m/'Wif'-.- A.iSiaoS Cornell University Library PR 4715.G77H3 1894 The harp of Colne. 3 1924 013 457 985 The original of tiiis 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/cu31924013457985 The hai^p of golne. THE HARP OF COLNE, ELIZABETH (hAIGhJ GILSTRAP. (illustrated and revised edition.) PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION. 1894. printed by the ILKESTON PIONEER PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED. Mn ffttmoxiam. on-Trent, Notts. ADY GILSTRAP, the Authoress of these Poems, was born at Colne Bridge House, Huddersfield, on '/f September 23rd, 1822, the fourth fi, daughter of Thomas Haigh, Esq., and was married, June 2nd, 1847, to Mr., now Sir, William Gilstrap, Bart., of Fornham Park, Bury St. Edmund's, Suffolk, and of Newark- Finding a constant pleasure in everything good, and the beauty of Nature, Lady Gilstrap developed at an early age the love of poesy that never left her, recurring to it with zest during the intervals of an active and earnest life. The love of parents, home, and friends ; the wonders of creation, the verities of religion, and the emotions which stir the heart in the presence of picturesque or historic scenes, developed in verse, give a truthful insight, which friends will value, into the recesses of her innocently luminous mind, and the sentiments by which it was actuated. Remembrances of two Eastern tours, on which she accompanied her husband, are given in the poems on " The Nile" (p. 88) and on the Island of Philoe (p. 92) ; while her close powers of observation are represented especially in her description of Herringswell (p. 69), when staying at their Shooting Lodge in the midst of fir plantations, where Sir William and her Ladyship were honoured by the presence of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, and other illustrious personages. It is perhaps superfluous to say that none of the poems in this collection, written at different periods of her life — some at fifteen and others at fifty, were composed with any thought of publication, but later in life her Ladyship per- mitted them to be printed for private use, in the hope that they might be as acceptable to her friends as they had been a source of pleasure to herself. On September 12th, 1891, the amiable Authoress passed away, mourned by all who knew her. She was interred in Fornham Churchyard, within view of the home she loved so well, and her sorrowing husband has placed to her memory a tablet of purest white marble in the chancel — fit enblem of one who " wore the white flower of a blameless life," and breathed in her actions, as in her words, the spirit of innocence, truth, and faith. PREFACE. Much of this Book was written in youthful days, and to the memory of my Parents I dedicate it. They have long been dead ; but ever green is their memory, a well-spring of deep joy in my heart. "The Harp of Colne!" What happy joyous thoughts arise when I name that river ; it conjures up the magic word "home," and its happy childhood, with those dear remembered ones. The river flows on, but they are in the ocean of eternity. 4 " ^ •^ *,; f ( i i 1 1^> t i J li ^^^^^tk^' ^ Hh ^4-.-. l^^nl "P^Bt-f What Flowers shall I Strew on my Parents' Tomb Home ... Poetry A Scene of the Imagination Remembrance of a Scene from Oliver's Mount, Scarborough To my Skye Terrier Dog, " Squib " " Squib's " Epitaph The Wonders of Creation — Part I. ,, ,, ,, ii. ... The Past The Children of the Sand On a Hen and Chicken Daisy... Hope On the Death of My Niece Lines written on Sunday Morning in Egypt, on the Nile ... On visiting the Island of Philoe The Simplon ... A Week with Nature at Bournemouth Rome The Invitation to Spring Welcome to Spring Ode to Solitude PAGE. I 4 20 25 32 37 39 40 52 63 69 80 83 86 92 94 96 104 106 109 113 PAGE. On Christmas Day 117 Futurity 119 Time Hastens to the Judgment 122 On a Line of Music ... 125 Forget-Me-Not and No-Never 127 Cutting a Branch from a Favourite Tree . . . 129 For a Christmas Card 134 For a New Year's Card 135 To the Snowdrop 136 On a MoonHght Night 138 Farewell 140 Human Life 141 Happiness 145 On a Weeping Willow 147 The Rainbow... 149 All Here Suffers Change 151 A Prayer on the Christening of the Prince of Wales 154 On the Duke of Wellington's Funeral 156 Memory ... 158 ^M ^ tHE HARP OF GOLNE. WHAT FLOWERS SHALL I STREW ON MY PARENTS' TOMB? E are gone, revered ones, Blest forms ! passsd away ! Ye who shed o'er my childhood Its sunniest ray. Ye who cared for and sheltered, And watched o'er your child, Lovingly smiling' As none other e'er smiled. THE HARP OF COLNE. What flowers o'er your grave Shall affection bestrew ? What love can I bring That is worthy of you ? How fulfil your fond hopes ? Love unwearied repay ? By the flowers on your tomb I may bring in my day. Reflecting your virtues The Rose I would bring ; And the wreath I would form O'er your ashes to fling, Be it made up of those That shone brightest in you ; Your example and precepts Live e'er in my view. And treasuring the good name Deservedly yours, Would strive not to tarnish The gold that endures. The precious gem left us. Be it ours to retain, Nor diminish its brightness With aught like a stain. WHAT FLOWERS SHALL I STREW { This then, is the wreath I'd think worthy your tomb ; And your Faith — choicest flower In the garland shall bloom. So whene'er I, like you, From the earth pass away, I may hope to awake 'Mid the regions of day. And united in Heaven The flowers ne'er fade, Which, with kind thoughtful care. On my pathway were laid. THE HARP OF COLNE. HOME. THEREAL goddess, tune my lyre ; Come down, sweet muse, and me inspire. Of courtly halls I would not sing. But o'er this page thy beauties fling. My lay is not of foreign lands, A homelier theme thine aid demands ; I would not sing of glorious deeds, Of martial drum or neighing steeds. For wheresoever I may tread. Where'er my footsteps may be led. My thoughts will turn to one dear spot Whatever fortune be my lot. My home — hallowed name to me, Sacred place ! I turn to thee ; 'Tis where my infant footsteps trod, I love its soft and verdant sod. HOME. I love to gaze upon the scene, And gaze again — 'tis ever green. Say ye, when distance lies afar. Persons and objects dearer are ? At home once more ! and as I write, The much loved prospect lies in sight : And here, as o'er the trackless sea, It always hath its charm for me. And 'tis of this dear spot to tell. Sweet muse, I ask thy magic spell. Come thou, my humble lay, and grace As I each well-known haunt retrace. A house embosomed 'midst the hills, 'Mid fields of green and murmuring rills, Where silvery Colne, whose shallow stream Is rippling in the sun's bright gleam. Above the bridge which crosses o'er. About one hundred yards or more. Its streams divide on either side, And leave a wreck-bed far and wide. Not so when rains in torrents pour. Then you may hear its dashing roar ; And straight along in eddies gushing. The muddy waters onward rushing. THE HARP OF COLNE. ' Above the bridge which crosses o'er,' HOME. Beyond, a lofty bank* doth rise, Swelling towards the arching skies. Carpeted in nature's green And wavy corn — a beauteous scene ! This bounds the view in front of home, Pointing to heaven's vaulted dome ; Now morning beams — and I arise To gaze upon yon golden skies. The sun before he comes in view. His chariot gilds with circling hue ; Then bursting forth, the orb of day ! Too bright for sight — I turn away. But see thee mirrolted in the stream. Reflected like a golden gleam ; As on thy noonday course so bright, Thou gladdenest nature with thy light. Now, to the right a wood did stand, Converted since to farming land : Its giant trees bestrew the ground, Felled by the woodman's axe around. No more to wave amid the air, The songsters find no shelter there ; A few old friends like mourners stand, With shadowy branches o'er the land. * A hill known by the name of Dalton Bank. THE HARP OF COLNE. Once the wild rose luxuriant grew, And woodbine round its fragrance threw. The scene, how changed ! now looking o'er. Hills rise to sight unseen before. Above each other towering high They seem in altitude to vie. " Castle Hill," dark, towering height. Brings to my mind 'twas once the site Of the proud Roman's lofty wall ; But time, which makes the mighty fall. Hath laid this even with the ground — Oblivion's folds are wreathing round. Turn we again a different way. Where Colne and Calder meet I stay ;* A cliff hewn out by Nature's hand, A ridge of rock — I take my stand. What meets mine eye ? a waterfall ! What charms mine ear ? its ceaseless roll ! While gently whirling at my feet The circling pool, a liquid sheet. ' The Colne and Calder meet at a short distance from my home, and their united streams afterwards take the name of the Calder. A romantic cliff rises on one side the water beside the place of their meeting, from which there is a pretty view. HOME. 'Tis but to mark the herbage green That on the water's edge is seen ; To watch the fishes as they make The water-rings around them break. Far o'er my head the cHff towers high, But looking forward meet mine eye The Kirklees woods, where, famed of old, Sleeps Robin Hood, the outlaw bold. Kirklees,* the old conventual place. Hath witnessed many a pious race Of nuns now low beneath the ground. Who sleep the sleep of death profound. A chamber in the ancient Hall Witnessed the gallant outlaw's fall ; Prostrate and fevered on his bed. To death his aunt her kinsman bled. But bleeding, dying, faint and low, " Give me," "he said, " my good yew bow ;" " And arrows three, where falls the third " " There be bold Robin's bones interred." * Kirklees is the ancient seat of the Armytage family, and now belongs to Sir George Armytage, Bart. lO THE HARP OF COLNE. The window whence the arrows sped* Looks o'er a streamlet's narrow bed ; The first shaft flew with twang and jar, 'Tis lost in Bradley woods afar. But here he did not choose to lie : Another arrow darts on high, And hissing swiftly speeds its flight To mark his tomb where it shall Ught. The second falls in Calder clear, Nay ! nay ! my bones may not rest there Free have I lived, free let me die, Then let the greenwood o'er me lie. Quick yet another to prepare, He nerves his strength the bow to bear ; The arm that wings that last one's flight Is weaker, and more dim the sight. * The remains of the old pricry, now known by the name of the Old Hall, is converted into a cottage with a farmyard beside it. Tradition says it is the one in whicli Robin Hood was bled to death by his aunt. The window is still shown from wliich he is said to have shot three arrows to mark his burial-place. The iirst is said to have alighted in Bradley wood, which is at a short distance from my liome. The second in the Calder ; and the third, and last, where he now lies. Of the truth of this tradition I know nothing, but in all probability this is the real burial-place of the celebrated outlaw, for it is mentioned as being so in Baker's Chronicle. The inscription on his tombstone is in old English, and rather difficult to read. (See page ii). At a distance, in quite a different part of the grounds, is the tomb of his aunt. The inscription on her tombstone speaks of her as being the late prioress of this abbey, of which little more than this cottage now remains. HOME. II It was the last he ever shot, And to all time it marks the spot 'Neath branching fern, and wildflowers' bloom. Where Robin rests in sylvan tomb. 'Tis railed around ; but looking through, A stone will meet the gazer's view. Which tells, to all of English birth. The people's judgment of his worth. " Here, itnttetneattr tlria little stnitE, f tea Hobin, (Barl of ^utttingtrott ; ^e'zt attiin faaa as Ite so gootr, ^tttt people callei Ijint Jlobin ^oott ; ^uelj outlalna as Ije antr Ijts men, ^Irall (^ttglantr neber see again." 12 THE HARP OF COLNE. There, with a lovely vale in sight, When Gaidar's waters, silvery bright. Wend on their course through fertile land. All visible from where I stand. My thoughts will wander far away — I call them back, but still they stray, And hover o'er another scene, Where cattle graze upon the green, And tell me seasons changing too. Each bring new beauties to our view ; First comes the genial time of Spring, Bearing young verdure on her wing. Opening the tender buds to sight. Kissing the earth with sunbeams bright ; Spangling the meads with wildflowers gay, Scenting the thorn with bloom of May. Calling the swallow on her wing, Prompting the lark to soar and sing ; And softly with the zephyr's voice. Bidding the grateful earth rejoice. Now comes maturer Summer, dressed In all her sunny, flowery vest ; The heavens are decked in softest blue, Earth clad in green is spread to view. HOME. 13 The hay is ready for the scythe, And all around seems gay and blythe ; A beauteous scene, Midsummer June ! But on swift wing and all too soon Comes Autumn, with her dewy morn : Her fields enriched with wavy corn, The swollen grain to ripeness come, Supplies the teeming harvest home. The season, on her golden wings. Upon the leaves her bright tint flings ; Old age seems fast o'er all things creeping. Nature looks as though now weeping. 14 THE HARP OF COLNE. Then hoary Winter comes in sight, Covering the earth in purest white ; The snow-flakes thickly fall around Where late the wildflowers decked the ground. The water, held in icy chain. Is like a smooth and glassy plain ; Till gentle thaw comes stealing o'er, And clouds pour forth their copious store. Oh ! lovely nature — ever new. And always charming to my view ! Who would not love a country life Far from the crowd's unceasing strife ? I love the heavenward soaring hills : I love the gently murmuring rills : I love the tall and leafy trees. With zephyrs whispering in the breeze. I love the green and grassy sod ; How full of goodness is our God ! He clothes the hills and dales with flowers — Waters the thirsty earth with showers, Gives bread to man, and cheering light. Displays the Gospel to our sight. And bids us strength and comfort find, In Him who suffered for mankind. HOME. 15 A tract of country far and wide Stretches abroad on either side ; Hills rise q'er hills, they kiss the sky, The vales in their abundance lie. Now from the cliff again I stray. And Churchward turn my joyful way : Enter with me and make your prayer, Each to his Father tell his care. " Make us to love the heavenly way. Nor turn aside — be Thou our stay." I love to see each well-known face Filling its own accustomed place. Our minister to us is dear : His solemn voice I love to hear ; And now, the slow impressive singing Seems a deep calm around us flinging. And when the solemn service ends. Each one his footsteps homeward wends ; Strengthened jn faith, the spirit fed. Having asked of God the daily bread. Return. A village is my theme. Its name is taken from Colne's stream ; Ofttimes upon a summer's night, _ Borne merrily on breezes light. i6 THE HARP OF COLNE. vmk ■ H^S^^m^mt ^ "■" M ii o S H O ■■:| ' Q n ' 'i 1 w ^ ■ 4- 1 i 1 M z ►J o o < w z w z ij o o « > HOME. 17 Gay laughter greets my listening ear, Children at play are sporting near ; 'Tis sweet to hear the joyous sound Of happy voices all around. The simple rustic village boy Returned from work, a mother's joy ; She loves to watch her children play, As she once did in her young day. The cotter's home on Saturday night Is oft a pleasing, cheering sight ; The house how neat, the inmates dressed In their choicest Sunday's best. To see the joys of rustic home. Through the village gently roam ; The birds their little nests are seeking. While the gold light the heaven is streaking. As the sun glides below the west. Insect creation sinks to rest ; Then twilight gently steals o'er all. And evening's dew begins to fall. The flowers their tender cups are closing. All nature seems as if reposing ; But shall I lay my head to rest Without the prayer I may be blessed ? l8 THE HARP OF COLNE. Will He who sits enthroned on high Not listen to His children's cry ? He will ; He never yet forsook Those who believe, and to Him look ; Praying that He would guide their way To mansions of eternal day ; " Lord, bless and keep us through the night, Give us again the morning light. Give us, O Lord ! our daily bread ; And wheresoever we are led. Keep thou our footsteps, lest we stray, A moment left, we turn away. Be Thou our Guide for evermore, And lead us to the heavenly shore : Where we may join the angelic throng. And praise Thee in a perfect song. I'll praise Thee for my happy home. And thank Thee I'm not left alone — That I have still my parents dear — My onward way to guide and cheer. Brothers and sisters round me too, A host of comforts in my view ; 'Tis not that I deserve them more Than the poor suppliant at the door, HOME. 19 'Tis of Thy goodness, only Thine, That many sorrows are not mine. Grant, when my days on earth may cease, I may awake with God at peace." 20 THE HARP OF COLNE. POETRY. WEET inspirer of the human breast, Enchantress of the mind, That shedd'st thy balmy influence o'er the passions of our kind. POETRY. 21 The dewdrop on the bluebell, Gives subject for thy song, The breath of morning woos thee as her zephyrs float along. The buttercup, the daisy white, Spread garlands for thy feet. The mossy bank by the rippling brook is oft thy cool retreat. Thou seest thine own fair image. In the gently purling stream, Mirrored in the light of Aurora's golden beam. And Flora spreads the roses. And woodbine for thy bed, And thither by the perfumed bowers thy fairy feet are led. The music, too, that woos thee. In the silvery moonbeam's ray. Is the voice of the nightingale as she chants her evening lay. Yes ! birds within the shady bowers. As they carol forth their lay. Have a melody which thee inspires upon thy lonely way. The little songstress of the woods. Can raise the lyric muse. And in the morning hymn of birds her Maker's praise she views. 22 THE HARP OF COLNE. r^ Ik ^ < "mm ' .Ik^iiIJiIHiI.j'I) A WOODLAND SCENE. POETRY. 23 Where the tender fly is struggling In the spider's fretwork thread, Its tissue wings torn with resigning life's frail shred. Sweet pity — then the muse's theme When she sees the captive fly, Whose last resource, when none would save, was to flutter and to die. Hail ! smiling peace, none plead for thee With a more inspiring tongue ; Hail ! lovely peace, O ! lyric muse, sweet peace is oft thy song. The tear-drop on the blushing rose. Which refreshing nature spreads. Is likened by thy beauteous mind to the tear which childhood sheds. The bud, just opening into flower, With its young and tender stem. Cannot bear the weight of morning dew, though it deck it as a gem. It trembles, quails beneath the weight Of the bright and glittering dew, Till a sunbeam comes and with a kiss takes the sparkling gem from view. 24 THE HARP OF COLNE. And thus in childhood's fitful mood, The blushing cheek is wet, Till a mother in her fond embrace wipes the tear from off her pet. What dark and spreading shadow this ? A mountain's towering height ! A theme for favoured mortals taught to upward look for light. Its blackened sides, its barren soil, O'ershadows thee with care ; Thy words are, hither, sinner turn, and view thine image there. ' Then higher look — the blue-arched sky, That canopy above : O ! say, sweet muse, who reigneth there ? — the God of Peace and Love. A SCENE OF THE IMAGINATION. 25 A SCENE OF THE IMAGINATION. The scene is laid in a wood in the early part of May. The writer is supposing a person who had no knowledge of God, or of the Scriptures, holding converse with an angel, who instructs him, and tells him how we are all fallen through the sin of our first parents. At the same time telling him that Christ died for us and ascended into Heaven, giving him the comforting assurance that He is our Intercessor there with God. The angel then leaves him full of joy at his declaration. HEN night had given place to the glorious light of day, And the sun's golden rays were spreading in the East ; When birds were pouring forth their most harmonious lay, And a joyous welcome burst from insect, bird, and beast. 26 THE HARP OF COLNE. The trees were crowned with leaves of early May, The daisies o'er the hill and dale were thickly spread ; Ah ! reader, surely thou canst say, A sight like this has lured thee from thy bed. The flowers that were more tender. And closed their buds at night. Were opened now to render Thanks for the morning light. Along I passed beside the stream That led through a shady wood, Till I came to a bank of mossy green ; Then in musing mood I stood. I looked through the wood, and saw the green tops Of the hills that to heaven ascend ; And in fancy I thought I could see the dew drops Shine like diamonds, their brilliance to lend. I mused as I gazed on so lovely a sight. And wondered why thorns should grow ; As though in anger the buds they would blight. But I found that it ever was so. For there is not a man, be he ever so gay, Though his flatterers for him pleasures strew ; But would sadly confess, as his life ebbed away. That midst pleasures the thorns also grew. A SCENE OF THE IMAGINATION. 27 'The stream that led through a shady wood.' 28 THE HARP OF COLNE. As gazing I stood, midst a glorious light, From the heavens an angel rode ; Round his head shone a halo of glory bright As he drew near my earthly abode. His face was as fair as the lilies' white flower, And his girdle of heaven's own blue ; His hair hung down like a golden shower, And his eyes sparkled bright as the dew. His wings were tipped with the golden morn, And in glory shining bright ; His countenance had not with grief been worn Nor a tear bedimmed his sight. His gentle voice dispelled my fear. And amid a moment's pause, I asked why, with joy, sorrow always was near ? His answer was, " sin is the cause." What makes the creature of earth to die, And the flowers to wither away ? What is the cause of the orphan's sigh. And why do we fade ? angel, say. And why do cities crumble away When a few hundred years are past ? And the greatest monarchs fall to decay When all seems within their grasp ? A SCENE OF THE IMAGINATION. 29 And why is the object of love ta'en away ? And why does the false one deceive ? And why does all that is bright to-day Only sadness and sorrow leave ? What makes the angry swelling waves, And their foamy tops to roar, When none is nigh the poor sailor to save, When his vessel lies wrecked on the shore ? His cry is echoed from rock to rock Till it dies far away on the gale. And the roaring waters seem to mock. And to laugh at his strength, which must fail. I queried thus, nor could mortal tongue tell The grief, woe, distress, and care, That rise like great waves to heaven that swell. And we creatures look on in despair. He answered — "In judgment was mercy shown, It was promised of Adam's line — ■ A King of Righteousness should be born, A King in meekness divine !" I asked, " Is there hope beyond the grave ?" His countenance beamed, and he said — " Christ hung on the cross thy soul to save, And for sin was to Calvary led. 30 THE HARP OF COLNE. "He now sits the Mediator on Heaven's high throne, Encircled by myriads bright ; Still He waits to receive the humblest moan, And presents it in God's holy sight. " In Heaven He o'erlooks not the humblest saint, Nor forgets the sad cry of the poor ; He sends the Comforter to those that faint. Through the word of Truth most sure." And, saying this, he took his flight in the air. And mounted through boundless space ; He has left us below in this world of care. But through Christ gives us sweet resting-place. I watched him till almost hid from my view With the speed of an eagle's flight ; I heard his hallelujahs anew As he vanished away from my sight. And now I looked on that ne'er fading world. Which was promised by Christ to the few Who should always remain His chosen band, Till the regions of bliss were in view. My spirit would fain, as a bird on the wing. Have soared to the mansions of light ; There in heaven the hallelujahs to sing To the Lamb of pure spotless white. A SCENE OF THE IMAGINATION. 31 So through this dark world of trouble and care I'll look to that promise, once given ; That those who continue in watching and prayer, Shall join with the angels in heaven. 32 THE HARP OF COLNE. REMEMBRANCE OF A SCENE FROM OLIVER'S MOUNT, SCARBOROUGH, VIEWED IN THE YEAR 1841. ROM Oliver's Mount I beheld a fair scene, It hath feasted the eyes of thousands I ween ; The sun had risen on a cloudless morn, And chased tlie dewdrops that fell with the dawn. But now and again one glistening bright. Like a diamond enrolled in a circle of Hght : It sparkled awhile, then faded away. As darkness dispersed by the glory of day. REMEMBRANCE. 33 Before me there lay the deep blue wave Where many a loved one hath found a grave ; It seemed like a mirror, a silvery glass, Not a white wave curled on the watery mass. For Neptune the raging god was at rest. He lay calmly sleeping on ocean's breast ; While his foamy steeds were lost to view, Somnus his chains o'er Neptune threw. And the stormy god, now tranquil in sleep, Not a wave seems troubled on the watery deep. At a distance is seen on the western shore Cornelian Bay where no vessel can moor. Lest the tempest-toss'd sailor should find a grave, For once on those rocks who the vessel shall save ? Whether the sea nymphs their revels hold there. Or make this spot their peculiar care ; 'Tis not for a being on earth to say What power o'er this place holds special sway. Cornelians there in abundance are seen : Perhaps they are gems of the ocean queen. Perchance whate'er spot feels her nymph-like tread. There you'll find a cornelian bed. And far away as the eye can reach Lies Flamborough Head, a rocky beach. 34 THE HARP OF COLNE. Stern Neptune here must resign his sway, And bid his white waves in their confines to stay : For the god of the rocks sits majestic here, And e'en the old ocean his strength must revere. Centuries have passed, still his power he is trying, In grandeur sublime sit the rocks him defying ; And stretching along in defiance of man, Bid him his vessels to moor if he can. But the dangerous points lie deep and unseen, A foe in concealment long years they have been ; The waves flow o'er, yet the rocks dash them back Like a shivering thing on the torturing rack. REMEMBRANCE. 35 When the vessel seems resting, the waters at peace, He mounts on his car and his steeds find release ; The surface is now with their foam-wreaths covered, The cry of despair by the wild winds is smothered. The proud ship struggles, her sails are all furled. And along on her pathless course she is hurled ; At a distance is heard a despairing yell — It is hushed, but alas ! 'tis a funeral knell. Some departing spirit its own dirge is singing. As the soul its flight from the temple is winging ; Some mortal hath found a watery grave : Perchance his lone bed is a coral cave. On the right I beheld that ancient pile Of the castle, built in the Gothic style — ■ A monument of magnificence great. But ruin, alas ! is now its fate. It reminds me of monarchs laid in the earth. Who boasted themselves of their noble birth ; Death's arrow hath sped — 'tis our common doom. And where is their boast ? in the silent tomb ! Its mouldering battlements seem falling always, Like tears to the memory of ancient days ; On three sides it is washed by the briny wave, And under its shadow lies many a grave. 36 THE HARP OF COLNE. Generations have gone, tombs forgotten by all, Till the last trumpet the dead shall recall ; Many a sailor lies buried here : Poor stranger, laid low without a tear. I looked on the scene as a lovely view. But as time rolled on it brought back anew The remembrance of all I viewed from that spot ; Yes, time has brought change — the common lot. Friends who were with me I may ne'er again see. Perchance if I do, time has changed them and me. But fond memory recalls all the years to my sight, The scene which I viewed with the eye of delight. And traces each line of the prospect more fair. Sweet memory whiles many an hour of care ; For what should we himian mortals be If the present only could pleasure see. There's enjoyment in thinking of years gone by, Though memory oft will recall a sigh ; Yes, thoughts of the past will come back and beguile Days which might pass without trace of a smile. LINES TO MY SKYE TERRIER DOG. 37 LINES TO MY SKYE TERRIER DOG, "SQUIB." He died June 2yd, 1873. ILL that gipsy eye, with coating rare Of tangled, woolly, nut-brown hair. Ne'er again look on me with its mingled charm Of love and glee from its covering warm J Was it skies of blue, or colour of flowers ? Was it summer sun with its rainbow showers ? From these did it gather that clear bright look Of courage and love, which it never forsook ? From whence it came these were none of its hue, 'Twas black as night in its lustre true ; There faithfulness beamed a diamond enthroned. In its jet-black eye love and courage it owned. 38 THE HARP OF COLNE. I shall miss thee, my dog, when my spirit is vexed ; How oft have I seen thee with look so perplexed, Come gently near me as though thou would'st share My sorrows or joys, thy affection so rare ! While unconscious I slept thou didst lie at my door. And with thine own Hfe would have guarded my store. 1 shall miss thy glad welcome whene'er I come home, Thy dance of delight and thy dear fondling tone. I shall miss thee when Spring gives the sweet flowers birth : I shall miss thee when Summer sun brightens the earth ; I shall miss thee when Autumn comes, chilly and cold. As with frolic and fun through the dead leaves we strolled. I shall miss thee when Winter her white pall does throw, Thy footfall again will ne'er mark the soft snow ; My dog Squib, memory's sunshine oft shall retrace In the haunts that delight me, thy fun-loving face. Thou didst bear with my humours, quiet or gay. Just as I felt it was thine to obey ; And if, bonnie fellow, few gifts were thy store, Thou gav'st all thou hadst, and can we ask more ? And though but a dog, surely good honest worth Is not such a gem of every-day birth. But a line may be traced by its owner to tell. As I tearfully bid thee, my old dog, farewell ! EPITAPH. 39 EPITAPH TO "SQUIB," A DOG. 40 THE HARP OF COLNE. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. A POEM. PART THE FIRST. H ! oft invoked ! come down from Thine ethereal height, And to this lower world betake Thy flight, Borne on the softest zephyrs wing, When early morn is kindling. Come, and with Thy magic voice Bid me in Thine aid rejoice ; Thou from 'midst the sacred nine, Behold a votary at Thy shrine. Dull is my muse unless Thou touch the wire And tune for me the golden lyre ; I sing a wide, a boundless scene, Creation's glories are my theme. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 4I Where'er I turn above, around, My mind is filled with wonder most profound ; Wandering in the cool eve alone, Gazing on heaven's vaulted dome. The mighty arch that spans the world, A grand and glorious canopy unfurled. When looking on the midnight orb, A thousand images the mind absorb, Till lost in thought my spirit tries To mount aloft and reach the skies ; Radiant in stars, the gems of night, Each in his sphere is shining bright. And comets through the heavenly way Know the course they must obey ; The Almighty's voice, the God of all In heaven, and this terrestrial ball. Where'er from earth we turn our eyes Sight is bounded by jewelled skies, While the soft mild queen of night Throws o'er the earth her mellow light. Flinging her silvery beams o'er all. As her peaceful rays on nature fall ; The troubled spirit might find repose. And solitude lend a balm for woes. 42 THE HARP OF COLNE. A calm like this might dry the silent tear, And for a moment the lone heart might cheer ; Through the vast universe the mind will stray, And far from earth to heaven will wing its way. Till lost in admiration still we gaze, And feel the mind a chaos of amaze ; The hills in bold relief to heaven ascend. And to the darkling scene new grandeur lend. Their giant forms displayed to sight By the soft moonbeam's mellow light, Rise o'er each other like the waves, Displaying crags and rocky caves. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 43 Their base by the rolhng ocean washed As its breakers on the shore are dashed ; Behold the trackless watery world Scarce a wave on its mighty surface curled ! 'Tis, as though calmed, to give back to sight The beauteous iirmament arrayed in light ; For mirrored in its clear and briny wave, It to the skies their shining portrait gave. Could aught more grand than this sweet landscape be, This heavenly glory pictured in the sea ? Now gazing still upon the silent deep Where the incessant hush of waters steep The mind, enwrapped in dreamy calm. The senses lulled by soothing balm, As the fitful darkness hovers round Throwing on the deep profound A grandeur, simple yet sublime. Solemn as the stroke of midnight chime. Now turning from this lovely scene, A distant object is my theme, Where some tall spires with tapering fingers rise Towards the jewelled and vaulted skies ; In sombre garb the town is dressed, The sea of human life now sunk to rest. 44 THE HARP OF COLNE. So silent all appears, that scarce a breath Seems to disturb the slumber, like to death ; But its mild counterfeit is soothing care, As millions its refreshing influence share. Sweet sleep ! that welcome strength doth bring, We court thee nightly on thy soothing wing ; And oft, while slumbering on the downy pillow. The mind in dreams will wander o'er the billow To foreign climes where we have been. The spirit haunts the distant scene ; Imagination's wondrous stores Transport us far to unknown shores, Peopling with departed forms the past, Then quickly changing as the last. Yes, dreams portray the sad farewell, And call back, like a magic spell, The last fond look of friends of yore That ne'er may glad our eyes once more ; We wake, and, scarce awaking, seem To find 'twas but a troubled dream. Great God of Heaven, Thy ruling hand, Whilst round a thousand dangers stand, Drives back the rush of scaring foes. And soothes to rest ten thousand woes. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 45 Anon, I leave mortality asleep, And turning to a distant steep, On which an ancient castle moulders, Chaining the eyes of all beholders. 6g In days long gone its proud walls gleamed. And the waving flag from its turrets streamed ; Many the tales and a copious store Could those stones tell of days of yore. They'd speak of deeds in days of old. And feats performed by warriors bold ; Of tilt and tourney — knightly strife, That once in former days was rife. 46 THE HARP OF COLNE. Of high-born dames of gentle blood That in thy courtly halls have stood ; Alas ! each rests beneath the ground, Wrapt in the sleep of death profound. No high renown, no rank can save, Whate'er has life must find a grave ; Our waning lamp burns fast away, And summoned hence we must obey. Can we recall a moment that is past Or yet prolong the period of the last ? Awful uncertainty ! a moment's flight May plunge us hopeless in eternal night. Or bursting forth in bliss untold. The heavenly portals back unfold ; The blessed spirit loosed from pain, Freed from the body's mortal chain. Caught up by angels to the skies, Bless'd with a bliss that never dies ; No tongue can tell, no pen can write. The burst of glory on the sight. The cherub choirs as they sing. Glad hallelujahs to the King ; The Lamb of pure and spotless white, Enthroned in heavenly glory bright. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 47 The angelic hosts unite in praise, In ceaseless, never-ending lays ; What bliss ! the spirit loosed away. From this frail tenement of clay ! O perfect bliss ! to join the throng, And swell the loud Hosanna's song ; Oh ! immortality, that mocks at time, " For ever" is thy solemn chime. What would be all, could we not look At the love revealed in God's own book ? The future, what a dark abyss ! Did we not see a heaven of bliss ! So brief this little span of life, Mixed up with worldly care and strife ; But still, this short uncertain state Determines our eternal fate. A deathbed is a solemn thing — It may be near ; time's fleeting wing Is stealing swiftly o'er us all, And death the boldest doth appal. But there is mercy. Jesu's arm Can still the tempest ; He can calm The troubled mind and quiet fear, And to the faithful will draw near. 48 THE HARP OF COLNE. When death's cold grasp is on the heart, When the soul struggles to depart, He takes away the awful sting. Triumphant still, o'er death the King. Again I turn where the ivy clings. O'er the crumbling walls its tendril flings ; 'Tis a lovely sight as the moonbeams fall On the dark green leaf and the tottering wall. Say, do fairies flit on the mossy ground. And dance in light measures the castle round ? Where rank and beauty once held sway, Do pale ghosts and spectres nightly play ? Nay, turn we from this fancied scene, Naught meets the eye like this, I ween ; Where once glad music sweUed on high Now is heard the owlet's cry. The breezes sadly sigh around. Where once the joyous dance was found. Or through the crumbling towers groan With low and melancholy moan. And, looking up, there meets mine eyes The gemm'd expanse of midnight skies ; The roof is fallen, and the tottering tower Looks mournful in the solemn hour. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 49 'Tis a painful pleasure to gaze upon, And people the present with beings gone ; Oblivion folds them in her grasp — Who shall her silent tomb unclasp ? Or raise her folds, as wreathing round, In Lethe all the past is bound ; The rippling waves, the murmuring deep, Hush sadly 'gainst the rocky steep ; While the bat in her rapid flight. Rejoices in the lone midnight. And now I bid thee a long farewell, And far away to a lonely dell I wander, where a flowing stream Winds peacefully in the silvery beam Of the quiet moon, and the verdant ground Is jewelled with dewdrops all around. Sparkling like diamonds^a lovely sight. Cushioned on the stem of the wildflowers light, Refreshing and cooling them for the day, 'Till a sunbeam kisses the gem away. But hark ! on the zephyr what comes to the ear, That strain so tuneful and chanting and clear. Say, do here the Nereids and Fairies play ? And, Ust, that clear spontaneous lay. 50 THE HARP OF COLNE. '^k THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 5 1 Sweet songster, hear I thy voice in the vale ? Ah ! 'tis thine — none can equal the nightingale ! Thy notes, like a charm on the breezes come, From the leafy haunt in thy woodland home. Thou hast chosen the hour when most things sleep, Save the sorrowing spirit may wake and weep. O'er the dewy night thy charms to fling : Sweet warbler, we love to hear thee sing. And now, farewell ! I resume my theme When morn wakes up with her golden beam. And floods the earth with radiant light : Farewell till then, good night, good night ! 52 THE HARP OF COLNE. T?IE WONDERS OF CREATION. PART THE SECOND. EHOLD ! in the East the heavens are changed, Along the horizon's edge is ranged A clear light streak that gilds the sky, Forming a canopy on high. Now quickly over all 'tis stealing, The distant hills to sight revealing ; For morn wakes up from sombre night, And gilds the vast expanse with light. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 53 And gliding from his den of gold, Breaking on the sight, behold ! In majesty the sun will rise — His pathway the o'erarching skies. Magnificent ! thy bright career Is through the illimitable sphe re Of heaven, nor dost thou stay. But onward through thy golden way Thy course thou hold'st with beams of light, Decking the earth with sunbeams bright : Where'er we look, great God divine, We still behold no hand but Thine. Earth Thy footstool. Heaven Thy throne. Thy power extends from zone to zone ; Sovereign Ruler, at Thy will. Earthquakes shake the giant hill. As a vessel tossed on the heaving wave. It trembles, as fearing to find a grave ; When Thou the heavens in darkness shrouds. We hear Thee in the murmuring clouds. While lurid lightning rends the sky. And rolling thunders passing by, Proclaim, in grandeur how sublime. The God of all in every clime. 54 THE HARP OF COLNE. In torrents then the rain descends, And with the storm in wildness blends ; It seems as if in mortal strife The wondrous elements were rife. The rills that gently held their course, Now rush on with a torrent's force ; But God disperses at His will The thunder-clouds, and all is still. After the tempest comes the calm, Peace breathes again a holy balm; As when with sorrow most oppressed, The outcome oft is peace and rest. The heavens weep not another tear. The mighty arch in blue is clear ; Then birds upon their airy wing Flit about, or sweetly sing. And lightly plays the cooler breeze. Shaking the moisture from the trees ; The wildflower rises wet and dripping, For the sunbeams from its cup are sipping, The cooling drops that fall around On the soft and mossy ground. Wander where foot hath never trod The pathway of the mighty God. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 55 From Thy sight we cannot hide, Not in the rolling ocean's tide ; Jesus, at Thy sovereign will, The waves were hushed with — " Peace, be still !" The seagull rides as though in scorn, On heaving wave 'tis lightly borne ; Then ascending aloft, speeds far on high, As it upward mounts to the darkhng sky ; Scarce a feather wet as it rides on the main, Then soaring on high looks down with disdain. Like a bird of ill omen battling the gale, Or some phantom messenger, cold and pale. And ocean's waves are decked in gold — The wondrous works of God behold. Shall we wander now to foreign cUmes, Where there is gold, and the emerald shines ? Thy ever bounteous hand, O God ! Scatters rich treasures 'neath the sod ; The glittering diamond feasting the sight, Fit jewel for monarchs, both pure and bright. Nor less appropriate the form to adorn. Where meekness and kindness, blest virtues, are worn ; Methinks this clear gem, in its brightness unshrouded, Were like the young heart by sorrow ne'er clouded. 56 THE HARP OF COLNE. And, indeed, aught so beauteous shining in light A simile lovely presents to the sight ; Though often the wealthy and great they adorn, 'Tis not to them the resemblance is borne. When Faith and bright Hope are with Charity met, In a being like this the diamond is set ; These ever are virtues which all must revere. Like diamonds in darkness, they're sparkling and clear. Anon I turn where vast forests arise And stretch their huge branches towards the skies. Where the foot of man seldom or never hath been. Where the wild beasts range their native scene. Free and strong is the lion's bound, And his roar seems to shake the solid ground ; While the tiger's fierce and flashing eye. Seems every danger to defy. Where the elephant moves with stately tread, And the serpent is coiled in his slimy bed; And the birds amidst the forest trees. Are singing their songs to the evening breeze ; Hark ! the burning mountains groan. As if a whole nation in bondage did moan ; Or as fire, earth, and air, on the whirlwind's car. Were mingled in strife and in savage war. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 57 Locked in the earth by her strong fetters bound, Chained in by the sofid and mountainous ground, Till in ages collecting, though deeply immersed. Together uniting, its coniines they burst. A SCENE IN POMPEII. 58 THE HARP OF COLNE. While rivers of molten lava rolled Their course down the mountain's side they hold ; As when Herculaneum and Pompeii in sight, Lay outstretched beneath the treacherous height Of the mountain, which furnished for them a tomb, Burying the cities in aslies and gloom. All went on ; naught told of the doom that awaited, In the circus they fought, some with triumph elated. While others, how awful ! had fallen and bled. By the foemen o'er-mastered, lay cold and dead ; Little they thought, the unpitying throng. Of the fate which awaited the doom of the strong. Else had the crowd, which looked on with delight, Seemed to the gazer a terrible sight. As hurried along in a chariot of flame, Destruction and death from the mountain-side came. And when it ceased, where the cities so late. That lay stretched in ease ? What now was their fate ? Immured in a living and fiery tomb. Late the scene of gay crowds, now of death and gloom. Some rushed to the ocean's rolling wave. The treacherous billows glad to brave ; It seemed as if vengeance and destruction dire, Were throned on the mountain vomiting fire. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 59 Generatioils have risen, have fallen and gone, Since the light of day on the cities hath shone ; Now freed from the tomb, where their secret they keep, It is as if all did but peacefully sleep. But let ten thousand storms sweep their ashes away. And lay them in depths that have never seen day ; At the sound of the trumpet the dead shall awake, When earth's deep foundations in terror shall shake. When lightnings dart and thunder rolls. And horror strikes all sinful souls, The blood-red sun withdraws his light. And the Judge of man appears in sight. Then every nation, tribe, and tongue. Shall give account of deeds they've done, Earth shall give back her sons long dead. And thousands rise from ocean's bed. Jesus, who from Thy throne on high. Left that bright Home for us to die ; Hear us, O Lord, in mercy hear, Thou who hast said, " Thy saints are dear." All who have left this earthly sphere The last loud trumpet's sound shall hear ; The King who sat upon His throne — The slave who died unseen, alone. 6o THE HARP OF COLNE. No rank can save ; but all must wait And hear the Judge pronounce their state ; The doom decreed must last for ever, For bliss or woe, it endeth never. Hear us while yet by grace divine We still are spared. Oh ! make us Thine ; Like children at Thy feet may we Humbly learn to walk with Thee. View Thee in the manger sleeping ; And Bethlehem's star the night-watch keeping ; Or watch Thee, sympathising, kind. Make whole the sick, restore the blind. Christ, who for our eternal good, Did'st bear our sins in sweat of blood ; Hear, oh hear ! our solemn prayer. That Heaven may be our bliss to share. None knew Thine agony ; none wept ; Even Thy disciples calmly slept. Oh ! love that brought Thee from the skies ! Behold ! the Saviour bleeds and dies ! Then the sun withdrew his light, Nature convulsed was hid in night ; The veil was rent, the earth did quake. Saints that had slept from death did wake. THE WONDERS OF CREATION. 6i 1* ' Generations have risen, have fallen and gone, Since the light of day on these cities hath shone.' 62 THE HARP OF COLNE. Oh see Him rising from the grave : All, all is done lost man to save ; See Him withdraw from mortal eyes, Ascend His throne above the skies. Redemption's work is fully done By God's own well-beloved Son ; Our Mediator intercedes. For sinful man forgiveness pleads. Be Thou with us when death is near. Ere Thou in judgment dost appear ; Be with us when the heavenly throng Upraise the glad Hosanna song. THE PAST. 63 THE PAST. CENES of the past, where lurk ye ? In memory still I see The joyous smile of youth, The smile which spoke a heart of truth. Too soon the tender bud will feel the bhght. And sin allure the dazzled sight — Dazzled by the gold we treasure : Alas ! too soon we taste the pleasure Which passes ever in the use. The sin we see not, grown obtuse, The subtle spirit knows full well How to throw the fatal spell. 64 THE HARP OF COLNE. He lures us on. " No flagrant crime," Whispers he, " fair youth, is thine ; Nay, drink of every pleasure gay, While you are young while yet you may. 'Tis time enough, when age appears, To sober down ; youth knows no fears ! And why, when all around are gay. Why lingerest thou ? Come, youth, and say. 'Tis thus deceit doth on us call, And in the snare how many fall ! But yet I view the scenes gone by. And watch them with delighted eye. When childhood gazed on all with pleasure, And every toy seemed a rich treasure ; When every daisy pleased my sight, The varied flowers gave mc delight. And every nosegay that I culled At eve seemed by the zephyrs lulled ; For, wondrous to my youthful sight. The tiny flowers were closed for night. And all that looked so gay, so bright. Had shut their colours from my sight ; It seemed as if the murmuring deep Lulled the loved flowers and me to sleep. THE PAST. 65 For scarce I marked their slumbering look Ere I of balmy sleep partook ; I see the fond mother who led me away To the downy couch for rest till day. Awakened by the light of Aurora's beam, I went to the flowers which at night I had seen, And, lo ! all was gay as before it had been. For Flora had spangled the meadowy green. And the coy wildflowers spread their leaves To catch the dew and the morning breeze ; And Httle, ah ! little, did time foretell. That they would fade like a magic spell. And little did I, most thoughtless of all, Think old age o'er me ever would fall ; But soon came a trial, appearing so great, That nothing seemed a more cruel fate. I must go to school, and obedient be : The words " keep silence " seemed horror to me. But to school I went, and the trial soon passed. And perchance, I thought, it might be my last. For merrily glided my school-days by. And I think of them now with a smile and a sigh ; I sigh when I think of that happy employ, Which never again may be mine to enjoy. 66 THE HARP OF COLNE. Ah ! me, since then how time has gone by, It seems on the swiftest wings to fly ; I have looked again on that dear old spot, But a change has been there — 'tis the common lot ! I gazed all around the old schoolroom. There was nothing there but silence and gloom ; I looked for those who once shared my meal, But silence seemed here to have set her seal. No human form was now seen there. It seemed like the dwelling of time and care ; No books on the shelves filled with classic lore, All, all was gone, and I closed the door. It was pleasing to view the old walnut tree Where we sat and told tales of the bold and the free ; Scenes of the past from youth to age, Where lurk ye now ? On memory's page ! My playmates are gone I know not where : Perchance their eyes have been dimmed with care ; And some to a happier lot may be gone, Where all shines brightly their path upon. And some lie beneath the churchyard clay: May they live in the sunshine of endless day. With the beams of love divine around. Where care and sorrow no more are found. THE PAST. 67 Where the spirit is free from the body's frail chain, Through the merits of Jesus sweet rest may we gain ; Where no sorrow can reach to the peaceful shore, Where the bark is at rest to be tossed no more. Scenes of the past come back to my mind : The friends now parted that once were kind, Some faces in childhood familiar to me. Are gone far away on the billowy sea. And some are grown cold as though they ne'er knew The faces of those who so oft met their view ; Ah ! youth knew not, it could not think this, From those on whose knee it oft played and would kiss. We here cannot call one thing our own, The more we love, it seems sooner flown ; I have looked on the wealthy, the great, and the good. All appear to have passed hke a swift rolling flood. I have watched the great sea ebb and flow with the tide. And each time it returns how many have died ; 'Tis the old that oft say, drawing nigh to the grave, There is no lasting comfort without Christ to save. Peace is in store, believer, for thee : Hold to the faith as the branch to the tree. Oh ! sinner, look out, and see from afar Destruction is mounting his terrible car. 68 THE HARP OF COLNE. Youth, manhood, and age, look fearful around, Rest not till the blessed Redeemer you've found ; Look back on the past, to its vice bid adieu, And, following on, keep your Saviour in view. Rest not, push on to the mark that is set. Nor stop till in heaven your Saviour you've met ; Look back on the scenes from youth up to age, Where lurk they now, but on memory's page ? ^^-^^ THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND. 69 The subject of this poetry is Herringswell, under the name of THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND, Because it is a sandy soil. Supposed question. HAT did you find 'Mid those acres of sand ? Say the lovers of the town, In that dull, lonesome land ? 70 THE HARP OF COLNE. Answer. I'll tell you of its children So loyal to the sand, Rejoicing in their home, Breathing gladness o'er the land. Oh, how they love it. The pines and the larch, As the violet the shade 'Neath the hedgerows of March. Stately firs rear their heads. Gently bent with the cone. Giving health, shade, and gladness, Exuding ozone. And birch, white lady of the wood. In silvery mantle dressed. In spiral dignity looks down Upon her sister's vest. Adorned in silver tissue, too. She veils her modest face ; She weeps, but weeping, bears the palm Of chastity and grace. And the sycamore loves well her home- She, too, in sand rejoices ; Birds on her clustering branches join In music of glad voices. THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND. 71 And the wild rose, vith her chastened blush, Woo'd by the breath of June, Sends you a kiss on the zephyr's wing Laden with sweet perfume. Pride of the hedgerow, decked the while In the grace of our native flower. Or the moss-grown trunk of some fallen tree, O'er which she flings her bower. 72 THE HARP OF COLNE. While the laughing poppy, full of fun, With its round dark, winsome eye. Full of mischief, flaunts its crimson vest 'Mid the corn and the growing rye. Like a gipsy child you are carried away With its elfish, merry laugh. And you're taken in by the garish thing, And join in its ready chaff. As kissed by the sun She waves in the wind, And the old farmer drives Nearly out of his mind. The blue and white convolvulus Broadcast bestrew your path, Making dainty your footsteps — Such power beauty hath. Laying hold of the wheat. To support her tender frame, She puts her trust, regardless Of storm, or wind and rain. And the pretty golden moss. With his coat spread to the sun. Wants no shade from its rays, But delights in the fun. THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND. 73 And wild thyme, its gentle sister, In lilac dress arrayed, Looks like a village maiden Clad in this softer shade. Such a shadowy haze of flowers Invites you all around ; A green and yellow carpet Of wild flowers on the ground. They make me glad and joyous, These tiny things so bright ; They whisper of a far-off land, These children of the light. Almighty Father, these are Thine, Fed by Thy bounteous hand ; Thy smile for them the sunshine. That glads the little band. When eve sets in, and day declines. Each flower is closed at night, Fann'd by winds and bathed in dew. Nor fear they aught of blight. But the quickened breath Of the coming morn. Tripping down from the heavens, On a sunbeam borne. 74 THE HARP OF COLNE. Caught them napping with a kiss, So she just wakes them up, Startled into Hfe With a jewel in each cup. Which cradled in the flower, Or sparkling on the leaf. Mirrors radiantly the sunshine. For a few moments brief. Bright jewel, as the birds Carol forth their morning lay. In a swoon of delight, Thou dost melt and die away. While the swallow on the wing, 'Mid these children of the sand, Darts like a fabled thing. From some far distant strand. Trusting with her nest Some barn or cottage eave. She builds and rears her young. And returns, nor asks your leave. And what are these aerial sprites, Flitting, bounding, free as air ? They mock the eye, and build their nests. Little squirrel, how you dare ! THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND. 75 Climb the trees, flit and jump, Crack our nuts as if in fun, Just while we are looking. Off you nimbly run. And the rabbits on the heath. In numbers they abound. The joys of home for them. Their burrows underground. When riding on his pony. Comes the tenant farmer round, Poor Bob sets his foot On the treacherous bit of ground. 76 THE HARP OF COLNE. Alas ! in vain he tries To escape an awkward jerk ; 'Tis clear the rabbits here Have been busy at their work. Like the poppies they laugh At all his measured schemes, While they chuckle o'er his corn fields, He of destruction dreams. And the sage old crows, so handsome, Have watched the tenter's track, And down upon the wheat have pounced, Just as he turned his back. Black-coated rogues, no place for you. Off for the worms in the fallow ; Your wicked eyes will pick them out, Hear you not the tenter's holloa ? Worms, beware. The elfish lot Will pounce down On the very spot. Know they have Keen eyes to view. The hole that is The home for you. THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND. '^'] There sits the timid hare, Far in the open ground, Hers is a hapless fate. No friend, alas ! is found. And she hath no defence, All foes her path beset ; Speed is given, but in haste She rushes in the net. See how the dog gives chase As the cruel boy just whistles, Who must needs amuse himself Whilst his donkey feeds on thistles. Is there naught 'tween thee and heaven Will give pleasure without pain ? Yes, hide thy head, thou thoughtless one. Does mercy plead in vain ? Do not hurt when thou canst help it. There's pain enough on earth ; Thou little knowest if thou spare. To what joy it will give birth. For blessed are the merciful, Mercy they shall obtain ; 'Tis His own word who sendeth rain. On just and unjust all the same. 78 THE HARP OF COLNE. O, rustic ! here I leave thee, Thankful for the wings Of fancy, free to dwell On far more gentle things. I see the moss just stealing o'er. And hiding all defects, Cushioning in dainty green The flaws the eye detects. All loveliness and gentleness So lowly on the ground. The eye might pass thee unobserved. But the softened tread hath found. Like true, and sweet humility And charity thy way, To nourish and to cherish All in Rf!,e and in decay. The pretty hedgerows here stand out, And rejoice in ever green P"ir hedges, neat and trim ! Living memories once there seen. And there is just one favoured spot Where saffron loves to grow, Close by a fir plantation. Its pretty home I know. THE CHILDREN OF THE SAND. 79 What a charming sight ! I've seen the grass o'erspread With a gauzy glassy covering— The gossamer, a web. The sun shone o'er it, and the dew Just decked the fragile thing ; And fairly might it challenge man. More wondrous aught to bring. It was a chastened pleasure. To see the jewels of the morn Bespangle the gossamer — And the spider's web adorn. Oh ! children of the sand, Oft I'll see your pleasant faces ; When time and space divide us, I'll think of all your graces. And I'll cast a lingering look When I pass by where ye dwell, For my tongue will not utter The parting word, Farewell ! 8o THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES ON A HEN AND CHICKEN DAISY, GIVEN TO ME BY MY FRIEND, LADY CULLUM. ISHING to give joy, She gave it rich and pure, A gentle flower in her employ, Which to scenes long past did lure My fancy. ON A HEN AND CHICKEN DAISY. 8l I stood again a child Fled back as 'twere, and lo ! By that flower beguiled, Lived in long years ago. Ah ! gentle gift ! When last I saw thy like, Time had not laid her hand on me : The hours would strike, But then they had no key But joy. Rare flowers I've seen, Colours gay and bright ; But to me they did not mean What was in thy pure white, The past ! There were the forms long gathered in, That brightened every hour With love, as thou dost fling Around thy young ones' fostering flower, Thy care. Thy work well done. Thou hast the curtain lifted, Thou too art changed. Thy children lifeless round thee ranged, All gone ! 82 THE HARP OF COLNE. Yes, writ by a thousand things, Wafted on every gale, Every moment on fleeting wings. On the surging sea comes the oft-told tale, This is a world of change. It is, but not a whit less fair. For there's joy in every heart ; Blest be those who make their care. To unlock the treasure, pure joy impart. She tried, My friend, to give me pleasure ; And doing so the well-spring hid. Bubbled up in joyous measure. Pretty daisy at her bid, A potent spell was thine. It spoke to another heart, Woke sweet and pleasant dreams : Whispered thus, " Do thou impart Such bright and gentle gleams," For love is born of God. HOPE. 83 HOPE. OPE, brilliant gem of our path below, That sparkles so beauteous and bright, Say where is the mortal that holds thee not dear ? Where is the breast not illum'd by thy Ught ? 84 THE HARP OF COLNE. Though all be dark still thou art there, Holding the future in view ; Though dangers encompass us round like a flood, 'Tis thou wouldst the conflict renew. Bright promise of future that hovers before, Like the leaf driven on by the blast, The friend of us all, the rich and the poor, We cling to thee always the last. Where is the warrior that enters the field His country's foemen to fight. But is aided by hope that urges him on. With the laurel crown always in sight ? Where is the mariner on the wild ocean. By billowy breakers tossed. But feels when in danger without thee to cheer. Even life itself must be lost ? When the sea-fowl seems mocking the greatness of man, As it rides on the heaving wave. Where thunders roar and Hghtnings dart. And the elements ask, " Who shall save ? " Still 'tis hope bids us look through the deepening gloom, And lean on the One who can save ; Hope bids us trust in a mightier arm That can calm the wild raging wave. HOPE. 85 'Tis flattering hope strews the path with flowers ; But alas ! that is far too bright, For see on the stem of yon blushing rose, The thorns stand thickly in sight. Yes, though hope cheers us on still it oft deceives, And glitters like dewdrops at morn ; Too frail, too bright, they are chased by the sun, And die with its early dawn. But there's one true hope that fadeth not, The bliss it endeth never ; We cannot paint the joy too bright. Of a life with God for ever. The redeemed alone can enter heaven, Though Christ died all to save ; Father, we thank Thee, that we know There is hope beyond the grave. And piercing through its narrow bonds Behold a welcome there, Of one who in his mercy says, "Fear not, for I am near." Hope from this lower world looks up, Through faith descries the prize ; 'Tis hope makes every burden light. And points us to the skies. 86 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES ON THE DEATH OF MY NIECE, CHARLOTTE HAIGH. Age 7 months and 3 weeks. HOU didst smile on thy mother, sweet innocent thing, And round thee how fondly her arms she did fling ; But alas ! in a moment how soon joy is blighted, For death's arrow flew and on thee alighted. No groan told the tale thou wert struggling for life. Nay it seemed as thou willingly gave up the strife, For thy features were calm as though thou wert sleeping, And thy fond mother clung to thee, sobbing and weeping. ON THE DEATH OF MY NIECE. 87 She clasps thee again to her heaving breast, No smile met her gaze, thou seem'dst calmly to rest ; " Oh ! take not my child," in her anguish she cried, " Say 'tis not dead yet," she doubtingly sighed. Snowdrops were blooming ; some were laid on thy breast, And, could anything look more lovely, more bless'd ! Farewell ! oh, farewell ! thou art gone from us now. No sorrow or trouble e'er hung on that brow. Too lovely for earth, thou wert shown for a time. Then summoned to bloom in a happier clime ; And faith sees thee borne on angel wings. And pictures thee praising the King of Kings. Pillowed on high, to be tossed no more, For care never reaches the heavenly shore ; Oh, let us not weep, for the death pang is o'er. And we would not wish thee to pass through it more. Thou hast bid all farewell in this region of care, Thou wilt never return its troubles to share ; Calm was thy passage through this world of gloom. And soon thou wert called in a brighter to bloom. 88 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING IN EGYPT, ON THE NILE. We had a short service one Sunday on board, only once. I should greatly have liked to have had it regularly, but found little help in this way. ET Egypt's temples all around Hear prayer and praise to God resound; Let Nile's dark waters carry it To all who still in darkness sit. SUNDAY MORNING ON THE NILE. 89 Waft it, ye winds, to every shore, Your mission tell at every door Of mercy, God-like in its flow. And only such as God could show. A mother a young Infant bore. Once seeking refuge on thy shore. Mourn, Syria ! mourn ! and weep, Mount Zion That gentle Babe was Judah's lion ! Oh ! had'st thou known thy day of grace. And He who sought a resting-place ! He who for thee lone vigils kept. And bitter tears of sorrow wept. Let this Sabbath morning bear Tribute of thanks in praise and prayer ; And let the heart with it ascending Bear love and truth, a holy blending. And oh ! Thou God of sovereign grace. Behold in love our fallen race ! And, for the sake of him who died. Be evermore our Friend and Guide. The blessed word to Egypt send, And graciously Thy spirit lend ; And let all nations stand complete In Christ befoie the judgment seat. SUNDAY MORNING ON THE NILE. 91 Then praise Him, every Christian voice ; Praise Him, laud Him, and rejoice ; Praise Him, holy and adored, Lamb of God, the Sovereign Lord ! 92 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES WRITTEN AFTER VISITING THE ISLAND OF PHILCE, NEAR THE FIRST CATARACT UP THE NILE. HILCE, farewell! ne'er more may I behold thee, But in memory's page I'll fold thee ; For me a beauteous sight When pondering o'er the embers bright Of winter's dying fire. AFTER VISITING PHILCE. 93 I'll see a very far-off land, As struck by some enchanter's wand, Who feared the scene would fading mock So cased it in the granite rock, Whose giant arms enfold it. I'll see a temple all decaying. To nature fast its tribute paying, Lethe's streams are sweeping o'er, To land it on oblivion's shore. What are man's works at best ? Fair Isle, I'll see thy mirrored shore, In Nile's dark waters evermore. No more ! no more ! the enchanter's rod, On rock, on sand, on every sod, 'Tis writ Thy Maker's name was God. 94 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES WRITTEN AFTER CROSSING THE SIMPLON. 1 K 1 HE anemone in *yellow dress the mountain top illmnes, The crocus, too, in vest of white, displays its tender blooms, And lovely as the skies of blue. Forget-me-not is blooming too. ' This flower, usually bright scarlet, here blooms yellow, at least I took it to be a yellow anemone. AFTER CROSSING THE SIMPLON. 95 Smiling whilst winter snows lay there, A winding sheet, and oh ! so fair ! Yet still, these flowers how tender too. Gladly they smile, and grace the view. They trust Him, though the icy tombs. Stand nigh, and death around them looms ; And so may we for all time trust. Our Father's care, the ever just. Nor be dismayed, whate'er betide. Because for us our Lord hath died ; Like these bright flowers we may advance. Nor fear sin's crushing avalanche. 96 THE HARP OF COLNE. A WEEK WITH NATURE AT BOURNEMOUTH IN THE UNUSUALLY SEVERE WINTER OF 1880. THE SNOWSTORM. OFTLY, so softly, comes change over all, As chasing each other the snowflakes fall ; The sleeper awakes not, the watch-dog is mute, Sleep, blest of the Father, to man and to brute. A WEEK WITH NATURE. 97 Hush ! though dreams never will tell A tithe of the beauties that morning befell ; Was the earth entranced, or grown hoary with age ? Nay, she's waiting the bridegroom with cold stony gaze. With fir trees draped in white bridal attire. And the evergreens, too, as if by desire ; The trunks of the trees ventured out on one side. Though snow-wreaths tried hard their gaunt features to hide. The yew and the thorn were just hidden low, And the cherry-cheeked berries they dare not show ; Though the holly, defiant with prickles, would vie. But gave up at last as the wind heaved a sigh. And the laurel to earth bent lowly her head. Saying, " If he come not I soon shall be dead ;" And such a soft carpet was laid over all. That the squirrel was frightened to show a footfall. And the robin, just blushing all over his breast. Hopped spryly and chirped as he gazed on the rest ; But just at that moment the bridegroom was seen, Friendly and gracious and winning his mien. He has risen, and comes on his way from afar, And travels o'er space in his gorgeous car. With his harness of gold. On a pathway untold. 98 THE HARP OF COLNE. None may look on his course so dazzling and bright, Strong eyes will grow dim with the brilliant sight ; Yes, he comes, wooing gently the earth the while, And her heart melts away in his soft gentle smile. And her tears turn to dewdrops and gleam on his path : See, he kisses the holly and laughs at its wrath ; And the drooping laurel just catches his eye — He greets her so warmly in passing by. As rising the last tear drops from her leaves, Refreshed and gladdened she no longer grieves ; And the grass looks up from his pathway green. Where fairy white footsteps so late had been. But time flies ; he is going, he hies him away ; How changed is all nature late looking so gay ! He kissed every branch as it hung so fair. And left it in tears, as though full of care. Then, retreating, he smiled, as he caught a fresh toy, And the red berries peeped, fairly blushing with joy ; But he's gone, and the golden clouds tell of his way, As he smiles a good-bye in his last sunny ray. Earth grieves, but, in grieving, she's not in despair. She weeps, but she whispers, "I'll dress with more care." ''^ Pit-a-pat went the rain-drops like tears all next day. Indulging in grief with skies cold and grey. * The day of rain. A WEEK WITH NATURE. 99 One wondered how earth would meet the May Queen, Though the firs and the laurels looked stately in green ; But eve comes, and brings with it cold biting frost, And nature looks sharp, as if counting the cost. Vicious and hard, as dark shuts her in, Silence with mystery struggHng to win ; J Ah ! but the morrow a picture revealed. For the garden was jewelled, and so was the field. A vesture so charming no art could design. No mortal fingers such lace-work combine ; From a fringe of chaste whiteness Hung crystals of brightness. } The hoar frost. lOO THE HARP OF COLNE. As if spirits of air had borne on their wings A glamour of beauty, and frosted all things ; Earth sighed no more, not a teardrop was seen. Triumphant she looked like a vestal queen. And waiting the bridegroom with pale, pensive face. The rime just veiled her, and added new grace. He comes, and well worth his coming afar ; Even his searching glance finds nothing to mar. The white dame of the woods was grown whiter still. And tall Wellingtonia, crowning the hill. Had Egeria napping the giant caught ? For he's just like a fountain in jewels wrought. And determined old holly will not be outdone. So she mounts a white frill, and takes up the run ; Araucaria lights well, her long arms are gemm'd, And the fringe of her robe with silver is hemmed. And the pine woods afar o'er the hills and the chines Stand stately and grand in soldierly lines ; E'en the bridegroom himself seems fluttered to-day ; He just peeps through the veils of the bridal array. And starts at the beauty that there meets his sight — So lovely, so gentle, in purest white ; He fairly gives in, his own glory outshone. But earth sits in gloom now that Phcebus has gone. A WEEK WITH NATURE. lOI She wraps her more closely and thickens her veil, But you see through its folds she is woefully pale ; 'Twas the rime appalled him, he hastened away ; 'Twas the strength of her weakness that kept him at bay. He languidly smiles, leaves a chilling farewell. Like a baffled thing 'neath some mystic spell ; But hq?up on the morrow and comes in full glee : Hush ! list ye, that rustle beneath each tree. All the festal scene is fading away ; Trails the bridal train in the miry way; Oh, earth ! ever so, the most lovely things Fade soonest, and vanish on gossamer wings. 'Tis over, all over, a dream of the past, A glamour of beauty too lovely to last ; The more joyous he looks the more fatal his spell, The gems drop away and tears only tell.* All is gone- — yes, gone like a creature alarmed : Naught left us of all that so recently charmed ; We wake on the morrow with nature aghast. Hurled here and hurled there by the hurricane's blast. t Old Neptune is ruffled, of no avail He drives his white steeds in the teeth of the gale. Then he lashes the shore With impetuous roar. • The thaw. • f The gale. I02 THE HARP OF COLNE. The pine woods answer, crippled and swayed — Alas, for the aged, the weak, and decayed ! The ivy is flustered, and torn from its post, And nature, alarmed, knew not what to fear most. But e'en now it is past, there is only a sigh. Just a gentle reminder the storm has passed by ; What comes on the morrow ? a quiet, grey morn, Looking beaten and sad, and somewhat forlorn. But the zenith of day. As the morn passed away, Brought joy ; ah ! so quickly combine Things grave and gay, with fleeting time. Such a sunset that eve gave to our view, The heavens in beauty were shining anew ; A dark background of clouds outlined in gold. And fleecy surroundings dreamily rolled. Far away their fair sisters caught just a ray. Radiant in golden setting they lay ; And the waves raised no crest, But on calm glassy breast. Gave back to heaven, in shining light, A pathway of silver, alas ! too bright Long to linger, 'tis fading now, All is changing fast, time doth not allow. A WEEK WITH NATURE. IO3 We may not gaze long, the clouds they are rent, The gold it is gone, and the silver is spent ; But memory has treasured and folded that sight, To look at again on some lone wintry night. *Next day, so wooing the south wind came, Gentle and kind, almost softening pain. And spring just peeped out, Though coyly with doubt. But the birds sang so brightly. She tripped it so lightly. Earth smiled and whispered, " Again I'll be gay. For a dance with the bridegroom, the coming May." ' The coming spring. 104 THE HARP OF COLNE. M f^ml /^™M /^W i ROME. ]\'iilleu about 1841. MPERIAL Rome, what art thou now, Vain mistress of the world ? But ruins of thy former state, Thy crumbling towers tell thy fate. Where are thy noble senators ? Idlers, can ye answer this ? Yes, look ! 'tis vain, look all around. Your answer is beneath the ground. ROME. 105 Oh, vanity of vanities ! We have nothing here our own ; Thy strongest men grim death has grasped, And in his icy chains there clasped. Where, where thy bravest warriors ? None boasted nobler men ; A veteran of the Roman blood How many a gory siege has stood ! Yes, thy brave ones are gone ; Yet we look on the ground And honour the dust which their ashes contains: E'en now their once noble genius remains. io6 THE HARP OF COLNE. The following lines were written during a snowstorm in winter. OME, Spring, and bring thy little flowers, Come, April, with thy vernal showers ; Come, feathered tribe, with sweet- est lay, And cheer us through the sunny day. Come, bring the daisy and blue- bell, And spangle o'er each glade and dell With blue and gold, with white and green : And more than all, the rose, their queen. INVITATION TO SPRING. I07 All nature now looks cold and dead, The shroud seems hovering o'er her head, Then falls and covers close and light With mantle of the purest white. Come, take the icy chain away, And let us welcome smiling May ; Bring us again the hum of bees. The winds low murmuring through the trees. Bring here the sportive butterfly To play through summer's sun, then die ; Bring the industrious little ant That lays a store for winter's want. Wake up the dormant drowsy fly That sleeps till summer's sun is nigh ; Invite the spider now to fling His thread of gauze across the ling. The lambkins, too, let them rejoice, And welcome Spring with bleating voice ; So joyous in their short-lived day. And happy, harmless in their play. Emblems of innocence, and of Him Whom the Jews, their Lord and King, Condemned to die ; as a lamb He was led. Patient he suffered, and bowed His head. io8 THE HARP OF COLNE. Who is that Being ? none other than He Who stilled the billows of the raging sea ; Who is that One ? 'tis He — He alone, Who gave His life for sin to atone. The seasons God sends, the day and the night, He alone gives the universe life and light, Showering on all from His bounteous hand, Rich stores of blessing on every land. Written when about 15 years old. no THE HARP OF COLNE. Welcome are thy dancing sunbeams, Welcome are thy brightest gleams ; Every leaf springs forth to meet thee, Every voice is tuned to greet thee. Now the stormy tempests o'er. Winter's iron grasp no more Shall hold us with his stubborn hand. But flee to some far distant land. Now the brooks, no longer held By winter's icy chain compelled To wait until the cheerful sun Should bid them on their course to run. Now gently purling clear and bright. They sparkle in the sunny light, Lave on their banks the sweet wildflowers. Refreshing them like fruitful showers. And listen to the lowing herds, They join their welcome with the birds ; The bee with busy hum all day Welcomes thee, glad smiling May. The butterfly with fluttering wing Has come to life with thee, fair spring ; The fly has caught the sunny ray. And on her wing is sporting gay. WELCOME TO SPRING. Ill But ah ! take care, the spider view, His thread of gauze is spread for you, And scarce chill winter from the sky. Ere you within his maze may die. The ant her toilsome labour plies. To fill her garner how she tries ; That winter may not her affright. She toils from morning until night. Laburnums hung like golden showers. With beautiful and clustering ilowers ; And the fruit trees promise soon to bear A bounteous store for the coming year. The blessings of God's gracious hand. Are freely spread in every land ; Shall man be silent in Thy praise. When birds will laud with tuneful lays ? We thank Thee when in fruitful fields. We see the crops Thy goodness yields ; The grain we sow with faith in Thee, Hoping the harvest rich may be. Thy word says while earth shall endure, " Seed-time and harvest shall be sure ;" Mercy and truth in Thee combine, And gracious promises are Thine. 112 THE HARP OF COLNE. We thank Thee for our friends around, Their voices are a welcome sound ; Their presence doth our pathway cheer, For blighting death has not been here. We thank thee for our present health, Come not before it sordid wealth ; Only the sick, the ailing know, When this is gone, how deep the blow. We thank Thee for returning spring. Bearing sweet zephyrs on her wing ; The chorus join, on earth, in air. Spring general welcome seems to share. Written when about 15 years old. ODE TO SOLITUDE. 113 ODE TO SOLITUDE. LEST be the hours of soHtude, When the fettered spirit chained by unceasing round of daily duties Lays aside its cares, and traverses earth, air, and skies, Ah ! and pierces heaven for very joy That for one Httle morsel of time 'Tis free from the trammels that enthral it. Chain it they cannot, for the immortal will Takes flight unbidden,! And convinces man in its sublime high soarings. Of his once godlike nature. And unbelievers sink aghast, appalled at this self-ratifying pledge Of their own immortality. 114 THE HARP OF COLNE. 'Blest be the hours of solitude.' ODE TO SOLITUDE. II5 What can contain the heaven-born inmate of this poor clayey Temple ? Can its own frail bonds ? Fret not, dust and ashes, with the question ; Move but thy feeble frame o'er one short given space. Whilst doing this Behold the spirit o'er earth has flapped its wings. Fluttered o'er ocean's vastness, crossed the lone, deep sea ! Paused on the mountain's summit, looked on the polar skies. Kissed the bright flowers of sunshine, pierced night's bespangled arch. And talked with Heaven's bright cherubim. Lo ! it met thee,, tortoise-like; thy beaten track scarce journeyed. And once more abode a few, a very few, short moments. Then, like a fiery steed in a timid woman's hand, broke forth. Can sleep bind up and chain the immortal soul ? As soon can ocean's tideway cease to ebb and flow Where its great Maker wills it. Can darkness hold thee ? (born heir of Heaven, through mercy infinite). No more than manacles the ocean bound, by Canute's order tried. Then blessed, thrice blessed, is solitude that bids the immortal Take its wingless, boundless flight, unchained, unclogged By the weary trammels of this care-worn world. Treasure it, ye who love to read in nature's book, and Learn her brightest lessons written in Hues, deciphering which Treasures are found, and mines of untold wisdom. Il6 THE HARP OF COLNE. Whether beneath the earth, whose sand holds golden treasures, Or the vast arch that shuts out heaven's portals, Trees, birds, or flowers — nature's gentle children. Strewed by the gracious Hand of infinite goodness To adorn and beautify our path, loading the zephyrs with a thousand sweets. Seek solitude and treasure it, ye who vv^ould learn to know yourselves. This the great lesson, this the task, how difficult. To know thyself. O, man ! whosoe'er thou art. Try not the wholesome study midst the crowd. 'Tis not learnt there. Make solitude thy friend ; To her (the nursing mother of repentance) Thou wilt unbosom the secret sin thou darest not tell thy fellow. And oh ! blest hour, when the fainting spirit, worn and weary. Pours out its deep repentance, and asks mercy — Where the rich supplies ne'er fail — Of Him, the One great Mediator 'tween God and man — Christ Jesus. Oh ! solitude, how grand ! when in thy deep. Still, silent hold, the heart, apart from all Holds communion, the Finite with the Infinite, The creature with its God. CHRISTMAS DAY. 117 mm ^ LINES. WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1842. PARED again to commemorate that heavenly day, When the Saviour of man drove darkness away ; Like the gloom of night by the sunbeams dispersed, He overcame sin, and its iron chain burst. Il8 THE HARP OF COLNE. The Infant lay cradled, in the manger He slept, And Bethlehem's star the night watches kept : While monarchs were seated in luxury round, The Infant Redeemer in a manger was found By shepherds, who tended their flocks by night. The voice of the angels, proclaiming with might That love divine to man was revealed, And mercy's covenant for ever was sealed. Forget not, my soul, to hold sacred the day, When the Sa\-iour of man rolled darkness away. The chains were unbound and the prisoner set free, And redemption, poor sinner, is offered to thee. The light which broke forth on that heavenly morn Shines brighter and brighter as sun lights the dawn. Till the day which reveals to our wondering sight. That Jesus arrayed in glory and might. May we meet on that day, with the saints may we sing, Hallelujahs to Jesus, our Pleaveuly King ; When the song of Hosanna is raised in the sky. May we join with the sacred minstrels on high. FUTURITY. 119 FUTURITY. REAR abyss, hid from sight, Chaos, dark as blackest night, Mystery to none revealed, Future, thou art ever sealed ! Future ! mystic goddess thou That meddlest not with what is now, Always hovering on before. Beckoning to some unknown shore. Leading on we know not where, Be it peace or woe to share, We're following on we know not why, The past recalls a smile or sigh. I20 THE HARP OF COLNE. The present claims attention now, But we know not future (what art thou ?) Dark vista, hid from human mind, Perhaps in silence thou art kind ? For did we know what thou contained, Many a breast would now be pained. And many a smile would die away \\'ith thoughts upon a future day. Nay, what may be to-morrow is hid from view. Who can say, reader, what is destined for you ? Does futurity hold gay pleasures for thee. To sport like the sun on the dancing lea ? Or does she hold in her iron grasp Disease, which shall thy life unclasp ? How short is life which we hold so dear, And how oft the canker-worm doth sear ! The bud just opening in the spring. To-morrow's dawn its death may bring ! Yes, life (what art thou ?) frail as this, Thy pleasures scarce we seem to kiss Ere thou put off thy gay attire. Then, where's the tinsel we admire ? Gone, gone ! and such the life we hold. Unless we're of the Saviour's fold. FUTURITY. 121 If such we are, we nothing plead But faith in Christ, our steps to lead. Future ! of thee we nothing crave If Heaven is ours beyond the grave. We ask but this ; the magic spell Is conscience : yes, 'tis thou must tell When viewing death, our common doom, Does hope beam forth beyond the tomb ? Written when about 17 years old. 122 THE HARP OF COLNE. TIME HASTENS TO THE JUDGMENT. EARS upon years roll by, On rapid pinions time doth fly, And hurries to eternal doom, To brightest heaven, or darkest gloom, We creatures of the earth. No intermediate space is there, No friend the punishment to share, No water for the parched tongue ; All, all is over, time is done, The sentence it is passed. TIME HASTENS TO THE JUDGMENT. 123 No heaven-born message then is nigh, No ray of comfort from on high. In hell no hope can ever cheer, But dark despair and gloom are there. Mingled with groans and sighs. No peace is there, no rest within — All, all, is punishment for sin ; And conscience, who thy pangs can bear When hopes of pardon lurk not there Within the accusing breast ? Roll on, revolving time. All, all must fall before thy shrine : Alike the poorest, and the great, Perish when God has fixed the date Allotted here for man. There is a place beyond the grave. And Christ the ransom paid to save. There is a rest, who shall attain. Who shall count losses here but gain. For that bright world in Heaven ? Who the fight 'gainst sin shall wage. When Satan and his hosts engage. To turn us from the narrow way That leadeth to eternal day, To everlasting rest ? 124 THE HARP OF COLNE. 'Tis prayer must be our guardian shield, 'Tis faith must be our sword to wield, And Christ our leader gone before. Waits to give us evermore. Eternal happiness. There care and sorrow are unknown. Mixed with the joy there is no groan ; The rest is gained, the crown is given. Eternal rest. Oh ! this is Heaven, Peace, peace, for evermore. ON A LINE OF MUSIC. 125 ON A LINE OF MUSIC. Given to ms by a Friend noia at a distance. HAT line of music 'twas given to me By one whom I love, yet again ne'er may see ; It calls back past years, and fast fleet- ing time, And oft soothes my spirit with its sweetest chime. Its tone it is simple, yet sweeter to me Than the music of courts with bustle and glee ; It is sweeter, for why ? it was given to me By one whom I love, yet again ne'er may see. 126 THE HARP OF COLNE. By those who gave it perchance 'tis forgot, But I softly would whisper, perhaps it is not ? 'Tis one of fair Italy's own simple airs. Oft sung by the peasant while amid daily cares. But think not in Italy I heard that sweet line, 'Twas not given to me in that sunny clime ; I prize it the most for 'twas given to me, By one whom I love, yet may not again see. LINES ON TWO FLOWERS. 127 LINES ON THE TWO FLOWERS, ORGET-ME-NOT AND NO -NEVER The writer has more than once been told that a small flower, called " No-never," always grows close beside the Forget-me-not, which suggested to her the idea of the following lines ; but she does not know if the statement be true. What is oft the lover's dower ? A lovely, tiny, bright-eyed flower. So small that you might pass it by, And scarce know such a flower was nigh. 128 THE HARP OF COLNE. But look at it, and heaven's own blue Seems to have dropped with morning dew, To make it loveliest of its kind. To tell where'er 'tis sent the lover's mind. Look beside this tender flower. And close as drops in April shower. You'll find another small one too, 'Tis not of heaven's azure blue, But look, and close upon your view. You'll find a Httle white one too. The attendant of Forget-me-not. Where'er it grows, by fount or grot. On hill or dale, you ne'er can sever. Forget-me-not from its love, No-never. Written when about i6 years old. MY WILDERNESS. 129 LINES WRITTEN WHEN MY MIND WAS GRIEVED BY A PERSON CUTTING A BRANCH FROM A FAVOURITE TREE THAT SHADED A PORTION OF THE GROUNDS I TERMED MY WILDERNESS. HEY knew not how that woodland glade Spoke to my inmost mind ; They knew not how that shadow land, Great mysteries to me divined. It was the past, my childhood Lived o'er again in age. It gave me back in gentlest notes, A long unopened page. Oh ! how I love that wilderness. Words they will not tell, They cannot give what 'twas to me, That little wildflower dell. 130 THE HARP OF COLNE. 'Twas there I saw my happy home, On the bonnie banks of Colne ; 'Twas there I communed with the loved, Who've gone before me home. 'Twas there I turned when weary Of the world and all its ways ; 'Twas there my heart was lifted, Attuned my God to praise. For all about me woke the note, Ivy trailed the ground, The song of birds, the insects' hum, Made melody around. The moor-hen sought the water line, To form her island nest, The rabbits, squirrels, pheasants, Here all living things found rest. No, not an insect was disturbed. All nature welcomed here ; The timid hare, all startled game. Might rest, nor ever fear. The giant trees, with ivy twined. For me are fairy things ; This wilderness, this woodland glade, Such gladness round me flings. MY WILDERNESS. I3I But, ah ! I'd loved it perhaps too well, That path a poet's dream ; A lovely drooping tree shut in A perfect sylvan scene. A branch rejoicing, full of life, Kissed the ground in gladness ; When rude hands, and ruder minds. Turned all my joy to sadness. The uplifted axe, ah, cruel blovi^ ! Crippled, forlorn it stands. And now, instead of softened shade, I view the cultured lands And beauteous too. But not to me the chastened pleasant dream.' They've woke me ! all I asked was, Let it remain from here unseen. They laugh, believe not what I feel. And oh ! they ne'er can tell, They're made in such a different mould, They'll never love so well. But let me judge myself, not them, 'Twas I had loved too well ; I did not know how much I'd loved. Nor can I ever tell. 132 THE HARP OF COLNE. r^ — ^ ' jJ V i^. . ' V ' igi^t ' ?^^ay ;Tig^igw;BW»?"»>'''^~j?'^''y-«'"' MY WILDERNESS. I33 Ye were so much of joy to me, But now, alas ! alas ! I cannot shut the gay world out, I cannot from it pass. The burning sun now finds its way. Tears well out as I gaze ; I did not know I'd loved too well, God has the curtain raised, And shown me by that rude hand's stroke, An idol we may hold. And treasure too, not knowing it. Until He doth unfold. And show sin lieth at the door Clad in the robes of light. Ah ! me, 'tis true, I'd loved too well. My God has shown me right. The branch in life its mission had. So too in death its funeral knell Rings out, in withering accents clear. Love not earth's things too well. But love where nothing ever dies. With faith mount up and sing. I never Thee can love too well. My God, my Lord, my King. 134 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES FOR A CHRISTMAS CARD THAT HAD A ROSE PAINTED UPON IT, HOLDING A BLANK SCROLL FOR WRITING ON. OSE, convey this message for me, Shake thy leaves on the hand that opens thee, And perfume the room, such errand is thine, A\'ith love and good wishes for Christmas time. LINES FOR A NEW YEAr's CARD. 135 LINES FOR A NEW-YEAR'S CARD COMPOSED OF A CLUSTER OF LEAVES. ERE, there's a whispered greeting for thee In these coy httle leaves, but thou hast the key; They bear in a cluster from W. and E. A message of love and good wishes for thee. 136 THE HARP OF COLNE. i \ , If \,(,<\^'^SM',^; LINES TO THE SNOWDROP. ODEST flower that blooms in the winter wild When winds and storms rage around — Rude nurses for so fair a child, More welcome, so few else are found. LINES TO THE SNOWDROP. I37 Herald of returning and genial spring, With young April's sunshiny showers, Thou seem'st a joy o'er the sad heart to fling. When culling thy snow-white flowers. In this region of care, joys and sorrows will meet ; Even so, whilst looking on thee, Joys over me steal ; but how quickly they fleet, For thy beauty brings sadness to me. When last thou didst bloom, sweet innocence smiled. For a mother a loved one did own ; With a parent's fondness she gazed on her child ; But now she is mourning alone. Too tender far for this region of care ; The touch of this earth was too chill ; It is gone where such innocence bliss may share. For with God it is blossoming still. A few days and blighted on earth was thy bloom. Such is this dark world of ours ; Time hastening all to the dark cold tomb, Oft strikes first the loveliest flowers. Written when about 16 years old. The infant alluded to in the above lines was a dear little niece of mine, who died suddenly before she had attained her first year. 138 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES WRITTEN ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT. HERE was a stillness in that night More calm and holy to my sight Than all the busy world. The moon was like a ball of light, Fixed by Omnipotence and Might To guide the wanderer home. ON A MOONLIGHT LIGHT. I39 The water, like a mirror bright, Seemed to reflect the glory of night, For it caught the faint ray of the moon. Each flower had closed its tender bud To wait until the morning should Wake from the drowsy night. Each bird had found its bough or nest, And seemed afraid to warble, lest It should disturb the sleep. For all things living seemed to doze, And all was hushed in calm repose ; Alone I seemed to gaze. A faint gleam in the casement shone ; I looked awhile, then all was gone : A cloud had shadowed o'er. Methought like manhood in his prime, He stands awhile, then stealthy time A cloud casts o'er his day. Written when about 17 years old. 140 THE HARP OF COLNE. FAREWELL. HAT is it that strikes like a funeral knell When we're parting from those that are dear ? It is the melancholy last farewell Which calls forth th' unbidden tear. It is the last farewell we hear, When years upon years are past, And with many a sigh and many a tear We call back that word ; 'twas the last. Though we're tossed on the billows of time, We forget not the last word — oh, never ! 'Tis engraven on memory's shrine : We have parted, but love — who can sever ? HUMAN LIFE. 141 O. /'-I-! ^^^^^P^ ^^^^1 "^ ^s^l^^^^L^^^H^^ ^«^^^jiHHpP' ^KrV •If HUMAN LIFE. ^jff^^^ EJECT me not, Muse ! > ^^^f The httle boon I ask ^ M^^^ yj Is that thou would'st aid me 0— Bullfl^^3 In this solitary task. W To tell the tale of woes That hang on human life : Its joys and sorrows to disclose, Its inward pain and strife. 142 THE HARP OF COLNE. Whereto shall I compare it ? A tossing to and fro, A dream, a breath, a shadow ? Methinks it seemeth so. The little bud just opening, In childhood's happy hour, Scarce sees the dawn of this bright world Ere clouds begin to lower. It seems like the vessel Which Neptune, in his wrath, The raging god awakes the deep, And casts it from its path. On angry waves she speeds her way, Till dashed on rock or sand. Then splits and casts her trembling crew — A despairing, hapless band ! Methinks this vessel is like life : All for awhile seems clear and bright, Till clouds arise and chase the morn. Then comes the dark and sombre night. Life is a thing of hopes and fears ; Time hastens on to death ; Who can stop his fleeting wing ? No creature that draws breath. HUMAN LIFE. I43 Compare it, if thou wilt, To objects far more gay. Is it like the butterfly That comes with sunny May ? See its wings of brightest shade, Dancing in the summer sun : Poor creature ! little dost thou know The winter soon must come. Then, Where's the gay, the sportive one, That playfully passed by ? I'll tell thee now the simile — It was but made to die. Was it not like the sprightly youth. Who sees but pleasure near ? Till chilly autumn comes at last The tender bud to sear. It was ; and scarce the joy is seen. Scarce known life's lofty task ; Ere she puts her allurements off. And lays aside the mask. Then what is she ? — a twinkling star, A visionary light, That pleases for a moment. Then vanishes from sight. 144 THE HARP OF COLNE. All that is bright below Must fade and pass away. Time is the enemy which brings E'en cities to decay. Life is a preparation For the world beyond the tomb, Which, unless we die in Christ, Is a world of endless gloom. Its trials are but sent. By a kind and gracious God, To wean us from this toilsome world With His correcting rod. Through every trial look, And see His ruling hand. Until He brings us safely To heaven's peaceful land. And though the powers of darkness Should tempt us with their wiles. What have we from them to fear If our Redeemer smiles ? Written when about 17 years old. '•m- HAPPINESS. 145 HAPPINESS. * "S ^m * " ^^^ Jf S^^g^ rf* *^H i'> ^8 U-^ sl8 'VE sought thee midst a thousand things, Thou seem'st to soar on golden wings, Hovering above all earthly things. Far, far away. I've sought thee midst the sweetest flowers. And found, too soon, that they Must pass away like summer showers — Made to fade away. I've sought thee midst the treasures Of this vain world below. Alas ! like earthly pleasures, Thou fadest ; it must be so. 146 THE HARP OF COLNE. But as in despair I lay, A book was open spread ; What was it ? Scarcely need I say, The Bible 'twas I read. And there I found true happiness — A plant of heavenly ground. I found in it the blissfulness. And heard the joyful sound. That happiness there was for man Beyond the grave and skies ; A peaceful resting-place for him Who trusts in God and dies. There is but one true source of joy : In heaven the spring is pure ; The sun shines forth without alloy, And time shall be no more. Writti'ii when about 15 years old' LINES TO A WEEPING WILLOW. 147 ^gl-f't'^r -■■ - •^^, LmES TO A WEEPING WILLOW PLANTED BESIDE AN INFANT'S TOMB. HY art thou ever weeping O'er that quiet tomb ? Is some loved young blossom sleeping, Nipped in its early bloom ? Weep on ; the mother, too, hath wept, When back to earth she gave Her firstborn : then of joy bereft ; Her hopes lay in the grave. 148 THE HARP OF COLNE. Weep on ; no other mourner's near, And wave thy drooping leaves ; But, mother, dry those falHng tears ; Can hope no picture weave ? In the arms of death thy infant lies : God takes but what He has given ; O, believe that beyond in those beauteous skies, The spirit rests cradled in heaven. THE RAINBOW. 149 THE RAINBOW. HE sun in his glory was sinking, His pathway radiant in gold, And unfurled was the beautiful bow- A glorious sight to behold ! Where the mighty arch spanned. The clouds seemed to lower ; A grand relief, mingling Majesty, mercy, and power. I50 THE HARP OF COLNE. In grandeur the sun Sent forth his beams of light, While the darkling clouds Seemed already clad in night. As we looked on the bow, From this earthly shade, We remembered the covenant Which with Noah was made. Written when about i6 years old. ALL HERE SUFFERS CHANGE. 151 ALL HERE SUFFERS CHANGE. H ! tell me not of pleasures here ; Where is the one that changes not ? Where is the smile not chased by the tear, From the throne to the peasant's cot ? Where are the beautiful leaves of spring That waved in the summer wind ? Where are the birds ? They have taken wing To some climate to them more kind. 152 THE HARP OF COLNE. A mantle, but not of that soft green hue, Is thrown o'er each herb, flower, and bush ; It has changed for a golden tint, it is true, But death's iron hand is near to crush. Methinks it is like the last moments of life. When the flush of consumption is seen on the cheek ; The more glaring colour has gained the strife. But death comes next its vengeance to wreak. Like the leaf on the stem, life's quivering thread Still trembles on the brink of the grave, Till the poisoned arrow's dart hath sped. Then, who the poor mortal shall save ? Now where are the many loved ones dear ? Fond memory 'tis thine to trace ; And many a time thou wilt start the tear. As we call back each much-loved face. But here, alas ! there is oft a change, The gordian knot to untie. For the look once so kind is now grown strange. Ah, memory ! thou call'st forth a sigh. How sweet the remembrance that can call back a friend Who loves us, though far, far away ; And treasured each message of friendship they send, The knot seems to tighten the farther they stray. ALL HERE SUFFERS CHANGE. I 53 But why do we fix our affections here, When heaven's our resting-place ? There autumn tint can never sear, Nor canker-worm deface. Beyond the grave, beyond the skies. There hushed is every moan ; Alike unknown are tears and sighs : 'Tis for the good alone. 154 THE HARP OF COLNE. A PRAYER ON THE CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. RINCE of a royal line, England's youthful heir, To-day called forth to join the Church, For thee we raise our prayer. May health and peace round thee be strewn, By God the King of kings ; May happiness around thee bloom, Borne down on angels' wings. Like dew which falls with breath of morn Upon the tender flowers. May heaven on thee her blessings pour In her most copious showers. A PRAYER. 155 May'st thou defend our holy faith With a true and zealous hand, That English hearts may bless thee In a happy, peaceful land. May long life be thy portion here, And when thy earthly reign is o'er, May angels wait, with outstretched wings, To bear thee to the peaceful shore — To heaven where care can never reach, ' Where crowns can never fade. Where endless lustre shall be thine. Unsullied by a shade. May happiness around thee shine ! Is every Briton's prayer. When life is past, and time is done, Be heaven thy bliss to share. 156 THE HARP OF COLNE. LINES ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. The Duke of Wellington was interred on the i8th of November, 1852. REAT Britain, mourn ! lament thy noble son ! England, thy duke, thy warrior, states- man gone, Methinks 't seems meet the rose should cease to blow. And nature's bosom wear the garb of woe. When back the portals of the tomb unfold To clasp the hero in relentless hold ; How shall I tell ? Words fail me for the story Of deeds emblazoned in resplendent glory. LINES ON WELLINGTON'S FUNERAL. 157 Deeds of renown that make a world to wonder : Calm, firm, collected midst the battle's thunder ; So great, so brave, the man all must deplore ; His deeds will live, though he is now no more. If e'er forgot, then England's dead in story : Britannia's boast is gone, her warrior's glory ; Tread softly ; earth is greater far this day : The dust of Wellington mingles with her clay. 158 THE HARP OF COLNE. MEMORY. ROM out the grave of time, O memory, Review the past, for you for ever gone. As years steal o'er, 'tis sweet to spend some fleeting moments In contemplating its joys and sorrows. Then call back, O memory ! as none save thou can'st do, The happy days of childhood, the playmates of our youth. Who can tell the mirth and joy of such an hour. When strolling forth where grew the woodbine and wild rose. In some flowery, quiet dingle, made merry by the voice of childhood. As seated on the greensward round each told their tale, And gaily talked of future, strewing the path with flowers, Forgetting what might intervene ? MEMORY. 159 'Tis one of childhood's joys to gild the future with delights, Picturing bright days to come. Oh ! could the merry group then seated meet When years had stolen by, and tell what sorrows they had known. How many airy castles had fallen to the ground ! Would not memory recall with a smile the days Of childhood, which dreamt of no alloy, and ere she strayed Call forth a sigh, to think those joyous hours were gone for ever ? In solitude thou dost cheer us, and in company with thee We wander o'er bygone days, and in fancy gaze on forms Long since passed away. The sparkling eye seems beaming on us, The joyous laugh rings in our ear. Till we start from the reverie to find we are alone. Some sleep in the quiet grave, and others, with us In friendship's bonds once fondly united. Have long grown cold ; and as chill winter seems severer still When contrasted with the smiling summer. And autumn, from whose golden lap he waked ; even so those once In friendship's bonds united when they are severed. Seems it not more cold when we remember former days And the unity that once existed ? We pass lightly over from A stranger what wounds us deeply from a friend ; But as the checkered thread of life, so is memory. Joys and sorrows mix — a smile oft greets her unfolded treasures. 'Tis sweet to have a friend into whose bosom You can pour the secrets of the heart. i6o THE HARP OF COLNE. But, oh ! if such a one Hves only in memory, How bitter the pang, and how oft the tear will start When we think the seasons will return ; And if life be granted, we shall behold t^ The glowing summer, the golden autumn, and chilly winter, But none will bring our friend. Spring decks The grave with flowers. When gazing on the tomb 'Tis a melancholy pleasure to call memory From her dwelling-place in time gone by ; and in Thought, though but for a moment, live again O'er days spent with the being we have loved. To whom we have bid farewell for ever in this world. How sweet is the remembrance, like a sunbeam On our path, or some bright and pleasing dream, So is our friend in the retrospect ! •(-