K-Xt.iAt.n.0, 
 
The date shows when this volume was taken. 
 
 To renew this book copy the call No. and give to 
 
 the librarian. 
 
 ~^ HOME FSE RULES. 
 
 All Books subject to Recall. 
 
 Books not used for 
 • instruction or research 
 are returnable within 
 4 -weeks. 
 
 Volumes of periodi- 
 , cals and of pamphlets 
 are held'in the library 
 as much as possible. 
 For special purposes 
 they are given out for 
 a limited time. 
 
 Borrowers should 
 not use their library 
 privilegesfor the bene- 
 fit of other persons. 
 
 Books not needed 
 during recess periods 
 should be returned to 
 the library, or arrange- 
 ments made for their 
 return during borrow- 
 er's abs*uce,if wanted. 
 
 Books needed by 
 more than one person 
 are held on the reserve 
 , list. 
 
 Books of special 
 value and gift books, 
 when the giver wishes 
 it, are not allowed to 
 circulate. 
 
 Readers are asked 
 to report all cases of 
 books marked or muti- 
 lated. , 
 
 Oo not deface books by m^rks and writinj;. 
 
 Cornell University Library 
 PR 4705.F64H4 
 
 Heart-melodies, poems. 
 
 3 1924 013 344 936 
 
The original of tliis book 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/cu31924013344936 
 
HEART-MELODIES 
 
 POEMS 
 
 MES. DR. LYDIA F. FOWLER.' 
 
 MANCHESTER : 
 
 JOHN HEYWOOD, 141 & 143, DEANSGATE 
 
 LONDON: SIMPKIN, MAESPALL, & CO. 
 
 A 
 
A-tb-^t^lO 
 
 MANCHESTEE : 
 JOHH HEl'WOOD, PBINTEE, 141 A 14S, DEANSGATE. 
 
Jhe Rattle of J^ife. 
 
 BY MRS. OR, LYDIA F. FOWLER. 
 
 THERE comes a mighty army, of warlike fighting men, 
 Rushing like mountain torrents descending in a glen i 
 They halt not in their progress ; each is intent on strife ; 
 For each is fighting fiercely " the Battle of his Life." 
 When the precious boon of Life by God to man was given. 
 No other gift so priceless, conferred this side of heaven, 
 Has been so freely offered ; and yet man values not 
 Ofttimes this precious treasure, but miirmurs at his lot. 
 
 In order to sustain life, e'en for a single day. 
 So many are contending in a most dreadful fray : 
 ^ They do not meet to fight, as those in days of yore. 
 Who fought such famous battles, on almost ev'ry shore. 
 In which heroes have been slain for a slight, trivial cause. 
 And sacred treaties broken, though made with binding laws ; 
 Tea, men have slain each other with sanguinary zeal. 
 Pretending that their motives were for the public weal. 
 
 Hist'ry's lines are red with blood, whichever page you turn. 
 Whether 'tis of Waterloo, or Scottish Bannockburn : 
 But the army that I speak of finds all its foes within ; 
 With each returning morning the contests soon begin : 
 These foes are thirst and hunger^such active foes in life. 
 They stir men's angry passions till they engage in strife ; 
 In order to subdue them, men toil the whole day through. 
 And e'en when sick and fainting their daily tasks pursue, — 
 
 For if they stopped their, working, their lives would shortly cease ; 
 Hence they keep toiling, moiling, and never sue for peace. 
 Some toil when they are weary, in darkness dense as night. 
 In mines far, far underground, shut out from the day-light ; 
 Some in a fiery furnace consume their vital blood. 
 Although they know this labour will never do them good ; 
 Some work at trades they like not, in overcrowded halls. 
 And fare much worse than cattle that live in decent stalls. 
 
Some toil upon the ocean, far, far away from home, 
 Deprived of all home-comforts, which never to them come ; 
 Some toil on farms and vineyards, to earn their daily bread ; 
 But those who toil the hardest, oft scantily are fed. 
 They drag along their bodies so full of bleeding wounds, 
 While the echo of their woes throughout the world resounds. 
 No one for bread should struggle upon this beauteous earth ; 
 'Tis full of all God's bounties — of blessings there's no dearth : 
 
 Men only have to cull them ; and if they would comply 
 
 With all the laws of nature, their ills would quickly fly. 
 
 If the shops are overstocked in their own native land. 
 
 They easily can journey and reach a foreign strand. 
 
 Where they can find their corner — some niche that they can fill ; 
 
 When, if they work in earnest, with a right royal will. 
 
 Their lives will then pass smoothly — they'll need no sword or spear ; 
 
 And though they still will labor, there'll be no carnage here. 
 
 For this nineteenth century should be an age of peace ; 
 
 The swords should rest in scabbards, and every war should cease. 
 
 But, while talking of a peace, we hear a frightful din : 
 
 'Tis the noise of fresh recruits who are daily coming in ; 
 
 For lo, another army in sadness moves along ; 
 
 Its muffled drums are beating, and mournful is their song. 
 
 "Eight hundred thousand women, from every rank in life, 
 
 Are leaving peaceful firesides to mingle in the strife. 
 
 'Tis said that woman's mission is to preside at home : 
 Eight hundred thousand women are yet obliged to roam — 
 To form a mighty army — to struggle as the men. 
 They daily fight a battle, and then begin again ; 
 Though many thousand wounded fall upon the field. 
 They rally soon their courage — they die, if once they yield ; 
 And e'en though maimed and crippled, and ready to despair, 
 They stiU pursue their fighting, 'mid groans that fill the air. 
 
 Yea, many thousand corpses are hid away from sight 
 
 In mother Earth's dark bosom, away from the sunlight : 
 
 This dreadful, dreadful carnage reddens ev'ry shore 
 
 With drops of the best life-blood that from the heart can pour. 
 
 My own blood courses wildly throughout my burning veins 
 
 As, making faithful records, I here indite these strains. 
 
 Do you ask, whence this fighting, and whence this martial strife ? 
 
 These tender ones are fighting " the Battle of their Life." 
 
 • It is said, on good authority, that 800,000 married women in Great Britain are 
 obliged to support tliemselves by their daily labor. 
 
Their dire foe is starvation : it etaree them in the face ; 
 'Tis the greatest of all foes to desolate the race. 
 'Tis mockery to tell them that women are not strong : 
 These tender, gentle women must work the whole day long. 
 Some have, indeed, been wealthy, had money in the hank ; 
 But now must toil or starve, whatever be their rank : 
 Whatever be their culture, of high or low degree, 
 They are compelled to labor, to live in misery. 
 
 Again we hear a tumult ; and lo, another band 
 Of little tiny warriors are marching through the land. 
 My. sympathies are kindled, my heart with woe is fiUed ; 
 For soon tho blood of children will ruthlessly be spiUed — 
 The blood of little children made prematurely old — 
 Pale, puny, haggard children exposed to want and cold. 
 These children have to struggle in " the Battle of their Life " — 
 Struggle, as the older folks, in daily martial strife. 
 
 All those who fight thus early, their livelihoods to gain. 
 Must wear away their childhood in misery and pain : 
 Their limbs are dwarfed and stunted ; they never have delight. 
 But are oppressed with sadness from early morn till night. 
 The little lambs axe happy, they frolic all tho day, 
 They gambol in the sunshine, and not a care have they ; 
 The little birds are merry, they chirp and sweetly sing. 
 The echoes of their voices make ev'ry welkin ring ; 
 
 The violets and the roses shed perfume all around 
 
 As, opening wide their petals, with sweetness they abound. 
 
 So every child should frolic, just like the little lambs, 
 
 That only bleat with sorrow when they have lost their dams ; 
 
 And each should, like the birdUugs, with merry heart rejoice, 
 
 And ever sing so sweetly, in a melodious voice ; 
 
 Just like the little flow'rets, children should always smile, 
 
 And have a heart of gladness, as incense all the wMle. 
 
 Childhood should not be blighted by toil, and want, and care. 
 
 But all should have abundance of food and of fresh air ; 
 
 The sun that ever shineth should gladden ev'ry day 
 
 The hearts of all God's children with its enliv'ning ray. 
 
 'Tis time enough for children to engage in fierce strife. 
 
 Fighting very earnestly "the Battle of their Life," 
 
 When years shall gather round them, and all their hopes are dead 
 
 The hopes that childhood raiseth, hopes that too soon are fled. 
 
Women and little children should have no warfare here. 
 
 And " the Battle of their Lives " they never more should fear ; 
 
 Their -work -will then be pleasure, and they will then pursue 
 
 The only kind of labor they're qualified to do ; 
 
 And the men should now begin the arts of peace to learn, 
 
 And all earth's hidden riches into their coffers turn. 
 
 If all mankind were fitted to work in their own sphere, 
 
 They would work with hand or brain, as each would help them steer 
 
 Away from all the quicksands that threaten to annoy 
 
 The tiny barks in which they sail, and finally destroy 
 
 Their happiness and comfort ; their armor should be bright — 
 
 Their swords should be quite ready, e'en though they're out of sight' 
 
 They can be drilled if needful, for even when there's peace 
 
 The volunteers learn the arts of wars they hope will cease. 
 
 Like gentle ocean billows, the wars of life would be ; 
 
 Carnage, war, and misery, we then should never see. 
 
 But men would help each other, in harmony would live ; 
 Then .poverty would vanish, and none henceforth would strive 
 Wearily their bread to gain : the blessed God of love 
 Would bring abundant harvests, and soon all want remove. 
 God grant this hallowed hour, this blissful day m ay come, 
 When all shall have contentment, and all a happy home ; 
 When all shall practise virtue, because they love the right, 
 And not from a compulsion, or the old law of might. 
 
 Then, feudal laws abolished, one only will remain — 
 The " Golden Law " — to bind us in love's undying flame. 
 The grand law of Brotherhood to animate the race, 
 Then there'll be true progression, with ever rapid pace ; 
 The fine arts then will prosper, and men will be inclined 
 To develop ev'ry power, of body .ind of mind. 
 Paradise will be restored, and hnppiness abound ; 
 And this earth will seem to all like an enchanted gi-ound. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE MASTER OF MARTON," 
 
 IN FRIENDSHIP. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Having travelled extensively over Great Britain, and made 
 
 personal friends in every large town, it does not seem to me 
 
 to be necessary to apologise to such who will probably 
 
 receive these Poems as a friendly greeting. When friend 
 
 speaketh to friend, one never thinks it needful to apologise. 
 
 Should these heart- utterances be welcomed, several longer 
 
 poems, already commenced, will be issued hereafter. I have 
 
 only one word to say to the critic whose eye may perchance 
 
 rest on these Poems, and that is, I beg he will save his 
 
 criticisms for a more pretentious volume. 
 
 L. F. F. 
 
A CHRISTMAS SONNET. 
 
 THE Christmas Carol — joyous, charming lay — 
 Tells us that the old, past year is dying ; 
 But yet, in the midst of all our sighing, 
 
 For fleeting time, it heralds Christmas Day. 
 
 That day when Christ in a manger lying 
 
 Long ago was found — Christ, the Light, the Way, 
 
 Who gilds the world with love's enkindling ray, 
 Who comforts all those on Him relying. 
 
 How can we better celebrate this mom 
 Than to caiTy gladness — sympathising — 
 
 To those who seem to lives of sorrow born ] 
 Even though we may be sacrificing 
 
 Our time and means, God's poor we should not scorn ; 
 Such good done, is good to us, disguising. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Boy's Pocket 155 
 
 A Garland for a Poet 62 
 
 A Lock of Hair 166 
 
 Alone 127 
 
 A Serenade 158 
 
 Children's Riglits 160i 
 
 Deeds of Love 32 
 
 Flowers for Soldiers' Graves 139 
 
 Hilda's Prayer 168 
 
 If I were a Fairy 164 
 
 Inferno 149 
 
 Jessie's Dream 63 
 
 Kind Words 97 
 
 Kitty Clover's Choice 19 
 
 Little Milly 50 
 
 Live for a Purpose 45 
 
 Love 157 
 
 Michael Angelo 130 
 
 My Happy Song 78 
 
 My Island-Home 70 
 
 Nelhe Grey 99 
 
 Princess Elizabeth's Epitaph 169 
 
 Baffaelle 90 
 
 Eeasons for my Rhyming 9 
 
 Koman Mosaics 55 
 
 The Bird's Nest 58i 
 
 The Coloseum 173 
 
 The Daily Governess 83 
 
 The Headless Cross 73 
 
Vlll 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Lady-Fern and the Sea-Weed 13 
 
 The Mother's Faith 153, 
 
 The Nightingale ; or, Instinct and Eeason 33i 
 
 The Roman General and the Future of His Country 19 
 
 The Scribe 154 
 
 The Young Ruler 87 
 
 To A 90 
 
 ToE 14a 
 
 To J 152 
 
 Working- Women 39 
 
 Working-Men 42 
 
 Ye' ve literally Strewn my Path with Flowers 53 
 
POEMS. 
 
 EEASONS FOR MY RHYMINGS. 
 
 To a friend who asked me h.ow I Wfs enabled to, write poems, 
 
 YOU ask me how it is that T can twine 
 So many pleasant thoughts in flowing rhyme : 
 It certainly would be no task to tell 
 Why we can water draw from a deep well ; 
 
 Or why the gushing streams, from neighbouring hUls, 
 Make in the valleys little sparkling riUs ; 
 Or why the snows, heaped in the avalanche, 
 When loosened, by a solar breath, advance ; 
 
 Or why the liquid rays of golden light, 
 At sunset, in the west, make pleasant sight ; 
 Or why the tender blades of grass appear 
 To welcome us in Spring-time ev'ry year ; 
 
 Or why the genial rays of summer sun, 
 Ope all the pleasant flowers for us each morn. 
 The little spider weaves, from its own frame, 
 Its wondrous web, and still can spin again 
 
 B 
 
10 
 
 A second vreh, if one is brushed away ; 
 
 Or e'en a third one, a succeeding day : 
 
 The woof and warp are drawn from life within ; 
 
 But he must have this life, first, to begin ; 
 
 And then from nutriment, each day he gains, 
 Has he the power to weave the silken chains ; 
 As e'en the smallest animalculse — 
 That we require a microscope to see — 
 
 Is just as much a part of God's great plans 
 As larger objects — the leviathans. 
 So little spider, watching you, I take 
 Your faithful work, a simile to make. 
 
 All words that burn, all lines that glow with thought. 
 Have from the ardent soul their raptures caught ; 
 He who would strive a living rhyme to write, 
 j\Iust from his heart the living words indite ; 
 
 For if he'd rhyme or write a poem well, 
 He must from daily life a poem tell ; 
 If beauty make with joy the pulses thrill, 
 It then requires but very little skill 
 
 To wreathe the inner thoughts in beauteous forms, 
 The same as angry clouds give birth to storms ; 
 It matters not the time, the theme, the place, 
 There's not a spot on earth but has some grace : 
 
 God over all has spread his canopy 
 Of wond'rous glory, that makes symphony 
 With all the voices that from earth do rise, 
 To chant a joyful anthem to the skies, 
 
11 
 
 Proclaiming that in eVry thing there's good 
 And harmony, if we but understood 
 Enough to put the language into speech. 
 To utter all the lessons each will teach. 
 
 The smallest flower, or cloud that floats above, 
 Declares the universal law of love : 
 There's not on earth a single spot of ground. 
 That does not teem with glories all around ; 
 
 There's not a point in yonder distant sky 
 But bright and shining stars therein do lie ; 
 WhUe some discern naught but the nearest star. 
 Some see with telescopic power afar, 
 
 Can comprehend immensity of space, 
 
 A thousand, thousand worlds therein can trace. 
 
 But to my theme I must recur again, 
 
 To tell why I can write a rhyming strain : 
 
 Through all my life, from childhood's early hour, 
 I've felt the. force of beauty's magic power. 
 The mighty ocean, with Beethoven roar. 
 That daily rolled around my native shore ; 
 
 The glist'ning dewdrops, fragrant flowers, to me. 
 Were but the notes of one grand harmony. 
 That made all nature seem a beauteous band 
 Of choristers that travelled through the land, 
 
 Producing oratorios sublime. 
 
 That thriUed through ev'ry sentient power of mine 
 Then, like a gushing spring obliged to flow, 
 When streamlets feed it, if it will or no, 
 
12 
 
 My soul, so full of music all day long, 
 Cannot resist the utterance of its song : 
 I write what I have felt — what I have seen — 
 Of places visited, where 1 have been — 
 
 Of dreams of glory and a world of bliss. 
 
 Where we shall go, when we have done with this — 
 
 As children prattle, hardly knowing why. 
 
 So do I write, in greatest ecstasy, 
 
 Letting my pen have freedom o'er my mind, 
 That glows with love to God, and to my kind : 
 But may my fertile pen its cunning lose 
 When I forget to feel for others' woes ; 
 
 And may the utterance of my heart be dumb 
 Before it speaks in discord with the tongue — 
 For none should ever write a rhyming line. 
 Who have no noble sentiments to twine. 
 
 Better be silent, or express in prose. 
 Unless the thought reiines where'er it goes. 
 Even the simplest, humblest form of verse. 
 Should lofty and aspiring themes rehearse. 
 Should lead each soul that reads the lines, to love 
 The works of Nature first, then Nature's God. 
 
13 
 
 THE LADY FERN AND THE SEA WEED. 
 
 A couversation between two speeimeus that Miss Hosalina had ool 
 leoted for her scrap-books. 
 
 A PRETTY little Lady Fern, 
 With plumage fresh and green, 
 Boasted quite loudly one bright day, 
 Puffed up with pride, I ween. 
 
 That save herself, nought was so fair 
 
 In all this wondrous earth. 
 That God had taken special care 
 
 In giving her, her birth. 
 
 Amid the greenest grass that grows. 
 
 Within the lovely dell, 
 Where silver streamlets ripple on, 
 
 Gently, without a swell 
 
 That the glorious sunbeams floating 
 
 Through the clear morning air, 
 Gilded her waving tufts with gold, — 
 
 Her tiny tufts of hair. 
 
 That the moon's soft rays when shining 
 
 Silvered her brow at night, 
 When the witching fairies coming, 
 
 Danced till the morning light. 
 
 " Do not boast your noble lineage, 
 
 Vaunt not your royal blood, — 
 All the children of our Father 
 
 Can boast of gifts as good." 
 
Said a tiny bit of sea-weed, 
 
 " I, too, could tell a tale, 
 I delight in raging tempests. 
 
 In ocean's fiercest gale. 
 
 " When the storm is roaring loudly. 
 Suggesting ocean-graves. 
 Then look out for ocean's glories 
 With deep-sea foaining "waves. 
 
 " Then I come with my dear brothers- 
 One, jointed, grassy green, 
 Cladophora Eectanglaris, 
 Fair in her silken sheen. 
 
 " Tlien the pink-eyed Nitoplyllum, 
 And sweet Plooamum bright, 
 Also fairest Esculenta, 
 An olive in the light. 
 
 " There's Ptilota, a bright crimson ; 
 Dasj-a, scarlet red ; 
 Delesseria, a contrast, 
 
 Bound with a tangled thread. 
 
 " They call me Miss Digitata, 
 Lamnaria as well. 
 Of my beauties and my uses 
 The fishermen can tell. 
 
 " Children like my bonnie ribanda. 
 Men take me for a wand, 
 *Healing power is found within me. 
 Known in every land. 
 
15 
 
 " tMeroliants burn my nice brown ribbons, 
 How useful then I am, 
 For I furnish glass for windows 
 In the hoUse of every man. 
 
 " But here comes Miss Eosalina, 
 Ask which she likes the best. 
 Lady Ferns or coloured sea-weeds — 
 In her decision rest.'' 
 
 " My little dears,'' the lady said, 
 " Child of the earth and sea, 
 I like you both — each one is prized — 
 Equally prized by me. 
 
 Sometimes I like a flower the best, 
 
 And then again a fern, 
 I then admire my tangled weeds ; 
 
 From every gift I learn, 
 
 " How good our Heavenly Father is; 
 For e'en the smallest thing 
 Bears evidence of power and love, — 
 Has proofs that we can bring, 
 
 " To show that all receive'His care, 
 Each perfect in its kind. 
 Each suited to its place and sphere 
 By His most perfect mind. 
 
 " Then envy not another's bloom, 
 
 Nor boast of virtues rare 
 
 But be content to let all have 
 
 Their own pecuKar share." 
 
 t Kelp burned to make glass. 
 
16 
 
 THE ROMAN GENERAL AND THE FUTURE OF 
 HIS COUNTRY. 
 
 A ROMAN gen'ral, who for many years 
 Had fought his country's battles without fears, 
 Was wandering amid the ruins grand 
 That make old Rome a noted classic land ; 
 
 While thinking of his country's future weal 
 And whether future soldiers would be leal 
 And have the courage requisite to fight 
 Loyally in the noble cause of right, 
 
 A great procession passed of vet'ran men,^ — 
 
 Those who had fiercely fought, and conquered, when 
 
 Rude barbarian hordes so boastful came 
 
 To weaken Roman power, to blight her name ; 
 
 They passed the ruins of the Forum old, 
 Where Cicero had once in strains so bold 
 Pled for his country's freedom, and her cause. 
 Explaining to the people righteous laws. 
 
 The oldest man amid that vet'ran crowd, 
 With a triumphant look, proclaimed aloud : 
 " In view of noble deeds that have been done, 
 We liave been brave, have fought, and nobly won ; 
 
 " We can retire upon our laurels now 
 And bind the victor's chaplet on our brow." 
 The Roman gen'ral sadly bowed his head : 
 He feared that soon aU valour would be dead ; 
 
ir 
 
 That if his country had to look to these 
 
 Who had been great, her prayer would be for peace. 
 
 While thinking in a"sad dejected mood, 
 
 He heaird the echoes of another crowd. 
 
 The sound of martial music filled the air 
 As this fresh band of martial troops came near : 
 The men exulted in their manhood-strength. 
 " These are the troops;" the Gen'ral said at length, 
 
 " On whom in future years Kome can depend ; 
 These noble heroes will proud Eome defend. 
 When comes the foe agaiil with deaf'ning shout 
 Then valiantly they '11 put the foe to rout ; 
 
 " For they can march all day through marsh and field 
 And while their strength remains, will never yield." 
 But hark ! what is their leader's onward cry 1 
 It is, "We welcome death or victory." 
 
 Proud of their iron~fra;meS, these men declare, 
 " We ars brave soldiers, let no army dare 
 To meet in combat those who at this hour 
 Have reached the culmination of their power. 
 
 " We think not of the distant future time, 
 When strength and courage will with years decline ; 
 If we protect the Roman Empire now. 
 We shall retire with laurel on our brow, 
 
 " After a few short circling suns have gone, 
 When we shall feel our active work is done." 
 Again the Gen'ral bowed his head and sighed, 
 
 " These warriors may do service now" he cnedj 
 
18 
 
 "They boast their present strength, their martial fire,- 
 What will become of Rome when they expire"! 
 Who will defend the seven-hilled city then"! 
 When she has lost her bravest, valiant men ] 
 
 " When liberty is trampled in the dust. 
 When tyrants rule by laws that are unjust, 
 When foreign foes oppress my co\intry dear. 
 Who then will take the helm, the ship to steer^ 
 
 " Not those who .boast no other martial pride 
 Than to have power, their country now to guide ; 
 For when a standard has been gained by Rome, 
 A pinnacle been reached, the foe may come. 
 
 " My country, till I see a star arise. 
 The star of liberty, that lit the skies 
 In former days, and know that it will set 
 No more for thee, I shall be anxious yet." 
 
 The Roman looked on ruins heaped around. 
 Flowers wreathed in stone were scattered on the ground- 
 Sad relics of the glory Rome had seen 
 When she, among all nations, was the Queen. 
 
 ^^^aile musing thus, sounds fell upon his ears, 
 List'ning again, sweet martial strains he hears ; 
 Lo ! soon a band of noble youths draw nigh^ 
 They marched along as though prepared to die. 
 
 If need be, fighting at their country's call. 
 Ready to give up home, and friends, and all, 
 That make our life a valuable boon. 
 An earthly resting-place, temp'ral home. 
 
19 
 
 These youths, enthvisiastic, pressed along, 
 
 As freely as the measures of my song : 
 
 The warm blood dancing in their youthful veins, 
 
 Had not been tinged as yet by selfish stains. 
 
 They loved their country with a holy zeal, ■ 
 With deep devotion, such as heroes feel ; 
 They passed the Forum, that in ruins sleeps. 
 When joy within the Eoman's bosom creeps. 
 
 For loudly do they shout, — " We will he brave. 
 Our country, in the future, we will save : 
 We'll meet a foreign foe in any fray. 
 Let him come now, or at a future day." 
 
 Joyful smiles took the place of honest shame, 
 In the Gen'ral's face, that lit up again 
 As he thought with pride of that noble vow, 
 " We will be brave henceforth, as well as now." 
 
 This is the motto ev'ry youth should take. 
 Who has a standard liigh in life to make ; 
 Nor rest content with what to-day is done, 
 But make resolves that ere to-morrow's sun 
 Shall rise and set, achievements shall be seen 
 Evincing progress greater than has been. 
 
 KITTY CLOVER'S CHOICE. 
 
 CHARMING Kitty Clover 
 Was a little queen, 
 A lass more bewitching 
 Could .never be seen. 
 
20 
 
 The belle of the village,. 
 
 Surrounded by beaux, 
 She maintained her gay court 
 
 Wherever she chose. 
 
 Sometimes for a picnic 
 
 In the woods she went, 
 When her courtiers followed 
 
 The missive she sent. 
 
 Sometimes on the river, 
 
 In her boat she'd glide. 
 With her gay cavaliers 
 
 Dangling at her side. 
 
 Then on her fleet pony, 
 
 She'd start for a race, 
 Leading her companions 
 
 By a rapid pace. 
 
 A fearless, bold rider, 
 
 Through the fields she ran, 
 
 Shouting, " Come friends, quickly. 
 Catch me if you can." 
 
 Whispering to pony. 
 
 She'd give him the reins : 
 
 He'd fly as though racing 
 On purpose for gains. 
 
 Kitty's mother was dead : 
 Her place was supplied 
 
 By a dear old uncle — 
 Her friend and her guide. 
 
21 
 
 That she might be useful, 
 He wished her to learn 
 
 To sew well, and to coot, 
 To bake and to chum. 
 
 The butter she had made 
 
 As yellow as gold, 
 Was praised by her uncile, 
 
 Who playfully told. 
 
 His dear little Kitty, 
 Her smile he could see, 
 
 Peeping from the butter 
 He ate merrily. 
 
 She was a good scholar, 
 
 A diligent lass. 
 Obtained the first prizes 
 
 Given in her class. 
 
 No wonder she was thought 
 
 To be a coquette. 
 Being constantly praised 
 
 And always a pet. 
 
 Her Uncle was anxious 
 To marry her well : 
 
 She wished to keep single 
 To reign as the belle. 
 
 " My dear little Kitty," 
 Her old Uncle said, 
 
 " If you do not marry 
 You'll be an old maid." 
 
22 
 
 Laughing quite merrily 
 
 She said, " If I do 
 Then I shall be able 
 
 To take care of you." ' 
 
 " I like to I'oam freely 
 
 With liberty sweet, 
 To have all the young men 
 
 Sighing at my feet.'' 
 
 " I may die, dear Kitty, 
 And leave you all alone ; 
 
 My nephew might come then 
 And drive you from home. 
 
 " I thought when I gave him 
 This homestead so fine, 
 
 That to marry this lad 
 Your heart would incline. 
 
 " I fear you will suffer 
 JSTegleot, when I'm gone, 
 
 I wish you could marry 
 And get a good home. 
 
 " If I saw you happy 
 
 And living at ease, 
 When the last summons came 
 
 I could die in peace." 
 
 " Next week is my birth-day, 
 
 I shall be eighteen," 
 Said Kitty, quite thoughtful ; 
 
 " On that day I mean 
 
23 
 
 '• To please you, dear Uncle, 
 
 I'll try to decide 
 Who among my lovers 
 
 Shall call me his bride.'' 
 
 Kitty gave out the hint 
 That her lovers heard. 
 
 That they would all then learn 
 Her decisive word. 
 
 So on her next birth-day 
 
 She saw each alone, 
 As they called upon her, 
 
 At her Uncle's home. 
 
 First came a young soldier, 
 
 With clothes so fine, 
 The biittons upon them 
 
 With brightness did shine. 
 
 " My dear Kitty," he said, 
 
 " If you'll marry me 
 When I come from the war. 
 
 How happy I'LL be. 
 
 " When I am promoted. 
 
 As a Captain grand, 
 I will take you with me 
 
 All over the land." 
 
 " No, no," said sweet Kitty, 
 " I like not your trade, 
 
 I'd always be thinking 
 Of widows you'd made. 
 
•24 
 
 " When you took me with you, 
 
 Perhaps I'd coquette 
 With dashing young Colonels, — 
 
 So go and forget, 
 
 "That you have demanded 
 
 Miss Kitty Clover, 
 
 To think of having you 
 
 For her true lover!" 
 
 A wrinkled old lawyer. 
 Worth his weight in gold, 
 
 Then came pressing his claims. 
 In terms very bold. 
 
 He said " I will take'you 
 To be my young wife, 
 
 If you'll come to my hall. 
 And cheer my sad life." 
 
 " Oh don't you remember 
 That famous old tune. 
 
 That rigid December 
 
 Should not wed with June 1 
 
 " Go back to your mansion. 
 
 And sit all alone," 
 Said sweet Kitty Clover, 
 
 " I'll never come. 
 
 " I like to be flattered ; 
 
 I like a caress ; 
 But, sir, you would freeze me 
 
 With your cold address. 
 
25= 
 
 " I'm young and I'm merry, 
 T'will be time to sigh, 
 
 When old and decrepid 
 And ready to die. 
 
 "You cannot persuade me, 
 Though you reason well ; 
 
 I jump at conclusions, — 
 How — I cannot teU."' 
 
 Then came a young Doctor, 
 With pills and lotions. 
 
 With tonics and powders. 
 And all such notions. 
 
 " Ha, ha, my dear sir. 
 
 You are too clever 
 In killing and curing 
 
 To be my lover. 
 
 " I quaff the rich sunshine, 
 I chat with the thrush, 
 
 I sing all the day long. 
 And no one says hush. 
 
 " With a man who makes pills 
 
 I can never wed ; 
 'Twould suggest the churchyard, 
 
 A place for my head." 
 
 Then came a young parson 
 
 With face very long, 
 He said very gravely, 
 
 " Kitty, cease your song;" 
 
26 
 
 " You are far too giddy 
 Death soon will be nigh : 
 
 Marry me, dear Kitty, 
 I'll teach you to die.'' 
 
 Kitty said, with a smile, 
 " It's to live I want ; 
 
 So go with your preaching 
 And your foolish cant 
 
 " To a homely old soul. 
 
 One weary of life, 
 Who has drained all its joys; 
 
 Take such for a wife. 
 
 "All nature rejoices. 
 
 The streams dance along, 
 
 They ripple so sweetly 
 As they hear my song. 
 
 " I will heed your advice 
 When my eyes are dim, 
 
 When my hair becomes grey 
 And my cheeks are thin. 
 
 "I wish not to marry 
 
 One of your black cloth!" 
 The parson was angry. 
 In a rage he went off. 
 
 Then came a young earl, 
 Boasting of his land, 
 
 Of wealth, and of jewels, 
 He'd give for her hand. 
 
27 
 
 Kitty showed her white teeth, 
 Thirty-two true pearls, 
 
 She shook out her ringlets, 
 Thirty-two brown curls. 
 
 She said " Jewels are fine 
 For an empty brain; 
 
 But yours are expensive — 
 They'd give me much pain. 
 
 "Love cannot be purchased 
 
 With jewels or gold: 
 
 The kind that is valued 
 
 Will never be sold." 
 
 Thus one and another 
 Came trooping along. 
 
 But Kitty kept "singing 
 Just the same old song. 
 
 When the day had declined, 
 
 She dreaded to see 
 The face of her uncle 
 
 To tell the decree, 
 
 That she had decided 
 
 To be an old maid; 
 So if he'd permit her 
 
 She'd work at some trade. 
 
 Then she could live single, 
 
 And be happy too, 
 As the little busy bee 
 
 While sipping the dew. 
 
28 
 
 Her old unele replied, 
 " I have heard of a man, 
 
 Who seeking a straight stick 
 Through the forest ran — 
 
 "He made great objections 
 To all that he passed, 
 But he finally took 
 One crooked at last. 
 
 "So, Kitty, remember 
 
 That your pretty face, 
 AVhich attracts fine lovers 
 By it's matchless grace, 
 
 "May one day be homely ; 
 For beauty will fade, 
 As time that brings sunshine 
 Win also bring shade." 
 
 "I will take your advice," 
 
 Kitty sweetly said, 
 "I'll tell every lover 
 
 I'll die an old maid." 
 
 But the very next week 
 She went out to rove. 
 
 To have a quiet walk 
 In her uncle's grove. 
 
 While walking and musing 
 By a running brook, 
 
 She thought of the man 
 Whose stick had a crook. 
 
29 
 
 Then she thought of a friend 
 
 She had often seen, 
 And wondered if Uncle 
 
 Could possibly mean, 
 
 To allude to this one 
 By the story he told, — 
 
 The skilful young blacksmith, 
 More modest than bold. 
 
 While thinking of Harry 
 He was sure to come, 
 
 As one uninvited 
 Oft does at home. 
 
 She welcomed young Harry 
 
 So quiet and meek, 
 Had him walk by her side; 
 
 Endeav'ring to seek 
 
 To give him assurance 
 With her chit-chat talk. 
 
 As they were enjoying 
 Their delightful walk. 
 
 The clouds pass unnoticed 
 
 Very swiftly by ; 
 So do sweet love-glances 
 
 From a lady's eye. 
 
 But from the passing cloudg, 
 We feel the soft breeze, 
 
 So do love-lit glances 
 Bring to us peace. 
 
30 
 
 How the moments glided, 
 
 Or what Kitty said, 
 Can be well imagined — 
 
 'Twill never be read. 
 
 "When twilight had gathered, 
 The curtains of night, 
 
 And the bright twinkling stars 
 Shone with brilliant light. 
 
 Then two blushing lovers, 
 The old uncle sought : 
 
 Kitty frankly confessed 
 How she had been caught, 
 
 In the net Cupid spread. 
 By the babbling brook, 
 
 And that she had chosen 
 The stick with a crook. 
 
 That she liked it better 
 Than if it were straight. 
 
 And -with it she'd enter 
 The Beautiful gate. 
 
 That would happily lead 
 
 To a loving life ; 
 If uncle were willing, 
 
 She'd be Harry's wife. 
 
 " I have long loved Harry," 
 Her uncle (hen said ; 
 
 " Would prefer him to all 
 My darling could wed. 
 
31 
 
 " He's steady and honest, 
 Both loving and true, 
 
 He will always remain 
 Devoted to you. 
 
 " My foolish young nephew. 
 Who never could swim, 
 
 Has just lost his life 
 
 While crossing a stream.'' 
 
 He held up a letter 
 That he had just read. 
 
 Which gave him the news 
 Tiiat his nephew was dead. 
 
 " I will bless your marriage, 
 And when I am gone. 
 
 You both shall inherit 
 This snug little home. 
 
 " My income will suffice 
 
 Us all very well ; 
 Then nameHhe happy day. 
 
 And the marriage-bell, 
 
 Shall echo and echo. 
 
 In a joyful voice, 
 To all Kitty's lovers 
 
 Her fortunate choice." 
 
32 
 
 DEEDS OF LOVE. 
 
 The Motto over tlie door of Mr. Josiah Mason's Orphanage, at 
 Erdington, is " Do deeds of love." 
 
 WHEN health is bounding through my veins 
 And I am free from aches and pains, 
 What recompense for blessings giv'n 
 Shall I return to prove my joy] 
 What tribute bring without alloy ? 
 " Deeds of love," says a voice from heaven. 
 
 When all my'efforts bring me wealth, 
 A second blessing next to health ; 
 And I can do whate'er I will 
 How can I gratitude best show, 
 For treasures lent to me below ? 
 "Do deeds of love," is echoed still. 
 
 When genius fills my brain with thought 
 
 And I have power by others sought. 
 
 To use my talents ev'ry day. 
 
 What shall I render to my God 
 
 For these great bounties from above 1 
 
 " Deeds of love,'' the bright angels say. 
 
 Each human heart that I have blessed, 
 Each saddened soul that I've caressed, 
 Each hungry child that I have fed, 
 In this wide world so full of sin — ■ 
 So full of pain and suffering — 
 Tell of the "deeds of love" I've shed. 
 
33 
 
 But when I go to take my stand 
 At God's tribunal, His right hand, 
 In view of mercies from above, 
 I shall forget all I have done — 
 Shall plead the merits of His Son, 
 That gift .to me, God's " deed of love." 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE, OR INSTINCT AND REASON 
 
 kN a charming wimmcr night, 
 Just before the close of light, 
 I went out to have a walk, 
 Or an unobtrusive talk. 
 
 O' 
 
 With Dame Nature, gaily dressed, 
 In her robes of Spring the best. 
 In a sweet delicious grove, 
 One the birds were sure to love. 
 
 The fresh hawthorn's snowy wreaths 
 Were fringed with such fragrant leaves, 
 Green and white, and white and green, 
 Everywherg were to be seen. 
 
 Such rich blossoms at my feet. 
 Yielded perfumes, very sweet — • 
 Daffodils, and lilies white. 
 Made a sweet entrancing sight. 
 
 And one gem, a kingly son, 
 The royal dandelion, 
 Raised for me its lovely head 
 From its daisy-covered bed. 
 
34 
 
 Buttercups as bright as gold, 
 Condescended to unfold 
 All their glories on the meads, 
 Beautiful, though only weeds. 
 
 One could never feel alone 
 With siich friends, though out of town ; 
 Then the birds did chirp and sing, 
 Making heaven's arches ring. 
 
 With their voices sweet and gay, 
 In that lovely month of May. 
 Soon I heard a troop of boys. 
 Coming with their shouting noise. 
 
 Using language rough and rude ; 
 Oh how much they did intrude. 
 Like a discord in a tune. 
 Or a snow-storm in bright June. 
 
 One by whom the boj'S were led. 
 Looked up boldly as he said, 
 " 'Tis for birds' nests that we've come ; 
 For nightingales build their home, 
 
 " In thick hedges, where the ^lay 
 Shields them from the heat of day, 
 Or in very shady trees. 
 Where they're hid among the leaves. 
 
 " So we mean to get a lot 
 Of pretty eggs, near this spot." 
 While they climbed and made a noise, 
 I was glad those bois'trous boys 
 
35 
 
 Did not see the little nest 
 
 Close beside my seat of rest. 
 
 Soon the boys jumped from the tree, 
 
 With two birds' nests and eggs three ; 
 
 Took their prize and ran along, 
 Singing loudly a coarse song. 
 When they'd gone, I heard a moan, — 
 'Twas a tiny, little groan. 
 
 Underneath the branching tree, 
 There in greatest agony. 
 Was a little wounded bird — 
 'Twas his moaning I had heard. 
 
 The rough boys had crushed the wing 
 Of that tender, harmless thing. 
 Something in his little eye 
 Touched my heart's best sympathy. 
 
 " I know how to soothe your grief," 
 I cried : "I can give relief. 
 I'll not leave you here alone : 
 I will set your broken bone ; 
 
 " But must take you home with me. 
 When you're well, I'll set you free." 
 Thus I whispered to the bird, 
 And he looked as if he heard. 
 
 I have worshiped in the grove, 
 Little warblers I have loved ; 
 But as liberty is sweet 
 I have never bound their feet ; 
 
36 
 
 Have preferred that they should roam 
 Where they liked to find a home ; 
 With what care the bone 1 set, 
 How I nursed my little pet. 
 
 In my room I made a nest 
 
 Where my birdie had his rest ; 
 
 It was decked with fresh green leaves 
 
 Gathered from his fav'rite trees. 
 
 Soon was healed his little wing 
 Then the bird began to sing : 
 He began to give to me 
 Such rich notes of melody, 
 
 I no longer cared to go 
 From this charming world below : 
 Heav'n was in my little room 
 With my bird of gushing song. 
 
 He was happy ev'ry day 
 Trilling out his heavenly lay. 
 And I soon forgot my vow 
 Made beneath the arching bough. 
 
 With the first autumnal gale 
 Birdie's joy began to fail ; 
 Then he beat his little cage,* 
 Up and down, as if in a rage. 
 
 " Professor Owen says that an experiment was tried with a nightingale that 
 was caged like the one I describe. 
 
37 
 
 Flew about for several days, 
 Kestless, weary, but no lays 
 Sang to me, who tried in vain 
 To ease my nightingale's pain. 
 
 Anxious all at once, I thought 
 What it was the Birdie sought. 
 Soon 'twould be the time of year 
 When all Natm-e, dead and sere, 
 
 Seems to bid a sad farewell 
 To her songsters, by her knell : 
 Something in their little breasts 
 Tells them how to make their nests — 
 
 Tells them when to journey South, 
 And how long to tarry North : 
 It was instinct told my bird, 
 In a voice I had not heard, 
 
 That it was the time of year 
 When his mates and children dear. 
 Travelled to the orange-groves 
 There to talk about their loves. 
 
 Then I made an " Eider-don " 
 For my bird to lie upon ; 
 Stuffed and lined his little nest, 
 Saying, " Birdie, take your_^rest. 
 
 " When you think that you have gone 
 Far enough to make your home, 
 'Neath the bright Elysian skies, 
 Mid the witching minstrelsies, 
 
38 
 
 " Of the ever-blooming flowers 
 In those southern sunny bowers ; 
 Instinct is for you a guide, 
 But pure reason is my pride. 
 
 " And I'll see which will prevail, 
 "Whether you or I shall fail ; " 
 For a week my birdie flew 
 Up and down as if he knew, 
 
 He must fly so far, so long, 
 Ere his autumn-tour was done ; 
 Then exhausted down he lay 
 On his pillow for a day ; 
 
 But no bruise or wound had he, 
 Neither suffered agony. 
 As I'd seen him in the spring, 
 AVith his little broken wing. 
 
 Then, again, his happy song 
 Filled my room the whole day long 
 In the winter he sang too, 
 Operas so fresh and new. 
 
 [ can hear their echoes still. 
 Even now my senses thrill. 
 As mem'i-y recalls to me. 
 His enchanting melody. 
 
 Frequently my heart would melt. 
 As I sharp compunctions felt ; 
 For instead of wand'ring free. 
 Birdie was confined by me. 
 
39 
 
 When the gladsome spring again 
 Burst the buds and brought a train 
 Of sweet beauties from the earth, 
 And the flowers sprang into birth, 
 
 On a bright and sunny day, 
 I let birdie fly away. 
 The tears glistened in my eyes, 
 I looked upward to the_skies. 
 
 That I might not see him go. 
 My pet, I'd worshiped so. 
 " Build thy nest in yonder grove," 
 I said, " seek thy love. 
 
 " Liberty is sweet to me, — 
 I will give the same to thee, 
 Though I feel a little pain, 
 Yet I know it is thy gain." 
 
 WOEKING WOMEN. 
 
 WORKING Men's Wives, a word 
 I have to say to you : 
 Sometimes you do not have 
 Of sympathy your due. 
 
 Yours is a weary lot. 
 Your work is never done ; 
 You toil from early mom 
 E'en to the set of sun. 
 
40 
 
 The rooms in whiola you live 
 Are often very small, 
 Dreary, dark, and dismal, 
 Not fit for you at all. 
 
 Yea, many birds and beasts 
 Have better homes than you ; 
 Their young are better fed — ■ 
 Facts sad to know, but true. 
 
 Your husband's often spend 
 Hard earnings for their drink, 
 And lead a reckless life, 
 Because they do not think. 
 
 Of any other joy 
 Beyond the present hour ; 
 But if j'ou only knew 
 What great controlling power. 
 
 To mould your husbands' minds, 
 You have at j'our command, 
 You'd make the working men 
 The glory of the land. 
 
 Your tiny rooms, though small, 
 With care you can keep neat — 
 Can comb your children's hair, 
 Aiid keep their faces sweet — 
 
 Can wear a decent gown, 
 E'en of the cheapest print — 
 Can cook well, wholesome food : 
 These are the sunny glints, 
 
41 
 
 That make the darkest home 
 A pleasant aspect wear : 
 All should do what they can, 
 Life's burdens help to share. 
 
 Write in letters of gold, 
 Strong drink will never cure 
 The hydra-headed woes 
 That some of you endure. 
 
 Taste not the cursed thing, 
 But water drink instead : 
 Your children then will thrive. 
 By your example led. 
 
 Wives, keep yo'ir hearthstones clean. 
 And make jour firesides bright : 
 Your husband's then may stay 
 With you, at home, at night. 
 
 Good habits should begin 
 The year that one is wed : 
 'Tis then by loving wives 
 That husbands can be led. 
 
 But while there's life, there's hope. 
 And always time to mend. 
 Then rouse ye, workmen's wives. 
 And aU your efforts blend. 
 
 Improve your lot and theirs : 
 
 Kindness and love combined 
 
 Will soften stubborn hearts. 
 
 E'en though with vice they're twined. 
 
42 
 
 To do the work of life, 
 Quite healthy you must be ; 
 Then learn the laws of life 
 In their simplicity. 
 
 Your husbands cast a vote, 
 And help to make the laws ; 
 But you've a greater power 
 To help along a cause : 
 
 By training sons so well. 
 To love the right and true, 
 That they in after years 
 Will cast their vote for you. 
 
 They'll build you better homes. 
 With drains, and all things nice — 
 For health, if lost, is not 
 Regained at any price. 
 
 Then, rouse ye, workmen's wives. 
 And all your efforts blend ; 
 For while there's life, there's hope. 
 And always time to mend. 
 
 WOEKING MEN. 
 
 WORKING Men ! Working Men ! 
 A stalwart band are ye : 
 As muscles to the frame 
 Are a necessity, 
 
43 
 
 So are ye tlie sinews 
 
 That help to form the State; 
 The Body-Politic, 
 
 Which never can be great, 
 
 Unless it is composed 
 Of Nature's noblemen — 
 
 A fortress strong, secure — 
 Safe is the country then. 
 
 Labour is successful 
 
 If workmen like to do 
 The kind that they select, 
 
 Which they should then pursue 
 
 With right good earnest zeal. 
 
 That man was born to toil, 
 Is plainly to be seen, 
 
 As deep within the soil, 
 
 Great treasures are concealed, 
 Which idlers never get : 
 
 Earth's caves are fall of ores 
 Not half discovered yet ; 
 
 For God has given to man 
 A rich and bounteous Earth ; 
 
 Set on his brow a seal. 
 To labour from his birth. 
 
 But if he labour well. 
 He by that labour gains 
 
 The treasures of the earth 
 As recompense for pains. 
 
44 
 
 Then, working men, rejoice. 
 And honour well 5-our trades; 
 
 For much depends on you 
 "Whether your work degrades. 
 
 Your bodies should be strong. 
 Free from all aches and ills : 
 
 All working men should take 
 Good food instead of pills. 
 
 You need clear, healthy brains, 
 To work from morn till night : 
 
 'lis worse than madness, then, 
 To lose your mental light. 
 
 Drinking at the Dram Shops 
 
 Spirits which set on fire 
 The noblest part of man, 
 
 1'iie brain, which thoughts inspire. 
 
 Strong drixk is the great curse 
 That drags down working men ; 
 
 Eobs them of their manhood, 
 And of their eamiugs, then; 
 
 Sends them to the workhouse, 
 
 Poverty to their wives; 
 Brings h^ad desolation 
 
 To their daily lives. 
 
 Then spend not hard-eanied pence 
 For foolish trifling things. 
 
 But for substantial joj-s 
 That real pleasure brings. 
 
45 
 
 Eead useful books, and learn 
 The history of your laud — 
 
 The making of its laws 
 Will be at your command. 
 
 Since most of you can vote, 
 Which is for you a boon, 
 
 Hasten to gain knowledge — 
 Ye cannot learn too soon. 
 
 What laws are just and good ; 
 
 For as you vote and feel, 
 You'll take from or improve 
 
 Your country's future weal. 
 
 Then, rouse ye, working men, 
 A stalwart band are ye : 
 
 As muscles to the frame 
 Are a necessity. 
 
 So are ye the sinews 
 
 That help to form the State. 
 Then rouse to action, men, 
 
 And make your country great. 
 
 LIVE FOE A PURPOSE. 
 
 ii -J- ixTLE girl with flaxen hair, 
 -Li With light blue, laughing eyes, 
 
 Tell me why you tarry here 
 In this drear world of sighs?" 
 
46 
 
 "Mother dear, is very ill, 
 
 And has to lie iu bed : 
 I can soothe and ease her pain. 
 
 By bathing her weak head. 
 
 "I can play with baby, too — 
 So that he makes no noise. 
 
 When my mother wants to sleep ; 
 Therefore, I do rejoice, 
 
 "That I can be so useful, 
 Though I am very small ; 
 
 Mother says 'tis tiny grains 
 
 That make the mountains tall." 
 
 "Little boy, why are you here. 
 Pray tell me why you stay — 
 
 Is your life of any use, 
 
 Is your chief joy to play?" 
 
 "My mother is a widow, 
 
 And she is very poor: 
 I sell papers every day, 
 
 Going from door to door. 
 
 " In this way I try to earn 
 
 Of sixpences a few — 
 These I always give to her, 
 
 'Tis all that I can do. 
 
 "I spend no time in playing" — 
 Such a deep blush of shame, 
 
 As he pondered o'er my words. 
 Into his thin face came. 
 
47 
 
 " Lady, with those bonnie curls, 
 With brow as white as snow. 
 
 Tell me, have you any aims, 
 As through the world you go V 
 
 With a bright, radiant smile, 
 She sweetly then replied, 
 
 '"Tis not much that I can do, 
 But I have daily tried 
 
 "Some downcast soul to solace 
 With pleasant words of cheer. 
 
 Knowing that words of kindness 
 To saddened souls are dear. 
 
 "If every one would give 
 Of love some little beams, 
 
 This earth would soon be glowing 
 With bright celestial gleams.'' 
 
 " Young man, starting into life, 
 
 Full of ambition's fire. 
 What is your impelling thought, 
 
 Your inner, strong desire 1" 
 
 With a modest look and mien. 
 The young man bowed his head. 
 
 Then upraised his noble face 
 As earnestly he said, 
 
 " I have a noble purpose, 
 
 A high and lofty aim ; 
 'Tis to labour for the race. 
 
 The wicked to reclaim. 
 
48 
 
 " I mean to visit prisons, 
 To erring men will preach ; 
 
 I'll go among the lowest, 
 And sinners will beseech, 
 
 "To leave their evil courses. 
 And choose the better way — 
 
 With them I hope to laboui-. 
 For their deliverance pray." 
 
 " Mother, with your precious child, 
 
 God to you has given, 
 Tell me, what is life to you, 
 
 What your hopes of heaven 1" 
 
 Looking at her darling babe, 
 She clasped it to her breast : 
 
 She said, " I'd like to train it 
 For its eternal rest. 
 
 " This is my life's ambition. 
 This is my purpose high — 
 
 I have no loftier aim, 
 This is my destiny. 
 
 "If I fit this child for heaven, 
 
 I'll add another gem 
 To the glist'ning coronet, 
 
 My Saviour's diadem." 
 
 None should lead an aimless life, 
 But seek some niche to fill, 
 
 Some sphere of useful labour. 
 And work with a good wiU. 
 
4& 
 
 Every human being 
 
 One useful deed should do ; 
 For life's not worth the living 
 
 Unless 'tis good and true. 
 
 Then, rouse ye, friends and neighbours, 
 
 And each resolve to plan. 
 To accomplish one grand act, 
 
 To bless your fellow man. 
 
 We read in ^sop's Fable, 
 
 A tiny mouse once found. 
 Fastened in a tangled net, 
 
 A noble lion bound. 
 
 He quickly gnawed the meshes. 
 
 And set the monarch free. 
 Who was grateful to the mouse 
 
 For his sweet liberty. 
 
 Even the humblest creature 
 
 Can shed a little light : 
 Our Saviour blessed the widow. 
 
 Who gave but one small mite. 
 
 Let each in his own channel, 
 Let each in his own sphere. 
 
 Help to make a paradise 
 Of earth, while he is here. 
 
 Kemember time is fleeting, 
 
 Each moment, as it flies, 
 Hastens our onward progress 
 
 To the eternal skies. 
 
50 
 
 LITTLE MILLY. 
 
 I BLESSED my Heavenly Father, 
 When he gave me ililly dear, 
 A precious little darling, 
 
 A jewel, my hfe to cheer. 
 Milly's peach-like, velvet cheeks. 
 
 Borrowed blushes from the rose ; 
 Her face was full of beauty 
 
 As the fairest flower that grows. 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little Milly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light; 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the fairest lily. 
 
 So fuU of love was Milly, 
 
 That, with tendrils like a vine. 
 As she grew, she wound herself 
 
 Fast about this heart of mine. 
 I made the child an idol — 
 
 " Lent for a while, but not giv'n," 
 Was never once remembered. 
 
 Till I heard a voice from heaven. 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little ^Milly ! 
 AVith eyes so blue and liright, and flaxen hair so light. 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the fairest lily. 
 
 An angel took my Milly, 
 
 Suddenly, one sunny day : 
 She was playing all the morn, 
 
 But by night was far away. 
 Earth seemed to me a desert, 
 
51 
 
 Witliout one bright sunny ray 
 To gild the clouds that covered 
 
 With darkness my dreary way. 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little Milly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light 
 And brow so fair and white, jiTst like the fairest lily. 
 
 Friends tried to soothe and cheer me : 
 
 'Twas mockery thus to tell 
 A broken-hearted mother. 
 
 That in wounding her, 'twas well, 
 I felt God was a robber, 
 
 A wealthy, powerful king, 
 Who needed not my darling 
 In His heavenly courts to sing. 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little Milly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light. 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the fairest lily. 
 
 I could not read my Bible : 
 I had no desire to pray : 
 The joys of earth were blighted, 
 
 As I stumbled on my way. 
 After many weary days 
 
 I lay dreaming all one night, 
 When my darling came to me, 
 Etherealised with light. 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little Milly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the fairest lily. 
 
 She said — " It grieves me, mama, 
 That you mourn so much for me, 
 
52 
 
 For Jesus loves His children, 
 
 Who're happy as they can be ; 
 But when I knew you grieved so 
 
 I asked him to let me come, 
 To say that I'll be waiting 
 
 To welcome you to His home." 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little ^lilly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light. 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the fairest lily. 
 
 " Then, mama dear, must rejoice, 
 
 That Llilly is safe at rest, 
 Happy to be an angel. 
 
 In Heav'n among the blest." 
 I raised my arms to clasp her : 
 
 It awoke me from my dream ; 
 But I felt a holy joy. 
 
 For of her I'd had a gleam. 
 Precious httle ililly ! darling little Milly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light. 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the fairest lily. 
 
 Since then I've mourned no longer 
 
 I would not disturb her rest ; 
 And now I've the heart to pra}', 
 
 And utter "All's for the best." 
 I'm willing to wait His time, 
 
 To call me to realms above, 
 For there with Milly I'll spend 
 An eternity of love. 
 Precious little Milly ! darling little Milly ! 
 With eyes so blue and bright, and flaxen hair so light, 
 And brow so fair and white, just like the .fairest lily. 
 
63 
 
 TO FEIENDS WHO SENT ME SO MANY FLOWERS 
 THAT MY ROOM WAS LIKE A BOWER. 
 
 YE'VE lit'rally strewn my path with flowers ; 
 Ye've filled in my days with rosy hours ; 
 Ye've flooded with sunshine my earthly way, 
 And made my life like a bright endless day. 
 
 Not a single cloud comes into my room 
 When I've flowers about me with fragrant bloom : 
 Roses ye have sent me of ev'ry hue — • 
 Rare, beautiful roses, laden with dew. 
 
 Roses white, red , and pink, and fragrant tea — 
 Beautiful roses ye have sent to me : 
 As their petals withered I could not mourn, 
 But gently removed them, for new ones come. 
 
 All summer long I have enjoyed a feast — 
 A banquet at which I could say, at least. 
 The more we partake the more we enjoy ; 
 'Tis a banquet at which there is no alloy. 
 
 If I had to live on a lonely isle 
 I should seek flowers, my mind to beguile : 
 I'm never lonely with beautiful flowers ; 
 And my life glides on with its rosy hours. 
 
 Murillo has painted a charming gem — 
 The mother of Christ, with her diadem; 
 All around her form can plainly be seen 
 Beautiful angels, adoring their queen. 
 
54 
 
 I often think that the artist Divine, 
 When painting His roses, delights to twine 
 About them, a border of angels sweet, 
 Delightful companions, fitting and meet. 
 
 And when I'm sitting alone in my room, 
 "With roses about me, the angels come — 
 White-winged angels come, with rustling wing 
 With seraphic voices they sweetly sing. 
 
 I cannot describe to another one 
 
 The heavenly melody of their song : 
 
 My soul, by their song, has been thrilled I know ; 
 
 The echoes I hear wherever I go. 
 
 They have made me dream of the gates ajar, 
 Leading to Paradise, near, though afar : 
 My body may dwell in a world like this 
 When my soul is filled with angelic bliss. 
 
 'Tis no trifling thing — the gift of a flow'r • 
 To a friend who loves it, it has great pow'r ; 
 For it makes one forget the cares of life. 
 Brings harmony out of turmoil and strife. 
 
 And when I lie down for my last, long sleep, 
 I'd not have friends come, to my grave to weep : 
 If they should see roses profusely growing, 
 Their tears would unconsciously stop their flowing. 
 
 They'd rejoice that when I had done with earth, 
 I'd gone to the clime where roses have birth — 
 Gone to the land of perennial flowers, 
 T' inhale their fragrance 'mid immortal bowers. 
 
55 
 
 Then lovely roses are all that I crave — 
 More than a monument — over my grave ; 
 Sweet roses planted by a loving hand, 
 Even if I die in a foreign land. 
 
 EOMAN MOSAICS. 
 
 A man in a splendid palace, 
 Was making a work of art ; 
 But he used no paints or brushes. 
 Or aught that is deemed a part — 
 
 An essential part of painting. 
 
 By artists every where ; 
 Yet he copied a splendid Claude, 
 
 That was standing by his chair. 
 
 He wrought a most truthful picture, 
 
 A beautiful Roman view, 
 By using the tiniest bits 
 
 Of stones of a varied hue. 
 
 So well he combined the colours 
 
 In the trees and purple sky — 
 So well he built the old castle — 
 
 You'd have thought that Claude was nigh. 
 
 Directing with inspiration 
 
 This artist's wonderful hand. 
 As he wedged the bits, Mosaic, 
 
 To look like the Eoman land, 
 
56 
 
 And the Roman sky in grandeur, 
 With Amethyst floods of light, 
 
 And the golden gates of heaven, 
 A grand and glarious sight. 
 
 With rapture I watched this sunset, 
 
 The clouds of Tyrian blue, 
 Till all about mo seemed breathing 
 
 Those tints of a brilliant hue. 
 
 I saw in a Roman hovel, 
 
 On another sunny day, 
 A mother using mosaics, — 
 
 But these were not made of clay. 
 
 She had no copy before her. 
 
 And the bits she used were quaint ; 
 Slie liad no brushes or easel, 
 
 Keitlicr had knowledge of paint. 
 
 One bit, a pretty blue ribband ; 
 
 Another, a tiny shoe ; 
 In her lap, a golden ringlet, 
 
 Wliich glistened, with falling dew. 
 
 The mother had just been weeping — 
 Grieving for her darling boy, 
 
 Wliom the Lord had lent, but taken — 
 Her only idol and joy. 
 
 By and bj-, her tears restraining. 
 She took up the golden lock, 
 
 AVheu sweetly her smiles returning. 
 She shook out his little frock. 
 
57 
 
 Little shoes and dainty stockings 
 Bore the marks of chubby feet : 
 
 One could almost hear them patter, 
 Walking up and down the street. 
 
 Then two precious bits of coral 
 Clasped she in each tiny sleeve ; 
 
 Pinned the blue sash for a waistband, 
 Fancy helping her to weave 
 
 A charming Eoman Mosaic. 
 
 As she heard me breathe a sigh, 
 She whispered, " He was so lovely. 
 
 With his soul-lit, deep-blue eye. 
 
 " His curling hair was so golden — 
 His face was so like a saint — 
 
 If I were only an artist, 
 
 For you, my darling, I'd paint." 
 
 " Koman mother, I can see him. 
 
 With his little pinafore ; 
 You have drawn him to perfection. 
 
 Walking up and down the floor. 
 
 "I can see his Eoman profile ; 
 
 I can see his laughing face ; 
 I can see his dimpled fingers, 
 
 And his winning, witching grace. 
 
 " Do not grieve, for I behold him. 
 With the spirit's keener eye. 
 
 Safely landed in the haven 
 We shall enter by and by. 
 
58 
 
 " Eoman mother, I have wandered 
 (Having for high art a love) 
 
 Everywliere, to see the masters 
 Who have pow'r the soul to move. 
 
 " He's the greatest, grandest artist 
 Who can make us deeply feel ; 
 
 If he paints or moulds mosaics. 
 Or engraves his thoughts in steel. 
 
 " I have gazed with admiration 
 On the paintings Raifaelle left, 
 
 But with joy shall ever treasure 
 Efforts of your soul bereft. 
 
 "You have moved my inner feelings; 
 
 You have deeply touched my heart ; 
 You have made a sweet Mosaic, 
 
 And are master of that art." 
 
 THE BIRD'S NEST. 
 
 '\^^len in Wolverhampton, a Lady said to me, " Come and see my 
 'Bird's Nest': I have sixteen birds in it, that I feed and clothe." " How 
 do you feed and clothe them ?" I asked. She replied, " By faith." 
 
 " X HAVE a bird's nest, that you'd like to see," 
 
 J- A philanthrophic lady said to me ; 
 " Sixteen birds live within the little nest. 
 These sixteen birds there nightly take their rest ; 
 These sixteen birds are by me daily fed, 
 On simple nutriment and oatmeal bread ; 
 These sixteen birds are clothed within the fold, 
 Are shielded and protected from the cold. 
 
59 
 
 I have but little means ; by Faith I live, 
 
 And give unto the birds all that I receive ; 
 
 But should my means begin to fail, I know 
 
 To whom in supplication I can go. 
 
 I have a Friend, who is a Friend in need, 
 
 And such a one, is truly one indeed : 
 
 He owns the sheep upon a thousand hills ; 
 
 And mighty oceans with his raindrops fills ; 
 
 The bowels of the earth He lines with gems, 
 
 Enough for coronets and diadems, 
 
 To glisten on the heads of ev'ry queen, 
 
 And ev'ry king that may be or have been. 
 
 These are as grains of dust on the sea-shore. 
 
 Compared to what is His, for evermore. 
 
 This Friend has said, " Ask and you shall receive : ' 
 
 The blessings you desire, I'll freely give, 
 
 I never yet have wanted food, to feed 
 
 These birds of mine, who sometimes eat indeed, 
 
 So much, they eat me out of house and home, 
 
 (As the old saying is) that want would come ; 
 
 Unless the Friend who gives us heavenly food. 
 
 Had sent me friends who had been very good. 
 
 This is the way in which he blesses me : 
 
 He fills the hearts of those with sympathy — ■ 
 
 Those to whom he has freely lent on earth 
 
 Great wealth, to be lent out where there's a dearth. 
 
 God gives to them — they give in turn to me — 
 
 Uniting thus, time and eternity ; 
 
 These earthly friends have generously bestowed 
 
 Many rich favours, feeling that they owed 
 
 A debt of gratitude to God in Heaven, 
 
60 
 
 For all the wealth that He to them has given. 
 * !?(i * * -jt ^ 
 
 I went to see this hmnble little nest, 
 
 Filled with those sixteen birds so donbly blest : 
 
 I found that they were cared for, daily fed, 
 
 Nourished with earthly and with heavenly bread. 
 
 I might as well explain the facts just here, — 
 
 Those sixteen birds are Orphan Children, dear — 
 
 Children bereft of parents and their home, 
 
 Drifting upon the world and all alone. 
 
 I might as well say why I write these lines, 
 
 And coin my earnest thoughts in measured rhymes : 
 
 Determining a long, long time ago, 
 
 To lead a useful life, in faith to sow 
 
 The seeds of love and truth where'er I went. 
 
 To fire such barbed arrows, that if sent 
 
 Skilfully and trustfully, they would reacli 
 
 E'en stony and rebellious hearts, and teach 
 
 A doctrine some prefer not to believe — 
 
 'Tis better far to give than to receive — 
 
 I felt constrained to use my faithful bow 
 
 To fire an arrow, that will reach I know. 
 
 An angel bright attends me everywhere. 
 
 Tells me j ast what to do, now here, now there : 
 
 Sometimes it bids me talk, then teach, then write. 
 
 In prose or rhyme, true loving words indite. 
 
 ('Tis such an augel that will go with all 
 
 Who seek his presence with an earnest call.) 
 
 This angel in a loud and startling voice 
 
 Impressed my soul so that I had no choice 
 
 But write some stirring, loving words, to plead 
 
61 
 
 For orphan children, destitute indeed ; 
 
 Especially for tliose within the nest, 
 
 And then for those who there will seek to rest ; 
 
 For soon as others, just as needy, come, 
 
 This nest must be enlarged to give them room. 
 
 There must be some one who has means to give 
 
 A larger nest in which these birds may live ; 
 
 For God has whispered in my list'niu'^- ear 
 
 This .'line — "Write earnestly inithowt a fear.'' 
 
 Plead that some wealthy Christian shall bestow 
 
 The means to build a Christian home below, 
 
 To house these needy, homeless orphans, poor, 
 
 Who otherwise would beg from door to door ; 
 
 Perhaps become rude vagrants in the town, 
 
 Prowling in rags and roaming up and down. 
 
 Why should I plead for those I shall not see 1 
 
 What matters it if they neglected be ? 
 
 It is because I never stop to think. 
 
 When one is thirsty and would like to drink, 
 
 Wliether the child be Pioman, Jew, or Greek : 
 
 It is enough that Ihose in want do seek 
 
 A common blessing, that I can impart, 
 
 Urged by the promptings of my loving heart — 
 
 Promptings that bid me ever to pursue 
 
 With all my might whate'er there is to do. 
 
 I trust this humble missive then may fmd 
 
 Some wealthy Christian, with a willing mind, 
 
 Who'll lead from stores that God to him has given 
 
 Which, hoarded, he can never take to heaven ; 
 
 And rest assured, the good we do below 
 
 Makes heaven begin on earth before we go. 
 
62 
 
 A GAULAND FOE A POET. 
 
 I WOULD twine for you a garland of flowers, 
 Poet of Nature, from fairy bowers ; 
 I would not gather blossoms rich and rare. 
 That grow by culture in a rich paiterre. 
 No gaudy flowereLs would I care to twine, 
 Neither exotics for a wreath of thine ; 
 I would gather the sweetest flowera of Spring ; 
 Hyacinths, jonquils, and lilies I'd bring ; 
 I would gather violets, blue and white, 
 Primroses blooming in the morning-light ; 
 I'd cull the buds of the sweet briar-rose. 
 The mignonerte-cups that with perfume glows. 
 The dear little mosses kissed by the sun, 
 When he wakes them from slumber each bright morn ; 
 Delicate lichens found but in a glen. 
 Removed fiir away from the haunts of men : 
 These flowers are mostly under angels' care. 
 Will make a fit wreath for the poet's hair : 
 I would bind these flow'rs on a laurel spray, 
 Twining with them a few blossoms of ilay : 
 I would add no gems to this floral wreath. 
 Unless they were crj'stals, the dewdrops breath. 
 Why I would seek Nature's simple wild flowers. 
 Is that they'd remind you of sunny honi«. 
 In which you've communed with angels I ween, 
 When walking beside the clear silvan stream ; 
 Or they would recall some resplendent night, 
 AVhen you have enjoyed the moon's silver light. 
 And heard with rapture the voices of love, 
 The echoes of Nature in ev'ry grove. 
 
■63 
 
 JESSIE'S DEEAM, OE THE BELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 
 
 A Letter was published in Le Pays Journal, dated, Calcutta, Oct. 
 8th, 1857, by a French Physician, M. De Bauvreuoi, in the service o£ 
 Mussur Rajah, in which he gives the experience of a lady, the wife of a 
 Colonel. This lady was the friend of Jessie Brown, the subject of the 
 following Poem. 
 
 PIEECELY raged the deadly battle, 
 The green fields with blood were stained; 
 Loud the stern foes cannon sounded, 
 Notes of victory they claimed. 
 
 The brave soldiers were despairing, 
 
 Not a ray of hope had they, 
 For the foe was gaining slowly, 
 
 And must vanquish them that day. 
 
 Further efforts were quite useless. 
 
 Thus the engineers had said, 
 To resist that mighty squadron, 
 
 With their troops — so many dead. 
 
 All the soldiers knew, however. 
 
 That to retreat, meant to die 
 By slow torture, for no mercy 
 
 Would be shown them by and by. 
 
 The soldiers' wives were like angels 
 
 Of pure mercy in disguise ; 
 Never said a word complaining, 
 
 But still wore a smiling guise, 
 
 As they carried cups of coffee, 
 
 Smoking hot, and bread to eat. 
 To half-famished, dying soldiers. 
 
 Showing woman's love so sweet. 
 
64 
 
 One among them came from Scotland, 
 With a Scotch name, Jessie Brown : 
 
 Her good husband was a corporal. 
 Liked by all the men in town. 
 
 Jessie's strength had been declining. 
 
 For a few days, very fast ; 
 And to all it was apparent, 
 
 Her sweet life could not long last. 
 
 On this day she seemed uneasy, 
 And the fever raged quite high ; 
 
 She was restless, and excitement 
 Fairly sparlded in her eye. 
 
 Frequently her mind had wandered 
 To her early childhood's home. 
 
 Where she saw, around the hearthstone. 
 All the dearly-loved ones come. 
 
 Soon she sank down, faint and weary. 
 In her plaid, upon the ground ; 
 
 Very soon she was unconscious, 
 Hearing not a mortal sound. 
 
 "When your father comes from ploughing, 
 J will wake you," her friend said, 
 
 In whose lap she bad been resting 
 Her sad, weary, aching head. 
 
 Both friends soon were sleeping deeply. 
 Both fatigued, upon the ground, 
 
 Undisturbed by the loud canon. 
 Quite accustomed to the sound. 
 
'65 
 
 From her sleep fair Jessie started, 
 With a loud and piercing scream, 
 
 Gazing wildly all around her, 
 
 " Soon," she cried, " I've had a dream. 
 
 " List ! dinna hear the joyful sound 1 
 Sure the ' Slogans ' coming here : 
 
 Thank the Lord, they've come to save us- 
 Save us, with companions dear.'' 
 
 " Jessie, tell me, darling Jessie, 
 
 It was only but a gleam 
 Of the rescue that we've prayed for — 
 
 Oh, I fear 'twas but a dream. 
 
 " Do not raise a false impression," 
 Her friend said ; " do not excite 
 
 Soldiers now so very anxious- 
 Let them die in this last fight." 
 
 Jessie would not heed her warning, 
 
 Quickly, everywhere she ran, 
 Crying, " Courage, courage, courage ! 
 
 Hold out bravely, man to man ! 
 
 " Help has come quite unexpected ; 
 
 Hark, 'the Slogans' welcome cry ! 
 Praise the Lord, He's sent deliv'rance — 
 
 Sweet deliverance is nigh ! " 
 
 For a moment there was kindled 
 In each manly soldier's breast 
 
 Such a wild, deep thrill of gladness, 
 That they did not wish to rest. 
 
66 
 
 E'en though faint and very weary, 
 " On to battle ! " was their cry. 
 
 " Let us make another effort : 
 We will conquer foes or die t " 
 
 Then they listened for the signal 
 Jessie said she plainly heard : 
 
 It was but the victor's canon, 
 Or, perhaps, an Indian bird. 
 
 Then there came a great reaction : 
 Women's wailings filled the air; 
 
 Men dejected, broken hearted, 
 Yielded to a dark despair. 
 
 Very bitter was their language. 
 
 When they felt they'd been deceived 
 
 By a woman's insane ravings. 
 
 And how deeply then they grieved ; 
 
 For fond memory had gathered 
 Remembrances of former days, 
 
 When glimmerings of their hearthstones 
 Came to them like sunny rays. 
 
 Now they'd never see the absent. 
 Those they loved so well at home, 
 
 Ignis fatuus ! those Scotchmen ! 
 Surely they would never come. 
 
 Jessie did not mind their wailings. 
 
 Still repeated every word. 
 In spite of all their imprecations, 
 
 '"Twas 'the Slogan' that I heard." 
 
67 
 
 Then she sank again exhausted, 
 On the ground, so very weak ; 
 
 Soon she rose, her strength returning, 
 Uttering a piercing shriek. 
 
 " Courage ! warriors — soldiers — courage ! 
 
 I have heard the joyful cry ; 
 Will ye noo believe me, soldiers, 
 
 When I say ye shall not die V 
 
 With the greatest agitation 
 
 Jessie cried, " Say, don't ye hear 1 
 
 Just in time, ' The Campbells Comin' ' — 
 List the pibroch — do not fear." 
 
 Once again was joy enkindled — 
 Tears were wiped from every eye — 
 
 Hearts were bursting with their anguish - 
 Now they felt they should not die. 
 
 For, indeed, the bagpipes' whistle 
 Faintly, from yon distant hill, 
 
 Came in echoes up the valley. 
 Sharply sending notes so shrill. 
 
 Gradually, as in the morning. 
 
 Sunbeams bring their pleasant light. 
 
 Chase away the gloomy darkness 
 Of the old departing night, 
 
 So these joyful strains of music. 
 As they loud and louder grew, 
 
 Dissipated all their sadness 
 
 As the news, like lightning, flew. 
 
68 
 
 That 'the Slogan' -n-as ajsproachiDg, 
 That fresh help was very near ; 
 
 That the Scottish bands advancing 
 Soon would dissipate their fear. 
 
 From the English band resounded, 
 Joyfully, " God save the Queen," 
 
 To welcome those who came to help them, 
 Now quite plainly to be seen. 
 
 Hill and valley caught the echoes 
 'Mid the cannons roaring sound ; 
 
 E'en the clouds burst forth rejoicing, 
 Joy did cverj'where abound. 
 
 When the Scotchmen heard the bugle — 
 
 The pealing drum and fife — 
 Their hearts were full of wild emotion ; 
 
 They had come to save the life, 
 
 Of soldiers in this fiercest battle, 
 Some perhaps they had not seen. 
 
 Yet were subjects, loyal subjects. 
 Of their own beloved Queen. 
 
 Then they answered with their bagpipes, 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot 1" 
 
 This enkindled martial valour 
 On that memorable spot. 
 
 Sometimes there are blissful moments, 
 When the soul overflows with love. 
 
 When all Nature sings thanksgivings 
 In unison with souls above. 
 
69 
 
 In tlie midst of their rejoicing, 
 
 "Praise the Lord for Jessie's dream,'' 
 
 Cry the soldiers and the women, 
 
 "'Twas tlie Lord who gave the gleam" 
 
 "Of His Providence so timely : 
 
 Soon, alas, we had been slain, 
 Bnt He sent His angel hither — 
 
 All of us should praise His Name." 
 
 "'Twas the Lord," said Jessie faintly, 
 " Praise the Lord for evermore ; 
 
 Praise Him, soldiers ; praise Him, women : 
 I shall find Him on the shore 
 
 "Where Pm going, for Pm weary. 
 And would rest my aching head. 
 
 In my Heavenly Father's mansions" — 
 'Twas the last sweet Jessie said. 
 
 Then they gathered closely round her, 
 
 To arouse the sleeping one : 
 'Twas in vain, they could not wake her — 
 
 Jessie's earthly work was done. 
 
 All their weeping could not bring her 
 Back from mansions of the blest : 
 
 Faithfully she'd done her duty : 
 All rejoiced she'd gone to rest. 
 
70 
 
 MY ISLAND HOME* 
 
 THERE'S a precious little island — 'tis farbejond the sea : 
 The memory of that island is very dear to me. 
 I have roamed in distant countries — travelled many amilc' — 
 Yet oft returned in memory to that dear sea-girt isle. 
 
 It was there I spent my childhood, and all my sunny youth 
 It was there I learned to treasure the sacred word of Truth: 
 It was there my early school-days (halcyon days to me) 
 Glided away So rapidly, and yet so happily. 
 
 It was with ardent zeal I studied the fav'rite classic page, 
 Devoured my school-books with delight, e'en at an early age 
 I learned when but a little child, at that dear island-home. 
 The history of old England, of France, and ancient Rome ; 
 
 And when I trod in after-life, those grand old classic lands 
 As familiar have they appeared as if I'd trod their strands; 
 For quite often had I seen them during my childhood's dreams. 
 As visions of my wanderings came to me in bright gleams. 
 
 It was there I often beheld, on a clear, starry night, 
 
 The glorious constellations with telescopic light, 
 
 Saturn's wondrous, luminous belts, the mountains of the moon, 
 
 And among the other planets. Mercury, gone so soon. 
 
 Twas oft upon the island-cliffs, I rambled when a child. 
 And gazed upon the ocean grand, with dashing waves so wild; 
 As the twilight gathered round me, at the dying of day. 
 Bright visions often filled my mind, of all my future way. 
 
 * Nantucket, in Massachusetta, U.S.A. 
 
71 
 
 Shadows oft are seen, it is said, before events do come : 
 I saw the shadows of my life, at my earliest home ; 
 I dreamed of fields of usefulness, that I should surely find ; 
 For to work for others' welfare was stamped upon my mind. 
 
 I remember well when sitting, low at my mother's knee, 
 How she spoke of noble women* whom she had been to see ; 
 Excellent women, too, they were, who travelled everywhere 
 To scatter the seeds of knowledge, free as the mountain air. 
 
 I longed to be a woman, too ; to do as they had done ; 
 Among my childish purposes, this was a special one — 
 That the instruction I had gained, with such intense delight, 
 I would freely give to others who thu'sted for the light. 
 
 That if I ever roamed abroad, I'd try to do my part — 
 To bring warm rays of sunshine to every human heart 
 That might perchance come near to me : 'tis little we can do ; 
 Hence, that little we should always diligently pursue. 
 
 For one thing that sea-girt island deserves the name of 
 
 Queen, 
 In this 'tis far above the towns that I have ever seen 
 In foreign continental lands, where ignorance abounds 
 Among the common class of folks that live within their towns. 
 
 For every island-child can learn to write, and spell, and read. 
 Without expense, in public schools, that are good schools 
 
 indeed ; 
 In literary attainments, that island of the sea 
 Is the Athens of the region, long may it ever be. 
 
 * Englisli friends who came to America on a mission to preach. 
 
73 
 
 Its sons and daugliters may depart, and travel o'er the earth, 
 Their island-home they'll not forget, the isle that gave them 
 
 birth, 
 As the native soil is fertile, in which the acorn lies. 
 So will grow the umbrageous oak, with branches to the skies. 
 
 As is the earliest bias, that the young child receives. 
 So ^^ill an influence be given that never, never leaves 
 That child : where'er his destiny may send him forth to roam, 
 His heart will ever bear the seal stamped at his childhood's 
 home. 
 
 If I have led a useful life, and good to others done, 
 If I have lived with noble aims, the motive-power has come 
 From the strong impress I received, at my. dear island-home. 
 Before I ever ventured forth in the wide world to roam. 
 
 As children think with gratitude of mothers very kind. 
 Who hold them by the cords of love which they know how 
 
 to bind; 
 So of that isle I love to think, that isle beyond the sea. 
 For the memory of that isle is very dear to me. 
 
73 
 
 THE HEADLESS CEOSS, OK MARKET-STONE. 
 
 There is, in the neighbourhood of the Arboretum, iq Derby, Derby- 
 shire, a large stone, and on the brass plate inserted in the stone there is 
 the following inscription : — 
 
 " This stone formed part of an ancient cross that stood at the upper 
 ■ end of Friargate, and was used by the inhabitants of Derby as a 
 market-stone during the visitation of the Plague in 1666. It is thus 
 described by Hutton in his Hietory of Derby. 'In 1666 Derby was 
 again visited by the Plague, at the same time in which London fell under 
 the calamity. The town was forsaken, the farmers declined to visit the 
 market-place, and grass grew upon that spot were the actual necessaries 
 of life had been sold. To prevent a famine, the inhabitants erected, at 
 the top of Nun's Green, a little way out of the town, one or two hun- 
 dred yards from the buildings now Friargate, what bore the name of the 
 Headless Cross, consisting of four quadrangular steps, covered in the 
 centre with one large stone, the whole being nearly five feet high. 
 Here the market people, with tobacco in their mouths as a preservative, 
 brought their provisions, stood at a distance from their property, and 
 at a greater distance from the townspeople with whom they were to 
 traffic. The buyer could not touch any article before it was purchased, 
 but when the agreement was finished, he took the goods and deposited 
 the money in a vessel filled with vinegar, set for that purpose. A con- 
 fidence, raised by necessity, existed between the buyer and seller which 
 never arose before nor since, as the buyer could not examine his pur- 
 chase nor the seller the money." 
 
 THE fairest vale in England, 
 Nestled among the MUs, 
 Eegal in Nature's beauties, 
 Fed by tlie sparkling rills,. 
 
 Had once a visitation, 
 
 That reigned throughout the place : 
 The plague in desolation 
 
 Stared mortals in. the face. 
 
 'Twas two hundred years ago. 
 
 When sanitary laws — 
 Front ignorance neglected, 
 
 Or from some other cause — 
 
74 
 
 Were very little teeded, 
 
 So that contagion dire, 
 When once it got a foothold, 
 
 Spread like a raging fire. 
 
 The sounds of bitter wailings 
 
 Kose in the midnight air, 
 For there were people dying — ■ 
 
 Yea, dying everywhere — 
 
 The old men in their glory, 
 The young men in their prime, 
 
 Fair maidens in their beauty. 
 Children in their spring-time. 
 
 Brides standing at the altar 
 And fondly plighting love, 
 
 Young mothers with their infants 
 Were quickly called above ; 
 
 The boys when playing marbles, 
 
 In and about the town, 
 Amid their joyous frolics, 
 
 Quite suddenly dropped down ; 
 
 Men at their daily labour, 
 
 When coining sweat for bread. 
 
 The preacher in the pulpit, 
 Alike by night were dead. 
 
 Scarcely had life departed 
 
 Before they took away 
 The shrines that had been worshiped, 
 
 Without the least delay. 
 
75 
 
 No fun'ral rites were chanted 
 Over the honoured dead, 
 
 No perfumed incense wasted ; 
 Short were the prayers then said. 
 
 Anon another evil 
 
 Threatened that peaceful vale — 
 Soon famine or starvation 
 
 Would swell the fearful tale, 
 
 For e'en the few survivors. 
 
 With agonising sigh, 
 Daily bemoaned their anguish 
 
 Half-famished, wished to die. 
 
 Grass grew in the market-place, 
 And in the public street, 
 
 Where terror-stricken farmers 
 Formerly used to meet. 
 
 They brought no more provisions, 
 
 No ravens came to feed, 
 No manna rained from heaven 
 
 For these stricken ones indeed. 
 
 As flowers send out their perfume, 
 When crushed beneath the feet, 
 
 So hearts when wrung with anguish, 
 Give strains of mercy sweet. 
 
 At length, touched by compassion, 
 
 A compromise was made 
 Between the starving people, 
 
 And farmers still afraid 
 
76 
 
 Of the contamination 
 
 That intercourse would bring, 
 With those who had been smitten 
 
 By the death-angel's wing. 
 
 Then the people raised a cross, 
 A "headless cross" on high ; 
 
 They set it up in Friargate, 
 Promised to come not nigh, 
 
 Farmers who should deposite 
 From out their country-home, 
 
 Provisions fresh and ample, 
 For future time to come. 
 
 The farmers laid provisions 
 Upon this "headless stone," 
 
 Trusting to get full payment, 
 To honesty alone. 
 
 The buyers dropped their money 
 
 Within an earthen dish 
 Filled with strongest vinegar. 
 
 And took what they might wish. 
 
 Thus the greatest confidence 
 Each one had to evince ; 
 
 Never such was seen before, 
 And never has been since. 
 
 Farmers coidd not examine 
 The money that was paid ; 
 
 People took tlie farmers' word 
 When they provisions laid 
 
77 
 
 On this saoi'ed. monument — 
 This famous " headless cross " ; 
 
 Yet honesty prevailed there, 
 And no one met with loss. 
 
 Thus this " headless cross '' proclaimed 
 
 To ev'ry passer-by 
 How pure faith reigned there supreme, 
 
 And brought sweet sympathy. 
 
 Among the facts well-attested. 
 
 In records of the town, 
 Those that are above described 
 
 Are strictly noted down. 
 
 There's a relic of this cross 
 
 Preserved e'en to this day, 
 Kept in the Arboretum, 
 
 Which all can there survey. 
 
 And should the town of Derby, 
 
 In its future career, 
 Wish to be a model town, 
 
 The fact is very clear, 
 
 That a rare, noble standard, 
 Might by them be attained, 
 
 If they would but practice faith, 
 Like that for which they're famed. 
 
 This bright earth on which we dwell, 
 
 Might be a joyous place, 
 If trusting love reigned supreme, 
 
 A truly heavenly grace. 
 
78 
 
 We should not wait for famine, 
 For pestilence, to rage ; 
 
 Life should have sweet sympathy 
 Inscribed on eVry page. 
 
 MY HAPPY SONG. 
 
 I HEAR angel- voices, 
 The whole day long. 
 So I'm ever singing 
 A happy song. 
 
 Singing when I'm working, 
 
 When I'm at rest. 
 Singing when I'm thinking 
 
 " AU's for the best." 
 
 I drive all thoughts away 
 
 That make me sad, 
 So my heart is sunny. 
 
 And always glad. 
 
 The white-winged angels come 
 
 So near to me. 
 
 That I almost fancy 
 
 ■ That I can see. 
 
 Their radiant faces, 
 
 As they float by, 
 In the liquid sapphire 
 
 Of yonder sky. 
 
79 
 
 This is what ,they whisper, 
 
 In earnest voice ; 
 Work with faith — keep working- 
 
 Ever rejoice. 
 
 Do not think of reaping 
 
 All that you sow ; 
 For the tares and the wheat 
 
 Ever do grow, 
 
 So closely together 
 
 On the same farm, 
 That frequently the tares 
 
 Will do great harm 
 
 By their choking the wheat. 
 
 Yet once again 
 The good farmer will sow 
 
 The fruitful grain. 
 
 We find on the sea-shore, 
 
 Driven by tide. 
 Most beautiful mosses. 
 
 Close by the side. 
 
 Of Ocean's rare treasures, 
 
 Covered with sand — 
 The pearls from her bosom 
 
 Sent to dry land. 
 
 We must gather quickly 
 
 These gems so rare, 
 If we would preserve them 
 
 As relics fair ; 
 
80 
 
 For the tide, returning, 
 
 Will sweep away 
 The gems of the ocean, 
 
 That never stay. 
 
 Merely, for man's pleasure ; 
 
 Tides never wait ; 
 They teach ua to study 
 
 Decrees of fate. 
 
 Though the rose has its thorn 
 
 And a sharp sting, 
 I like the rich perfume 
 
 Its petals bring. 
 
 I regard not the thorn, 
 
 But pluck the rose. 
 To wear on my bosom, 
 
 Where no thorn grows. 
 
 The sunshine and shadow, 
 
 Creeping along, 
 Are like the sharps and flats 
 
 Of my bright song. 
 
 If I look for shadows. 
 They're quickly found. 
 
 They are strewn all about. 
 On ev'ry ground. 
 
 I see not the shadows. 
 
 But golden gleams 
 Of radiant day-light, 
 
 The bright sunbeams. 
 
81 
 
 When I eat the honey • 
 
 Made by the bee, 
 I need not keep thinking 
 
 He can sting me. 
 
 I need not be gloomy 
 
 In the dark night, 
 Though the stars are obscured, 
 
 Quite out of sight. 
 
 I think of the coming 
 
 Of the bright morn ; 
 Light scatters the darkness 
 
 From the green lawn. 
 
 When winter is dreary, 
 
 And the fierce gale 
 Is sighing around me, 
 
 With saddest wail. 
 
 When the flowers are frozen. 
 
 And hedges dead — 
 When the trees are mourning 
 
 Their leaves all fled — 
 
 I will think of the Spring, 
 
 With her sweet May, 
 Her thousands of flowers. 
 
 Her garlands gay, 
 
 Her trees white with blossoms, 
 
 Her -hawthorn sweet. 
 The fair yellow cowslips 
 
 Low at our feet, 
 
82 
 
 The gorgeous pink chestnut 
 
 The mountain ash. 
 The fresh ivy twining 
 
 Nature's broad sash, 
 
 To tie up her golden 
 Eobes that are new, 
 
 Her sprays and her tendrils. 
 Sparkling with dew. 
 
 Her dells and her copses 
 With the sweet song 
 
 Of her warblers resound 
 All the day long. 
 
 There's a silver lining 
 
 To ev'ry cloud, 
 There is a bright emblem 
 
 With eVry shroud : 
 
 It speaks of enjoyment. 
 
 Of quiet rest, 
 With our Heavenly Father, 
 
 All for the best. 
 
 If I see not the fruits 
 
 Of my toil here, 
 My labors will fit me 
 
 For the better sphere. 
 
 I'll list to the angels 
 The whole day long. 
 
 Will ever keep singing 
 My happy song. 
 
83 
 
 THE POOR DAILY GOVERNESS. 
 
 "A clerk in a city bank died and left his family destitute. One and 
 another found situations as governesses. The youngest, a young girl of 
 seventeen, remained at home till obliged to seek her bread. She became 
 a daily governess, walked four miles to her work every day, and home 
 again, and ate nothing all day. She gradually lost her strength ; 
 became insane, crying, " Mother, my brain is gone ! " Kindness came 
 too late : she died in an insane asylum." 
 
 OPEN gently the tiirf, and lay her in, 
 Only a governess, — that was her sin ; 
 Only a governess — let her have rest, 
 There is plenty of room among the blest. 
 The earth is too full for genuine worth, 
 Let her find a place where angels have birth. 
 
 Had her father lived, the world would have smiled, 
 
 Petted and flattered his sensitive child ; 
 
 But her father died, then came her sad fate ; 
 
 'Tis almost too sad for me to relate : 
 
 She excelled in painting, could draw and sing, 
 
 Warble as sweetly as bird on the wing. 
 
 But her father died, and left to his heirs 
 Talent and poverty, oft found in pairs ; 
 Then the ghoul of want— a dark spectre — came, 
 Seen oft by poets and children of fame ; 
 Her mother grew ill, and they needed bread, 
 Simply because her dear father was dead. 
 
84 
 
 Terrible death-angel, why did you come 
 To blight and to sorrow this happy home 1 
 Eager to labour for her mother dear, 
 She wearily waited, hoping to hear 
 Of a good position, where, in return 
 For efforts given, she could honestly earn 
 
 Food, to keep soul and body together. 
 
 Both for herself and her feeble mother. 
 
 " Where there's a will, there is always a way " 
 
 Is a proverb fine, when sung in a lay. 
 
 But not always true when poverty's near ; 
 
 Somehow the wealthy the poor seldom cheer : 
 
 Those guests are bidden to the feast to come 
 Who sumptuously dine at their own home ; 
 While the needy may freeze and starve alone, 
 And be thankful to get even a bone. 
 This girl was anxious and willing to be 
 A faithful teacher, as we shall soon see : 
 
 She found employment four miles from her home. 
 
 As governess to a lady in town. 
 
 The hot sun parched the waving grass ; 
 
 It withered the brain of this gentle lass : 
 
 She walked in the morning, through the hot sun, 
 
 And walked home at night, when her work was done. 
 
 All the day long she toiled on without food. 
 That talented girl, so clever and good ; 
 All the day long she worked hard with her brain, 
 Wearily worked, 'till she became insane; 
 Then she sat all the day moaning at home. 
 Crying, " Dear mother, my poor brain is gone." 
 
85 
 
 And when, no longer she'd power to control 
 The outward ravings of her weary soul, 
 Among the insane was kindly received, 
 Where the Doctors hoped, na.y vainly believed. 
 That care and attention would seat again 
 That rare-gifted mind upon its right throne. 
 
 The fragrant rose blooms the whole summer through 
 Shedding its perfume 'mid the morning dew; 
 We may break a branchlet, another grows, 
 While its life remains, as ev'ryone knows; 
 But if thirst should destroy its healthy root. 
 It will never send forth another shoot. 
 
 Its buds will wither, it will hang its head, 
 
 When the morning dawns we shall find it dead ; 
 
 In vain we may water it ev'ry hour, 
 
 For a deadened root no more has the'power 
 
 To revive again — it goes back to dust, 
 
 In obedience to laws, laws so just. 
 
 The same laws hold true with the human frame — 
 When we break a law we suffer the same. 
 We can cure some ills to which flesh is heir ; 
 But if the brain-power depart, all the care 
 Of nurses, and surgeons, and kindest friends 
 Will never condone nor make amends 
 
 For injuries given to the tender brain ; 
 
 And hunger continued will soon inflame 
 
 That fine dome of thought, that soul-palaoe rare, 
 
 Which should always receive our greatest care. 
 
 After enduring weary days of pain 
 
 This girl was restored to her health again. 
 
86 
 
 A physician brought her a healing balm 
 
 That he found in Gilead, which did calm 
 
 The insane ragings of that girl forlorn, 
 
 Who had cried " Mother, my poor brain is gone :'' 
 
 As she felt His heavenly soothing power. 
 
 Her pain departed from that blessed hour. 
 
 Her chastened spirit left her weary brain. 
 
 To go back with Jesus to God again. 
 
 Though a poor governess, she'll not want bread ; 
 
 With precious manna her soul will be fed. 
 
 They laid her body by her father's side, 
 
 Under the green turf, in peace to abide. 
 
 There were only a few poor mourners came 
 To weep at the grave of this girl insane. 
 It is mournful indeed for us to think 
 That this gifted girl wanted food and drink 
 In this plentiful world, where stores abound, 
 And great wealth is springing up around 
 
 But her earthly sorrows are now all o'er, 
 For never again will she want food more : 
 While we may weep at her untimely end, 
 Emotions of joy with sorrow will blend : 
 Though but a governess, she has found rest 
 In mansions of God — the home of the blest. 
 
87 
 THE YOUNG KULEE. 
 
 Luke xviii., 18th to 26th verse. 
 
 " XT7HAT shall I do, dear Lord, 
 
 VV To get eternal Ufe ]" 
 Said a ruler weary 
 
 Of the unceasing strife, 
 
 Between flesh and spirit, 
 Each, anxious for the goal, 
 
 Contending in the race 
 'Tween body and the soul. 
 
 " I've loved Thee from my youth. 
 Obeyed all Thy commands ; 
 
 Treasured Thy precious words, 
 As dear as golden sands. 
 
 " Having been blessed with wealth, 
 
 I've given noble feasts. 
 And always entertained 
 
 Both rich and princely guests. 
 
 " Satiated with pomp. 
 
 Before my life shall end, 
 I would redeem the past. 
 
 Each future moment spend, 
 
 " In loving Thee, my Lord, 
 
 Not with the lip or eye. 
 But in my heart of hearts, 
 
 I'd serve Thee ere I die. 
 
" Then I'd gain future bliss, 
 Those joys that will endure, 
 
 A home with Thee in heaven, 
 Eternal rest secure.'' 
 
 It was a great mistake 
 For that rich nobleman, 
 
 To think our blessed Lord 
 Belonged to his own clan. 
 
 Who bartered brain and soul, 
 If thereby they could gain 
 
 Eenown or worldly ease. 
 Or yet more wealth obtain. 
 
 The Lord, indignant, heard 
 The Ruler's oily tongi.ie, 
 
 Boasting his own merits, 
 In strains so sweetly sung. 
 
 But soon he quickly said — 
 " Thou lackest yet one thing, 
 
 One single attribute. 
 Eternal life to bring. 
 
 " I give thee one small charge. 
 Easy for thee to learn, 
 
 If deep and honest love 
 Within thy bosom burn. 
 
 " Sell all thy boundless stores. 
 Sell all the goods thou hast. 
 
 And bless the wretched poor, 
 Redeeming thus thy past. 
 
" The pearl of greatest price 
 I then will give to thee, 
 
 That pearl by many sought, 
 'Twill buy Eternity." 
 
 Sadly the ruler said, 
 
 Turning to go away — 
 " That stern command of Thine 
 
 My Lord, who can obey?" 
 
 "Not those who hug their wealth 
 With a fond miser's pride, 
 
 Shall tread the heavenly courts," 
 The Saviour then replied. 
 
 "A camel can pass through 
 The narrow needle's eye, 
 
 More easily than thou 
 Can'st spend Eternity, 
 
 " With God and angels pure, 
 And all redeemed from sin ; 
 
 The pearly gates of heaven 
 Inclose all such within. 
 
 " Such tread the golden streets. 
 Such time their harps of love. 
 
 Such dwell in realms of bliss 
 With Christ and' God above." 
 
90 
 
 TO AMELIA, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 AMELIA, dear, I would I had the power 
 Blessings to scatter ; two to you I'd give : 
 These blessings should suffice you while you live ; 
 Yea, on your head these noble gifts I'd shower, — 
 A healthy body and a vig'rous mind. 
 If I should roam and seek the wide world through, 
 I'd get no better, nobler gifts for you ; 
 Yea, greater treasures I could never find, 
 Even in rare Goloonda's caverns, lined 
 With precious, sparkling gems. Then seek to bind 
 These priceless gifts upon your brow ; take both, 
 And prize them as of rare and sterling worth. 
 If these you can obtain you will be blest. 
 And when Life's days are o'er you'll sweetly rest. 
 
 RAFFAELLE AND HIS MASTER-PIECE. 
 
 THE race of some is quickly run : they live, 
 Then pass away from earth : 
 They leave no record of their lives : few heed 
 Either their death or birth. 
 
 The sun declines behind the western hills ; 
 
 The day in glory dies ; 
 The twinkling stars peep from the azure blue, 
 
 The bright celestial skies. 
 
91 
 
 Aurora, brings the purple dawn of morn ; 
 
 The golden light extends 
 Athwart the cloud-flecked earth ; the sun draws nigh 
 
 His warmth, and blessing lends. 
 
 The days perform their own revolving work ; 
 
 The willing hours move on ; 
 The circling years roll round and round again, 
 
 Alike when they are gone. 
 
 Yet the good God who counts the starry host, 
 
 Sheep on a thousand hills, 
 The tiny dew-drops of the ocean deep. 
 
 The little sparkling rills, 
 
 Can call by name each immortal child, 
 
 Whether it's great or small : 
 He has room enough in heaven above. 
 
 His heart receives them all. 
 
 Yea, if he numbers the hairs of the head. 
 
 The sparrow in its fall, 
 He will not forget a child who has lived 
 
 On His own earthly ball. 
 
 Yet, occasionally, as if to show 
 
 His grand and matchless power. 
 He shrines in finer clay a form divine, 
 
 Purposely to shower 
 
 The richest, choicest, rarest gifts he holds 
 
 At his supreme command ; 
 He culls with care the noblest attributes 
 
 Scattered in every land. 
 
92 
 
 'Twas thus three hundred eighty years ago, 
 
 On a clear, bright March raom, 
 The world of art was blessed, supremely blessed. 
 
 For Eaffaelle was bom. 
 
 None eyer saw a little child so fair. 
 
 Filled with such winning grace : 
 Beauty on every lineament was stamped 
 
 Of that angelic face. 
 
 Four generations, ere he came, displayed 
 
 Wonderous artistic power ; 
 But the rarest treasures from all were gleaned 
 
 For RafFaelle's dower. 
 
 His father, kind and noble-hearted man. 
 
 Saw in his infant child. 
 The early dawnings of a genius rare, 
 ' That infant sweet and mild. 
 
 Desiring not to quench the royal spark. 
 
 He hailed it as God-given; 
 He dared not nip that genius so divine. 
 
 That came direct from heaven. 
 
 His playthings were the palette and the brush, 
 
 Instead of toy and kite ; 
 The father's easel, and his magic paints, 
 
 Gave his young soul delight. 
 
 How soon was proved that adage quaint and old. 
 
 Plain to every one — 
 " The child is often father to the man" — 
 
 It was so with this son. 
 
93 
 
 The father sought a teacher grand and bold, 
 
 Perigino by name, 
 Who, by his glorious works of art, stood 
 
 High on the scroll of fame. 
 
 Doubtless the doting father thought, 
 
 By help of this bright sun, 
 His boy would shine, e'en though by borrowed light, 
 
 The same as does the moon. 
 
 The feithful student drew and copied well, 
 
 He followed every rule, 
 Attended strictly to the least detail 
 
 Of Perbgino's school ; 
 
 Easily learned his master's cunning art. 
 
 Observed his style so well, 
 That when both painted the same face and form 
 
 'Twas difficult to tell, 
 
 Which was the master's, which the pupil's work — 
 
 Both had a master's skill ; 
 Both tinted with the most exquisite touch, 
 
 Prompted by the same wiU. 
 
 No fears of future rivalship prevailed ; 
 
 No envy — malice dark — 
 Made Pi§tro attempt to curb the mind, 
 
 The soarings of this lark. 
 
 « 
 As the infant child wanders not alone. 
 
 But grasps the nurse's hand. 
 
 So Eaffaelle in early boyhood dreamed 
 
 Never alone to stand. 
 
u 
 
 As well command the bonnie thrush to rise 
 
 When warbling out its song, — 
 As well command the lark to stay below 
 
 Trilling the whole day long, — 
 
 As think to tie, repress, or bind with bands 
 
 A soul with genius blessed : 
 It gladly mounts aloft, it soars on high, 
 
 Singing far from its nest. 
 
 Sometimes the world looks cold — yea, very dark — 
 
 Feeds with a crust of bread — 
 Gives tardy blessing-s — a pillow of stone 
 
 To rest the aching head, 
 
 Of the student who lives beyond his race, 
 
 Who sees with mental eye 
 The visions of beauty from others hid. 
 
 Veiled in dark prophecy. 
 
 At length Perligino was called away — 
 
 A providential call : 
 'Twaa then the lad essayed to try his wings 
 
 He had not used at all. 
 
 Soon the young fledgling found he had the power 
 
 In beautj' to excel — 
 In composition, majesty, and grace, 
 
 Which he combined so well, 
 
 Without his master's aid, or leading-strings. 
 
 That soon he rose to fame ; 
 From dukes and princes, popes and monarchs proud. 
 
 The rich commissions came. 
 
95 
 
 To paint their palace-walls, their rooms of state ; 
 
 All wished to have a trace 
 Of cherub, saint, or holy man of God 
 
 With the exquisite face, 
 
 That Raflfaelle alone had power to paint ; 
 
 For in the speaking, eye 
 Of all his angels, you can read the soul. 
 
 The inner thoughts descry. 
 
 Florence possessed a noble-hearted prince, 
 
 A Medici by name ; * 
 He opened wide and broad his palace-doors, 
 
 His treasures known to fame. 
 
 But e'esriorenzo had not power to keep, 
 
 Within his princely home, 
 This singing, soaring bird whose wings could reach 
 
 The artist's Mecca, Eome. 
 
 In Rome, our artist led a brilliant life ; 
 
 The wealth and pomp of state 
 Opened for him their many winding doors, 
 
 Which helped to make him great. 
 
 Madonnas, prophets, sibyls, angels fair, 
 
 Psyches and rich cartoons, 
 Prolificly were born to decorate 
 
 The walls of f Julius' rooms. 
 
 At length, as if to centre in one plan. 
 His highest standard gain, 
 
 ' Lorenzo, tlie Magnificent. 
 I Pope Julius II. 
 
96 
 
 • He strove to represent his noblest thoughts, 
 The high-toned artist's aim. 
 
 Then he commenced his great immortal work, 
 
 The noblest, man could paint — 
 Holy the lofty theme, sublime the thought, 
 
 Worthy the brush of saint. 
 
 He told the olden story of our Lord, 
 
 Transfigured and Divine ; 
 None ever saw from mortal eyes or face. 
 
 Such rays of glory shine. 
 
 But soon, alas! his work on earth was done. 
 
 He had indeed worked well : 
 'Twas in his manhood's prime the summons came. 
 
 The dirge, the fun'ral bell. 
 
 " The saddest day Rome ever saw has passed, 
 
 Rome is no longer Rome ; " 
 *Castiglion6 to his mother wrote, 
 
 "Rome is no more my home." 
 
 And when he closed his eyes in mortal death, 
 
 tArt suddenly grew blind ; 
 As though earth's grace and beauty had all fled. 
 
 With his artistic mind. 
 
 " Those whom the Gods love well, die young" — 
 
 Raffaelle only sleeps ; 
 The Pantheon his bones and ashes guards, 
 
 The world his mem'ry keeps, 
 
 * Baldassare Castiglione, one of the most spiritual writers of that day, wrote tc 
 his mother, the Marchioness, *' I am at Rome, but seem no longer there, since my 
 poor Raffaelle is gone." 
 
 t Another writer said that when Raffaelle died " Art became blind." 
 
97 
 
 As fresh and green as yonder laurel-tree — 
 
 Go ye as faithful be ; 
 Ye who aspire to reach immortal fame, 
 
 Carve your own destiny. 
 
 Perhaps ye cannot paint, or write, or speak. 
 
 But an orphan ye can feed ; 
 Or a poor saddened, sin-stained soul console, 
 
 When a blessed life ye'll lead. 
 
 Obey the master's golden rule, which says, 
 
 '' Do as ye'd be done by; " 
 Go bind some bleedmg wounds, some sorrows soothe 
 
 With cheerful sympathy. 
 
 Improve the present, speeding, passing hour. 
 
 Before it is too late, 
 As time and tide and hoary death, for man 
 
 Will never, never wait. 
 
 KIND WORDS. 
 
 LIKE drops of dew to parched and thirsty flowers. 
 Upon their petals in the morning hours ; 
 Like news received from home in desert-sands 
 By travellers far from their native lands ; 
 
 Like bread that is given to a starving child 
 On whose pathway plenty has never smiled ; 
 Like rays of light at the dawn of the day 
 To benighted pilgrims on their dark way ; 
 
98 
 
 Like a life-boat sent to a shipwrecked crew 
 Amid the dashing waves so dark and blue ; 
 Like a friendly grasp of a brother's arm 
 To snatch one away from a threatened harm ; 
 
 Like the warbling music of singing birds ; 
 Such, such are the effects of kind, kind words. 
 Then never utter a cold, unkind word. 
 Its echoes in the soul make harsh discord. 
 
 Which breaks thereby the harmony of life. 
 Cutting and wounding as with a sharp knife ; 
 Blighting the spirit like December gales, 
 Freezing us like those wierd, icicle tales, 
 
 We heard in childhood from the lips of our nurse, 
 Who used quite freely to our ears disburse 
 So many marvellous hobgoblin things. 
 That fly to our mind on mem'ry's wings, 
 
 That we often listen with trembling fear, 
 
 Almost expecting that we shall hear 
 
 The thrilling echoes of a startling tale 
 
 That shall blanch the lips, make the cheek grow pale. 
 
 Life's hours are too short to give any pain 
 
 By uttering words we'd take back again : 
 
 We should curb the unkindness e're 'tis spoken — 
 
 We can never heal a heart that's broken. 
 
99 
 
 NELLIE GEEY: A Domestic Story. 
 
 * ' r^ OOD evening, Nellie Grey, 
 
 ^^ I've sought you all the day,'' 
 Said foppish Peter Kay. 
 
 " Your mother did not know. 
 To tell me where to go, 
 And I have wandered so 
 
 " All up and down the street. 
 Hoping that I should meet 
 Her whom I loved to greet. 
 
 " It was a foolish chase. 
 To see thine own dear face, 
 So full of witching grace. 
 
 " Had I not found thee here, 
 My charming little dear. 
 Brought by no sibyl sere, 
 
 " But by thine own sweet voice, 
 Warbling in strains so choice — 
 It made my soul rejoice. 
 
 " Now I will gladly rest, 
 A bird within thy nest, 
 And tell thee what is best." 
 
 She brushed away a tear. 
 
 And though she had some fear — 
 
 With no protector near — 
 
100 
 
 Of Peter, she was bold, 
 
 As saucily she told. 
 
 How she would sternly scold, 
 
 Any obtrusive bird. 
 That willingly disturbed. 
 When he had overheard, 
 
 Her singing when alone. 
 She said, "I often came. 
 Whene'er my worlt is done, 
 
 " Into this bright green wood. 
 To meditate for good. 
 As here I'm understood. 
 
 " Here I have lots of friends — 
 Each flower a perfume sends — 
 Each tree a glory lends — 
 
 " To make me prize this spot : 
 When all the world forgot 
 I'm thankful for my lot. 
 
 " I like to watch each cloud — 
 
 It seems to me a shroud. 
 
 To hide sad thoughts that crowd 
 
 " Into my heart at home : 
 Such leave me when alone. 
 Far from the dusty town. 
 
 " The rosy sunset's glow 
 Is finer here, I laiow. 
 Than elsewhere that I go. 
 
101 
 
 " These grey old rooks with moss, 
 Striped o'er with em'rald floss, 
 Which golden threads emboss, 
 
 " Are by me prized so well, 
 In this secluded dell. 
 Their beauties I'd not sell, 
 
 " For a rich golden gown, 
 Or e'en for a whole town, 
 Surrounded by its ' Down.' 
 
 "This little sparkling stream, 
 From which dark shadows gleam, 
 Disturbs me when I dream. 
 
 " The dying day has flown ; 
 The sun has also gone 
 To find the rosy morn 
 
 " Behind the western hUl. 
 Good-night, dear little rill ; 
 I go, but love you still. 
 
 " Good-night, yon bright blue sky. 
 Filled with deep mystery. 
 Of clouds that none can buy. 
 
 " For now I must away ; 
 So good-night, Peter Ray," 
 She said, in voice so gay. 
 
 " Stay, Nellie, Nellie dear. 
 My lonely heart to cheer, 
 I'm happy when you're near.'' 
 
102 
 
 But Nellie ran away, 
 Shouting, " I cannot stay- 
 To-night with Mr. Kay." 
 
 This charming little maid, 
 By her own impulses led, 
 Her own requiem said. 
 
 Had she prophetic eye, 
 Her future to descry — 
 To trace her destiny? 
 
 Perhaps a single line. 
 Foreshadowed by old Time, 
 Had given her a sign. 
 
 Which then had made her think 
 That she was on the brink 
 Of changes, and might drink. 
 
 Life's bitter dregs with pain, 
 Should Peter ask to gain 
 Her love in a bold strain. 
 
 Her heart must soon confer. 
 How she could well defer, 
 An offer made to her, 
 
 By the young foppish wight, 
 Whose love expressed that night 
 She never could requite. 
 
 By two days at the most 
 She hoped to bear, by post. 
 That Dan was near the coast. 
 
103 
 
 Of England's rooky shore. 
 
 To Dan, for eYermore, 
 
 Her love was pledged. She wore 
 
 Around her neck the tiny thing, 
 Tied by a silken string — 
 That pretty little ring, 
 
 Worth more to her' than gold ; 
 For with it Dan had told 
 Love, that could not be sold. 
 
 No London belle more sweet, 
 With dainty little feet, 
 Could any lover meet. 
 
 Her witching eyes so blue 
 Proclaimed a heart as true 
 As stars that e'er seem new. 
 
 Her cherry lips so red. 
 
 The gladsome words she said, 
 
 Her lover's hopes had fed. 
 
 Like luscious peach her cheek 
 Its blushes hide and seek 
 Played with that maid so meek. 
 
 Her pretty dimpled chin, 
 
 The pearly teeth within. 
 
 Stole young men's hearts — no sin. 
 
 Her bright and golden hair 
 Shaded a brow so fair 
 That many .wished to share. 
 
104 
 
 Their life, witii that sweet maid, 
 Of whom none were afraid. 
 But gladly tribute paid. 
 
 Many rich suitors came. 
 Asking to change her name. 
 She answered all the same. 
 
 But one day, Daniel Price, 
 A sailor, trim and nice. 
 Obtained more than a slice 
 
 Of her young happy heart, 
 Guileless, and free from art ; 
 Then pierced by Cupid's dart. 
 
 He simply told his love 
 
 In touching words that move 
 
 All souls that are above. 
 
 Flattery and deceit. 
 
 Two rippling streams oft meet, 
 
 And run beneath our feet, 
 
 As one grand river bold; 
 So did their loves when told, 
 Though only one hour old. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 Peter left in the glen, 
 
 Far from the haunts of men, 
 
 Was in a rage, I ken. 
 
105 
 
 He stamped upon the ground, 
 Echo brought back the sound, 
 For Nell could not be found. 
 
 " If that girl was my slave 
 I'd like to make her rave. 
 With no one near to save, 
 
 " Her from my angry power : 
 Oh, would she were this hour,'' 
 Said Philip, glum and sour. 
 
 " But in a honied phrase, 
 I'll woo her with sweet praise. 
 Waiting for future days, 
 
 " To bend her to my will j 
 Ah me ! I love her still. 
 In spite of thoughts that fill 
 
 " My angry soul with hate ; 
 I shall be disconsolate, 
 Unless I'm blessed by fate. 
 
 " I'm called a handsome man. 
 More fair than Sailor Dan, 
 Or any of his clan. 
 
 " And ev'ry foot of ground, 
 Of all this region round, 
 Makes me with wealth abound. 
 
 " I own her mother's farm, 
 I'U raise a great alarm, 
 And promise her great harm, 
 
106 
 
 " Unless her Nellie's wise, 
 And takes the proifered prize, 
 Without a sacrifice, 
 
 " Of aught, but a rough lad 
 Who, though he is not bad. 
 Has made her downright mad. 
 
 " So that she scorns my love, 
 E'en though I am above 
 The lad who hkes to rove. 
 
 " Her ugly sailor-boy. 
 Whom she regards with joy. 
 As gold without alloy. 
 
 " Would I were on his ship, 
 By giving him a dip, 
 I'd make him take a sip 
 
 " Of ocean's drops of dew, 
 
 In potions not a few. 
 
 They might his strength renew. 
 
 " He sailed quite merrily, 
 When he went out to sea — 
 That ship is owned by me. 
 
 " I am so rich an heir 
 Of many mansions fair, 
 That I do even dare, 
 
 " When counting treasures o'er, 
 To boast of gathered store 
 By those who lived before, 
 
107 
 
 " Their hopeful heir was boni 
 On some auspicious moru 
 Their mansions to adorn. 
 
 "The tenants here are mine. 
 E'en Dan who's on the Brine ; 
 His future I can twine 
 
 " With twisted, knotted thread ; 
 I wish that he were dead : 
 'Tis better thought than said. 
 
 "His ship will come this week 
 To LiverpooL FU seek 
 How I can vengeance wreak. 
 
 " I'll rid the world of him, 
 His chances are but slim : 
 I'll chant his requiem, 
 
 " The subtle shaft I'll send, 
 With sweets I'll nicely blend 
 That he'll not wish to mend, 
 
 " His seeming destiny 
 So linked with mystery. 
 Administered by me. 
 
 " He's only second mate ; 
 I will his hopes elate. 
 And his ambition sate, 
 
 " By sending him away 
 To China, on the day 
 That he arrives so gay. 
 
108 
 
 " As Captain, lie may find 
 A bright sea-moss to bind 
 Around bis brow ; I'll mind 
 
 " He comes not back again 
 From o'er tbe distant main, 
 To give me further pain. 
 
 " I'd rather lose my ship 
 Than be obliged to nip 
 Love, in the bud, I'd sip. 
 
 " When Dan has gone away, 
 Then, my sweet Nellie Grey, 
 You'll have to name the day.'' 
 
 PAET THIRD. 
 
 Six days had passed and gone, 
 
 Nellie began to moan 
 
 For Dan who had not come. 
 
 The twelfth, the postman brought 
 The letter she had sought ; 
 Alas ! her hopes were nought : 
 
 In it was one long line 
 Written by Dan, quite fine — 
 "NeUie, you'll ne'er be mine. 
 
 " I sail across the main, 
 I shall not come again 
 To my old former home.'' 
 
Nellie had often heard 
 Dan speak a tiny word, 
 Repeating as a bird, 
 
 The chorus in his lay, 
 When in the month of May, 
 He carols all the day. 
 
 The music of his voice, 
 Though of it he was choice, 
 Made her young heart rejoice. 
 
 ■" Vain words are like the air 
 That courses ev'rywhere ; 
 They may at times seem fair.'' 
 
 She often said, in mirth, 
 To Dan of lowly birth. 
 Who yet had real worth. 
 
 His line was more amiss 
 Because he sent no kiss, 
 A strange omission, this. 
 
 His mother knew not why; 
 It was in vain to try. 
 While tears were in her eye. 
 
 To wear a pleasant smile ; 
 NeU. little dreamed, meanwhile. 
 How many a long mile, 
 
 Of sea and sky and land, 
 Rent hearts bound by a band, 
 A lover's silken strand. 
 
110 
 
 Hearts that were rent in twain, 
 Might meet no more again, 
 Till singing love's refrain ; 
 
 Each a celestial dove, 
 
 In heavenly courts above. 
 
 Where there is perfect love. 
 
 PABT FOURTH. 
 
 At length, one moonlight night, 
 
 So fair, so clear, so light, 
 
 The beauteous stars shoue bright ; 
 
 Nell, by the open door, 
 Sat watching heaven's floor, 
 Studded with gems, a store ; 
 
 Gazing upon a star. 
 
 Her thoughts seemed turned afar. 
 
 As through the door ajar, 
 
 She had a peep within 
 
 Those realms where there's no sin. 
 
 No strife, or earthly din, 
 
 To see if Dan had gone 
 
 And left her all alone 
 
 On earth, for him to moan. 
 
 A shadow crossed the door : 
 With heart so very sore, 
 Nell cried aloud, " No more, 
 
Ill 
 
 " Come here to see my grief, 
 that my days be brief, 
 That death would give relief. 
 
 " God has heard my prayers. 
 Has given me unawares 
 A clue to your false snares. 
 
 " A voice came in my dream 
 As clear as yonder stream — • 
 'You are not what you seem.' 
 
 " Now by those stars so bright. 
 Beneath this pale moonlight, 
 Tell me this very nighfr, 
 
 " If Dan did go to sea. 
 
 Sending that word to me, 
 
 ' He wished our hearts were free.' " 
 
 Nell with her prescient eyes, 
 Turned them to the skies. 
 To read their mysteries. 
 
 With heart as cold as ice 
 She spoke this quaint device, 
 "There's no one here named Price. 
 
 "Within the pearly gate 
 He's beqn preserved by fate : 
 I'll take no other mate, 
 
 " But keep my vow of truth 
 Given in early youth, 
 E'en though I suifer ruth. 
 
112 
 
 " So leave me, Peter Eay, 
 I beg you not to stay, 
 I'll never name the day. 
 
 "When I with you wiU wed ; 
 I'd rather much be dead, 
 And lay my aching head, 
 
 " Beneath the churchyard grass ; 
 Then o'er me you can pass, — 
 Go seek some other lass 
 
 " In your gay coach and four — 
 I'll walk from door to door 
 From this time evermore. 
 
 " I do not wish to shine 
 In silks and satins fine 
 Which never shall be mine. 
 
 " I'll work and earn my bread 
 By independence led ; 
 I'd rather much be fed, 
 
 " And have a right to eat 
 Honestly, well-earned meat; 
 To toil for bread is sweet." 
 
 Peter's eyes flashed with rage, 
 He said, as from a page 
 Of reading very sage, 
 
 " I'll pierce your foolish heart 
 With a sharp-barbed dart, 
 And that without much art 
 
113 
 
 " I'll make you rue this night j 
 I swear that you shall plight 
 Your vows to me in sight, 
 
 " Of all your lovers fine : 
 You shall be surely mine, 
 E'en if you always pine 
 
 " For him who went away. 
 
 List to me while I say, 
 
 In a, few words, Nellie Grey, 
 
 " What has become of Dan : 
 In joyful haste I ran 
 To see that darling man, 
 
 " As soon as he should come. 
 His voyage being done, 
 To his old British home. 
 
 " I met him first aboard 
 
 His ship, on which was stored, 
 
 A very precious hoard, 
 
 " Of freight, brought from afar : 
 
 It landed ofi' the bar. 
 
 Those lines of sand that mar 
 
 " The coming in of freight. 
 I must proceed — it's late — 
 I found the second mate : 
 
 " I quickly offered him 
 A Captain's place, to win 
 His confidence, to bring 
 
114 
 
 " Him to my terms of peace : 
 I would his wealth increase — 
 He, rivalry must cease. 
 
 " Delighted with my plan 
 To make him 'Captain Dan' 
 Of a new ship, the man 
 
 " Agreed to every thing ; 
 Had no dissent to bring ; 
 By mom was on the wing.'' 
 
 " Speak, cruel Peter Eay, 
 What did Dan have to say 
 Of .Nellie, on that dayV 
 
 "I knew that you'd consent 
 To wed me after Lent ; 
 That you would soon repent, 
 
 " If married to a boor 
 
 Who would be always poor 
 
 As a church-mouse, tliat's sure ' 
 
 " You did not tell him so, 
 I pray you let me know 
 Truly before you go." 
 
 " Nay, Nellie, do not chide 
 Me so, for having pride 
 To win you for my bride. 
 
 " I am more fit for thee 
 Than Dan who's gone to sea, 
 And you my wife must be. 
 
115 
 
 " Dan said it was a sin 
 For you to marry him, 
 When. I, so much more trim, 
 
 " Would bless you through your life, 
 If having ceased this strife, 
 You'd be my happy wife. 
 
 " Such joy and love shall meet 
 Around your path to greet, 
 That shadows at your feet 
 
 " Shall tell, though long and broad, 
 Of sunshine on the road 
 That in full measures strode. 
 
 " If you my bower will grace 
 With that sweet bonnie face, 
 You will the pain efface 
 
 " That for a year I've felt — 
 Pain that to me you've dealt 
 When at your feet I've knelt, 
 
 " And pled devoted love 
 In accents that would move 
 E'en the saints above. 
 
 " Forgive the one harsh word 
 That you to-night have heard ; 
 My mind was quite distiu'bed. 
 
 " But say you'll marry me : 
 Your willing slave I'll be 
 Nor wish to be set free." 
 
116 
 
 In accents of despair 
 
 She cried, " How did you dare, 
 
 A wealthy millionaire, 
 
 " To come this way in quest 
 Of Dan's fond bird, the best 
 He had in his small nest 1 
 
 " Seeking with eagle-eye, 
 You fain would make it fly 
 To your rich nest to die. 
 
 " The eagle and the dove 
 Are never bound by love 
 On earth, or yet above. 
 
 " Within your halls of pride 
 Fair and rich maidens glide; 
 Gladly would one preside 
 
 " At your grand board in state, 
 Pleased with the pomp I hate ; 
 Tliis would your own pride sate. 
 
 " How did you dare to wound 
 The truest friend I've found 
 In all this region round 
 
 " By your hypocrisies 1 
 A tissue of base lies ; 
 The life within me dies. 
 
 " How could you ever meet 
 Dan with sach foul deceit ; 
 Pretending thus to greet 
 
117 
 
 " Him as a brother true, 
 To whom you'd give his due, 
 Conferring honours new; 
 
 " While you his life would steal. 
 And then to me reveal. 
 That you've no power to feel 
 
 " Eemorse for evil done, 
 As though in mirth and fun. 
 You'd gambled, and had won 
 
 " In a contested race. 
 
 By counting well your pace, 
 
 And wearing a smooth face. 
 
 "You see that star so bright 
 'Twas by its brilliant light 
 I gave my heart in plight ; 
 
 " 'Twill fall from yonder sky 
 
 Before my lips shall lie 
 
 Or break that plight : I'll die 
 
 " Before I'll take your name ; 
 For love's undying flame 
 Burns in my heart the same ; 
 
 " Though Dan has learned from you 
 That Nellie is untrue. 
 Wanting in constancy. 
 
 '"Twas cruel for my sake 
 To wantonly thus break 
 A heart of noble make. 
 
118 
 
 " His days he'll spend in pain, 
 He'll think I'm false and vain, 
 That all maids are the same ; 
 
 " Pleased with an outside show, 
 Though with it they do know, 
 'Twill bring them years of woe. 
 
 " If you would be forgiven, 
 Or have your errors shriven. 
 Or hope to go to heaven, 
 
 " Retrieve your guilty deed ; 
 Then you shall have the meed 
 Of thanks, from my heart, freed 
 
 " From anguish and deep gloom. 
 So deep there is not room 
 For any joy to come. 
 
 "Just write but one short line ; 
 
 Nellie will not be mine, 
 
 She waits for Dan's own time 
 
 " To claim her as his bride, 
 As meekly by his side 
 She chooses to abide." 
 
 "Too late! too late! too late! 
 I fear he's passed the gate 
 Of death, a sad, sad fate. 
 
 " I heard to-day by one, 
 A sailor, who has come 
 From a long voyage home. 
 
119 
 
 " That a wild, fearful gale 
 
 Had wrecked Dan's ship ; this sail 
 
 Shattered will tell the tale." 
 
 Her rosy cheek grew pale, 
 Her strength began to fail, 
 Seizing the bit of sail. 
 
 She clasped it to her brow ; 
 " Heaven record my vow — 
 I'll never marry now," 
 
 She cried, " Oh mother, dear, 
 Come to your child, come near. 
 That you indeed may hear, 
 
 " That Dan lies in the sea ; 
 He cannot come to me, 
 I'll go his bride to be." 
 
 Still by that open door 
 
 She gazed, but said no more ; 
 
 Then swooned upon the floor. 
 
 PAET FIFTH. 
 
 They lay her on the bed, 
 With her sweet golden head 
 So like a saint just dead. 
 
 The doctor's greatest skill — 
 Alas for human will ! — 
 Had not the power to fiU 
 
1.20 
 
 That saddened, striokened breast, 
 With joy she once possessed, 
 Its daily welcome guest. 
 
 With each returning day. 
 Repentant Peter Ray, 
 Asked leave an hour to stay, 
 
 In Nellie's little room. 
 Waiting the time to come, 
 When waking from her swoon. 
 
 He'd tell her how he'd yearned, 
 Though she had unreturaed 
 His love, and spurned 
 
 His suit — had yearned for rest, 
 Within his troubled breast. 
 That sea of deep unrest. 
 
 Behind the curtain white. 
 He sat, quite out of sight. 
 That should the mental light. 
 
 Which was enwrapped in gloom. 
 Like darkness of the tomb. 
 To her sweet eyes once come, 
 
 She might not wish to close 
 Those eyes to gain repose. 
 Remembering her woes, 
 
 AVhich sight of him would brinff 
 On troubled Mem'ry's wing, 
 As snow-drops tell of spring. 
 
121 
 
 A harp struck by the wind, 
 Gives a discordant kind 
 Of music : when the mind, 
 
 Whose chords are touched by grief, 
 Is rent, there's no relief 
 But in the arms of Death. 
 
 Talking as one asleep, 
 
 At times she'd moan and weep, 
 
 Then call upon the deep 
 
 To yield to her its dead ; 
 Him, whom her hopes had fed ; 
 For whom her heart had bled. 
 
 Sometimes she'd sing all day. 
 Warbling in voice so gay, 
 As linnets do in May. 
 
 She gazed with a vague look. 
 As, reading from a book, 
 Concealed in distant nook. 
 
 Nellie's mind was gone ; 
 The body left alone. 
 Could only sigh and moan. 
 
 Peter, in vain essayed 
 
 To rouse the sleeping maid. 
 
 By bringing from the glade. 
 
 Lilies and orchids white. 
 That filled her room with light, 
 As from a region bright. 
 
122 
 
 He sought the fairest flowers 
 That grew in Eden's bowers, 
 And grace this world of ours. 
 
 Sometimes a lily fair, 
 She'd twine about her hair. 
 And then he would compare 
 
 The beauty of her face, 
 
 In which one could well trace 
 
 The lines of rarest grace, 
 
 To beauty he had seen 
 From the Madonna gleam, 
 Raffaelle's Koyal Queen. 
 
 To behold whom, all go 
 
 To Dresden, where they show 
 
 The painting all aglow. 
 
 With so much light divine ; 
 The heavenly graces twine 
 To make the features shine. 
 
 PART SIXTH. 
 
 The days and months passed on- 
 Nearly three years had gone — 
 When on a summer's morn. 
 
 Just at the break of day. 
 At the door of Mrs. Grey, 
 Stood stricken Peter Eay. 
 
123 
 
 A messenger had said 
 That Nelly, in her bed, 
 Was lying, nearly dead. 
 
 Jealous for her pure fame, 
 
 He scarcely breathed her name, 
 
 Adoring her the same. 
 
 As goes the rapid tide, 
 Swiftly her moments glide. 
 Suddenly at her side, 
 
 A man with silent tread 
 Stood gazing at the bed 
 Where she lay nearly dead. 
 
 Peter cried, " Have you come, 
 Dan, from your spirit-home 
 To startle us this morn ? 
 
 ■" The mournful, solemn bell 
 Will ere long peal the knell 
 Of her we love so well. 
 
 " Wherefore are you here, 
 To curse me or to cheer 
 Her exit, very near?" 
 
 " A mortal you descry," 
 Said Dan, heaving a sigh, 
 Wiping his tearful eye. 
 
 " Your ship was lost at sea, 
 All were engulfed but me — 
 Saved mysteriously. 
 
124 
 
 " Then on a foreign shore 
 I thought for evermore 
 To bear my griefs so sore. 
 
 " 'Twas just three months ago 
 
 I heard of Nelhe's woe. 
 
 My bleeding heart yearned so, 
 
 " To see her once again 
 
 I crossed the distant main — 
 
 Arrived last night at ten. 
 
 "Sweet Nellie — Nellie dear, 
 Utter one word to cheer 
 Your Dan, who is so near.'' 
 
 Sighing, she oped her eyes, 
 Then suddenly she cries. 
 Amid Dan's tears and sighs, 
 
 " I've had a fearful gleam 
 Of you across the stream : 
 Was it a frightful dream 1 
 
 " I thought I went away 
 From all of you to stay 
 During the livelong day. 
 
 " But why are you all here 1 
 Tell me my darling dear : 
 come, come quite near. 
 
 " I'd lay my weaiy head 
 Near yours," she softly said : 
 " I cannot yet be dead ! 
 
125 
 
 " Hush, hear that singing now, 
 Seraphs with angel brow : 
 I made to them a vow, 
 
 " That if they'd let me come 
 To see you once again, 
 I would return back home, 
 
 To join their angel band. 
 In the sweet spirit-land 
 Beyond this mortal strand." 
 
 As fainter grew her breath, 
 She whispered, " Is this death 1 
 Am I to leave the earth?" 
 
 Then rallying once more, 
 
 " One word," she cried, " before 
 
 I cross dark Jordan's shore : 
 
 " Be kind to Peter Ray ; 
 
 'Twas love that made him stray ; 
 
 Forgive him, Dan, I pray." 
 
 Around that golden head 
 A flood of light was shed : 
 Dear Nellie Grey was dead ! 
 
 Such glory filled the room — 
 Bright angels having come 
 To take their Nellie home. 
 
 When sweetly laid to rest, 
 With lilies on her breast, 
 Dan said, " 'Twas for the best. 
 
126 
 
 " Redeemed so soon from sin. 
 The pearly gates within, 
 Eemoved from mortal din." 
 ***** 
 From England's Christian land 
 To Afric's heathen strand 
 Two men, bound by a band 
 
 Of love, went forth to pray. 
 To labour ev'ry day — 
 Dan Price and Peter Eay. 
 
 They labour for the race. 
 Forgetting not one face, 
 Gone to a holy place. 
 
 They speak of heaven above, 
 Where angels live in love, 
 And where bright seraphs rove. 
 
 They always think of one. 
 Whose life so quickly done, 
 In glory went one morn, 
 
 Out of their mortal sight 
 Into the world of light. 
 To wear a robe of white. 
 
 When singing the sweet strain, 
 Honour to Jesus' name, 
 Almost her own refrain. 
 
 In her clear angel-voice. 
 Echoes the strains so choice. 
 That their full souls rejoice. 
 
127 
 
 They hope that she will greet 
 Them in the golden street, 
 When they, redeemed, shall meet, 
 
 To join the blessed throng 
 That from the earth have gone 
 To warble heavenly song. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 " It is not that my lot is low- 
 That bids the Silent tear to flow ; 
 It is not grief that bids me moan, 
 It is that I am all alone." 
 
 Henry Kirk White, 
 
 HENRY Kirk White once used to moan, 
 Because, he said, he was alone. 
 Methinks he had a morbid mind. 
 That for some fellowship had pined ; 
 A fellowship he could not claim 
 With friends that he could never gain. 
 
 A poet, he was lowly born. 
 
 Though richly fitted to adorn 
 
 A high position, yet gave place 
 
 To those more favoured of his race — 
 
 Favoured by accident of birth. 
 
 But not more favoured by their worth. 
 
128 
 
 He had to struggle and to sigh, 
 Like other noted ones, to die 
 Before the recognition came, 
 Which gave him everlasting fame. 
 The blessings that we cannot have 
 Are always those that most we crave. 
 
 It seems to me Kirk White was wrong 
 For singing such a mournful song : 
 A poet shovild not feel alone, 
 Though every human friend has gone ; 
 With his own thoughts he can commune, 
 And ever have a changeful tune ; 
 
 Varied to suit the place and time. 
 Now light and trivial, then sublime. 
 Sweet-winged thought will let him rove 
 As swiftly as the wand'ring dove, 
 To distant lands, to foreign climes, 
 Where blooms the citron and the limes. 
 
 Though in one spot he may be bound. 
 He yet can roam the wide earth round ; 
 A pleasant panorama make, 
 And for his scenery can take. 
 Islands and mountains, glens and dells, 
 Cathedrals, abbeys, temples, cells. 
 
 Surely one has no cause to moan. 
 Or sigh because he is alone ; 
 Then if he close the outward door. 
 Shutting within his thoughts, a store. 
 He still has Nature for a friend. 
 Her cheerful influence to lend. 
 
129 
 
 Each babbling brook, each twinkling star 
 That shines upon him from afar, 
 Each modest flower that opes its eye, 
 Greet him with voice of melody : 
 The little birds, in pleasant talks, 
 Chatter so sweetly while he walks. 
 
 The clouds of ev'ry form and hue — 
 Light, dark, or'cerulean blue — 
 Are always ready, any time, 
 To talk to him in strains sublime : 
 Surely one has no cause to moan. 
 Or sigh because he is alone. 
 
 Again, of friends a goodly host, 
 
 Each one who reads can always boast — 
 
 Goethe and Schiller, Uhland too, 
 
 Shakespere, with always something new — 
 
 The poets of the olden time. 
 
 Who will converse in measured rhyme ; 
 
 Or moralists, in sober prose, 
 
 Will talk to him where'er he goes : 
 
 Then he who will can always find 
 
 Enough to satisfy his mind. 
 
 Surely one need not be alone. 
 
 Or have a cause to sigh and moan. 
 
 Should all these influences be vain 
 To chase away that mournful strain, 
 One never-failing fountain still 
 Can heal his mind of ev'ry ill — - 
 A fountain to which many fly 
 When wearied with hypocrisy. 
 
130 
 
 This fountain, full of blissful love, 
 
 Will raise his thoughts from earth above — 
 
 WiU teach him that for ev'ry one 
 
 There still remains (though all have gone) 
 
 A nearer, dearer, heavenly friend. 
 
 Who ever -will his footsteps tend — 
 
 One who sits on the throne of God, 
 And rules the hearts of all by love. 
 Having Him, he needs no other ; 
 He is dearer than a brother ; 
 For with His all-omniscient eye, 
 He can each human heart descry. 
 
 He knows when souls are rent with grief, 
 
 When sympathy will give relief: 
 
 Then we may well repeat again 
 
 That ever-comforting refrain. 
 
 One never need to be alone. 
 
 Or have a cause to sigh and moan. 
 
 MICHAEL ANGELO AND HIS MASTER-PIECE. 
 
 IN fourteen hundred seventy-four, 
 In the brave old Tuscan land, 
 A child was bom of good descent : 
 Thus does the old record stand : — 
 
 " My son shall enter halls of state, 
 
 And well-fitted he shall be, 
 By reading books," his father said, 
 
 " Rare books of antiquity. 
 
131 
 
 " As soon as he can comprehend 
 The old classics, he shall learn 
 
 All that the ancient authors taught. 
 From a teacher wise and stem." 
 
 We may catch the sweetest songster. 
 We may clip his little wing, 
 
 But we cannot make the songster. 
 At our pleasure, triU and sing. 
 
 We may confine him in a cage 
 We may bind him very strong, 
 
 Confipement will not draw from him 
 The rich, merry, warbling song. 
 
 We may lead a horse to water, 
 But we cannot make him drink ; 
 
 We may send a boy to college, 
 But we cannot make him think. 
 
 We may drop a kernel of wheat 
 
 In a crevice of the rock ; 
 Unless it is warmed by the sun 
 
 We shall never have the shock 
 
 Of ripe grain, ready for harvest. 
 Nor for the reaper to bind — 
 
 Neither the wheat for the miller : 
 The same is true of the mind. 
 
 The husband of Michael's young nurse, 
 A mason — cutter of stone — 
 
 Taught him to play with his chisels, 
 Before he could walk alone. 
 
132 
 
 In scbool lie cared not for Latin, 
 Neither for Hebrew, nor Greek ; 
 
 But noticed the boys about him. 
 Always endeavouring to seek 
 
 How best he could draw their faces 
 On his slate, or map, or book. 
 
 His copies at first from Nature, 
 Without the asking, he took. 
 
 There was in the school a pupil — 
 As fortune favors the brave — 
 
 Of Domenico Ghirlando : 
 
 This student, by stealth, did save 
 
 Bits of pictures by his master : 
 These Michael copied so well. 
 
 That which was his, or the copy, 
 The master could hardly tell. 
 
 This trick that Michael played on him. 
 
 He never forgave, I ween : 
 In subsequent years, his envy 
 
 By all could plainly be seen. 
 
 When Michael's father discovered 
 How futile his hopes — his aim — 
 
 By sterness he sought to conquer, 
 But all his efforts were vain. 
 
 He spoke of beggarly artists. 
 Said all he could to deride, 
 
 The works of painters and sculptors—^ 
 Almost wished his son had died. 
 
133 
 
 Instead of bringing dishonour 
 
 On an old ancestral name, 
 Describing as two synonyms 
 
 Ancient titles and true fame. 
 
 But if ever a soul is filled 
 With flames of heavenly fire, 
 
 Feelings of pride, birth, and descent. 
 Are baubles — worthless attire. 
 
 Though at last allowed to study 
 
 With Domenico, so vain. 
 Who never allowed a rival 
 
 Much excellence to attain, 
 
 He soon would have been discouraged ; 
 
 For never a word of praise 
 Came from the lips of the master. 
 
 His high ambition to raise. 
 
 At this most fortunate juncture 
 The pride of Florence — its boast — 
 
 *Lorenzo, supplied his garden 
 For students, at his own cost. 
 
 With basso-relievos, with busts 
 Of all the prominent men ; 
 
 The statues antique, rare models 
 Were peeping from dell and glen. 
 
 * The Duke, called The Magnificent. 
 
134 
 
 'Twas hither our artist repaired — 
 A lad who was scarce fifteen — 
 
 A genius, designed to eclipse 
 
 All sculptors the world had seen. 
 
 He copied the models in clay — 
 Models so rare and antique, 
 
 That none but a prince could obtain. 
 Such as good students would seek. 
 
 As his work was crowned with success, 
 This timid young lad grew bold ; 
 
 In a block of marble he sought 
 His mental powers to unfold. 
 
 Breathing into marble the life, 
 A wonderful fawn he made, 
 
 Which pleased his rich patron so well. 
 It was with delight he paid 
 
 Our artist his heartiest thanks, 
 
 Adopted him as his son, 
 Entertained him with noble guests. 
 
 Praised him to every one. 
 
 For three happy years he toiled well. 
 E'en though living in clover ; 
 
 As the hare must strive for the goal, 
 Or his swift speed will never 
 
 Outstrip the old tortoise, so slow. 
 Whose steadiness gains the race ; 
 
 For diligence, patience, and toil. 
 Accomplish more than swift pace. 
 
135 
 
 Our artist happily combined 
 Patience, diligence, and skill ; 
 
 He soon had abundance of work — 
 More orders than he could fill. 
 
 Gods, nymphs, and figures of prophets, 
 In marble were carved so soon, 
 
 That either a Christ or Bacchus 
 In his fertile mind found room. 
 
 He made a sweet little Cupid, 
 Stained the pure marble so white, 
 
 Buried it deep in his garden. 
 As though it had seen the light 
 
 Of days long gone, when old sculptors 
 Were fired with such holy zeal, 
 
 That their statues seemed filled with life, 
 As though the marble could feel. 
 
 The Cupid was purchased at Rome, 
 
 Greatly admired as antique : 
 The cardinal used ev'ry means 
 
 The old artist's name to seek. 
 
 At length the rich joke was detected, 
 He sent for Michael to Rome, 
 
 Where he lived a wonderful life 
 Of art, in that artists' home. 
 
 Then followed his famous cartoon 
 Of soldiers taking their bath. 
 
 Surprised by the Pisans, who came 
 Upon them in greatest wrath. 
 
136 
 
 We can almost hear them utter 
 Their language so fierce and loud, 
 
 Or the rattling of the armour 
 Of that strong, athletic crowd. 
 
 He was then commanded to build, 
 For Julius,* a marble shrine, 
 
 Befitting the Pope's pomp and state. 
 Almost if not quite divine. 
 
 His design so pleased the monarch, 
 The Pope, who was proud and vain. 
 
 That the seeds of a holy work 
 
 Were sown, to raise his own fame. 
 
 Deciding to rebiiild his ohurch,t 
 That old St. Peter had blessed. 
 
 He sought to make it so noble. 
 
 That his bones in peace might rest. 
 
 So he sent old Tetzel to sell 
 " Indulgences " rare for pence, 
 
 To gather great wealth and rich stores. 
 His motives — his sole defence. 
 
 This roused Luther, the fearless monk. 
 Who abhorred these means so vile. 
 
 That he preached a much purer faith 
 In Germany all the while. 
 
 " Pope .Tulius II, 
 I St. Peter's Cathedral, at Rome. 
 
137 
 
 Out of evil, good sometimes comes : 
 
 The Pope gave immortal fame 
 To the artist, who helped to rear 
 
 A monument to his name. 
 
 Madonnas, Pietas, and groups 
 
 Of life-like statues he made 
 For shrines in chapels, for those whom 
 
 The debt of nature had paid. 
 
 For Guilano's shrine he carved 
 A charming statue of " Night,'' 
 
 " Which would speak," Giovanni said, 
 " If shook at the morning-light." 
 
 As this would waken her from sleep. 
 That goddess fair in the stone, 
 
 Who was only sweetly sleeping 
 When left to herself alone. 
 
 " Do not waken her from her slumber," 
 
 Michael Angelo replied j 
 " 'Tis well to sleep when crimes bear sway," 
 
 " Then rouse her not," he cried. 
 
 How richly Michael was endowed 
 With wond'rous gifts and graces — 
 
 Could verses write, could chant and sing. 
 Or carve and paint men's faces. 
 
 In- majesty and power, from all 
 He took the conqueror's palm ; 
 
 Studied anatomy so well 
 
 That he made each limb and arm 
 
138 
 
 Just like the human limb and arm, 
 As if filled with strength and life ; 
 
 Just as the old Laoooon appears 
 Engaged in terrible strife. 
 
 But amateurs who go to Eome — 
 
 As every traveller ought — 
 WiU seek the Sistine Chapel out 
 
 To see his grand master-thought, 
 
 In fresco, covering the walls : 
 Angels, demons, friends, and foes 
 
 Are here assembled for decrees. 
 Blessings, cursings, joys, or woes, 
 
 With gi'aphio and Dantean power 
 He has made the judgment-seat, 
 
 The grand tribunal of the world, 
 Where both king and subject meet. 
 
 Genius, when well-combined with strength, 
 
 Will endure. for many years; 
 This artist's life will testify, 
 
 How fallaoioQs are the fears. 
 
 That mind will wear the body out. 
 If the mental shrine be strong ; 
 
 But when the body is o'erwrought. 
 The brain-power lasts not long. 
 
 Michael was nearly ninety years 
 Ere called to his last, long home,: 
 
 His body rests in Florence, now. 
 But his genius lives at Eome. 
 
139 
 
 We may gain wisdom from his life, 
 To learn faithfully our art ; 
 
 To trim the midnight lamp, to plod. 
 Trying to do well our part. 
 
 Then, when our earthly life has closed. 
 We shall merit words of cheer ; 
 
 The "well done" given to all who show 
 Faith and works while hving here. 
 
 FLOWERS FOR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 
 
 On the 30th of May, 1868, it was recommended by Government that 
 the friends of the soldiers who had fallen during the late American War 
 should strew flowers over their graves in all parts of the country, and 
 that this should be an established custom ever afterwards in America, 
 every year, that it should be a perpetual memento for faithful services 
 rendered in the cause of the country. 
 
 BRING, in the charming month of May, 
 Garlands of flowers, so bright and gay. 
 As tribute to the soldiers' dead, 
 Those who so bravely fought and bled— 
 Fired with a patriotic zeal, 
 Who suiFered for their country's weal. 
 
 Who, when their coimtry was ensnared. 
 For her dear sake their bosoms bared ; 
 Left their fond wives and children dear. 
 And all the friends to them so near, — 
 Their homes of plenty and their wealth. 
 Regardless of their ease and health. 
 
140 
 
 Left college-walls and shrines of fame, 
 Content to die without a name. 
 Unregistered except on high, 
 In God's own book beyond the sky. 
 E'en artists left their works begun, 
 To march beneath the burning sun. 
 
 Merchants forsook the marts of trade, 
 To be entombed 'neath earth's dark shade ; 
 Lawyers laid down the critic's bone 
 To march, and fight, and die alone ; 
 Doctors went forth, endowed with skill, 
 To cure the wounded with good will ; 
 
 Chaplains, and holy men of God, 
 Went forth to preach the blessed Word ; 
 Men of all climes, of ev'iy age — 
 The astronomer,* poet, sage — 
 Some were the noblest of the land. 
 Worthy descendants of a band 
 
 Of Pilgrim Fathers, who had trod 
 Old Plymouth rocks to worship God — 
 Pilgrims who chose abroad to roam. 
 To seek a free and peaceful home. 
 Who sailed across the ocean-wave, 
 Tn forests wild to find a grave. 
 
 'Tis pleasant sure for us to think. 
 That present generations drink, 
 Deep draughts of glory at the weU 
 
 • Professor Aritchel], a veiy distinguished astronomer, who had an 
 observatory at Cincinnuti, became a general, and died of illness. 
 
141 
 
 Dug by these pilgrims. None can teU 
 
 How far their influence extends, 
 
 Or how much light their taper lends, 
 
 To bless another on the road, 
 A path of life that he's not trod. 
 If men were only lumps of clay. 
 Destined to live and pass away, 
 If all of life was a brief span, 
 And there was nothing else for man, 
 
 But to turn back again to dust. 
 Then it would seem to us quite just. 
 To bring the fairest flowers that grow 
 As a sweet offering, to strew 
 Deep o'er the dust of valiant men. 
 Who came from every hill and glen ; 
 
 Men loving freedom as their sires, 
 Within whose breasts the lambent fires, 
 Kindled a holy flame divine. 
 So that they offered at one shrine 
 The best they had to give — their life ! 
 And thus engaged in mortal strife. 
 
 Their cause — the freedom of mankind, — 
 The grandest cause a race to bind : 
 As dewdrops mingle into one. 
 Drawn by the action of the sun. 
 So many people, by one hand. 
 Are drawn together as a band 
 
142 
 
 Of brothers ; working for one end, 
 For which their single efforts blend. 
 But blue-eyed Hope, with sanguine voice. 
 Bids us, in cheerful strains, rejoice ; 
 Tells us, in words of faith and trust, 
 That though man's body goes to dust, 
 
 The real man will go to God, 
 
 Leaving his ashes in the sod. 
 
 When the bright sun shines in the west. 
 
 And draws his curtains down to rest, 
 
 He takes the golden light away. 
 
 The amber clouds of dying day. 
 
 And rosy sisters of his train 
 
 Depart to come no more again. 
 
 Alas ! what darkness shrouds the earth ! 
 
 Did we not hope to greet the birth, 
 
 Of a new, bright, and rosy mom, 
 
 That would again the sky adorn. 
 
 With mellow light of ev'iy hue. 
 Bringing earth's glories into view, 
 We should not wish to tarry here. 
 To be reminded of the bier ; 
 As though all nature's joys had fled. 
 And she were mourning for the dead. 
 
 We know the sun will come at morn, 
 The fields and meadows to adorn ; 
 Will give to them both heat and light, 
 
143 
 
 Dispelling all the gloom of night. 
 Freedom to man is like the sun — 
 Should be enjoyed by ev'ry one. 
 
 An innate birthright man should claim, 
 Belonging to him as his name : 
 It is a Promethean spark ; 
 By it he rises as the lark, 
 Soaring and soaring far away, 
 Leaving the sordid joys of clay. 
 
 Seeking to bask in purer light, 
 From selfish eyes, far out of sight. 
 We find inscribed on every scroll 
 Of history which we unroll, 
 That, to obtain this precious boon, 
 Heroic men their lives laid down. 
 
 Freedom was dear in early days. 
 When Christian martyrs loved to praise. 
 In their own way, their God so well, 
 That, fearing men, they chose to dwell 
 In catacombs or caves alone. 
 Rather than at a sumptuous home. 
 
 Patriots in every clime 
 
 Have worshiped at pure Freedom's shrine ; 
 
 But one free nation in the west 
 
 Had culled from ev'ry land the best — 
 
 Had reared aloft a banner high. 
 
 So that it towered to the sky, — 
 
Wrote on that banner red and white, 
 That glistened in the broad sunlight, 
 " There's one free land beneath the sun- 
 The land of noble Washington ; " 
 But, strange to say, there was a blot* 
 On her escutcheon, one foul spot. 
 
 'Twas only those whose skins luere white 
 That could enjoy the freedom's light. 
 As one small smould'ring spark of tire 
 Will make a conflagration dire. 
 So this one tiny, little stain. 
 Threatened to cover Freedom's name. 
 
 On this account the war began — 
 The fiercest war 'tween man and man : 
 I'll not detail how it arose — 
 Its carnage dire, or frightful woes. 
 A dragon, once, in olden time, 
 (The poet tells in German rhyme). 
 
 Lay lurking near the chapel door, 
 
 To seize not only God's own poor, 
 
 But holy men, who went to pray, 
 
 Offering incense ev'ry day. 
 
 At last so many men were slain 
 
 That valiant knights were raised again, 
 
 To fight as they had done before. 
 On the far-off crusader's shore. 
 They slew the monster at great cost, 
 
 * Slaveiy. 
 
145 
 
 For many precious lives were lost. 
 The monster e'en, when dying, spilled 
 The blood of valiant knights he killed. 
 
 But many lives were thus secured, 
 By sacrifices they endured : 
 On that fair glorious Western shore, 
 A *dragon threatened every door : 
 At first he had but little power. 
 Could have been killed at any hour. 
 
 Content to dwell in one small state, 
 
 His devastations were not great ; 
 
 'Twas thought he would no trouble give, 
 
 And thus they let the monster live : 
 
 Slowly he grew, till, one by one, 
 
 Eich States he seized, to make his home. 
 
 When once his cloven-foot was found, 
 Besting on any spot of ground, 
 The people were obliged to pay 
 The richest tribute every day : 
 If they refused his greedy claim. 
 He took possession just the same. 
 
 At length, becoming very bold. 
 Had no respect for young or old ; 
 Covered the territory, South, 
 With his enormous yawning mouth. 
 He feasted on their manhood's blood. 
 And sapped the race of their chief good. 
 
 * Slavery. 
 
146 
 
 He stretclied his pond'rous body on, 
 Blighting all things he moved upon : 
 He wished to devastate the west, 
 The east, the north, and all the rest 
 Of that fair land — the freeman's pride, 
 Before all other lands beside : 
 
 That land so happy and so blest, 
 The home of men who'd been opprest 
 In their own climes, by tjrrants' sway, 
 Who, to enjoy peace, came away. 
 Like Schiller's dragon, he laid wait. 
 To watch e'en at the church-yard gate. 
 
 He laid such wily, artful snares. 
 His prey was captured unawares. 
 As ocean-waves roll mountain-high 
 When the tempestuous winds sweep by, 
 So blue-eyed, fair-haired, strong-pulsed men 
 Eose from the ranks of citizen. 
 
 Marched forth as by a whirlwind driven. 
 Asking, imploring help from heaven; 
 Fiercely and bravely long they fought 
 To kill the dragon, vainly sought 
 For weeks and months, and even years. 
 Till many had most anxious fears, 
 
 That this huge monster would increase 
 On spoils of war, as fruits of peace ; 
 Bank after rank, file after file 
 
147 
 
 Were thinned, seemingly to beguile 
 The horrid monster at his play, 
 DeYouring thousands every day. 
 
 The ground with human blood was stained. 
 From human victims that he claimed ; 
 At last they conquered him. He fell. 
 But, oh, how mournful 'tis to tell, — 
 Thousands and thousands of the brave. 
 Are resting in a hero's grave. 
 
 Then bring fresh flowers — Nature's sweet gems, 
 To make bright, loving diadems. 
 Over the peaceful, hallowed dust 
 Of men who fought for cause so just. 
 Children should make a daisy-chain. 
 To reach from Georgia into Maine. 
 
 Fond wives should bring Forget-me-Not, 
 To mark the sacred, hallowed spot ; 
 Parents should cull fresh flowers of spring — 
 Memory's greatest offering. 
 Sisters should strew beneath their feet 
 Dark-eyed pansies, violets sweet, 
 
 While all their gratitude should show, 
 By casting, what each can bestow, 
 Immortelle-wreaths on ev'ry grave 
 Of patriot or soldier brave, 
 Who died that freedom might remain 
 His country's blessing, each man's claim. 
 
148 
 
 Bring garlands, then, so light and gay, 
 
 Ev'ry year, in the month of May, 
 
 As mem'ry's fondest offering 
 
 From a free nation, cherishing 
 
 Sweet gratitude for favours giv'n, 
 
 Eioh, hallowed blessings from high heav'n. 
 
 TO ETTA ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 HAD I the power thy future life to will, 
 I'd tell my muse to write for thee this time 
 My fondest wishes in a loving rhyme. 
 With pleasant sunshine I thy sky would fill ; 
 Thy mind should blossom with perennial flowers. 
 And all thy days have only happy hours. 
 But in a garden, weeds destroy the flowers, 
 And kill the trailing vines upon the bowers. 
 Unless the faithful gard'ner plucks each weed. 
 When all his labour is repaid, indeed ; 
 For flowers, if cared for, yield their fairest bloom. 
 And charming roses give their sweet perfume. 
 Then strive, my dear, to let no rank weed grow 
 Within thy mind, and only choice seeds sow. 
 
149 
 INFEENO. 
 
 "Being in torments, he lifted up his eyes," &o. 
 
 IS there a place, as poets tell — 
 A place for mortals we call hell 1 
 Dante affirmed in olden time, 
 In stanzas of immortal rhyme. 
 That in a vision he had seen 
 Spirits of those who once had been 
 Inhabitants of the wide earth. 
 Of every grade of rank and birth. 
 
 His vision was so plain and clear, 
 He saw his friends who had lived here, 
 In regions far beyond the main. 
 Living another life again ; 
 But each had a peculiar sphere, 
 Quite unlike that each one held here ; 
 Dark were the places spirits trod. 
 Those who'd offended him — or God. 
 
 Some lived on in perpetual pain. 
 Deprived of all their earthly gain ; 
 Some were consigned to circles low, 
 Others were in gTadation, so 
 A little chance was left to mend. 
 If to improvement they'd attend : 
 They might not reach the realms of light, 
 Where there is day without a night ; 
 
150 
 
 They might not even there begin 
 To lead a life without a sin, 
 Yet could their outward ways improve, 
 And have a taste of heavenly love : 
 Justice in full was meted here 
 Without a favour or a fear; 
 After existence on the earth, 
 The merest accident of birth, 
 
 Gave to position not a choice ; 
 Those who on earth had had a voice 
 In making laws, on a high seat, 
 Were often placed beneath the feet, 
 Of many who had subjects been 
 On earth — perhaps were King or Queen : 
 Holy Popes, and Cardinals too, 
 Here received their genuine due. 
 
 But earthly wealth and empty fame 
 
 Were treated as an idle name ; 
 
 While earth's down-trodden and despised 
 
 Went straight direct to Paradise. 
 
 Whether we fully coincide 
 
 With aU we read of those who've died, 
 
 That Dante in immortal verse 
 
 Has well succeeded to rehearse. 
 
 As svire as day succeeds the night. 
 We must believe that he was right 
 In giving pain to every one 
 Who had on earth ignobly done ; 
 
151 
 
 Or in rewarding honest worth, 
 Without regard to wealth or birth. 
 If we but analyse the mind, 
 We feel that there should be a kind. 
 
 Of balance struck between the bad 
 Who have perverted good they had, 
 And those whose constant aim has been 
 To struggle to o'ercome all sin. 
 God has implanted in each breast 
 A conscience that wiU let none rest 
 Unless they listen to its voice, 
 Which will admit of but one choice. 
 
 To lead a life true and sincere, 
 If one would have a heaven here. 
 Those who its dictates disobey 
 May outwardly both preach and pray, 
 But they will bear, where'er they go, 
 A hell that will consume them so. 
 They fain a Lazarus would crave 
 Their parched lips with dew to lave. 
 
 On earth our heaven or hell begins, 
 Depending much upon our sins. 
 We should not cease from doing wrong 
 From reading Dante's wondrous song. 
 Fearing what we may have to' bear 
 When we have left our bodies here. 
 We know full well that ev'ry deed 
 Has in the doing its own meed. 
 
]52 
 
 So we can choose our heaven here, 
 And wait not for another sphere : 
 We need not agitate our breast 
 Concerning our eternal rest. 
 Our earthly life should be sincere, 
 Then, when we pass to the next sphere, 
 God will provide for us, we know. 
 Some place where we shall like to go. 
 
 TO JESSIE ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 FOR thee, my darling, I would twine 
 A wreath in which each grace should shine — 
 
 Each Christian grace. 
 Blended with meekness of the dove, 
 Should be the attributes of love ; 
 
 And on thy face, 
 No line of sadness should be seen. 
 But joy and gladness ever beam — 
 
 Such as will come, 
 If when each dying day has gone, 
 Thy retrospection recalls one 
 
 Good action done, 
 Or one kind word, that then hast said ; 
 As sure as streams by rills are fed. 
 
 And glide along. 
 So each kind thought will bring a smile. 
 And each kind deed life's woes beguile 
 
 With pleasant song. 
 
153 
 
 Then ever strive to do some good, 
 A useful life thy soul will flood 
 
 With heavenly joy 
 My child will then be always blest, 
 Will always have true happiness, 
 
 Without aUoy. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S FAITH. 
 
 Matt. XV., 22 to 28 verses. 
 
 " /~^ IVE me but one small crumb 
 VT From off Thy table, Lord ; 
 
 A crumb a dog would pick 
 Without an angry word, 
 
 " Either from host or guest, 
 
 So great is the supply 
 Of food. Enough for all ; 
 
 Therefore, do not deny 
 
 " A meek and humble soul. 
 Who comes in faith to thee, 
 
 Sorrowing for her child ; '' 
 She pleads for sympathy. 
 
 That mother's yearning cry. 
 The tender Saviour heard ; 
 
 Her anguish touched His heart — 
 He spoke the joyful word. 
 
154 
 
 He moved His healing hand, 
 And told her to rejoice : 
 
 " Thy daughter now is healed," 
 Said' that sweet plaintive voice. 
 
 " Thy faith has made her whole — 
 She lives — the demon's gone : 
 
 Go seek thy dearest child, 
 Thine only precious one. 
 
 "It is the wand'ring sheep 
 I came to save : those lost 
 
 Benighted ones shall have 
 A ransom without cost." 
 
 THE SCRIBE. 
 
 ' I will follow thee wheresoever thou goest." — Matt. viii. 19, 20. 
 
 WOULD like to travel 
 With thee for evermore. 
 Gracious Lord and Master, 
 
 "I 
 
 Whose goodness I adore ; 
 
 " For in my heart a flame 
 
 Of holy, holy zeal 
 Pervades each sentient thought. 
 
 So that I deeply feel 
 
 " I could abide with Thee, 
 And share Thy humble lot ; 
 
 Give up all earthly joys, 
 Henceforth by me forgot.'' 
 
155 
 
 Our Saviour heard the Scribe, 
 And very sweetly smiled : 
 
 He thought such love must come 
 From a pure, holy child. 
 
 But suddenly he said, 
 
 With thrilling tones, that sent 
 An arrow to the heart 
 
 Of him to whom it went : 
 
 " Foxes have holes, each bird 
 Has for its young a nest ; 
 
 But I, the Son of God, 
 Who truly am possessed, 
 
 " Of riches not of earth, 
 
 I do not own a bed — 
 A couch on which to rest 
 
 My weary, aching head." 
 
 The Scribe went his own way. 
 
 Sad and disconsolate : 
 He loved the world too well 
 
 To share the Saviour's fate. 
 
 w 
 
 A BOY'S POCKET. 
 
 HAT is there that gives such mingled joy 
 As a pocket does to a growing boy 1 
 
 'Tis a savings-bank, where all his treasures 
 Are hoarded with care ! No miser's pleasures 
 
 Can begin to equal those be derives 
 
 From saving the choice things that he contrives. 
 
156 
 
 To gather together every day, 
 
 By what possible means, no one can say. 
 
 He takes a museum where'er he goes, 
 The value of which he very well knows. 
 
 He'd only sell for a fabulous price 
 
 His famous coUeotion he thinks so nice. 
 
 Each boy's treasures are a type of his mind — 
 A fair index to show how he's inclined. 
 
 Deep in the pocket of a gourmand-boy 
 Apples and gingerbread would make his joy. 
 
 A miser's pocket would hold bits of all 
 
 Sorts of things he could get, both great and small. 
 
 Little Mozart would have staves, notes, and bars, 
 With enough flats and sharps to make no jars; 
 
 But Cuvier would hide a chicken-bone, 
 To examine when he was quite alone; 
 
 LinnEeus, perhaps, would secrete some flowers, 
 And study them well in his lonely hours ; 
 
 While Franklin would have the string of his kite 
 To attract the clouds far out of his sight ; 
 
 Giotto would have a bit of burnt coal. 
 And some waste-paper for a drawing-scroU ; 
 
 Izak Walton would have a fishing line 
 Made of horsehair instead of twine ; 
 
 But Humboldt would fill his pockets with stones, 
 With fragments of maps, and bits of old bones. 
 
157 
 
 I should like to spend a very long day 
 Examining pockets of boys at play ; 
 
 Not only amusement should I thus find, 
 But soon would discover each bent of mind ; 
 
 Of their future life I should catch stray gleams, 
 By studying well their wond'rous day-dr(jams. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 (A Fragment, from an Unpublislied Poem .) 
 
 LOVE has from early times inspired the noblest theme ; 
 Love has given us on earth, of bliss, a heavenly gleam ; 
 Love has on fairy wings oft borne us to the skies. 
 When we have revelled for a time in ecstasies ; 
 The love of country oft has made proud nation's fight, 
 And offer on the altar many a brave knight. 
 
 Love, too, has sent one as a pilgrim on life's way, 
 When the sad soul no longer had the power to stay, 
 To see another favoured one woo, win, and wed 
 The lady fair whose blooming charms his hopes had fed ; 
 The love thus deeply felt has brought the greatest woe 
 To the fond trusting soul to whom 'tis death to know. 
 
 That it indeed has "loved too fondly ^nd not well." 
 Yet 'tis the poet's pleasant task in rhymes to tell 
 That love is like the ocean, fethomless and deep, 
 Or like grand Mont Blanc, difficult for climbing feet. 
 'Tis near us, and about us, yet sometimes so far, 
 We might as well aspire to reach the farthest star. 
 
158 
 
 And bind it as we bind some bright glittering gem, 
 As coronet upon our brow, a diadem. 
 The poet sings of love — and love inspires his theme, 
 'Tis the magic key to unlock life's mystic dream ; 
 It analyses mind, and like a prism brings to view 
 A mental spectrum of its shades of every hue. 
 
 Then, Love, with glowing, swift-winged powers my muse inspire 
 
 Thrill every chamber of my soul with thy heroic fire, 
 
 As I describe the varied wanderings of one 
 
 Who was a loyal-hearted, noble Roman son^ 
 
 A voluntary exile from his father's hall, 
 
 Oppressed with grief, but tainted by no crime at all. 
 
 But that of loving ardently a charming maid — 
 Dio, her Christian name. Common report had said 
 She was the fairest, loveliest of her noble race ; 
 Enchanting beauty reigned supreme upon her face, 
 Which only was surpassed by symmetry of mind. 
 It seemed as if the graces had agreed to bind. 
 All charms that could allure, in one bright breathing form, 
 To show how well a bit of clay they could adorn. 
 
 ALBERTI'S SERENADE. 
 
 (A Fragment, from an Unpublished Poem.) 
 
 IF thou art sleeping sweetly, slumber on, 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 The angels will protect thee till the morn, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 I'd strew thy path with ever-blooming flowers, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 
159 
 
 Thy life should be a day with rosy hours, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 Sleeping or -waking thou art dear to me, 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 I would scatter life's blessings over thee. 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 T have but one wish, I crave but one bliss. 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 To press thy sweet lips with a hallowed kiss, 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 When thou art with me I have life and light. 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 When thou art gone 'tis C#imerian night, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 I dare not inquire if thou lovest me, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 I only know that I dearly love thee, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 These bright stars scatter incense through the skies, 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 They've culled from glances of thy vi'let eyes. 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 This air is perfumed with thy fragrant breath. 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 Should'st thou scorn my love 'twould be my death ; 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 Yet my love I'd whisper in accents low, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine • 
 The depths of my feeling thou dost not know, 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 My love has been hid within my own breast. 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 
160 
 
 As ocean-waves, 'tis a sea of unrest, 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 Now calm and quiet as a placid lake, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 Then I'm troubled witli thirst that nought will slake. 
 
 Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 But a glance at thy tender love-lit eyes, 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 Which remind me of Venus in yon skies ; 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 Bolder when veiled by the curtains of night, 
 
 „ Lady mine. Lady mine ! 
 
 I'm inspired to hope by this bright moonlight ; 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 The stars are fading, and morning wiU come. 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 I tarry no longer, but hie me home ; 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 Once more, good night ; good night, my dearest one. 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 Till to-morrow evening I must be gone. 
 
 Lady mine, Lady mine ! 
 
 T 
 
 CHILDEEN'S EIGHTS. 
 
 HE cause of "Woman's Eights" and " Wrongs" 
 Some earnestly do plead ; 
 
 The cause of Childhood, I have urged, 
 A better cause indeed. 
 
161 
 
 For many years I've pled tMs cause, 
 
 In ev'ry form and way ; 
 The key-stone in the avch to be 
 
 Of progress in this day. 
 
 I've pled for little sufferers, 
 Who feel, but cannot speak ; 
 
 Who bear the curse of parents' sins, 
 And grow up dwarfed and weak. 
 
 I've pled for little children's rights ; 
 
 If gained, I know fuU weU 
 That ev'ry other cause would thrive, 
 
 Much more than I can tell. 
 
 If I could have a magic wand. 
 
 And add to human bliss, 
 I'd advocate this noblest cause. 
 
 And plead in faith for this. 
 
 My platform is a simple one, 
 
 Easily understood j 
 'Tis one that all can comprehend, 
 
 Or could do, if they would. 
 
 Every human child that's born 
 Should have a happy heart ; 
 
 Should always wear a pleasant smile- 
 With mis'ry have no part. 
 
 There should not be a ragged one. 
 And hence no ragged school ; 
 
 Hunger and want should only be 
 Exceptions, not the rule, 
 
162 
 
 Belonging to any household, 
 
 In city or in town ; 
 Fur profusely are God's blessings 
 
 Shed freely up and down. 
 
 His atmosphere He doth not give 
 
 In a stinted measure, 
 But pours it out so lavishly. 
 
 Though it is a treasure. 
 
 He sendeth bright sparkling rivers. 
 And rippling streams along, 
 
 To quench the thirst and lave the brow 
 Of all they glide among. 
 
 He giveth warm, genial sunbeams. 
 The hearts of all to cheer — 
 
 To brighten every pathway 
 Of children far and near. 
 
 He causeth waving fields of grain 
 
 Abundantly to grow. 
 So that at every harvest-time 
 
 The bams with crops o'erflow. 
 
 There's food enough for ev'ry child. 
 There's air for young and old, 
 
 There's wool enough upon the sheep 
 To keep away the cold. 
 
 The blooming fields smile and rejoice 
 With purest emerald sheen ; 
 
 While many-tinted flowers peep out 
 Amid this carpet green. 
 
163 
 
 Some rights there are to all, innate ; 
 
 With life there should be light ; 
 Air, food, and clothing all should have, 
 
 And childhood should be bright. 
 
 No child should toil beyond its strength. 
 Nor grow up dwarfed and maimed, 
 
 With shrunken limbs and wrinkled brow. 
 For a few pennies gained. 
 
 Our streets are full of puny ones, 
 
 For wretchedness abounds, 
 Among the ignorant, careless poor, 
 
 In all the larger towns. 
 
 How many children never see 
 
 Even a single flower, 
 But live in darkness all their lives, 
 
 With not a happy hour ! 
 
 The only grass that waves o'er some 
 
 Grows on their little mound; 
 They only feel the warm sunshine 
 
 When lying in the ground. 
 
 'They seldom hear the song of birds. 
 
 Or see a hedge in May ; 
 They're doomed from birth to toil and work ; 
 
 They have no time to play. 
 
 The Christmas bells ring not for them 
 
 A merry, joyous peal ; 
 They never know the dear delights 
 
 That other children feel, 
 
164 
 
 On Christmas-Day, when gladness reigns 
 
 Around the festive board ; 
 Yet on this day God's poor should meet 
 
 To commem'rate our Lord. 
 
 Ood, in mercy look down upon 
 
 The children of the poor — 
 The little ones who suffer pain, 
 
 And needless woes endure. 
 
 The air is fuU of wailings sad ; 
 
 Church-yards are full of graves ; 
 God, in mercy send relief, 
 
 Give sympathy that saves. 
 
 Irradiate the rulers' hearts — 
 Those that enact the laws — 
 
 That they may quickly legislate, 
 And advocate this cause. 
 
 For let the children grow up strong. 
 
 And let them happy be. 
 Then every one will have their rights 
 
 In the community. 
 
 IF I WERE A FAIRY. 
 
 WERE I a faiiy, 
 I know where I'd go, 
 I'd hie to the Yorkshire heather ; 
 rd dance all night 
 In the pale moonlight, 
 Then hide in the Yorkshire heather. 
 
165 
 
 If I wAere a bee, 
 
 I know where I'd go, 
 I'd fly to the Yorkshire heather ; 
 
 I'd make honey new, 
 
 By sipping the dew, 
 Of the charming Yorkshire heather. 
 
 If I were a lark, 
 
 In quest of a nest, 
 I'd nestle in the Yorkshire heather ; 
 
 I'd carol and sing, 
 
 Happy on the wing, 
 Inspired by the Yorkshire heather. 
 
 Were I a butterfly. 
 
 Airy, light, and bright, 
 I'd haste to the Yorkshire heather ; 
 
 I'd spend sunny hours, 
 
 'Mid the fragrant flowers. 
 Of the purple Yorkshire heather. 
 
 If I were a lamb, 
 
 I'd play all day 
 On the moors in the Yorkshire heather ; 
 
 And when it came night. 
 
 With greatest delight, 
 I'd lie on the velvet Yorkshire heather. 
 
 the Yorkshire heather ! 
 
 The charming Yorkshire heather ! 
 
 Where the breezes blow, 
 
 With life aglow, 
 On the moors mid the Yorkshire heather. 
 
166 
 THE LOCK OF HAIE. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OP LITTLE MAET. 
 
 A LADY showed me a lock of hair, 
 -^^^ It was soft as silk and bright as gold , 
 I have never seen a lock more fair 
 
 On the head of child or matron old. 
 
 Were those delicate wavelets of gold 
 
 Transferred from heaven's-clime to earth, 
 
 In exchange for some, as we are told. 
 That were really of mortal birth 1 
 
 The sweet looks of Berenice so fair. 
 That are clustered on a starry night, 
 
 With the constellations that are rare, 
 That twinkle with a soft mellow light. 
 
 They were charming, as if they had been. 
 Growing on the head of one sainted. 
 
 And belonged to an angel I'd seen. 
 One that Fra Angelioo had painted. 
 
 There was sparkling in each tiny thread, 
 As the lock was held up to the light ; 
 
 With lip quivering and pale, she said, 
 " Mary's hair was a glorious sight. 
 
 " Little Mary, with her fair blue eyes. 
 And lovely hair floating round her head. 
 
 Looked just like an angel from the skies ; 
 But, alas ! my dear darling is dead !" 
 
167 
 
 What a terrible word 'tis to say — 
 
 To refer to that last, wakeless sleep — 
 
 For, cherish whatever faith we may, 
 
 When the heart is broken, one must weep. 
 
 Discord in the music of a life, 
 
 Produced when a harp-string is broken. 
 Jars on the mind, like hot words of strife. 
 
 Or anger in the face, not spoken. 
 
 Though there are many bright stars above. 
 The lost Pleiad in the group is missed, 
 
 When its fair sisters come out in love, 
 Their faces by the evening-air kissed. 
 
 In the fearful mystery of life, 
 A mother bereft of a loved child, 
 
 Passes days with deep agony rife. 
 And never can feel quite reconciled. 
 
 When my heart in sympathy has bled, 
 I have longed the power to possess. 
 
 To comfort those mournirlg for the dead, 
 Especially the one with that tress. 
 
 But if ever to heaven I go. 
 
 As often I have done in my dreams, 
 
 Little golden-haired Mary I'll know, 
 
 For of her I have had such bright gleams. 
 
 In the Saviour's kind arms I shall find 
 The priceless jewel of mortal birth, 
 
 For in his tiara He will bind 
 
 That treasure he has gleaned from the earth. 
 
168 
 
 HILDA'S PRAYER. 
 
 A VE Maria," hear my prayer — 
 ■* * Thou who art pure and undefiled- 
 Maiden spotless ! with brow so fair, 
 List to the pleadings of thy child ! 
 
 Conflicting feelings fill my heart ; 
 
 'Tis difficult for me to choose ; 
 Yet I would seek the better part — 
 
 The gem of salvation not lose. 
 
 I cannot quite renounce the joys — ■ 
 The vain and pleasant joys of earth ; 
 
 The cup of bliss has its alloys 
 
 When drunk by those of mortal birth. 
 
 Impress me. Sainted Mother, dear — 
 Give comfort to my trembling soul ; 
 
 Sustain me, so I may not fear 
 Lest vain desires will get control. 
 
 All earthly pleasures seem most fair 
 And sweet before they are tasted ; 
 
 But I would seek a life of prayer 
 Ere my youthful days are wasted. 
 
 " Ave Maria," hear my prayer — 
 Thou who art pure and undefiled — 
 
 Maiden spotless ! with brow so fair, 
 List to the pleadings of thy child ! 
 
169 
 
 PRINCESS ELIZABETH'S EPITAPH. 
 
 During the wars of the Commonwealth, Princess Elizabeth, davighter 
 of Charles I., was a prisoner in Carisbrook Castle. She was alone and 
 separated from all her companions, and very sorrowful till she died. 
 One day she was found dead, with her head lying on the Bible, open at 
 the page on which were the words, " Come unto me all ye that labour 
 and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." She was buried in St. 
 Thomas's Church, Newport, Isle of Wight. A beautiful marble monu- 
 ment has been erected by Queen Victoria, which consists of a female, 
 with her head reclining on a marble book, with the beautiful text 
 referred to above, engraved on the marble book. 
 
 THERE lay dying, in a castle, 
 A Princess, fair and good ; 
 She had heritage quite noble — ■ 
 Veins tinged with royal blood. 
 
 The clouds of her happy childhood, 
 So bright and amber-hued, 
 
 Seemed about to flood with glory, 
 As sky, with gold imbued, 
 
 Her youth, to make it radiant. 
 And free from ev'ry care ; 
 
 Bright as a summer's day in June, 
 When flowers perfume the air. 
 
 But as oil a summer's morning, 
 Dark clouds sometimes arise, 
 
 And chase away the heavenly blue 
 Of the Cerulean skies, 
 
170 
 
 So dark cloucfs dimmed the Princess' youth. 
 
 Her father* — a proud king — 
 In ignomy closed his days, 
 
 When all her joys took wing. 
 
 Sometimes a cord may seem all gold, 
 
 Yet many silken strands 
 Are by the skilful weaver twined, 
 
 To make the golden bands. 
 
 The fairest side is turned without — 
 
 The only one we see — 
 Unless the wear and tear of life 
 
 Diseloseth what may be. 
 
 Concealed from ordinary eyes. 
 
 From ordinary gaze — 
 Concealed as tinsel of the court 
 
 Wraps kings in mystic haze. 
 
 In ages past, kings oft have trod 
 
 A very thorny road ; 
 Such was the path of Charles the First — 
 
 In fear he long abode. 
 
 There's stranger things in human lives 
 
 Than novel-writers tell ; 
 The woof and warp we rarely see, 
 
 Or understand them well. 
 
 • Charles the First. 
 
171 
 
 Sad, weary, in a cell alone, 
 
 Charles' youthful daughter stayed ; 
 For all companions were refused 
 
 To this young royal maid. 
 
 She could not eat the homely fare. 
 
 Nor in that prison sleep ; 
 Bereft of all that makes life dear. 
 
 This Princess could but weep. 
 
 Imprisoned for no deed of hers. 
 Spotless and free from guilt, 
 
 She suffered for her father's crimes, 
 For which his blood was spilt. 
 
 The life-blood of that maiden fair 
 
 Gradually congealed ; 
 Her heart was broken, and no more 
 
 On earth could it be healed. 
 
 None cared when she was languishing. 
 
 None pitied her sad woe ; 
 Neglected even when dying. 
 
 Alike by friend and foe. 
 
 At length she rested in deep sleep — 
 The wakeless sleep of death — 
 
 Sleep the death-angel brought to her. 
 For which he claimed her breath. 
 
 She was lying in the morning 
 In the cold cell quite dead ; 
 
 On the Book of Books reclining 
 Was her young, gentle head. 
 
172 
 
 The open page disclosed to all 
 Those blessed words of truth — 
 
 Precious words which must have solaced 
 The sorrows of her youth. 
 
 " Cume to me all ye who labor," — 
 All ye who need .sweet rest ; 
 
 Ye weary-laden, saddened ones. 
 And ye shall soon be blest. 
 
 They laid her in St. Thomas' Church, 
 In the Queen's favorite Isle* ; 
 
 That blooming garden of the south. 
 Regal with Nature's smile. 
 
 Long 3'ears since then have rolled away, 
 Past deeds have been forgiven ; 
 
 The daughter of a slaughtered king 
 Could even now be shriven. 
 
 A monument in Newport Church, 
 
 In marble can be seen ; 
 'Tis the figure of that Princess, 
 
 Put there by England's Queen. 
 
 Her head lies on an open book. 
 Engraved with words so sage — 
 
 The sacred words that solaced her, 
 Are on its marble page. 
 
 This tribute of a gracious Queen, 
 
 The touching tale records ; 
 Those who visit St. Thomas's Church 
 
 Can read the marble words. 
 
 » Isle of Wight, called the Garden of England. 
 
173 
 
 THE EOMAN COLOSEUM. 
 
 Thy grand, colossal ruins* loom in sight, 
 Haunting one wheresoe'er his footsteps tend ; 
 Whether by day or by the pale moonlight 
 He wanders, this old monument will blend 
 With every Roman scene ; its walls will lend 
 Their aid to link the present with the past ; 
 But as unconsciously our thoughts we send 
 Back through the long, long years, we turn aghast, 
 And with a thrill, rejoice they did not last. 
 
 We fancy we can hear the groans and wail 
 Of Christian martyrs sacrificed and slain, 
 Torn by wild beasts, whose fury none could quail, 
 Merely to please a monarcht who was vain : 
 So filled with passion, he did not disdain 
 To satiate his pleasure in their pain ; — 
 . One, who his higher nature ne'er obeyed. 
 Whose moral attributes were in the shade. 
 
 Thou hast been regal in thy palmy days ! 
 Varied thy architecture,;}: chaste and grand ; 
 Hast furnished subject for the poet's lays, 
 And been the pride of all the Eoman land. 
 
 * The Coloseum, hegun by Vespasian, A.D. 72, was capable of holding 87,000 
 people. It was dedicated by Titus, A.D. 80, when 5,000 beasts were sacrificed 
 in the arena, and the games lasted 100 days. 
 
 t In the reign of Trajan, St. Ignatius was brought from Antioch to be de- 
 voured by the wild beasts in the arena : and many Christian martyrs were 
 sacrificed during the persecution of the Christians. 
 
 J There are throe stories of arches, and in each about 80 arches. The lowest ia 
 in the Doric architecture, the second Ionic, the third Corinthian ; and above the 
 last an entablature with projecting consoles to support the poles for the awning 
 over the top. 
 
174 
 
 Hast bound the rulers by a common baud 
 To all the Roman people, high and low ; 
 Yea, by a chain wrought by a bloody hand ; 
 We fain are glad that it has broken so. 
 Its power again, no people e'er will know. 
 
 Glorious art thou, in thy niins now ! — 
 
 The birds sing merrily their pleasant song — 
 
 Tliey nestle in thy arches, as a bough. 
 
 And many tinted flowers* spring up among 
 
 Thy battlements. Their perfume all day long 
 
 Rises as incense to the Roman skies. 
 
 Which flood with purest azure light, the throng 
 
 Of broken columns — cornices that rise 
 
 Like giants of the past — in grim disguise. 
 
 A broken column tells a mournful tale. 
 When it is resting on a young man's grave ; 
 In spite of all our faith, we do bewail 
 That efforts have been made in vain to save 
 A man, perhaps the bravest of the brave. 
 Tlierc is a language in thy ruined walls — 
 Thy arches, battlements, and architrave — 
 That deeds will ne'er again within thy halls 
 Be done, to think of which, the mind appals. 
 
 Thou dost proclaim, in a deep-sounding voice. 
 That never will a hauglity monarch's yoke 
 Again oppress a nation. We rejoice 
 That public sentiment that power has broke — 
 
 * Dr. Deaken, an English physician, has found 420 different species of flowers 
 growing about the walls and arches. 
 
175 
 
 No tyrant now the people dare provoke ; 
 For 'tis an age, the piilses of which throb 
 With mighty aims. No monarch now can cloak 
 His tyranny in outward guise, or rob 
 A nation of its manhood, on the globe. 
 
 Then, noble art thou, in thy ruins ; tj'pe 
 
 Of crippled power that ne'er again wiU rise ; 
 
 Thy early grandeur was its archetype. 
 
 Thy num'rous arches towering to the skies, 
 
 Were perfect in the days of sacrifice ; 
 
 But now I read upon each broken stone, 
 
 This epitaph : that none dare solemnize 
 
 In thy arena, heathen rites ; to atone 
 
 For the dark past, the cross* stands out, moss-grown 1 
 
 * There is 'a cross erected now in the centre of the arena, and service 
 performed in one of the small chapels near it. 
 
 John Heywood, Printer, lil & 143, Deansgate, Manoheater,