
 Sets a tin, 
 To catch 
 From the thatch. 
 The rain therein ; 
 And as merry as hfe, 
 Like a kettle-drum it drums, 
 As fast as it comes ; 
 And again, and again 
 The incessant rain 
 Pours — it pours — 
 It roars — it roars — 
 It showers — it showers 
 On the new opened leaves, the grass, and the 
 flowers. 
 
10 
 
 THE EDGE OF DAEK IN WINTEE. 
 
 How is the night ? 
 
 By the lessening light 
 
 In the west, 
 
 Where the sun has gone to rest ; 
 
 And by the wind that blows 
 
 Through the leafless hedgerows, 
 
 And that sighs, 
 
 As it tries 
 
 To get through the holes 
 
 Of the old stone walls, 
 
 It is frosty, and is likely to snow. 
 
 The hills are like giants of old, 
 
 Setting their backs up in the cold ; 
 
 For they seem big and dark. 
 
 In their blankets of mist 
 
 Which they seem to twist 
 
 Bound their feet, 
 
 And cover the dun hides 
 
 Of their dusky sides. 
 
 Where the dark folds meet : 
 
 And the sky is streaky and stark. 
 
 Where the evening star flickers Hke a spark. 
 
11 
 
 The wintry wind roars, 
 
 Through the homestead sycamores, 
 
 Where the weather-vane squeaks. 
 
 And the old chimney reeks, 
 
 And the rapid streaks 
 
 Of the hurrying smoke 
 
 Curl and roke, 
 
 And are cast 
 
 Away on the furious blast ; 
 
 Like one out of her mind. 
 
 Who undresses 
 
 Her head, and throws her loose tresses 
 
 Away on the wind. 
 
 But though it is a moorland farm 
 
 The hearthstone is warm. 
 
 And the fire sheds a glare 
 
 On the happy faces there ; 
 
 And the old man in his chair, 
 
 Whose thin white hair 
 
 Has long been hoary, 
 
 Looks round upon all 
 
 With glances that fall 
 
 Like beams from the Land of Glory. 
 
12 
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE. 
 
 I looked in at the lone, empty house ; 
 
 I opened the squeaking, worn door ; 
 I knew all the corners and nooks, 
 
 And the dark, damp nicks of the floor. 
 
 The fire-grate was rusty and red. 
 And cold were the cinder remains ; 
 
 And the bars seemed to stare at the light. 
 That came in through dim broken panes. 
 
 And the gaunt, bare walls of the place 
 Ee-echoed the sounds of my feet ; 
 
 But were still as the grave when I listened ; 
 And my heart interruptedly beat. 
 
 I thought of the friends who had gone, 
 As I gazed on those bars rusted red ; 
 
 Eor they seemed like the skeleton ribs 
 Of one I had known that was dead. 
 
 And wherever a fire has been made, 
 
 In an old ruined castle or cot ; 
 Or even where gipsies have been 
 
 There 's an interest that clings to the spot. 
 
13 
 
 OLD WILLIAM'S FEEEHOLD. 
 
 How changed ! for I remember well 
 The burning yule-log, the ale, 
 
 And the beef on the pantry bench. 
 And old William's Christmas tale. 
 
 The mistletoe that hung upon 
 
 An oak beam, the bright holly berry. 
 
 The mince pie, the red cheeked apple. 
 And all that made yule-time merry. 
 
 When John used to play the hautboy. 
 And James used to play the bass ; 
 
 And smiling joy was depicted 
 
 On white-haired old William's face. 
 
 And long ere daylight, old Betty 
 
 Would bring out her Christmas cheer ; 
 
 Ah ! and as good a soul was she 
 As ever brewed once a year. 
 
 What changes there are in posse ! 
 
 Since then the homestead has been sold, 
 And now it is pulled down. 
 
 That once was William's freehold. 
 
 The old folks had long been dead 
 The last time I went that road ; 
 
 And John turned out rather drunken, 
 And James and Eachel went abroad. 
 
14 
 
 I've heard from James several times, 
 And find he still keeps doing better ; 
 
 He had just been elected a member 
 Of Congress in his last letter. 
 
 He was never thought so sharp 
 
 A lad as John ; but he toiled, 
 And improved himself, vs^hile John 
 
 Was the favourite and was spoiled. 
 
 But still John had some very good parts, 
 And was far from being without worth ; 
 
 In singing, his voice was one 
 
 Of the few things that are on earth 
 
 Celestially beautiful. He taught 
 
 The scholars at Whitsuntide 
 Their singing ; and he led the choir 
 
 Of the Parish Church till he died. 
 
 And he was an honest man, 
 
 The faithful trustee of many 
 Families ; and none ever found 
 
 That John was VTrong a penny. 
 
 To Bachel, poor girl, but few 
 
 Of this world's comforts were given ; 
 
 She met with a worthless husband, 
 But her hopesjare fixed in heaven. 
 
15 
 
 MAY MOEN. 
 
 At early dawn, 
 
 Among yon eastern skies 
 
 The gray light softly breaks, 
 And from the cottage may 
 
 Be seen the rosy cheeks 
 
 Of infant day, 
 
 "While zephyrs cool and fresh 
 
 Just move the ivy leaves. 
 And drops of moisture hang 
 
 Along the old thatch eaves. 
 
 The little wren 
 
 Had sung its hquid song 
 
 About the place, before 
 The iron latch did stir 
 
 Which held the cottage door. 
 
 But now the fire 
 
 Is made of dry larch sticks. 
 
 And cheerfully the kettle 
 Sings to the sun that shines 
 
 Upon its brightened metal. 
 
 The merry clock 
 
 Strikes five that hangs against 
 
 The yellow clay- washed wall ; 
 And in the well outside 
 
 Clear tinkling waters fall. 
 
16 
 
 The cottager 
 
 Comes forth upon the lawn, 
 
 And looks about ; but sight 
 At first can scarcely bear 
 
 The floods of orient light, 
 
 Wliich glorify 
 
 The heavens, which make the earth 
 
 Like Paradise, which raise 
 His thoughts to God, and fill 
 
 His bounding heart with praise. 
 
 II. 
 
 Enjoyment is 
 Expressed in happy looks 
 
 And voice on all sides round. 
 By soaring larks above 
 
 And insects on the ground ; 
 
 By new leaves on 
 
 The trees that seem to feel 
 
 The pleasures of the mom ; 
 By May-flowers in the brake. 
 
 And blossoms on the thorn. 
 
 The thrush in flute 
 
 Notes, mellow, mixed with shrill. 
 
 Wild variations, utters 
 To his mate melting love. 
 
 Whose joyous plumage flutters. 
 
17 
 
 The hare, the ox, 
 
 The horse, the lamb alike 
 
 On heaven's broad bomity feed ; 
 And sweets of life enjoy 
 
 Upon the dewy mead. 
 
 in. 
 
 And pleasant sounds 
 Of water running o'er 
 
 Yon distant mill dam's weir, 
 In many a swell and cadence 
 
 Come in the placid air. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How pleasant is 
 
 The early morning's breath 
 
 Among these groves and alleys ! 
 How joyous are the birds 
 
 Whose music fills the valleys ! 
 
 The skies are clear ; 
 For not a cloud is seen 
 
 In all the deep blue West, 
 Nor in the East, save jewels 
 
 Upon Aurora's breast. 
 
 The sandstone rocks 
 Form many a precipice, 
 
 On which the sunlight shines, 
 That gilds^with aerial gold 
 
 Its craggy creviced lines. 
 
18 
 
 But in the dells, 
 The pine plantations 
 
 Intercept the sunlight's rise ; 
 Where many a raassy, 
 
 Moss-encumbered fragment lies. 
 
 While on the hills, 
 Uprising strata lift 
 
 Their great crags in the air ; 
 Where many a fancied form 
 
 Their storm- worn outlines bear- 
 
 The Toad's Mouth, Lot's 
 Wife, and the Giant's Head 
 
 Still keep their dizzy height. 
 Amid the etherial blue, 
 
 And morning's rosy light. 
 
 Bright mountain-land. 
 In this chaste hour, when 
 
 Dissipation lies asleep. 
 The hearty tourist wakes. 
 
 And climbs the rocky steep, 
 
 To see the sun 
 
 Eise, whose refulgent beams, 
 
 In brightening colours, dye 
 The reddened mountains, and 
 
 The roseate-tinted sky. 
 
19 
 
 He sees how broad 
 
 The stretching landscape is ! 
 
 How wide the vales ! how grand 
 The mighty forms of earth, 
 
 And feels his soul expand ! 
 
 He cannot 
 
 Contem.plate such scenes, nor breathe 
 
 An atmosphere so pure, 
 And still his chastened mind 
 
 Its baser thoughts endure. 
 
 To converse with 
 
 The beautiful, the pure, 
 
 The boundless, must remove 
 The bondage of the heart. 
 
 And raake more space for love, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Beside the old 
 
 Eude turnstile, where the 
 
 Footpath enters in the shade, 
 Two youthful lovers meet, 
 
 By promise last eve made. 
 
 For then the day 
 
 In carmine grandeur set. 
 
 When walking they presaged 
 A charming sunrise, and 
 
 To meet this morn engaged. 
 
20 
 
 So now they 
 
 Promenade the lawn ; and their 
 
 Chaste conversation tells, 
 How love's enraptured hour 
 
 All pleasure else excels. 
 
 For heartfelt bliss 
 
 Each lover's beating bosom 
 
 Fills ; how could it miss, 
 When Youth and Beauty meet 
 
 On such a morn as this ? 
 
 With them it is 
 
 The very spring-time of 
 
 Their lives, the happiest day 
 They '11 have on earth, the 
 
 Brightest of their brightest May. 
 
 They have no thought 
 Of sorrow coming fast 
 
 To blight each loving heart, 
 As years of youth — nay e'en 
 
 As hours of morn depart ! 
 
 'T is well they think 
 
 Not thus, for now their minds 
 
 Are happy, clinging fast 
 To scenes their memories 
 
 Shall cherish to the last 
 
21 
 
 Of this world's life, 
 When they in wedlock may 
 
 Have lived through years of pain ; 
 Or may this morn have parted 
 
 And never met again. 
 
 VII. 
 
 My own dear one, 
 Don't we remember well 
 
 The pleasant walks we went 
 Among your father's fields, 
 
 "When our gay spirits lent 
 
 Ideal charms 
 
 To those delightful scenes. 
 
 And to those bright past hours ; 
 Since which we have not seen 
 
 Such May-time or such bowers ? 
 
 The very 
 
 Heart-aches that we suffered then, 
 
 Fond memory keeps in store ; 
 And if they 've left a pain, 
 
 'T is that they '11 come no more. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A few short years 
 Ago, and you were then 
 
 A witty, wayward girl, 
 Who prized a lover's heart 
 
 As it had been a pearl. 
 
22 
 
 To wear sometimes 
 And then to leave aside ; 
 
 And if he e'er complained, 
 Coquettish answers or 
 
 Disdainful looks obtained. 
 
 But all things yield 
 
 To love ; and in my house 
 
 You 're now as good a wife 
 As e'er to husband's weal 
 
 Devoted vpifehood's life. 
 
 Frugality 
 
 Like yours, no baser bond 
 
 Than marriage can secure ; 
 And without Heaven's regard. 
 
 No motives are so pure. 
 
 Your old folks now 
 
 Are dead, and all your youth's 
 
 Mates scattered far away 
 'Mong new connections that 
 
 Engage their thoughts : they may 
 
 Sometimes think of 
 
 You, when Eeflection's hour, 
 
 From daily toils apart, 
 Finds time to look among 
 
 The keepsakes of the heart. 
 
 These little ones 
 
 Now hold you here, in chains 
 
 Made of the wild flower's stem ; 
 And Love must fold his wings 
 
 To stay awhile with them. 
 
23 
 
 And oh, may grief 
 
 Ne'er hurt your tender breast, 
 
 Whose worst sin, is that mild 
 Fond selfishness, a mother 
 
 Owns towards her child ! 
 
 Prom earthly dregs 
 
 Like these, God's help alone 
 
 Can make love's chalice free, 
 And purify it, fit 
 
 For immortality. 
 
 From rank to rank 
 
 In love the prayerful heart 
 
 Succeeds, still gaining strength 
 To make those sacrifices 
 
 Which prepare, at length. 
 
 Our being to work 
 
 With God, in labours which 
 
 Shall heal the wounds of strife. 
 And which shall be the sweets 
 
 Of higher heavenly life ; 
 
 We shall not 
 
 Slumber, rapt in dreams of bliss. 
 
 Nor be annihilated. 
 But living, loving still 
 
 From earth's clay elevated. 
 
24 
 
 CHEISTMAS-MOEN. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! melodious strains of music 
 break, — 
 
 'Tis morn of Christmas-day ! 
 The folk at yonder mansion wake ; 
 
 For there the minstrels play. 
 
 The old moon shines o'er snow-clad plains, 
 
 And in the cottage peeps ; 
 While listening to the distant strains 
 
 The swain no longer sleeps ; 
 
 But rises from untroubled rest, 
 
 To raise the window sash, 
 And hear them play, while on his breast, 
 
 The morning air blows fresh. 
 
 The cold breeze moves the home-spun 
 sheet. 
 
 And makes the curtains tremble ; 
 It brings harmoniously sweet 
 
 Tones heavenly sounds resemble. 
 
 And then his little Annie wakes. 
 
 Who lifting up her head. 
 Exclaims " Father," and him she seeks, 
 
 But finds him not in bed. 
 
25 
 
 " Whist ! love, whist ! father is there, 
 
 Beside the ■window sill, 
 The rausic from afar to hear 
 
 Then rest love and be still." 
 
 So kindly does the mother speak 
 
 Unto her darling child, 
 And when 'thas fondled her warm cheek, 
 
 Again 'tis reconciled. 
 
 And then a moment all is still, 
 And then the low winds play. 
 
 And then they hear the music swell, 
 And then it dies away. 
 
 But yet melodious sounds the breeze. 
 
 As if it voices bore ; 
 At last they say — 'tis but the trees, 
 
 And music must be o'er. 
 
 Then on the glowing orbs of night 
 
 The father turns his eyes. 
 And on the mountains robed in white 
 
 Where snow unbounded lies. 
 
 To them the glad time does impart 
 
 A taste of heavenly bliss ; 
 For music lingers in the heart 
 
 Where happy virtue is. 
 
26 
 
 II. 
 
 " look !" cries Annie, pointing far; 
 " Before you leave the window — 
 0, father look ! that pretty star 
 That twinkles over yonder. 
 
 " Do yoTi not see it ? — mother see ! 
 'Tis through that other pane ! 
 Its glittering light comes straight to me ; 
 I see it, oh! so plain ! 
 
 " With one side green, the other red ; 
 It seems as though it rolled ; 
 father, lift me out of bed ; 
 I care not for the cold." 
 
 " My dear child," both parents say, 
 " It is so keen and raw," — 
 But Annie cries—" A moment, pray 
 0, mother let me go !" 
 
 " Well, well," the father makes reply, 
 " She shall the snowy plain 
 Behold, the moon and starry sky, 
 And then she'll sleep again." 
 
 He takes her from her mother's side, 
 And haps her in her night-dress, 
 
 To see the moon-lit world so wide. 
 Laid in its wintry white-dress. 
 
27 
 
 The Polar Star is shining north, 
 
 And Sirius rolKng clear, 
 The waning moon "bright o'er the earth. 
 
 And all the world is fair. 
 
 The frozen river's silvery breast 
 
 Eefiects the Itinar ray ; 
 And all is quietness and rest, 
 
 Save minstrels on their way. 
 
 Then on the glowing orbs of night 
 They turn their wondering eyes. 
 
 And on the mountains robed in white 
 Where snow unbounded lies. 
 
28 
 
 LITTLE ANNIE'S LAMENTATION. 
 
 ' T was afternoon, 
 
 The day was hot, 
 No zephyr waved the corn, 't was sultry, 
 
 Close in every spot. 
 
 The sky was cloudless, 
 
 The June sun shone, 
 When Annie went to get wild roses. 
 
 In the old grass lane alone. 
 
 Among the hriers, 
 
 "Where roses grew. 
 Little Annie sang to herself, like hees 
 
 That o'er the roses flew. 
 
 With a flowery wreath. 
 
 Her white straw hat, 
 Little Annie trimmed, as by the harebells, 
 
 And in the shade she sat. 
 
 Above an hour. 
 
 That summer day. 
 Little Annie sang and played by herself. 
 
 And her song then died away. 
 
 She seemed thoughtful. 
 
 And she sighed with heat ; 
 Little Annie cared no more for roses, 
 
 The roses smelling sweet. 
 
29 
 
 And at her side, 
 
 Her hat was laid ; 
 She heeded no more that flowery hat, 
 
 And httle Annie said : 
 
 " Emily's dead, 
 
 Away she's carried; 
 She '11 come to play with Annie no more, 
 
 She never will, — she's buried. 
 
 And Leila too 
 
 Lives a long way — 
 Far o'er yon distant sunny hills ; 
 
 She'll never come to play. 
 
 And Mary Wood 
 
 Has long since gone ; 
 And Annie is left to play vsdth flowers. 
 
 The summer day alone." 
 
 The bees still murmuring, 
 
 In roses crept. 
 They laboured on vsdth summer noise, 
 
 And little Annie wept. 
 
30 
 
 LEILA. 
 
 " I see not sister Leila — 
 Mother, she is not here ; 
 
 I see yon all bnt Leila — 
 Mother, she is not here." 
 
 " Alas ! thy sister Leila — 
 Once innocent and fair. 
 
 No more is sister Leila — 
 
 She lives — ^we know not where. 
 
 We never hear of Leila — 
 
 For ever she is fled ; 
 Thou ne'er must look at Leila — 
 
 We would that she were dead." 
 
 " I will see sister Leila — 
 
 Though lost to you and truth ; 
 
 I '11 seek for sister Leila — 
 Once innocent in youth." 
 
 " To see thy sister Leila — 
 'T will mar for evermore 
 
 That brighter thought of Leila, 
 Thy memory ever bore." 
 
 "I see not sister Leila — 
 Mother, she is not here ; 
 
 I see you all but Leila — 
 Mother, she is not here." 
 
31 
 
 THE LOVEE'S LEAP. 
 
 The North-East wind was cold ; 
 
 The day was drear to dree ; 
 On the sea the white waves rolled, 
 
 And the beach was solitary. 
 
 The gale was strong and breme, 
 
 And heaving was the sea ; 
 And the white-winged seabird's scream, 
 
 Was a scream so solitary ! 
 
 When on a cliff so bare. 
 
 Where shrubs could never be, 
 
 Stood a maid vpith long loose hair. 
 And that maid was solitary. 
 
 Awhile she stood and gazed, 
 
 Then bent upon her knee. 
 And to heaven her locked hands raised. 
 
 And that prayer was solitary. 
 
 The rock on which she knelt, 
 
 Was beetling o'er the sea, 
 Where the gull its nest had built, 
 
 And that place was solitary. 
 
32 
 
 She cried in bitter anguish — 
 
 The brink was o'er the sea, 
 Where she screamed — "Why, why languish,' 
 
 And that scream was soHtary. 
 
 She stretched her arms above, 
 
 As she from earth would flee ; 
 And she leaped — for despised love 
 
 Had made that maid so solitary. 
 
 She fell into the wave. 
 When none were there to see ; 
 
 And it soon closed o'er her grave. 
 And that grave is solitary. 
 
 It might have never been ; 
 
 For yet the heavy sea 
 Breaks its waves in white and green, 
 
 On that rock so solitary. 
 
 All human hopes and fears 
 
 As nothing seem to be — 
 And the elements and years 
 
 Work out earth's destiny. 
 
33 
 
 A DIEGE. 
 
 Not a stirring leaf was seen, 
 Deathly stiU was every tree, 
 Axid they looked a lighter green, 
 When the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
 Not a tulip moved its head. 
 All was calm as it could be ; 
 Peonies were brighter red, 
 When the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
 Black and low and near the ground, 
 Seemed the awful clouds to be ; 
 With a light horizon round. 
 When the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
 Like a mirror was the lake ; 
 In its water I could see, 
 Light green trees and verdant brake. 
 When the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
34 
 
 All at once, when not a breeze 
 Waved a reed upon the lea, 
 Crash ! a whirlwind smote the trees. 
 And the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
 And I heard a funeral dirge, 
 In a mournful minor key, 
 Reach me from the grave's clay verge. 
 When the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
 And it solemnized my soul, 
 Poring on eternity ; 
 When the thunder 'gan to roll. 
 And the day was dark and gloomy. 
 
35 
 
 A PKAYEE. 
 
 God of man, to Thee I pray — 
 Save me from, mine enemy ; 
 
 Give me now that special good 
 Thy goodness has in store for me. 
 
 Lift me from this darkening pit 
 
 Of rapine, violence, woe, and death ; 
 
 Let me come to happier climes 
 
 Of peace and love and lighter breath. 
 
 Let me live among the just, 
 With the merciful and kind ; 
 
 Let me join my friends again ; 
 Leave me not so far behind. 
 
 Cheer my sinking, painful heart ; 
 
 Aid me, help me with Thy grace, 
 That I may raise my bended form, 
 
 To see displeasm-e leave Thy face. 
 
36 
 
 HIGH NOON IN SUMMEE. 
 
 At noontide, when 
 
 The summer's burning sun 
 Seems nearer to the eye 
 
 That is half shut, the hills 
 In composed grandeur lie, 
 
 Like sphinxes gazing 
 With their gray worn faces 
 
 At the high noon sun. 
 As they have ever since 
 
 Upheaving periods done. 
 
 So mute is all 
 
 The landscape round, that e'en 
 The solitary fir trees cease 
 
 To sigh, and all things else 
 Are hushed in slumberous ease. 
 
 Among the cliffs 
 
 The stillness is as still 
 As death, and in the heat 
 
 Of such high noon as this 
 You hear your own heart beat. 
 
37 
 
 The wild heath smells, 
 Too luscious for the brain, 
 
 The mouse-ear hawk-weeds blaze 
 Their yeUow in the eye 
 
 That fain would shun their gaze. 
 
 II. 
 
 I recoUect 
 
 Once labouring in a hot, 
 Dry sandstone quarry, where 
 
 The sun's reflected rays 
 Were more than I could bear. 
 
 And, weary of 
 
 The burning gravel, I 
 In some low cabin gat, 
 
 That smelt of peat ; and all 
 The afternoon, I sat 
 
 In thought of 
 
 Sunny, sandy lands, where goss 
 And wild sage flowers grew ; 
 
 And every now and then 
 The work bees by me flew. 
 
 But whence they came. 
 Or whither went, I knew 
 
 No more, than thro' the sky, 
 They with a dree hum went 
 
 On express business by. 
 
38 
 
 While zephyr bees 
 
 Reposing in the air, 
 On wings invisible, spent 
 
 Their dreamy, careless lives 
 Among the vpild thyme's scent ; 
 
 And stone-chats flit 
 
 About the hot, misheltered, 
 Barren, rocky places, 
 
 Chattering like glass 
 Beads shook in pencil cases. 
 
 III. 
 
 And then I looked 
 
 Out far from that hiU side. 
 
 On many distant miles 
 
 Of world-sized landscape round, 
 
 In plains and mountain piles, 
 
 "Where wandering, vnld 
 
 Imagination still 
 Might range without a fetter. 
 
 And unencumbered with 
 A pencil, pen or letter, 
 
 Among the scenes 
 
 That change vpith melancholy. 
 Chance love, despair or hope. 
 
 As bits of stained glass change 
 In a kaleidoscope. 
 
39 
 
 IV. 
 
 And then I thought 
 Of mankind as a whole, 
 
 And individually, 
 
 That out of all that are 
 
 That one could but be me : 
 
 That consciousness 
 
 Revives again, and I 
 Again shall live, a breath 
 
 Upon the earth, between 
 The jaws of Birth and Death. 
 
 I looked at Death, 
 
 Not without fear, shrank from 
 The thought that I should solve 
 
 Into the mass again. 
 And never more evolve 
 
 To individual 
 
 Life, and on the other 
 Hand, I dared not think 
 
 Of passing as I was 
 Beyond this mortal brink. 
 
40 
 
 V. 
 
 And then a thought 
 Came to my aid and said — 
 " Pass through a land Uke this, 
 And thou shalt come to higher 
 Spheres of happiness. 
 
 " Then master now 
 
 Thyself ; for thou canst not 
 Dwell on the mountain range, 
 
 Sole spirit of the waste ; 
 And noting every change 
 
 " That frets with time 
 Through this chaotic world. 
 
 From present to the past ; 
 Nor watch a crumhling rock 
 
 While ever it will last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Thou mayest do much 
 With thinking, and thou wilt ; 
 
 But everlasting breath 
 
 Thou 'It never reach, but by 
 
 The simpler way of faith. 
 
 " Yet contemplation 
 
 Of such mighty scenes, 
 Will certainly improve 
 
 The mind; but 'tis thy nature's 
 Better part to love. 
 
41 
 
 " And Love a kindly 
 
 Intercourse desires, 
 Or what on earth could save 
 
 Thee from that coldness which 
 Is human nature's grave? 
 
 " Then make thyseK 
 
 Acceptable to them 
 On whom thy joys depend ; 
 
 For dear relationships 
 Will never, never end. 
 
 " Improve thyself 
 
 That edifying may 
 Be what thou would' st express. 
 
 Describing still the way 
 Through earth to happiness." 
 
42 
 
 THE SETTING SUN. 
 
 Setting was the expanded sun, 
 Dipping slowly in the ocean ; 
 
 Glittering was the briny main, 
 Like a minster's western window 
 
 Shining on a distant plain. 
 
 Stretched and few were remnant clouds 
 O'er the half-quenched orb of day, 
 
 Mottled, flaky, silvery, bright, 
 Like the golden forms of fishes 
 
 Basking in the streams of light. 
 
 All was silent on the beach. 
 Save the lisping, tiny wave, 
 
 "When the sun's last lingering glance 
 Waning, lessening, died away. 
 
 Mid the water's wide expanse. 
 
 Then I thought that he had gone. 
 Like a friend who leaves behind 
 
 Him a parting halo of 
 Happy recollections, bright 
 
 With the golden charms of love. 
 
43 
 
 A MOENING WALK IN EIVELIN. 
 
 " O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning', 
 Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 'Twas Sabbath morning ; 
 No breeze bad then awoke 
 
 Wben I made an early sally, 
 To hear the birds carol 
 
 Whose music fiUed the valley. 
 
 The sun had risen ; 
 
 'T was nearly four o'clock ; 
 
 And his. shining I could trace 
 On hillocks in the fields. 
 
 By many a swampy place. 
 
 The West was clear. 
 Where distant hills arose 
 
 With rocky summits high. 
 Piercing the azure blue 
 
 Of that beautifiil western sky. 
 
 The mill was silent ; 
 
 The water-wheel was standing ; 
 
 Yet through the sluice could steal 
 Small squirting streams of water, 
 
 Which rained within the wheel. 
 
44 
 
 The clear water 
 
 That babbled in the by-dike 
 
 Alternate stood in pools ; 
 For the stream was low, and the trout 
 
 Were darting from their holes. 
 
 The stone-chats flew 
 About the massive rocks, 
 
 Which like to tablets were ; 
 And the stroller his luncheon 
 
 Had often eaten there. 
 
 As I was walking 
 
 A something o'er the wall 
 
 I heard, that made me stay. 
 And looking 't was a horse 
 
 Which startled plunged away : 
 
 He galloped off, 
 
 And his clmnsy ironed hoof 
 
 Struck heavily the ground ; 
 But ere he 'd galloped far, 
 
 He stayed and looked around. 
 
 So I was walking 
 Enjoying as I went 
 
 The calmness of the scene, 
 The singing of the birds. 
 
 And the trees that looked so green. 
 
45 
 
 Till in the West 
 
 The hills were looking duller, 
 
 And thickening to a mist, 
 A cap upon their heads 
 
 Descended white and fast. 
 
 And lowering yet 
 
 The mighty Tolmnes white, 
 
 The thick and chilly damps, 
 From the summits of the hills 
 
 Were creeping down the swamps ; 
 
 And soon the sky 
 
 Was clouded every way ; 
 
 The sun no longer shone, 
 The hills were all obscured. 
 
 And the valley seemed alone. 
 
 And even to the miU 
 
 The lowering mist came dovra. 
 
 Condensing on the trees. 
 Which soon were dripping wet ; 
 
 And' the leaves showed not a breeze. 
 
 Beside a wall, 
 
 The fence of pastured ground, 
 
 A heifer lonely stood. 
 And her heavy breath was smoking. 
 
 As she quietly chewed her cud. 
 
46 
 
 The rising steep 
 
 Through the mist was dimly seen, 
 
 And hay-cocks which were there 
 "Were small and far between, 
 
 For the land was steep and bare. 
 
 Not very far 
 
 Nor very many hay-cocks 
 
 Could I see up the steep. 
 For o'er the hillocky fields 
 
 The mist did slowly creep. 
 
 The wild briers 
 
 Anaong the zig-zag hedges 
 
 That straggled up the hills 
 Were weeping in the mist 
 
 O'er little tinkling rills. 
 
 I saw a brier 
 
 With its branches hanging o'er 
 
 A gray, old sandstone wall ; 
 And there I pulled a rose 
 
 Which made the drippings fall. 
 
 I got another 
 
 From a low and bushy brier 
 
 That a whiter petal bore, 
 And its scent was different 
 
 From that I pulled before. 
 
The verdant brake, 
 
 The glassy mill-dam's margin 
 
 In the water its shadow threw, 
 And swallows nnder that brake 
 
 Touched the water as they flew. 
 
 The thickening mist 
 Began to be a Scotch 
 
 One, turning into rain 
 Which drdve me home, resolyed 
 
 To come some morn again. 
 
 With morning sunshine. 
 With light and happy feet 
 
 I began my early sally, 
 A mist came o'er my prospect. 
 
 And wept through all the valley. 
 
48 
 
 COLD WELL. 
 
 My way was long, 
 The hill was steep, 
 And on the short, smooth, trodden grass 
 My feet were hard to keep. 
 
 While in the sun 
 The hawk-weeds grew, 
 And on the ragworts wild bees slept. 
 And swarms of insects flew. 
 
 That hilly field 
 The cows had bared, 
 For scarcely anything but harebells 
 And buttercups was spared. 
 
 And toiling there 
 I often stayed 
 To look upon the woods which at 
 The mountain's feet were laid. 
 
 It is a grand. 
 Delightful scene, 
 To view that space of trees : when all 
 Their tops of varied green. 
 
 In mingled shades 
 Of light, you catch. 
 It nought but sea, or wilderness. 
 Or fairy land could match. 
 
49 
 
 But soon enjoyment's 
 Power was spent ; 
 And pleasureless became the hayiield's 
 Smell and wild-rose scent. 
 
 Still up the steep, 
 With languid feet, 
 I toiled, and scarcely knew what ailed 
 My limbs, oppressed with heat. 
 
 Until I found 
 A stone trough, filled 
 With water clear and cold as e'er 
 From veins of hillside rilled. 
 
 Where, spreading wide, 
 A hawthorn grew : 
 That was an old and bushy tree. 
 And there its shadow threw. 
 
 That pleasant well 
 I passed not by. 
 But stayed to see its glassy surface 
 Bear the water-fly : 
 
 To see the mossy 
 Fountain wimple 
 From its dark recess, and in 
 The rosy daylight dimple ; 
 
50 
 
 Then, like a silver 
 Sceptre, drop 
 Into the basin, making beads 
 That ran along the top 
 
 Of that bright mirror 
 To its edge, 
 In which there was an outlet, like 
 A hole made for a wedge. 
 
 And in the bottom. 
 All the bright 
 Sand seemed obliquely moved by pure 
 Eefracted rays of light. 
 
 And I saw in 
 It, as I drank. 
 The harebell's bloom reflected there, 
 That grew upon the bank. 
 
 Then to that httle 
 Limpid pool 
 A milkmaid came, and she was bearing 
 A milkpail and a stool. 
 
 A clean, white hood 
 Was on her head ; 
 Her dairy-gown was spotted blue ; 
 Her dairy-skirt was red. 
 
51 
 
 That sandstone trough, 
 Though hard, was worn ' 
 Quite hollow on the side which oft 
 That milking pail had borne. 
 
 As in the water 
 Her pail found rest, 
 Put there to cool the milk within. 
 The maiden I addressed. 
 
 " What famous rill 
 Is this, please tell ; 
 It perhaps has medical use, or may 
 Be called St. Anthony's Well?" 
 
 As in her hand 
 Hung by her side 
 Carelessly her three-legged milking stool, 
 The. maiden thus replied — 
 
 " This icy stream 
 Is called ' Cold Well,' 
 And children's whooping cough within 
 The sound of our Church-bell 
 
 Is cured by it, 
 Or by a ride 
 Upon the bear-ward's bear for pence,* 
 Which comes at Whitsuntide. 
 
 * It is an old superstition to put children on the 
 bear's back to cure whooping: cough. Sometimes a bit 
 of the bear's hair would be cut off for the child to wear 
 on its breast. 
 
52 
 
 Besides teing here 
 And full the same 
 It ne'er denied a stranger drink 
 Whoever thirsty came ; 
 
 But ever flovfed 
 Beneath this tree 
 With no remembrance of a change 
 In the oldest memory." 
 
 And when she 'd gone 
 I watched that stream, 
 Still bubbling in the mossy trough, 
 Till rapt as in a dream ; 
 
 And saw it bring 
 Small grains of grit 
 With it, and wasting still the hill 
 Away, bit after bit, 
 
 As the' it were 
 An hour glass 
 To rmi while e'er the world's years of 
 The human period pass. 
 
53 
 
 THE BEACKEN FIEE. 
 
 The day was clear, 
 
 'Twas calm and still ; 
 I ordy heard the dead leaves fall, 
 
 And wayside babbling rill. 
 
 I saw a cot 
 
 Among the trees 
 That skirt the woodland lane that 
 
 Stranger's eye scarce ever sees. 
 
 The door was fast. 
 
 And through a pane 
 I looked, but all was still ; they 'd gone 
 
 Somewhere along the lane. 
 
 A black cat stared, 
 
 The sneck was ont, 
 Nor did she tell me where it was 
 
 Though hid somewhere about. 
 
 I saw the house-leek 
 
 On the eaves. 
 The flower pots, and besom reared 
 
 Beside a heap of leaves. 
 
 That day they 'd left 
 
 Their fastened door, 
 Near which a robin whistled long, 
 
 Perched on a tub turned o'er. 
 
54 
 
 I stood and listened ; 
 
 No foot I heard, 
 For nothing moved but falHng leaves, 
 . And robin, a lonely bird. 
 
 He hopped about 
 
 The dark green holly. 
 And sang that low, sweet, Autumn song 
 
 That 's touched with melancholy. 
 
 I came avpay. 
 
 Oft looking back. 
 For still I thought I heard a fo'ot, 
 
 That followed on my track. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then on the lane 
 
 I wend my way, 
 And ne'er enjoyed a ramble more 
 
 Than on that autumn day. 
 
 I strayed among 
 
 The bramble waste. 
 And ate a berry which frost had given 
 
 An insipid taste. 
 
 The hips were bright 
 
 Upon the brier and red, 
 And on the twigs the hedge sparrow 
 
 Its plaintive ditty said. 
 
55 
 
 III. 
 
 But when the sun 
 
 Was getting low, 
 As day advanced I saw a smoke 
 
 Eise from the vale below ; 
 
 And presently 
 
 I saw the place 
 Whence came that blue ascending streak 
 
 I in the sky could trace. 
 
 A woman who 
 
 Was near the spot 
 Was cutting withered bracken with 
 
 A sickle that she 'd got. 
 
 And when upon 
 
 The fire she threw 
 Her handfals fresh, the smoke 
 
 Ascended light, and blue. 
 
 She left it and then 
 
 Again returning 
 With bracken in her sunburnt hand 
 
 She kept the fire burning. 
 
 And though the sun 
 
 Was very bright 
 It struggled with the hissing stalks 
 
 And sun's more powerful light. 
 
56 
 
 The sunshine made 
 
 The forky flame 
 Look pale and thin, and light the fumes 
 
 That from the hracken came. 
 
 And as the smoke 
 
 Eose high and higher 
 She put her handfuls on the flame 
 
 And wandered romid the fire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I wondered why 
 
 That fire she kindled, 
 And why she fed it still with bracken 
 
 Which still to ashes dwindled. 
 
 I asked her why 
 
 That fire she made. 
 And why she kept it burning thus 
 
 And this the woman said — 
 
 " I 'm burning brake 
 To make potash ; 
 It does instead of soda, and 
 I use it when I wash. 
 
 " To-day, I thought 
 I'd leave my cot, 
 And burn as many ashes as 
 Would fill this earthen pot." 
 
57 
 
 V. 
 
 There seemed to me 
 
 To be a rhyme 
 And lesson in that fire, I could 
 
 Not help but think, that time 
 
 Burnt out the same ; 
 
 And as we spend 
 Its years, so shall be what is left, 
 
 When life comes to an end. 
 
 And as that jar 
 
 Was filled that day 
 Would be the measure of the soul 
 
 When life had died away ; 
 
 And as I mused 
 
 She damped the fire 
 And put its ashes in the dark, 
 
 Brown urn of clay, stood by her. 
 
 She wanted them 
 
 For use, and who 
 Shall say the ashes of our years 
 
 Shall not be wanted too ? 
 
/ ' 
 
 58 
 
 THE THEUSH. 
 
 Cold wintry clouds have veiled the sky 
 The whole March day, sweet bird ; 
 
 And e'en when storms have driven by, 
 Thy wild love song we 've heard. 
 
 Thou knowest well Spring time is near ; 
 
 And tho' a vsdntry day 
 Doth intervene, thou hast no fear, 
 
 But sing'st its hours away. 
 
 But now inclement eve descends. 
 The winds are whistling strong, 
 
 And ere the stormy darkness ends. 
 What gusts may sweep along. 
 
 When showers of hail, in furious flight. 
 Drive on the piercing wind ; 
 
 When howls the tempest in the night, 
 What refuge dost thou find ? 
 
 Some sturdy holly's scanty shelter. 
 
 That rattles in the storm. 
 Is all that bears the furious pelter, 
 
 And shields thy tender form. 
 
59 
 
 Still safe — ^for not that holly yet 
 Shall from its place be torn ; 
 
 'T were folly, death, perchance, to flit ; 
 Then rest thee, bird, tiU morn. 
 
 And then, perhaps, the final night 
 Of Winter may have passed ; 
 
 And have arrived with morning's light 
 Congenial Spring at last. 
 
60 
 
 THE TITLAEK. 
 
 The morning was dull, 
 
 In the night we 'd had rain, 
 
 And the trees were all still, 
 As they hung o'er the lane. 
 
 The wheat stalks were swelling. 
 The hawthorns were weeping, 
 
 The sweetbriers smelling. 
 
 The hawkweeds were sleeping ; 
 
 The church bell was ringing. 
 
 So clearly, so plain, 
 And the titlark was singing ; 
 
 That morn we 'd had rain. 
 
 The briers were wet. 
 Leaves, flowers, and all. 
 
 Where the titlark had lit, 
 On an old sandstone wall. 
 
 The brambles there grown. 
 Were all dripping with rain. 
 
 Whence the lark had soon flown, 
 To sing down again. 
 
61 
 
 Thus times without end, 
 He was rising to sing ; 
 
 So contented to spend 
 
 All the days of the Spring. 
 
 His small cup of pleasure 
 Was full to the hrim ; 
 
 And though scanty its raeasure 
 'T was plenty for him. 
 
62 
 
 THE BLACKCAP WAEBLEE. 
 
 He 's here ! — be still ! I 've waited long, 
 
 Thou pretty warbler, laid 
 
 In silence in this shade. 
 That I may hear thy sylvan song. 
 
 how imtaine that glance of thine 
 
 Is, as thou tak'st each hop. 
 
 Towards the very top 
 Twig, where the honeysuckles twine ! 
 
 Where but a leaf thou seem'st, among 
 Those growing on that spray ; 
 For thou art light as they ; 
 
 And zephyrs waft thee all day long. 
 
 Thy ditty is at first so low 
 
 And soft, that I laid here, 
 
 Who seldom get so near, 
 When it commences scarcely know. 
 
 It swells with joy ; and how fine 
 
 The rapid runs and trills ; 
 
 And every change that fills 
 That sweet, untutored ^ong of thine ! 
 
 Tkid while those liquid warblings last. 
 That upstretched throbbing throat 
 Pouxs out the wildest note 
 
 That ever charms the woodland waste. 
 
63 
 
 THE EOBIN. 
 
 The wind in the key-hole was mourning, 
 We had finished our evening repast ; 
 
 When the fire was cheerfully burning, 
 And the night was enclosing us fast. 
 
 The snow had continued all day ; 
 
 And filled every crevice and rift ; 
 And the eastern blast blew it like spray 
 
 Into many a beautiful drift. 
 
 I saw in the tempest that night, 
 As it howled o'er the wintry waste. 
 
 On a twig in the dreary twilight, 
 Was perched poor Eobin Bedbreast. 
 
 He hopped -on the low garden- wall, 
 Where often we saw that the haze 
 
 Of dull winter light at nightfall, 
 Eeflected our fire's bright blaze. 
 
 I wondered wherever he 'd find. 
 In that very rough wintry weather, 
 
 A shelter away from the -wind, 
 
 That now and then ruffled a feather. 
 
64 
 
 I inYited him in, if he 'd come, 
 
 To have shelter and supper with me ; 
 
 And he deigned but to pick up a crumb. 
 And then he preferred hberty. 
 
 To be free on the poor leafless brier. 
 He thought was a far safer plan. 
 
 Than to trust for a supper and fire. 
 The capricious dominion of man. 
 
65 
 
 THE BIED-CATCHEB. 
 
 A linnet was singing in Eiy'lin 
 
 As it flitted from bramble to thistle ; 
 
 And I heard, in the fresh morning air, 
 Both it and a robinet whistle.. 
 
 As happy as songsters in heaven, 
 
 Their warblings were liquidly tender, 
 
 As the haze of the morn cleared away. 
 And the sun came out in his splendour. 
 
 That morning a bird-catcher came. 
 And he bird-limed the twigs of a sloe, 
 
 And his caged decoy-bird he placed 
 On a fragment of sandstone below. 
 
 I persistently loitered about, 
 To warn the poor victims away 
 
 From the snare he had set for them there ; 
 And I cared not for what he 'd to say. 
 
 A low-lived bird-cagey smell 
 
 From the rags of his body arose. 
 
 And all that he was was repulsive. 
 His looks, his abuse, and his clothes. 
 
66 
 
 I felt nearly as sorry for him, 
 
 As I did for the victims he 'd got ; 
 
 For the clutches of brutality 
 Had hopelessly seized on his lot. 
 
 "When the days of sad bondage are o'er, 
 And his soul and his birds are set free ; 
 
 They '11 forgive him and whistle in Paradise, 
 I hope both for him and for me. 
 
67 
 
 THE HEDGEHOG. 
 
 Dusky, dark, speckled, and spiny. 
 As sharp as the whin bush's thorn ; 
 
 Not a moment but on the defensive, 
 Nocturnal and hedge-bottom born. 
 
 Persistently rolled in a ball, 
 
 He 's had many a siege to sustain 
 
 Of dog, fox, pole-cat, and viper, 
 That life might longer remain. 
 
 And then he has hunted his prey. 
 And dabbled his muzzle with blood. 
 
 And after slived back to his hole. 
 To nourish a famishing brood. 
 
 Tho' guarded with instinct and prickles. 
 Life's terms with him are severe. 
 
 For his principal effort 's defence, 
 And little is left for life's cheer. 
 
 If he 'd yield but to civil restraint, 
 
 He should have food, protection and ease. 
 
 But it seems he would rather be wild. 
 And trust to his Maker for these. 
 
68 
 
 THE KITTEN. 
 
 Eh ! gamboling poor little kitten, 
 
 How hard thou hast struggled to live ; 
 
 For burnt, scalded, lost, and dog-bitten, 
 Thy life has gone thro' the small sieve. 
 
 A month or tvv^o back and we 'd got. 
 Both thee and a pert little brother ; 
 
 But now we know not his lot. 
 
 And besides we 've lost the old mother. 
 
 How fleeting thy sorrows must be, 
 
 Eor the day they are come, they are gone 
 
 And again thou playest in glee 
 
 With my lace, as my shoes I put on. 
 
 One day and thy troubles are o'er, 
 Nor pains on the morrow incroach ; 
 
 And again thou art happy once more. 
 For thou hast not thyself to reproach. 
 
 Like thine my griefs would be less 
 If myself I had not to blame, 
 
 But this alas ! I confess 
 
 Thy trials and mine aren't the same. 
 
 If always we did best we could, 
 How few our sorrows would be ; 
 
 And they I believe never would 
 Descend to real misery. 
 
69 
 
 MY OWN BELOVED BOY. 
 
 My own beloved boy, as if 
 
 Thou wert mine eye, I see 
 All things thro' thee, and gladness smiles 
 
 Wherever thou mayest be. 
 
 No hght can light the heart like love ; 
 
 Or daisies in the grass 
 Would be no dearer things to us 
 
 Than buttons made of brass. 
 
 Boyhood vs^as s-weet to me in Eivelin — 
 
 My days were purer then, 
 And happy recollections left 
 
 Behind are dear to men, 
 
 Who having mingled with a world 
 
 Of hateful, spurious things, 
 Would change its vanities at last 
 
 For peace which pure life brings. 
 
70 
 
 II. 
 
 I wore a spencer then, 
 
 And rosettes on each string 
 
 That tied my hat, when first 
 I heard a cuckoo sing 
 
 In Eivehn, when the month 
 Was May time, and the air 
 
 In balmy zephyrs moved 
 
 The new-leaved branches, where 
 
 The finch and willow- wren , 
 Sang carelessly and sweet, 
 
 As tho' cold winter's face. 
 
 They never more should meet. 
 
 III. 
 
 My father took me there ; 
 
 For he his boyhood spent 
 In Eivelin valley, and 
 
 Instinctively we went 
 
 There, soon as I could walk. 
 
 Our leisure to enjoy ; 
 As I go now vsdth thee, 
 
 My own beloved boy ! 
 
71 
 
 IV. 
 
 These hills, creation's size, 
 Surround thee, and impress 
 
 Thy finer feelings with 
 Their hreadth and mightiness ; 
 
 In their repose, they stoop 
 Not to be merely great. 
 
 Nor beautiful — serene 
 Sublimity's their state. 
 
 These rustic homes of man, 
 Mid half-wild steepy fields. 
 
 Where rough land tardily 
 To cultivation yields. 
 
 Bring into feeling life^ 
 
 The first emotions of 
 The heart that vibrates with 
 
 The tender pulse of love. 
 
 V. 
 
 'T is heart the world needs most — 
 'T were better be insane. 
 
 Than be without a heart 
 To civilize the brain : 
 
72 
 
 And should to men this high 
 
 Intelligence be given, 
 Men would be better then, 
 
 And earth more like to heaven. 
 
 VI. 
 
 My dear boy's ignorance 
 Eemove, God ! that he 
 
 May know Thy ways : awake 
 His sensibility. 
 
 That sinfulness may be 
 
 Too hateful to endure. 
 That chaste may be his thoughts, 
 
 And all his pleasures pure. 
 
73 
 
 TO A DEAD LEAF TINGED WITH 
 HOAE FEOST. 
 
 Thou little frosty leaf 
 
 Where many a grassy blade 
 Is like a silver spear 
 
 Embroidered thou art laid. 
 And where the narrow shadow 
 
 Of many a grassy stem 
 Is thrown athwart thy bosom 
 
 Thou art a peerless gem. 
 
 The silvery lace is beautiful 
 
 On every crimp and fold ; 
 But touching thee more nearly 
 
 Thy vesture is but cold. 
 Thou art the likest Fancy 
 
 Of ought where'er I stray, 
 For e'en before my breathing 
 
 Thy spangles melt away. 
 
74 
 
 Tho' to my flesh thou canst 
 
 No earthly comfort bring, 
 In Fancy's sphere thy robe 
 
 Would fit a fairy king. 
 In our accounts of goods 
 
 We could not reckon thee, 
 Yet Fancy sets thee down 
 
 In her inventory. 
 
 Thus Fancy sees in thee 
 A worth to flesh unknown. 
 
 And gives thy hoary mantle 
 A value of her own. 
 
75 
 
 BETSY WAIT. 
 
 She knows not where to go ; 
 
 No way of life seems left ; 
 Alone, undone, deceived, 
 
 Of every hope bereft. 
 
 She never had a thought 
 But to be his loyal wife ; 
 
 She never loved another, 
 But him she loved as life. 
 
 The night is getting late ; 
 
 The street is wet and cold ; 
 A strange man follows her. 
 
 And plucks her garment's fold : 
 
 She knows not where to go — 
 There seems no other fate. 
 
 But early death for her. ' 
 Alas ! poor Betsy Wait. 
 
 heartless selfishness 
 That can wrest all away. 
 
 And care not what becomes 
 Of poor despised clay. 
 
 It was not she was idle 
 
 That this should be her fate. 
 
 For loving and hard working 
 Was orphan Betsy Wait. 
 
76 
 
 THE LOST LAD. 
 
 Faintly is seen a lone star in the West, 
 
 The object of many an eye, 
 And between the black clouds, as they ride 
 on the blast, 
 
 It flits o'er the fields of blue sky. 
 
 The trees round the homestead are roaring 
 and breaking. 
 The old hollow chimneys are groaning. 
 The crazy worn doors on their hinges are 
 squeaking. 
 And the ghosts in the cocklofts are moan- 
 ing. 
 
 Yet e'en beyond this, on the moors far 
 away. 
 Where the hailstones are rising, then 
 ceasing. 
 Where the rills o'er the rocks in white 
 snowy spray 
 Are blown on the blast that is freezing. 
 
77 
 
 Even there, where the road o'er the moor- 
 lands so bare 
 
 Is hke to some river's meander, 
 The lost Irish lad in the pitiless air 
 
 Unfed and half naked does wander. 
 
 He looks at the clouds as they sweep o'er 
 the moss, 
 And his heavenward eyes are in tears ; 
 His scarlet cold hand o'er his heart makes a 
 cross. 
 And his lips are quick muttering in prayers. 
 
 The long road before him is weary to dree, 
 And his red face is bea1;en with wind 
 
 Too strong for his breath, and he turns round 
 to see 
 The miles and the darkness behind. 
 
 Then turning again with his face to the West, 
 Where the twilight illumines the sky, 
 
 That star streams its light on the tears that 
 have rest 
 On the lids of his swimming blue eye. 
 
 But look! 'tis a shepherd he sees coming 
 yonder, 
 And when they shall meet he will say — 
 " From some warm human dwelling how far 
 do I wander, 
 Thus lost and alone on my way? " 
 
78 
 
 " The Snake Inn is next," says the shepherd 
 when met, 
 As the wind scarce permits him to stay, 
 "But the Snake Inn my lad lies much f-urther 
 
 yet," 
 
 Then he winds o'er the moorlands away. 
 
 The lad is left gazing at hills in the West, 
 Where lingers a remnant of day, 
 
 Where the shepherd's vague finger had 
 pointed him rest. 
 But he sees not where Snake Inn doth lay. 
 
 The blast hurries fast o'er the bent and the 
 heather. 
 On the mountains so wild and so steep. 
 Where alone with the lost Irish lad in the 
 weather 
 Are starved but a few scattered sheep. 
 
 He looks at the mountains around the bleak 
 
 moss. 
 
 And his strained aching eyes are in tears, 
 
 His scarlet cold hand o'er his heart makes a 
 
 cross, 
 
 And his lips are still muttering in prayers. 
 
 Long past is the shepherd, the gale blows 
 still on. 
 It carries a single snow flake. 
 The sky is still cloudy, more dreary 'thas 
 gone. 
 And the shelterless moors are all bleak. 
 
79 
 
 He looks for Snake Inn, and he 'looks for a 
 Hght, 
 
 But valleys before him are dimmer, 
 And all he can see in the bosom of night 
 
 Are mountains that show not a glimmer. 
 
 Not a wall for a shelter along the highway. 
 Not a shed, not a hut to be seen. 
 
 And the snowflakes in numbers began now 
 to play, 
 And the frosty cold blast to blow keen. 
 
 He looks at the darkening of night o'er the 
 moss. 
 And his heavenward eyes are in tears, 
 His scarlet cold hand o'er his breast makes 
 a cross, 
 And his lips are still muttering in prayers. 
 
 He 's sickening at heart, he staggers, he lags. 
 For his strength and his feelings are spent. 
 
 And the storm beating in at his loops and 
 his rags. 
 He lies down on a tussock of bent. 
 
 The night darkens yet, the storm rages still. 
 It drives o'er the lost Irish lad ; 
 
 He 's laid in the white snow, he 's pale, and 
 he 's chill, 
 He 's laid in the air and is dead. 
 
80 
 
 The storm is subsiding, the clouds are 
 dividing, 
 
 And the stars are now roUing in space, 
 And the lost Irish lad in the snow is abiding, 
 
 A dead beauty in heaven's blue face. 
 
 He still seems to gaze at the stars o'er the 
 moss. 
 His lips again never shall speak, 
 His hand 's on the breast it so lately did 
 cross. 
 And his tears freezing fast on his cheek. 
 
ai 
 
 OLD EUTH. 
 
 The month of August 
 
 Had just begun, 
 And sweltering was the glorious weather 
 
 Beneath a burning sun. 
 
 Both man and beast 
 
 Their toiling stayed, 
 And wearied with the Summer's heat 
 
 They sought the cooling shade. 
 
 The trees were calm, 
 
 The leaves were still. 
 All things were h^ished in Srnnmer silence, 
 
 All but the bubbling rill, 
 
 Or save the buzzing 
 
 Of the wild bees. 
 And ceaseless murmuring of Summer flies 
 
 In swarms upon the trees, 
 
 "When an old woman 
 
 Of seventy years 
 Who 'd lived a long time by a wood. 
 
 Where a lone cot appears, 
 
 Then left her home, 
 
 And o'er the green 
 She went beneath the shady trees 
 
 That by that path are seen. 
 
82 
 
 A wide black bonnet 
 
 Was on her head, 
 Her comely gown was plain and slack, 
 
 Her wearing shawl was red. 
 
 She 'd in her hand 
 
 A small blue can ; 
 She went for water for her kettle, 
 
 Where some lone streamlet ran. 
 
 Upon a staff 
 
 She forward bent, 
 And 'tween the trees the sun shone on her, 
 
 As slowly by she went. 
 
 Beside the hedge 
 
 So thick and green. 
 Beneath the docks and hemlocks flowed 
 
 The tinkling stream unseen. 
 
 The old worn stones 
 
 Which there were laid 
 Amid the short smooth grass uneven 
 
 A crooked footpath made. 
 
 At length beside 
 
 A gate and stile 
 Where stones were laid no further, the good 
 
 Old woman stayed awhile. 
 
83 
 
 Towards the gate 
 
 She walked unsteady, 
 She raised her sunken eye and said 
 
 " The corn is ripe and ready. 
 
 " This glorious weather 
 
 Is hastening past 
 The reapers should ere long be at it ; 
 
 'T is ripening very fast." 
 
 Then on the gate her 
 
 Hand she raised, 
 And on the distant sunny hills 
 
 With mazy sight she gazed. 
 
 Her feelings moved. 
 
 She breathed a sigh. 
 And sweet reflection's tear had dimmed 
 
 Her mazy sunken eye. 
 
 The power of memory 
 
 So sweetly broke 
 Upon her soul and in the sunshine 
 
 The good old woman spoke. 
 
 "Ah ! I see it again 
 
 Yon small white cot 
 On yonder distant sunny hills, 
 
 That is my native spot. 
 
84 
 
 " The time has fled 
 
 'Twill never more 
 Return when I in youth lived there 
 
 In happy days of yore." 
 
 She died what time 
 
 She 'd been Euth Street 
 Full eighty years ; and now her nam.e 
 
 Is getting obsolete. 
 
EVENING IN JUNE. 
 
 The Fall of Night. 
 
 The sun was just setting 
 O'er hills in the West, 
 
 Where cloudlets were floating 
 Like gold fish at rest. 
 
 Noah's Ark was then streaking 
 
 The heavens so high, 
 And hke a hay-raMng 
 
 It stretched o'er the sky, 
 
 When cattle were lowing 
 As homeward they drew, 
 
 When daisies were bowing. 
 And falling the dew. 
 
 The cuckoo was singing. 
 And gurgling the rill ; 
 
 The time-bell was ringing, 
 And evening was still. 
 
 The trees were aU deadening 
 In stillness and hushed, 
 
 The heavens were reddening, 
 The woodlands were flushed. 
 
86 
 
 The insects were playing 
 And commencing to bite, 
 
 The donkey was braying 
 In the silence of night. 
 
 The brooms were all yellow, 
 The field-fires were burning, 
 
 And from the dry fallow 
 The swain was returning. 
 
 When to rest him he stayed. 
 
 And he sat on a rail 
 Where his rake he had laid. 
 
 And he looked on the vale 
 
 Where the trout were oft leaping ; 
 
 And quickly the swallows 
 Were curving and sweeping 
 
 For flies on the shallows. 
 
 The blackbird and throstle 
 That cheered the green alley 
 
 Were ceasing to whistle 
 As night owned the valley. 
 
 Straight up in the air 
 
 The cottage was smoking, 
 
 And folk that were there 
 
 He could hear they were talking. 
 
87 
 
 Their bidding good night 
 And the scream of the gate, 
 
 Of the spring in its flight 
 He could hear as he sate. 
 
 On the village quoit-ground 
 The quoits were still ringing, 
 
 And some boy homeward bound 
 "Was whistling and singing. 
 
 Some amateur playing 
 His bugle was heard. 
 
 While darkness was laying 
 Its robe on the sward. 
 
 The children together 
 Were making a din, 
 
 And the cry of a mother 
 Was calling them in. 
 
 From a long summer's roam 
 The geese were returning. 
 
 They slowly came home. 
 And the goslings were mourning. 
 
 What night-sounds they made 
 While nestling they lay. 
 
 Which on the green glade 
 Died slowly away. 
 
As up he was rising 
 
 To go for the night, 
 At the North he was gazing 
 
 While still there was hght. 
 
 As home he was straying 
 
 At the North he would stare, 
 
 Eepeatedly saying 
 
 "No night will be there." 
 
89 
 
 A MOONLIGHT FEOSTY NIGHT. 
 
 The sky was clear, 
 
 The moou was bright, 
 The frost was hoary on the fields 
 
 One cold December night. 
 
 The rocky cliff. 
 
 The mountain steep, 
 Were peering through the flimsy mist 
 
 Among their sides asleep. 
 
 The moonlight hills, 
 
 The keen frost white 
 And silvery, babbling wayside well 
 
 Were beautiful that night. 
 
 When slowly carae 
 
 A black horse striding. 
 And in the clumsy cart he hurried : 
 
 Two farmers home were riding. 
 
 They came along 
 
 The rugged way. 
 And when they crossed the ford, they saw 
 
 The glittering water play. 
 
90 
 
 Through leafless trees 
 
 The moon was peeping, 
 As went the slow, old, rattling cart, 
 
 When lawns and woods were sleeping. 
 
 Through naked twigs 
 
 The moon was gliding. 
 And ever with them as they went, 
 
 Still homeward slowly riding. 
 
 Beneath the wheels. 
 
 Old, dry, and creaking. 
 As on the hard, white lane they went. 
 
 The weak thin ice was breaking. 
 
 And when they passed 
 
 That ruined place, 
 The Murrod farm, the horse yet kept 
 
 His slow unaltered pace. 
 
 They saw those black. 
 
 Old walls that night, 
 And ruined windows, where the moon 
 
 Displayed her silvery light. 
 
 At length they reached 
 
 The Fullod well. 
 At which the old horse stayed to drink. 
 
 And the heavy cart was still. 
 
91 
 
 They slacked the rein, 
 They heard him drinking, 
 
 And silence settled on their ears. 
 When not a chain was clinking. 
 
 But now the old 
 
 Horse raised his head. 
 With water rattling from his mouth. 
 
 And stirred with heavy tread. 
 
92 
 
 THE SOLITAEY FIE TEEE. 
 
 One Smnnier day 
 
 Beneath a cloudless sky 
 I had wandered 
 
 A weary and long way, 
 Where'er the road meandered, 
 
 Which was hot and dry, 
 Which o'er the moors did stray. 
 
 The moors were brown and wide 
 
 Till they were bound 
 With hazy blue sky, 
 
 And there was nothing beside 
 To relieve the ear or sight 
 
 Unless it was the flight 
 Of distant bifds, or the startling cry 
 
 Of grouse, which was the only sound 
 That broke the monotony around. 
 
 Thus loitering alone 
 
 Beneath a burning smi 
 I began to be weary. 
 
 The buzzing bees. 
 On the flowering heath, 
 
 And the running lizards beneath 
 No more could please ; 
 
 And every thing was dreary. 
 
93 
 
 Slowly onward I went 
 
 Void of thought, 
 And caring for nought, 
 
 Till another mile was spent ; 
 And then I saw in the West, 
 
 On the brow of a little hill, 
 A lonely stone fir tree, 
 
 Whose top seemed to be 
 A small Summer cloud at rest, 
 
 Remaining quite still. 
 Or like that that was like a man's hand 
 That Elijah saw in Mount Carmel's land. 
 
 The tree was alone. 
 
 And at its foot was laid 
 A mighty stone. 
 
 Where many a stroller had stayed, 
 And the bole of the tree 
 
 I could but faintly see. 
 For what came to my eye 
 
 Was its top in the sliy. 
 
 As it seemed to be a resting place, 
 
 I quickened my pace. 
 Hoping to find 
 
 On the brow of the hill 
 A faint breathing of pleasant wind. 
 
 For the day was hot, and still. 
 
 AVeary and overheated. 
 At length I was seated 
 
94 
 
 On that mighty block of stone, 
 Which with hchens had gone 
 
 Green and gray, 
 
 Ere ever I had been that way. 
 
 Initials and dates were seen 
 
 Upon it everywhere, 
 Some had been 
 
 Cut two hundred years past. 
 And others but lately, the last 
 
 Of which bore the date of the passing 
 year. 
 
 And where the rain falls 
 
 Upon that mighty block, 
 Were hollowed holes 
 
 That a little water bore. 
 Which remained 
 
 Since the last time it rained. 
 When the storm passed o'er 
 
 That lonely rock. 
 
 On the lowest end 
 
 Of that curious stone 
 I sat alone. 
 
 Willing to spend 
 Some time in rest ; 
 
 For wearisome was the way, 
 And I was much oppressed 
 
 With the heat 
 Of that Summer day. 
 
95 
 
 The afternoon was flying 
 While there I stayed, 
 
 And was backward laid 
 Listening to the sighing 
 
 Of that solitary 
 Stone fir tree. 
 
 For ever and for ever 
 In a ceaseless monotony, 
 
 Like some languishing lover 
 It sighed mom-nfully. 
 
 In Fancy's ear 
 
 It sounded to be 
 The flying pages 
 
 Of time, year after year, 
 Bustling hastily 
 
 To departed ages 
 For ever turning to the past. 
 
 II. 
 
 To lie down on the ground. 
 
 On the summit of a hill. 
 In the zephyrus summer time, 
 
 Where a pine tree murmurs still. 
 
 You can feel as if earth moved : 
 And to that tree's tone, but hark. 
 
 And you fancy that you hear 
 They are burning Joan of Arc. 
 
96 
 
 For the hum of ages gone 
 Seem to hnger in that tree ; 
 
 And the moving mass of Israel 
 Leaves a tone behind to me. 
 
 And those storm-bent branches show, 
 By their leaning all one way, 
 
 What the Western winds have done — 
 But they are at peace to-day, 
 
 Lulled with dream-love that I feel 
 
 When jEoIus plays an air 
 On his wild harp, and a child's 
 
 Waxy fingers comb my hair, 
 
 Or that when I am at church 
 On a Summer Sunday morn. 
 
 When the June rose scent is sweet, 
 On the wings of Zephyrus borne. 
 
 For he comes to church in Summer 
 
 To hear Urania sing. 
 Comes in thro' open windows ' 
 
 On his hayfield scented wing. 
 
 And he fans the parson's brow. 
 As if with the leaves of palms ; 
 
 And the labourer joins as well 
 In the singing of the Psalms. 
 
 And the heavenly Litany 
 
 Comes from his emotional breast 
 Whose rough hand soils his prayer 
 
 Book leaves on the day of rest. 
 
97 
 
 THE WITCH. 
 
 No moon was shining that night, 
 
 And midnight sleepers were dreaming, 
 
 When snow-buried fields were all white, 
 And the Northern lights were streaming. 
 
 O'er hills all covered with snow, 
 The stars in heaven were beaming ; 
 
 When all was then night-time below, 
 And the Northern lights were streaming. 
 
 The North-wind blew and was dreary ; 
 
 The forest-trees desolate seeming, 
 When the damn'd of their torments were 
 weary. 
 
 And the Northern lights were streaming. 
 
 Jin Svsdnkill stood on a cliff, 
 
 The hoarse night-raven was screaming, 
 When her limbs were aged, crazy, and stiff, 
 
 And the Northern lights were streaming. 
 
 She gazed at Orion in heaven, 
 
 Whose fiery armour was gleaming ; 
 
 And the stars in Pleiades were seven, 
 And the Northern lights were streaming. 
 
 She ne'er could cast a nativity — 
 Her weird was nothing but seeming, 
 
 A vile semi-barbarous proclivity, 
 
 When the Northern lights were streaming. 
 
98 
 
 n. 
 
 She never remembered her mother, 
 "Who died when she was a child, 
 
 Leaving five in this wilderness-world 
 With a father abandoned and wild. 
 
 Ill usage had broken her spirit. 
 And little she said when she died, 
 
 Not e'en to her baby that played 
 
 With flowrets they brought to her side. 
 
 Their father neglected their home. 
 And seldom at night he was there ; 
 
 Till the wolves of starvation and vice, 
 
 Leapt the threshold and made it their lair. 
 
 The friendship of neighbom's fell off ; 
 
 And the last ties began to decay ; 
 So they started to prowl out at night, 
 
 And seldom were seen in the day. 
 
 They all of them came to bad ends ; 
 
 And she had oft slept in a ditch ; 
 And ne'er knowing what kindness could be. 
 
 She naturally turned to a Witch. 
 
 She ne'er put her foot on the nicks 
 
 Of the pavement ; and never passed paling 
 
 Without superstitiously touching 
 And carefully counting each railing. 
 
99 
 
 How strange are the mind's phenomena, 
 Its selfishness, frenzy, and fears ! 
 
 The strong cruel hearted with lust, 
 
 And the weak damping earth with their 
 tears. 
 
 The fanatical raving to idols 
 
 Of spirit, of stone, or of wood ; 
 And the wicked viciously craving 
 
 For gold, silk, wine, and blood. 
 
 Whose heart is n't touched when he hears 
 The wild wail of human distress, 
 
 Arising from ignorant fears. 
 
 Strong passions and helplessness ? 
 
 God speed thee. Philanthropy, 
 
 Thy heart is great and refined. 
 Exploring the dreary regions 
 
 Of the rude and uninformed mind. 
 
100 
 
 THE QUAEEYMAN. 
 
 He 's pulling down a hill, 
 With crowbar, pick, and drill, 
 And shots like muffled thunder- 
 He 's rending earth asunder. 
 And with his heavy sledge. 
 He smites the iron wedge ; 
 And splits up into blocks. 
 The massivest of rocks. 
 
 In solitudes of stone. 
 
 He labours on alone ; 
 
 And like a quarry elf. 
 
 He 's the colour of his delf : 
 
 And every weary blow 
 
 Ee-echos to and fro ; 
 
 Stone getting from that den. 
 
 To build the homes of raen. 
 
 For forty years and more, 
 As his father did before. 
 He 's laboured in that gap. 
 In very nature's lap. 
 
101 
 
 And if there 's any shame, 
 Earth has herself to blame ; 
 For ere he e'er wore shoe, 
 She might know what he 'd do. 
 
 She '11 let him have his way. 
 His life time to a day. 
 And bear no malice then ; 
 And with the rest of men, 
 He '11 have a btaial place — 
 And the beetle's hurried pace 
 Shall cross his gravestone letters, 
 Nor heeding him nor his betters. 
 
102 
 
 EIVELIN'S WATEES, SONG, AND 
 SUNEISE. 
 
 Dear Eivelin vale, 
 
 With all my senses charmed, 
 
 I pace thy dewy lawns ; 
 And sip at crystal springs. 
 
 That bathe thy mossy stones. 
 
 Thy limpid rills, 
 
 O'er sandstone rocks, their long 
 
 White falling streams display. 
 As tnlle adorns the bride. 
 
 Upon her bridal day. 
 
 Thy peat-stained brooks, 
 
 That leap from heathery hills, , 
 
 In skyey lustre flow ; 
 And look like strings of pearls 
 
 On Egypt's swarthy brow. 
 
 Thy trickling springs, 
 Eesplendent drops, do out 
 
 Of gritstone measures leak ; 
 And bathe thy fragment rocks. 
 
 As tears bathe Beauty's cheek. 
 
103 
 
 Thy weightier streams 
 The sHmy water wheel 
 
 Propel ; and as it turns, 
 They fall like silken flounces 
 
 Among the fronds of ferns, 
 
 O'er Millstone Grit 's 
 Day-peeping, basset edge, 
 
 Thy soft-toned waters run. 
 From fountains in the West, 
 
 Towards the morning sun. 
 
 II. 
 
 A matin song. 
 
 Thro' all the land salutes 
 
 This May-bright morn of Spring ; 
 For myriads of birds, 
 
 At Eivelin's sunrise sing. 
 
 E'en Zephyrus stands, 
 With 'bated breath, to hear 
 
 The omnipresent tone ; 
 As if hke Memnon, hills 
 
 And valleys sang at dawn. 
 
 III. 
 
 Aurora's steeds 
 
 Come o'er the Eastern hills, 
 
 Pursuing shades of night. 
 That leave the dewy groves, 
 
 And take their Western flight. 
 
104 
 
 Hail, charioteer ! 
 
 Thou glorious One ! to whom 
 
 All eyes are turned this hour, 
 From every warbling bird, 
 
 And every opening flower. 
 
 Apollo comes. 
 
 And on his lute he plays 
 
 His lyrics sweet and tender ; 
 And rays these rugged cliffs. 
 
 With wild poetic splendour. 
 
105 
 
 THE DANDELION. 
 
 Don't pull it up — 
 'T is a flower. 
 Well, but 't is a weed, 
 And it will run to seed. 
 Never mind, if it does — 
 It won't harm us — 
 Let it stop. 
 In the sunny hour. 
 It is one of Spring's 
 Prettiest things ; 
 And after the wintry glooms. 
 It is one of the flowers, 
 That are brought by April showers ; 
 And the sunniest and brightest that blooms. 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 AND 
 
 LOVE SONGS. 
 
109 
 MY NATIVE EIVELIN. 
 
 (The first Verses 1 ever wrote.) 
 
 It is thy stream so fair I see 
 The highest source of joy to me — 
 It fills my heart to think of thee, 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
 I hear the lambs' unceasing bleather 
 Joyful in the Summer weather, 
 Playful on thy cliffs of heather. 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
 Beneath thy beech and birken shade 
 The vrearied heifer 's resting laid, 
 Contented on the grassy glade. 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
 The high noon sun unclouded burns 
 
 And labouring men have left their " turns ' 
 
 Till cooler are thy solstial urns. 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
 The quickens droop before the blaze, 
 The yellow flowers steadfast gaze 
 Despite the force of solar rays, 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
110 
 
 The fly 's the only Hvely thing 
 That steadies on its gaiuzy wing, 
 And now and then that takes a fling, 
 
 My native Eivehn. 
 
 The throstle keeps a shady seat. 
 Among the hawthorn blossoms sweet, 
 To pass the noon of Summer heat, 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
 Thy silver streams their pride abate, 
 And country boys together prate 
 Paddling in thy half-dried gait. 
 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
 But venting here my bosom's swell 
 Thy flying hour forbids me dwell. 
 And I must part with thee — Farewell ! 
 My native Eivelin. 
 
Ill 
 
 ON PEESENTING A WILD EOSE TO 
 MY FIEST SWEETHEAET. 
 
 fOne of my earliest attempts at Verse.) 
 
 At Nature's hand, in wild display 
 The rose spontaneous grew, 
 
 Whose simple virtues love convey 
 No Art can e'er imbue. 
 
 Then may it die but vdth revrard — 
 Not languish in despair ; 
 
 Such is thy lover's true regard, 
 His only wish and prayer. 
 
112 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Thou gurgling Porter, hush thy sound, 
 
 Thy streams are nought to me ; 
 The weeping birch in groups around 
 
 Alone give sympathy. 
 Forbear to sing, thou little wren. 
 
 That warbles o'er the stream, 
 And on the glade, thou setting sun 
 
 Withhold thy golden beam. 
 
 Withhold, bright Heavens, all your charms, 
 
 This calm, this Summer eve, 
 Or fold my Martha in these arms. 
 
 And this sad heart relieve. 
 But ah ! upon this downy grass. 
 
 She walks not by my side : 
 My falling tears my grief confess — 
 
 She ne'er may be my bride. 
 
113 
 
 BOB WINNMOOE. 
 
 I 'm sure I 've seen that face ; 
 But I do n't remember where. 
 'Twas quite a stare 
 
 Came from that eye, 
 As he passed by, 
 At a church-yard pace. 
 It cannot be amiss. 
 To turn back and ask who it is. 
 
 Why ! it 's Bob Winnmoor — 
 I have n't seen him for years ; 
 But how weakly and ill he appears- 
 I doubt he 's poor. 
 
 I '11 not merely doubt it, 
 But I '11 know more about it. 
 
 Poor Bob ! he was n't a fool, 
 
 I knew him and liked him and boxt with 
 him when we went to school. 
 
114 
 
 CEICKET. 
 
 On the bright sunny field, 
 We 'U pitch the hght wicket ; 
 In the tnrf we will stick it, 
 "Where 't is levelled for cricket. 
 
 On the bright sunny field. 
 
 On the bright sunny field, 
 
 The bowler assails 
 
 The three stumps and the bails ; 
 
 And he often prevails 
 On the bright sunny field. 
 
 .On the bright sunny field, • 
 They fall at his hands. 
 Till some batter withstands 
 All the skill he commands. 
 
 On the bright sunny field. 
 
 On the bright sunny field, 
 Be cheerful and fair ; 
 For calm courage and care 
 Will win the match there, 
 
 On the bright sunny field. 
 
 On the bright sunny field. 
 
 Keep adding one more 
 
 Even to a small score ; 
 
 'T is not lost till 'tis o'er 
 On the bright sunny field. 
 
115 
 
 THE LION. 
 
 Appalling monster, thy bones are broad 
 
 And powerfully made ; 
 But stronger still the massy load 
 
 Of muscles on them laid. 
 
 Thy heavy and elastic skin 
 
 Is plentifully thrown 
 O'er thy loose limbs : thy mane is in 
 
 Dark tangled masses grown. 
 
 Thine eye, like Caesar's, sees the crowd. 
 
 But deigns to look on no 
 One in particular ; but proud 
 
 And calm, turns to and fro. 
 
 The strength those iron bars must be, 
 With not a guard neglected. 
 
 Show even in captivity, 
 
 That thou must be respected. 
 
116 
 
 And every care be taken, lest 
 Thou should' st arise and smite 
 
 Them by. I think I see thee prest 
 With that great appetite, 
 
 Which would lay man convulsed in dust, 
 
 Were he to feel it but 
 A moment ; or that terrible lust, 
 
 Thou hast when thou would'st glut 
 
 Thy raging maw with bloody fill 
 Warm from thy victim's vein ; 
 
 Beneath tempestuous growls, that still 
 Burst from thee o'er the slain. 
 
 And yet magnanimous art thou ; 
 
 For having few to fear, 
 Eepose is mostly on thy brow. 
 
 And panic seldom there. 
 
 11. 
 
 There is a universal AM, 
 
 That has no negative, 
 That gives existence to the lamb. 
 
 And makes the lion live. 
 
117 
 
 As clay fits to the potter's mould, 
 They grow to laws that bind them, 
 
 Aiid all the strange forms we behold 
 Must e'en be as we find them. 
 
 They are the children of years, 
 That work out types with ease ; 
 
 And in dentition there appears 
 Some crude account of these. 
 
118 
 
 THE HYENA. 
 
 Unweariedly pacing about, 
 
 From the back of thy den to the rails, 
 As tho' thou would' st wear a way out. 
 
 With the scratling tips of thy nails. 
 
 But surely thou art hopeless of this. 
 And 't is only to wear away hours, 
 
 Or some keeper may yet be remiss. 
 Forgetting thy vigilant powers. 
 
 It is nature, not hope, that compels 
 
 Thee to search for release — on the failings 
 
 Of men keen watchfulness tells. 
 And corrosion may weaken the railings. 
 
 They say thou art nearly too savage 
 To suckle the yoimg of thy body. 
 
 That they often fall to the ravage 
 Of thy hunger, rapacious and bloody. 
 
119 
 
 Poor wretch ! thou art tortured with passions 
 Thou hast not the power to subdue ; 
 
 Just breeding and breathing for rations, 
 That are filthy, precarious, and few. 
 
 Then what is hfe's meaning to thee, 
 If thou hast not before thee a goal ? 
 
 But a creature that merely must be, 
 A link in a system — that 's all. 
 
120 
 
 TO LIZZIE. 
 
 sweet beneath eve's golden wing 
 When we walk twined together, 
 
 When mowers cease the scythe to swing, 
 And leave the swath to wither. 
 
 And when the rose upon its brier 
 
 Shuts up its lovely bloom, 
 And when the distant village spire 
 
 Fades in the evening gloom. 
 
 All these with tender care I love. 
 The rose, the ruddy West, — 
 
 But more than all, thy virtues move 
 The feelings of my breast. 
 
121 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 The breeze on the meadow all waving is 
 borne, 
 As it flits from the West o'er the lea, 
 And moving so gently o'er rustling young 
 corn 
 It whispers reflections to me. 
 
 My sighs are unheard, and my bosom is torn, 
 As I gaze wdth tears on yon dwellin', 
 
 For no more in my arms beneath the haw- 
 thorn 
 Shall be its fair inmate, my Ellen. 
 
 The sky that unites with the landscape is 
 clear, 
 
 And blossoms adorning the fmTow, 
 Like vessels of crystal to view they are fair. 
 
 But for me are containing but sorrow. 
 
122 
 
 0, why should fond Nature such heautyhave 
 lent 
 For Fortune to mock with a tear ? 
 Or why with misfortune my feeUngs have 
 blent, 
 And still have allowed me to see her ? 
 
 But yet may the sorrow now breaking my 
 heart 
 
 Ne'er canker her bosom so fair, 
 For tho' she has certainly bid me depart, 
 
 'Tis love sHe has doomed to despair. 
 
123 
 
 FAE FKOM THEE. 
 
 Thy Harry, Ellen, far from thee 
 
 Where birch and hazels grow ; 
 Thy Harry, EUen, far from thee 
 
 Where Eivelin's waters flow, 
 Thy Harry, Ellen, far from thee 
 
 Shall tune the lyre again. 
 But Harry, Ellen, far from thee 
 
 Shall tune the lyre in vain. 
 
 These streams, that white as silver rill 
 
 Their rocky slabs among. 
 These streams that once my heart could fill 
 
 O'erflowing with a song ; 
 These streams no more my bosom thrill 
 
 Nor ever sound so clear. 
 And though these streams be native still 
 
 My love shall languish here. 
 
124 
 
 EMMA. 
 
 The linnet 's happy in its bush, 
 
 The cuckoo on the tree, 
 The wren beneath some mossy roof, 
 
 And I am blest with thee. 
 
 I care not what 's beyond yon hills, 
 Nor heed what 's doing there. 
 
 So long as thou, my soul's desire. 
 Art loitering with me here. 
 
 What though the grass beneath our feet 
 Is e'en not mine to give thee, 
 
 I yet do give a lover's heart, 
 That never can deceive thee. 
 
 The heart 's the seat of happiness. 
 
 It is the throne of love ; 
 And if we have but loving hearts. 
 
 We 're blest where'er we rove. 
 
125 
 
 MARY. 
 
 My Mary stole my boyish heart 
 When we were making hay ; 
 
 My Mary stole my boyish heart, 
 And won my soul away. 
 
 We raked the hay in heaps together, 
 Our converse sweetly wandered, 
 
 I felt the tide enraptured flow 
 
 That through my frame meandered. 
 
 I could no longer rake in heaps 
 
 The fragrant hay so sweet, 
 And by her in the last we 'd made 
 
 I found a happy seat. 
 
 I whispered that she 'd stolen my heart ; 
 
 Her breast beat at my side, 
 And trifling with a stem of hay. 
 
 She reddened and she sighed. 
 
 She let me clasp her in ray arms, 
 
 I felt her burning cheek ; 
 I asked her if she would be mine. 
 
 But Mary could not speak. 
 
126 
 
 I felt her boiling tears o'erflow, 
 
 I felt her beating heart, 
 I prest her to my aching breast, 
 
 And wished we ne'er could part. 
 
 Some silent moments thus ensued, 
 And peace at length returned ; 
 
 Her heaving heart was beating less, 
 Her cheek less hotly burned. 
 
 My arms less tightly clasped her waist. 
 
 Yet how unphghted sever ? 
 Again I asked her to be mine. 
 
 And whispered she — " For ever." 
 
127 
 
 MAETHA. 
 
 I must leave thee, my Martha, I must leave 
 thee, 't must be ; 
 I must leave thee, but leave thee with 
 sorrow and pain ; 
 For that cruel decree, which now parts me 
 from thee. 
 May never permit me to see thee again. 
 
 When alone on my own native hills I shall 
 wander. 
 And look at the dark rising cliffs of the 
 North, 
 As the clouds shall pass' o'er them my heart 
 shall grow fonder. 
 And my eyes shall still gaze the way of 
 thy birth. 
 
 And when a snow shower shall wet the 
 March blossom, 
 And a snow flake shall fall, bedimming my 
 sight, 
 Let me think it 's a kind thought direct from 
 thy bosom, — 
 Thy bosom as lovely, as spotless, as white. 
 
128 
 
 JINNY. 
 
 Dost thou remember, 
 When first that we met, 
 
 In the time of the roses, 
 Which I ne'er can forget, 
 
 Tho' I see thee no more. 
 
 Dost thou remember 
 
 How often we kist ; 
 I think of those hps. 
 
 Which so fondly I prest, 
 Tho' I see thee no more. 
 
 Dost thou remember. 
 We phghted our love ; 
 
 My idol of memory. 
 
 Which I ne'er can remove, 
 
 Tho' I see thee no more. 
 
 Dost thou remember, 
 
 The wild brier tree, 
 Whene'er I pass there, 
 
 My thoughts are of thee, 
 Tho' I see thee no more. 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5737.W49R6 
 
 Rivelln rhymes. 
 
 3 1924 013 567 619