r" ■w— w wrnrwr mi ' M* iiMl IZA COOK «Iir '" " ■ t , Scott.' \; 'X'i Arabian -i$4flSKI>s«, -„ Romance, of tory, '. His-. of aidary - Ballads BStgland" and Scotland* ""' S Burns,/ A' ; jis«J; '.'■•• '• '" " : 9 ^Hnson's Lryg^r of -. ttie ..J /fpejs.^ '■'■ :<: '$«£■.'• -. ' r l■■ ,_ ljSjEt&ilaxn, and De Loihie's,« Gonstitujjonal. , •- Hia^ry ,'of 19 20 21 22 >23 24 25 26 ,28 29 30 * 32' 33 84 35 OibBon and Qcikle,y'tei$is-' t.<5ry of the 88fabens, T i&i.r j. Lockhart's Spanish Ballads (Historical and Romantic), arid- Southey's Eomanoe of the Cid.- Bobmaon Crusoe. '** Swiss Family Kobinson, IVCrs.. Hemahs. .£ritanVs Fairy Tales. Andersen's TFasry. Tales* r Seottfs Xiifeg of- Eminentf , Noyeltets and Dramatists? t, 7 l S$0,tt*s Essays ondjiyAlry 4 ; Romance, and the Drama. - Shelley^ , i >*■"',.' '/ i1 Campbell. ..^ •--„ -y , ■.;'." ■Keats.^ '''*■>-!, w " C/oleridgre. OBdftels Iliad. -, F-bpl^s Odyssey. HoOd,.//' -■-" '"•fc.rfc- "" ''■' , '",-'.' ,p6®resenit«tive Ac^drs. 36 England, ^ 3t'Franqei>:: ,7t,8> .Italy.; V- 39 Spain. 40 India. . 41 -iwern^am Literature. 4?.Doff,icJuixote> ; ' 43 -Eastern Taigas $i Booi? Of Authors. ~'~ 45 .Pope. . *'■' • 46 DVDaoK^y; /-_, , - " 47 , Goldstaith's Pqgms, &a r 4&; Sale's .Koran. (Complete;) 49 : . Oxenford-'s Frenplv 8gn%#„ ^5$": Gil Bias (The Adventures r o|. .)- 5f jBhe ' Talmud. /J^Ie^tions:, "™, from.) "" -,' f ..«,V "'?'': ! -' f -V •■ 52 ■ Dry^egsl; Vir05 v c-;-:rf .-,;>•-'■ 53 Clare's Bentairis., ^54. Bfidd's -Beaultess oJ^SS&Jfc.-^ „, spe'areji. " " *" __ *_ 55 Bomanee of London. ~ -'"'_ .'" ; ' ffistojifti'&e... 56 ^Eomapce of London,- .. - Superh^tBtaJ, 2t& 57 s A" Century of Aneedote. 758 'Waltdn and; .,- Cotton's -59 .'fiir'be#&OP4y^» ta*, 60 Hebef^s (Bi^bsftpj;- ; 61 iHa'lfiBolifs with, tae Bgst Authors. * j. -.62' iiitto * *: . : ■ ■-. ~ . 63 Ditto * * * -,':6J /Ditto ''■* *,-*"* 3S Bvicy&ViB PilBifim's ^6- T6.6 /Fugitive Poetry < of the . "Iiast Three Centuries. \. • 6.7, t ;Be^'ys , ?Diary. V+.*-. 68 Evelyn's Diary. ''.': * 69 'Tojirilsend's . Every Day Book of Modern Jjitwature. * -.70 -Ditte;" ■ •*>* ■ yt-'ft 1 --'. :•■ /■ j»JlBBa§|GMv'W'4.felSia! & CO., Bbdeosd Streetj S^baijd. THE POETICAL WORKS ELIZA COOK. PR 4SQ2.AU87o" Versltv Ubrar * Works; THE "CHANDOS CLASSICS." THE WORKS OF ELIZA COOK EDITED FROM THE LATEST EDITIONS. aSBitfj fExpktwtorg Notes, &c. Wl LONDON : FREDERICK WARNE AND CO., BEDFORD STREET, STRAND. TO J. P. BROWN- WESTHEAD, Esq. M.P. W%m paflts are patefttllg jfebttafeb, BY ONE WHO CAN ONLY WISH THAT THE OFFERING WERE MORE WORTHY OP HIS ACCEPTANCE. THE RICHEST WORDS ARE BUT POOR INTERPRETERS OP OUR PEELING; THEREFORE IT WILL BE ENOUGH TO SAY THAT THE NAME OP HIM WHO PAVOURS ME BY RECEIVING THIS SLIGHT PROOP OP GRATEFUL ADMIRATION WILL BE "A JOY FOR EVER," TO ELIZA COOK. PEEEACE, It is with considerable pride, and more pleasure, that I now present to my readers in one volume the whole of my poems, at a price which, I hope, will be within the means of those who could not afford the purchase of my previous editions ; and if I can still retain the sympathy and support of " the people" I shall be amply rewarded, and wish for no more richly-gilded laurel. I have been too long before the Public to have anything new to express or explain relative to the compositions now again rendered for their reception. I can only offer my earnest thanks for the generous patronage which has always followed the numerous editions of my works ; and declare that I am still, as I ever hava heen, inspired alone by " love and goodwill" toward those who hava so kindly helped me along my chequered path, by freely responding to my simple effusions. Let me add, that I am very happy in the assurance afforded me through that response, of many genial eara and hearts being as open to the whistle of the woodland robin, afl they are to the psean of the cloud-piercing skylark. Eliza Cooe. October, 1869. CONTENTS. PAGE There's a Star in the West . . 81 The Loved One was not There . 81 ThePloughshare of Old England 82 Gratitude 82 Away from the Revel .... 84 The Fairy of the Sea .... 84 Oh, never Breathe a Dead One's Name 85 The Sailor's Grave 86 A Song for Merry Harvest . . 86 I miss Thee, my Mother . . . 87 The "World 88 Stanzas 89 England 90 " Thy Kingdom Come" ... 91 The Bow 92 The Forest Trees '93 The King of the Wind ... 94 The Horse 95 The Mourners 96 My Grave ..... .98 The Wreaths 99 Hope ......... 101 Old Pincher 101 Christmas Tide 104 Kings . 105 Lines 107 The First Voyage 109 To Fancy . v 110 The Old Water-mill . . . .111 Children's Welcoming . . . .112 The Sacrilegious Gamesters . .113 Duncan Lee 118 Song of the Sea-gulls . . . .119 'Tis well to Wake the Theme of Love 120 "Winter is Coming" .... 121 Dinna Forget, Love . . . .122 Our Native Song 123 Loch Leven's Gentle Stream . 124 Sir Harold the Hunter . . .124 PAGE . 125 On Seeing a Bird-Catcher . . 120 Give me the Lama's Fabled ^?,r, . 127 128 The Thames ..... 129 Through the Waters . . . The Star of my Home . . . 130 131 133 Song of the Mariners . . . 133 Stanzas to the Young . . . A Homehvthfe Heart . . . 134 136 136 Song for the New Year . . 137 The Homes of the Dead . . 138 There's One to Guard anc Save. ... 140 The Flag of the Free .... 141 141 My Joy, my Hopes, let Others 143 The Slumber of Death . . . 144 Our Sailors and our Ships . . 145 Charlie O'Ross, wi' the Sloe- 145 The Fisher Boy jollily Lives I thank Thee, God ! for Weal 14G 146 147 148 Blue- Bells in the Shade . . . 149 Song' of the Imprisoned Bird . The Willow Tree ..... 150 151 The Dream is Broken . . . .- 152 Fire 153 154 154 156 The Welcome Back .... 157 ■CONTENTS. xi While the Christmas Log is Burning 158 The Acorn 158 To a Cricket ....... 159 Anacreontic ....... 160 "Thy Will be Done" . . . . 161 Song of Old Time 162 Song of the Goblet 163 The Christmas Holly . . . .165 Washington 166 Sonnet 167 Love's First Dream .... 167 Time 168 The Surgeon's Knife . . . 168 Love on 169 To the Spirit of Song .... 170 God Speed the Plough . . .172 The Old Mill-stream . ... 174 Song of the Red Indian . . . 177 'Tis Sweet to Love in Childhood 179 Honesty — A Fragment . . . 1 79 Song of the Worm 181 Wealth 182 The Room of the Household . 184 The Pledge 186 The Future 187 My Murray Plaid • 188 Harvest Song 190 Song of the Wind 191 A Gentle Heart 193 Song of the Dying Old Man to his Young Wife 194 Truth 195 Rory O'More 197 Teddy O'Neale 200 Under the Moon 200 The Old Man's Marvel . . .202 Stanzas for the Season . . . 204 Song of the Blind One . . 206 The Boat-cloak 206 Sunshine ... . , . . . 207 i PAGE The Sabbath Bell 208 The Fisher-boat 209 Stanzas . . •. 1. . ... 210 Silence— a Fragment . . . .211 Dreams of the Past . . . .213 Birds 214 Song of the Beggars . . . .217 Some call the World a Dreary Place 219 The Waters 220 A Thanksgiving 224 The Old Barn 225 Stanzas . ■ 228 The Ship and the Maiden . . 229 The Grandfather's Stick . . . 230 Song of the Spirit of Gold . . 232 Fragment 235 To my Lyre 23G Rhymes by the Roadside . . 237 Love's Roses 23!) The Poor Man's Grave . . .241 The Daisy 242 St. Patrick's Day 244 Song of the Hempseed. . . . 245 The Old Clock 248 Song of the Ostrich .... 249 The Rook sits High .... 251 Song of the Greenwood Fagot . 252 Let not the Seed of Anger live . 253 Black Besa 254 The Heart — the Heart . . . 255 To the Robin 256 A Sketch 257 Tom Tidler's Ground .... 259 Those we Love 26 1 The Playground 262 Mourn not the Dead .... 264 Young Kathleen 265 Stanzas to the Memory of Burns 265 The Poor Irish Boy .... 266 Song of the Haymakers . 267 CONTENTS. PJ/>B The Moor of Glenarm ... .268 Trouble your Heads with your own Affairs 269 The Forest Brake 270 The Bees-wing 272 Dust 273 The Suit of Russet Brown . . 274 Song of the City Artisan . . . 275 Winter is Here 276 The Happy Mind 278 Grey-haired December . . . 280 Song of the Spirit of Poverty. . 280 There would I be 283 Dancing Song 284 Song of the Modern Time . . 286 There's a Love that only Lives . 287 Song of the Winter Tree . . .287 When I wore Red Shoes . . . 289 Mother, Come Back . . . .291 Song of the Old Year . . . . 292 I Laughed at the Storm . . . 293 Many Happy Returns of the Day 294 Summer is Nigh 295 The Dewdrop' 296 Old Songs 297 Spring 299 On the Death of a Favourite Hound 300 A Hint to Lovers 301 Song of the Ugly Maiden . . 303 The Tree of Death 305 Health 306 Old Story Books . . ... .308 Song of the Sea-weed .... 309 My Old Straw Hat 314 The Dog of the Alps .... 316 Old Cries 317 The Past 322 The Sea-child 323 The English Holiday . . . .324 A River Thought 325 A Forest Thought ..... 326 The Bonnie Scot 327 Oh ! come to the Ingle-side . . 327 God hath a Voice 329 Stanzas 329 Day Dreams . 33C Here's Merry Christmas come again 331 Derbyshire Dales . . . . . 333 The Harp's Wild Notes . . .334 There is Nothing in Vain . . 334 Did God so Will it ? .... 335 The Village Church .... 337 Like the Evergreen so shall our Friendship be 338 "Let not the Sun go down upon your Wrath" 338 My Own 339 Lines written for the Sheffield Mechanics' Exhibition, 1 846 . 341 "Bonnie, sweet Robin" is " nae Dead and Gane" 342 An Old Tune 343 A Song for the Dog .... 344 " Don't you Remember" . . . 346 My Old Companions .... 347 To.William Thorn ..... 349 Autumn Thoughts 350 Wilt Thou be True .... 351 Rest 352 Parting Song 355 Curls and Couplets 356 The Bonnie, Green Bough . . 360 " He that is without Sin among you, let him first cast a Stone" 361 Time's Changes 363 To Charlotte Cushman . . . 364 Lines among the Leaves . . . 365 To Alphonse de Lamartine . . 367 Summer Days 368 Love 370 CONTENTS. PAGE The Happiest Time . . . .371 We'll Sing another Christmas Song 373 A Song 374 The Charcoal and the Diamond 377 To Winter 379 The Boatmen of the Downs . .381 " Come under my Haidie" . . 381 'Tis a Wild Night at Sea . . . 383 The Child's Offering .... 385 Wilt Thou be Mine ? . . . .388 Stanzas 388 Which do I Love the Best ? . .389 "Where the Weary are at Best" 390 To- 391 393 393 395 396 398 403 An English Christmas Home Stanzas by the Sea-side . . Faith's Guiding Star . . . Address to the Freemasons . The Dreamer The Old Palace ...... Christmas Song of the Poor Man 403 Ten Years Ago 406 The Poet's Heart 407 A Special Pleading .... 409 Good Works 410 Under the Mistletoe . . . .412 A Pathetic Lament . . . .412 It is the Song my Mother Sings 414 We are apt to Grow Aweary . 414 Great Help waits on Little Need 415 Fruit 416 Bessie Gray 417 Let us give Thanks .... 419 The Poor Man to his Son . . 420 They all belong to Me ... 422 " Poverty parts Good Companie" 424 The Deck of the "Outward Bound" 425 The Shower , . 426 The Trysting- Place .... 428 PAGO Alabama! 429 Winter's Wild Flowers . „ . 430 The Firemen of the Land . .431 Stanzas to an Old Friend . . 432 The Worship of Nature . . .433 Where there's a Will there's a Way 436 The Lover to his Departing Loved One ...... 437 Dead Leaves 438 The Holy Well . ..... 439 A Song for the Workers . . . 440 The Old Green Lane . . . .442 Lines for Music 443 Elecampane . 444 The World is a Fairy Ring . . 445 Never hold Malice 446 Better Fed than Taught . . . 447 Fortune and Love 448 The Bird in the Storm . . . .449 "Early to Bed and Early to Rise" 451 " Our Father" 452 Lady June 453 A Sabbath Evening Song . . 455 Live and let Live ... . 456 A Temperance Song .... 457 Thank God for Summer . • . 459 The Lily and the Stream . . . 46 1 A Song for the Ragged Schools . 462 Here's " Christmas !" . . . . 463 On Receiving a Bunch of Heather, Gorse, and Fern . 465 " There's a Silver Lining to every Cloud" 466 Our Rambles by the Dove . . 467 Lines in the Twilight .... 46!) Law and Justice 470 "Turn Again, Whittington" . 472 The Streets 473 The Galloping Steed . <•■ t < Hi CONTENTS. PAGE The Heart's Charity .... 475 Stanzas written on a Spring Day 477 My Name. . , 478 The Philosopher's Stone . . .480 The Green Hill-side .... 481 A City Song ....... 483 A Song for Christmas Eve . . 485 "Write Soon" 486 "No!" 487 The Two Worshippers . . . 489 Lines . . , 492 A Chant for Christmas-Day . . 493 Household Walls 495 Oh ! let us be Happy .... 496 The Churchyard Stile . ... 497 Song of the Red Man . . . . 498 Musical Murmurs from a Shat- tered String 500 " A Thing of Beauty is a Joy for Ever" ...... - 502 The Bay -Tree 516 Don't tell the World that you're Waiting for Me 517 The Life-Boat is a Gallant Bark 517 "Love One Another" . . . .518 Sweet Green Leaves . . . .518 Once upon a Time 519 The Smuggler King .... 522 " Where are they now ?" . . 523 The liaising of the Maypole . . 523 I Leave Thee for a while . . 525 A Doggrel Ditty 525 Hymn 527 Christmas 527 Odd Lines for " Odd Fellows" . 529 A Gay Deceiver is He ... 530 Peace 531 Lines Appended to a, Bunch of' Dried Grasses 532 Charity 532 Xhe Piper's Daughter .... 533 PAGE The Banner of Union .... 534 Song of the Village Church Bell 335 The Mother to her Deaf and Dumb Child 536 Stanzas to my Starving Kin in the North ....... 538 Over the Downs 539 The English Girl 540 We'll Stand to our Guns ... 540 On Seeing some Agricultural Emigrants Embark . . . .541 Building on the Sand ... . 542 "Must I Leave Thee, Paradise?" 543 Song of the Sailor Boy . . . 645 Sorrowful, Summer Stanzas. . 54C To "Bran" 546 When Thou wert Nigh . . 548 We'll be True to Each Other . 548 Not as I used to do .... 549 Be Kind when you can . . .551 The Game of Life 551 Hymn 553 The Red Cross of England — the Flag of the Brave . . . .553 Song of the Rejected One . . 554 The Farewell of May . . . 556 " God Bless You" 556 Freedom and the Right . . , 557 The "Old, Old Story" . . .558 A Welcome 558 Stanzas for Music 561 The Infinite 562 Hurrah ! for our Riflemen . . 563 Impromptu Sonnet .... 564 The Fairy Wish 564 " I wish Thou wert not Going". 565 A Cheer for the Helping Hand . 566 Type of the Poet-one .... 566 Impromptu Stanzas .... 567 The Memory of the Loved and Lost 568 CONTENTS. xv nan To O. A. A 568 On Hearing a Wounded Bird Singing it! a Tree .... 570 Skakspeare 570 Germs of Greatness .... 672 Eva's Farewell 573 " Poor Uncle Tom'' .... 573 Little Topsy's Song .... 674 The Mother's Leap .... 575 On Hearing an ^ioliau Harp . 570 "Poor Hood" 576 The Green Leaves are Dead . . 578 I'll Think of Thee 579 Eemorse 580 Song of the Eagle 581 Simple Stanzas, written in young Sorrow 582 "Castle Lea" 582 Garibaldi the True .... 585 Tercentenary Ode .... 586 Grey-eyed Mabel 587 A Hill-side Home 588 St. Valentine's Day .... 589 An Autumn Sketch . . . .591 My Ladye Love 593 Poor Little Birdie 594 The only Daughter .... 597 "Sweet Home" 598 " Country Words" 599 Christ Crucified 001 " Three Hundred Pounds » Year" 001 "Girls and Boys come out to Play" 003 On the Death of Richard Cobden 604 For a Photographic Album . . 605 " Deceived" 606 Lines written in the Album of Mr. Alfred Forester . . .607 To the late William Jerdan . 608 EHYMBS FOE YOUNG READERS. The Mouse and the Cake . . 609 An Eveuing Song 610 Try a gain Cy) Anger . . 612 Home for the Holidays . . . 612 The Sailor Boy's Gossip . . .614 How Glad I shall be when the Cuckoo is Singiug .... 615 The Blind Boy's been at Play, Mother (UP The Death of Master Tommy Rook 617 The Violet-boy 619 Puss and Dash .6?? POEMS, ETC. MELAIA. 'Twas in the age when Arts and Peace Eevived once more in mighty Greece ; — When Fame forsook the camp and blade, And turned from purple fields to wreathe Her meeds again for those who bade The canvas glow, the marble breathe : 'Twas in this age Melonian stood The highest in his sculpture art ; Known as the great, loved as the good ; With hand but rivalled by his heart. His was the power to wake the gaze, Yielding the spirit's speechless praise— His was the spell that flings control Over the eye, breast, brain, and soul; Chaining our senses to the stone, Till we become As fixed and dumb As the cold form we look upon. Melonian was about to leave His idol toil one summer eve ; When at his door a stranger-guest Appeared, in venerable guise ; Whose weight of years had dimmed his eyes, And meekly lowered his "haught crest.' His garb was of a shape and sort That plainly augured little wealth ; But his frank smile gave good repart. Of rich content and placid health. MELAIA. No stern and frowning gloom was seen To curl his lip or shade his mien ; His bending limbs and silvered head, Stricken with patriarchal age ; Gave ample sign that he had read Life's volume to its closing page. Melonian rose — the Stranger bowed : " Artist," cried he, " I've come to scan Thy blazoned works, — is it allowed ? Though great, perhaps thou'rt not too proud To please an old and curious man. The restless wings of Rumour waft Fair tidings of thy noble craft : Crowds speak of thee with lauding joy ; I know thy fame, and would employ ' Thy skill. Say* Artist, what may be The sum that forms thy common fee ?" The Sculptor smiled. " Friend !" he exclaimed " My charge may startle, when 'tis named- Excuse my freedoni if I say I deem 'tis more than thou canst 1 pay. Two thousand bizantines I ask For simplest form or briefest task." " Two thousand ! 'tis indeed fair store Of gold, but he deserved much more. Have what thou wilt, 'tis ne'er too much ; Double the sum, it shall be thine ; But will thy ehisel deign to touch A form nor human nor divine ? I see thou hast a goodly band Of gods and heroes scattered round ; But I invoke thy master hand To carve me but a simple hound." "A hound! a dog!" Melonian cried : " How's this, old man ; wouldst thou deride My noble art P I blush with shame : Say, dost thou taunt my skill and fame P I, first in Greece, think'st thou 'twould suit Such hand to carve a cur ! — a brute ?" " Hold !" said the Guest ; " I must not hear Such hard words thrown to one so dear. Long as I've trod the world, I've found Naught half so worthy as my hound; ME LAI A. And thou, Melonian, wouldst not spurn His claims and merit, didst thou learn The strange and strong, nay, holy tie, That linked so firm and tenderly. Of all the boons that men possess To aid, to cheer, instruct, and bless, The dog — bold, fond, and beauteous beast — Is far from either last or least. His love lives on through change of lot ; His faith will chain nim on our grave To howl and starve ; but thou mayst not Have proved such love and faith : I have. "Thy guerdon's sure : look on this ring; A precious, though a bauble thing : Its meanest jewel would suffice To render safe thy utmost price. But do my bidding, and the stone Of richest lustre is thine own ; Behold, and judge." — The Sculptor gazed Upon the slender hand upraised, And saw a finger thin and white, Encircled with a hoop of gold, Embedding gems of flashing light, Nor loosely worn nor cheaply sold.— " Speak," cried the Stranger ; " dost thou choose To carve my dog ? — decide and tell Enough : I see thou dost refuse The favour craved. Artist, farewell." Melonian seized his hand : " Nay, nay, Thy parting is not thus with me : Thy speech,. thy bearing, all betray Thou art not what thou seem'st to be. There's more than meets the eye and ear In thee. Say who and what thou art ! I'm honest, and thou need'st not fear A gossip tongue nor traitor heart. May I beseech thee to relate The secrets of thy name and state ? You start — ay, 'tis a bold request ; But you have stirred within my breast A quick and sudden interest, Wrapt in thy pilgrimage and fata. The warmth you've kindled doth defy The rules of worldly courtesy; And prompts, perchance, to ruder word And freer tone than should be heard. ME LATA. Your pardon, if I give offence; But, trust me, mine's no wily soul— ■ This fervour, bursting all control, Is not the bearing of pretenoe." The Stranger spoke not for awhile, But strove to check a rising sigh ; And fixed his calm and searching eye Upon the Sculptor's brow. The smile Which erst illumed his mouth had fled> And with it every trace of red From cheek and lips; a change had spread O'er his fair mien, as though some deep, Keen pangs were roused from Memory's sleep, Till his rapt brow and stony gaze Betrayed that he re-trod the ways Which left him lost in Sorrow's maze. Where is the one who hath not had Some anguish-trial, long gone by. Steal, spectre-like, all dark and sad On busy thought, till the full eye And aching breast, betrayed too well. The Past still held undying spell ? Some pensive vision of this kind Seemed shadowing the Stranger's mind. " My fate," said he, " hath been to see And bear Mortality's extremes. My days have run 'twixt cloud and sun ; But oh ! with more of shade than beams. What I was once, has been concealed Right cautiously from other ears ; My tongue has never yet revealed The state that marked my earlier years ; But thou shalt hear it; I will trust The earnest radiance in thy face : 'Tis spirit-iit, and I can trace The breathing of a soul all just. Listen, Melonian ; but I claim Thy sacred vow that words or name Pass not thy lips till death has laid This breaking form in peace and shade. Say, Sculptor, dost thou yield thine oath?" " Ay !" cried Melonian ; "but the trotb Of simple promise is, with me^ MELAIA. As strong a bond as there can be. My oath ! Ay, take it if thou wilt ; Tet is that bosom base and cold, And little worth, that does not hold A broken word as meanest guilt. But stay, my friend, here's rich, rare wine, Of years, I ween, outnumbering thine ; I know its vintage to be good ; Pour, fill, and drink — ''twill warm thy blood; Come, pledge me deep, thy cheek is pale ; First brace thy heart, then tell thy tale." The cup was drained, and Friendship's power Had grown so great in some short hour; 'Twere difficult for host or guest To say which liked the other best. "Now," cried the Stranger, "hear me tell My simple tale ; and, mark me well ; Though my plain style may sound uncouth, It yields naught else than bitter truth. " My long and chequered course began Far hence, in sultry Hindostau. I was a mighty monarch's heir ; My toys, the sceptre and the crown; Shown like an idol to the stare Of a vast nation ; taught to wear A princely port, and proudly share A power I should one day bear, All kingly — all my own. " I know full well you cannot see A trace of what there once might be ; My sand is almost out, and now Tou find but furrows on my brow. I know no records linger there, Save those indorsed by Age and Care ; The storm-waves of Misfortune's tide Bring prince and peasant side by side ; And who can mark the monarch, when He ranks and herds with other men ? " I know fall well it seems a thing Absurd, a jest to rouse your mirth, To say my sire was born a king, And held dominion o'er the earth. MELAU. Yet such lie was, and such was I. Nay, start not! — 'Tis but empty sound; Strip off the robes of purple dye, Throw all the peacock trappings by, And nothing more than Man is found: And often less — some scorpion worm That crawls and stings in human form : Some upright brute, whose ruthless might, * In covert of a regal den, Lays waste all Mercy, Sense, and Right ; Defies a God, and tramples men. But who expects tho sapling tree To flourish, with no bough left free. Amid the worst the world can lend To choke and tangle, warp and rend ; 'Mid all to blast the goodly shoot, And turn fair bloom to bitter fruit. " The monarch's glance hath little chance To scan a page in Nature's book ; The lessons there are sealed with care ; He must not, dare hot, cannot look. Lulled by the songs that courtiers sing, No harsher music suffered near ; If Truth should whisper, she would ring A strange alarum in his ear. Could ye but see what I have seen, And know as much as I have known ; You would not wonder there have been Such graceless tyrants on a throne. " I had an empire at my nod, And ruled it like a demigod. I was caressed as one divine ; Wealth, Might — scarce limited — were mine. My word could free the veriest slave, Or doom the guiltless to a grave. I was a feared and hornaged one ; Perched on Ambition's utmost height : And thought, as other fools have done, Ne'er to be lower or less bright. But I was taught a mighty change, In spirit, feeling, place, and word ; I've brooked the trials wild and strange, Which some might question if they heard. " I've proved how hard it is to cope With traitors' blows and blasted hope : MELAIA. I've drunk the cup of dark despair E'en to the dregs ; I've brunted all Of searing pain and withering care That Heaven can send to goad and gall : Tet have I stood the trying test, And found at last my hour of rest. " Old age is garrulous, they say, And this choice wine has wrought so well ; That my tongue gains a swifter play, And my lax heartstrings warmly swell. But come, I'll speed my tale, and pray None else may have such tale to tell, " 'Twas on the nightfall of a day, When Slaughter's red and fierce career Had lasted from the breaking ray, Leaving, as twilight died away, Some thousands on one common bier. "The night came on, the work was done, The glory ours, the battle won ; My hand was tired of the sword, And gladly to its sheath restored The dripping blade ; for though my life Has oft been risked in human strife, Elate and proud to have my name Grow dreaded for its soldier fame ; Though I have stumbled o'er the slain, 'Mid splintered bone and scattered brain ; Though I have seen the streaming blood Drench the green earth and tinge the flood: Still, when the raging hour had sped, I sighed to think such things had been ; And though I helped to strew the dead, I sickened at the carnage scene. My soul was reckless in the crash Of ringing shield and striking clash: Then I had all the tiger's will, And all the lion's strength, to kill; But when I trod the dead-strewn plain, With Mercy at her post again, I felt a shuddering horror lurk, To think I'd mingled in such work. " 'Twas on the night of such a day, Exhausted and o'erspent, I flung my heavy mail away, And hied me to my tens. MBLA1A. There, close beside my couch, I found A young, and almost lifeless Hound; Some random sword or falling spear Had deeply gash'd his neck and ear : He panted fast, he freely bled ; His eyeballs had a glazy beam ; He moaned with anguish as his head Fell weltering in his own life-stream. I asked who owned him — all were mute, — Not one stood forth to make a claim. Who brought him there ? — None knew the brute; Nor how, nor whence, nor when he came. Poor wretsh ! I could not let him lie Unheeded, there to bleed and die : The girdle from my waist I tore, To bind the wound and stanch the gore. " 'Twas done ; I marked enough to see He was a dog of noble breed; A whelp that promised fair to be The first in beauty, strerigth, and speed. I liked the beast, and turned to give Command that I would have him live. It was enough ; he found repose ; Secure from further wounds and foes. "Full soon he won my right good- will; I liked, him well, As you may tell, By how he claims my homage still. His fleetness held the longest chase ; He never knew the second place ; The prey once seized, he'd ne'er resign His hold for any voice but mine ; The bribe was vain, the threat defied, I was his lord, and none beside. " He did not serve me for my throne, Yet was he grateful, fond, and brave; He loved me for myself alone. He was that good and gracious thing, That rare appendage to a king ; A friend that never played the slave. " There was one other tie to hold My heart : I never loved but two : That other — must the name be told? MELAIA. Yes, yes, — it was my queenly bride ; My worshipped star, my joy, my pride: But she was false ; my dog was true. " I saw her in a lowly grade, Too bright a blossom for the shade : I wooed, but with an honest love ; I spread no snares to catch the dove ; The bar of rank was trampled down, I stooped, and raised her to my crown. " Oh ! how I doted on her smile, — That sunbeam o'er a gulf of guile ! How I adored her orbs of blue, Clear, full, and lustrous in their hue ; Rich as the deep, cerulean light Of autumn's melting, moonlit night ! I've met their tender glance, half hid Beneath the thick-fringed falling lid ; I've seen their pearly drops of grief Tremble like dew on violet's leaf; I've watched their pleasure-kindled ray, Flash out like summer lightning's play; And thought, had old Prometheus caught The gleaming spark from eyes like those; He would have found the fire he sought, On earth — nor made the gods his foes. " Her balmy mouth with rosy glow Was imaged by the Love God's bow ; As sweet and pure as lotus leaf — With perfumed teeth in pearly row Like foam-beads on a coral reef. Her golden hair, with glossy sheen, Fell round her temples, rich and free ; With all the graceful beauty seen In flowers of the laburnum tree. Her soft cheeks made the maple fade, Such tint, such bloom, was theirs alone : And e'en thy art could ne'er impart Her stately bearing to the stone. " Why, why does Heaven bequeath such gifts, To fascinate all eyes that mark, With magnet charm ; till something lifts The mask, and shows how foully dark The dazzling reptile is within, Beneath its painted, shining skin ! 10 MBLAIA. Oh ! if our dazzling outward part Bore witness of the mind and heart ; How many a one must shun the light ; Or show a leper to the sight ! " I know I carried much of taint That gave offence to Heaven and man ; But if ye seek a sage or saint, Search courts, and find him if ye can. I was corrupt, and. did much wrong, But never breathed of harm to her ; Mine was that passion, warm and strong, Which keeps its fervour, deep and long ; However else the soul may err. I loved her with a zeal intense, That thralled each colder, wiser sense ; I drank the nectar from her lip, As bees the honied poison sip ; I trusted her, my tongue revealed All — muqh that should have been concealed : She laboured, not in vain, to wrest Some potent secrets from my breast ; And then she leagued with traitor band; A toil was spread, foul work was planned, A rueful deed was to be done, And I the victim, — she the one — Oh, mercy ! have I speech and breath — She, she to weave the mesh of death ! " What's this upon my cheek ? a tear ! Weak drop, what business hast thou here ? I fondly hoped the shattered string Had been by now, a tuneless thing ; But touch it lightly as I will, It gives a mournful echo still. Oh ! when the heart has once been riven, The wound will firmly close no more ; Let Memory's searching probe be driven, It bleeds and quivers, freshly sore. " This must not be ;— more wine, I say ; Tour nectar-juice shall sweep away The phantom pang. Fill up, I'll drain This flask, and to my tale again. " She leagued with traitors ; 'twas no dream ! I'd proof of all the hellish scheme ; I'd noticed much of , late to make The drowsiest suspicion wake. MELAIA. 11 Strange glances interchanged by those I guessed were less of friends than foes ; And more than once I plainly heard A whispered, treasonable word. But these I brooked, and thought to quell All petty brawls that might betide ; Till I beheld the Hecate spell Was conjured by my trusted bride. " Chance gave a paper to my sight, Meant for another eye to meet. It stated that the coming night Would render treachery complete. It told, what fiends would scarce proclaim ; Of treason, murder ! — and the same Bore impress of her seal and name. " Mute with dismay, I still read on : And oh ! the direst that could be ; I found her very honour gone — She loved another, and not me " I stood with fire in every vein ; My pulses beat with frenzied stroke ; I breathed with that short, heaving strain, Which teaches what it is to choke. A moment, and there came a chill, A stagnant, icy chill; as though The blood recoiled, afraid to fill A heart made weak with such a blow. " The jarring chaos could not last ; Such struggling state is quickly past : Such conflict is too close and strong For mortal strength to bear with long. When we have learnt the very worst ; The spirit soon must yield, or burst. *' I was betrayed, by friend and wife, Sedition round, and death in view : And they who dread the assassin's knife Must aptly think and promptly do. My love was wrecked ; my faith deceived; The strokes that ever madden most. Without these, all had been retrieved ; With them, I cared not what was lost. " My kingship flitted o'er my urain ; My pompous sway, my courtier train ; 1-2 MELAIA. I laughed, and rent the silken vest, That only mocked my abject state j I dashed the jewels from my breast, And sought my palace gate. " I trod all soft and stealthily ; The path was clear ; I meant to fly. Ne'er call me coward, till ye bear The test by which I then was tried ; Remember, had I tarried there, My doom was fixed — I'd meanly died. " I knew some minions round me then Were more of domons than of men : Their aim was sure, if life the mark ; Once set on blood, they kept the track ; And would not scruple in the dark To sheathe their dagger in my back. " With fearful haste, I saddled straight An Arab courser, newly broke ; Whose strength and grace were fit to mate With those that form Apollo's yoke. 'Twas no meet moment to restrain His mettled zeal. Away he sped, With tossing mane, And flinging rein, Upon the way he chose to tread. The die was cast — flight, instant flight, Alone could lend me hope to live ; The monarch-born, the gem-bedight, The flattered god, the ever right; Was now a friendless fugitive. " Away ! away ! the clattering hoof Re-echoed from the palace roof. : I fled, unrivalled by the wind ; Nor threw a single glance behind ; Crown, sceptre, throne — such dreams were o'er ; Melaia was a king no more. " I fled ; but soon the deep-toned bay Of bloodhound, followed on my way ; And even now there's a rebound Of joyous throb, a glow that steals Swift through my frame, to tell I found My gallant dog upon my heels ! MELAIA. 13 "How welcome are the words that tell The culprit, doomed to death and pain ; That he may quit his chains and cell, And rove the world, all free again. How precious is the ray of light That' breaks upon the blind one's eye ; Unfolding to his wondering sight, The glorious scenes of earth and sky. But never to despairing ear, Or hopeless orb, was aught so dear, As he to me appeared to be In that dark hour of flight and fear. " I checked my steed, and lost some time, To let that dumb retainer climb, With whimpering joy ; and fondly greet The hand he ever sprang to meet. I stooped above his tawny head, And many a streaming tear I shed ; Ay, like a child ; — but recollect, In perils we must not reject The meanest aid. The straw or plank Will lure us then to snatch and thank. " I lingered ; but, ere long, my ear Had warning of pursuers near. I touch'd my Arab's glossy side, And on he went, like rushing tide, That rolls to fling its sweeping waste With furious, all-defying haste. " On, on, we sped, I took no heed How such a strange career would end. I urged my Barb to meteor speed ; But cared not where that speed might tend. He sprang, he flew, as though he knew ; A frenzied wretch was on his back ; And kept his pace for goodly space, Upon his own free chosen track. He bore me on for many an hour, With headlong stride, and bounding power. At last he faltered on his path ; I goaded, but the goad was vain. Where was I ? with the sun's full wrath Around me on the desert plain. "What an unthought-of goal I'd won 'I Mercy ! what wildering race I'd ran. 14 MELAIA. 'Twould soon be o'er, my failing horse Was strangely swerving on his course ; His strength was ont, his spirit flagged; His fire was spent, he faintly lagged ; His dripping flanks and reeking neck, Were white with rifts of foaming fleck : His laboured breath was quick and short; His nostrils heaved with gasping snort ; He tottered on, — his will was good, — His work had not belied his blood. " Another mile ; and then he fell, His part was o'er ; he'd played it well. With snapping girth and reeling head, He groan'd and sank, — my steed was dead ! " Above me one vast concave spread ; No dappled clouds, no mellow blue; Hot, darting rays, like torches, shed A light of most unearthly hue. Below was one smooth, glittering sheet, That crisped and cracked beneath my feet, No springing herb, no daisied sod, — All barren, joyless, and untrod. My dog was fawning at my side, Unwearied by my rapid ride ; But I rebuked his greeting bound, That scatter'd choking dust around. " My breath was faint, my skin was dry ; The little moisture in my eye Served but to scald : the striking beams Fell on my form like lava streams. What hideous change ! I, who had known The sickening splendour of a throne ; I, humbled wretch, was craving now A moment's shadow for my brow ! " Thus to be left on such a spot, Appeared the climax of my lot. Death hovered there in such gaunt shape, That Hope scarce whispered of escape; But I was not in fitting state To weigh the chances of my fate. I wended on with hasty stride, 'Twixt torrid earth and brazen sky s Reckless of all that might betide ; To meet the worst, to live or die. MEL ATA. 15 But some conjecture, quick and wild, Plashed sudden o'er me, and beguiled To flattering hope. I vaguely guessed That nigh the desert in the west, A city stood. That thought inspired And held me on awhile, untired. " I doubted if my wasting strength Could last the unknown, scorching length. It might ; yet, oh ! 'twas fearful risk, To toil between the blazing disc Of eastern sun and shining sand, With lips unmoistened, cheek unfanned. 'Twas frightful ordeal, but yet, Dire evils pass, if boldly met. " I will not tire thy patient ear With tedious detail of my woe ; But bring my rambling speech to bear On that I wish thee most to know. " Hour after hour brought on the night, With something less of heat and light. Tou may believe I was outworn ; And trembling, famished, and forlorn, I flung me on the dewless ground And fast and bitter tears I wept, Till, pillowed on my faithful hound ; Like a tired child, I sobbed and slept. Slumber like mine wrought little good : I started as the sun uprose ; And fancied that my boiling blood Had gathered torture from repose. T felt my temples glow and beat With faster pulse and fiercer heat : I would have wept again, but now My very tears refused to flow. " I woke — I lived, to meet, to bear With Famine, Thirst, and blank Despair: I cast my eager, straining eye From sty to sand, front sand to sky; No, no relief; my hound and I Were all that broke the vacancy. "The whirling blast, the breaker's dash, The snapping ropes, the parting crash, The sweeping waves that boil and lash, The stunning peal, the hissing flash, 16 MELAIA. The hasty prayer, the hopeless groan. The stripling seaboy's gurgling tone,! Shrieking amid the flood and foam, The names of mother, love, and home ; The jarring clash that wakes theiland, When blade to blade and hand to hand, Unnumbered voices burst and swell, In one unceasing war-whoop yell ; The trump of discord ringing out, The clamour strife, the victor ahout ; — Oh ! these are noises any ear Will dread to meet and quail to hear : But let the earth or waters pour ; The loudest din, or wildest roar ; Let Anarchy's broad thunders roll, And tumult do its worst to thrill ; There is a silence to the soul, More awful, and more startling still, " To hear our very breath intrude Upon the boundless solitude, Where mortal tidings never come With busy feet or Iranian hum. All hushed above, beneath, around— No stirring form, no whispered sound — This is a loneliness that falls Upon the spirit, and appals More than the mingled rude alarms, Arising from a world in arms. This is a silence bids us shrink, As from a precipice's brink ; But ye will rarely meet it, save In the hot desert or cold grave. Cut off from life and fellow-men, This silence was around me then : 'Twas horrible ; but once again I dragged along the scorching plain. Till the consuming orb of day Shot down the close, meridian ray, " Exhausted nature then had done Its utmost 'neath a desert sun ; And moments of delirium came ; A staggering weakness seized my frame; My feet refused their task— when lo ! My gaze met Many a minaret : A city rose ; 'twas nigh ; but oh, J r MELAIA. 17 The beacon star now shone in vain ; Though short the space, I ne'er could gait That other league. My limbs, my heart, All failed ; I felt my sinews start With the last shudder of despair ; And Hope expired — my grave was there. " 'Twas Thirst, 'twas maddening Thirst alone, That wrung my spirit's inmost groan. Hunger is bitter, but the worst Of human pangs, the most accursed Of Want's fell scorpions, is Thirst. " I looked upon this precious ring, That few beside a king could buy ; What was its value, would it bring A cup of water ? No ! its gleam, That flashed back to the brazen beam, But taunted with its brilliancy. " My strange, distempered fancy wrought The doom of Tantalus : for naught Broke on my frantic, waking dream But the deep well and purling stream ; Distorted vision conjured near, All that is cool, fresh, moist, and clear. I saw the crystal fountain play In leaping sheets of snowy spray ; I heard the undulating wave Of the swift river, gush and lave ; I saw the dew on grass and flower ; I heard the gentle, summer shower, With its soft, pattering bubbles drip ; I heard the dashing waterfall — Oh ! it was cruel mockery all ! I laughed, and then my shrunken lip Oozed thickened gore ; with upraised hand, I sank upon the shining sand, A Maker's mercy to implore. I fervently invoked a name, Which, I confess, with much of shame, I'd rarely called upon before. " 'Mid Pleasure, Plenty, and Success ; Freely we take from Him who lends; We boast the blessings we possess, Tet scarcely thank the One who send*. 18 MELAIA. But let Affliction pour its smart ; How soon we quail beneath the rod : With shattered pride and prostrate heart ; "We seek the long-forgotten God. Let him but smite us, soon we bleed, And tremble like a fragile reed ; > Then do we learn, and own, and feel The Power that wounds, alone can heal. 'Twas thus with me ; the desert taught Lessons with bitter truth replete. They chastened sorely, but they brought My spirit to its Maker's feet. " My glance was for a moment thrown Toward the heaven I addressed ; But the fierce rays came rushing down Upon my brow With furnace glow ; Dense, lurid,, red; Till my smote head Fell, faint and stricken, on my breast. " Thus while I knelt, my hound looked up- Fate was about to give the last, The o'erflowing drop to Misery's cup — He started, fled, and bounded fast. " Oh ! what a moment, all the past Was blended in that little space. He left me at his utmost pace ; Like arrow from the string he flew Bight on — he lessened to my view — 'Twas o'er ; he vanished from my sight ; I breathed his name, and groaned, outright. I was alone ; My dog had gone — He that I deem'd the firmly true — In the last hour, he left me too. "I saw no more ; I snatched my breath Like those who meet a drowning death ; One cry of hopeless agony Escaped my lips, while earth and sky Grew dark, and reeled before mine eye. A whirling pang shot through my brain. Of mingled madness, fire, and pain ; 'Twas rending, but it was the last MELAIA. 19 Thank God, it came like lightning flame j And desolated as it past. " No more of this ; I only know I felt strange pressure on my brow : The world was not ; I can but tell, That, senseless, lone, and blind ; I fell. " The next that Memory can mark Is of a clear and deep-toned bark. Sense tardily came back ; I woke Beneath a gentle, pawing stroke. I gazed with wild and doubting stare— My dog ! my noble dog was there — It was my Murkim that I saw ; "With blood, wet blood, upon his jaw. What sight for eyes like mine to meet ! I shrieked, I started to my feet. Judge of my joy ; beside him lay A small and lifeless beast of prey. I seized it ; I was in no mood To play the epicure in food ; I waited not to think on what That prey might be, nor whence 'twas got. Had you but seen me clutch and fall, Like famished wolf or cannibal, Upon that mangled, raw repast ; My hands, my teeth, all tearing fast ; Had you beheld my dry lips drain The current from each reeking vein ! You might have judged how human pain Can wring and madden human brain. My dry lips met food soft and wet ; No nectar half so sweet or fresh ; Oh it was rare delicious fare ! I never quaffed such luscious draught, Nor tasted viand like that flesh. It soothed my pulse, it cooled my eye, It quenched the fire upon my brow ; It gave me breath, strength, energy ; And, looking to the city nigh, I felt that I could reach it now. Could I do less than kneel and bless My Saviour in the wilderness ? But what will all of speech avail ? The choicest eloquence would fail Such wild emotion to express. The feeling that absorbed my heart 20 MELAIA. Was of that deep entrancing kind Which, doth defy the lips to find A fitting language to impart Its glowing zeal and passionate start. My lips would falter to discuss The glow he kindled in my breast ; My dog had snatched from death ; and thus-v I leave thee to suppose the rest. " Again I took my onward way, Once more I tracked the desert ground; Again I knelt to thank, to pray ; Nor deem me impious if I say, That next to God I held my Hound. " I reached the city ; many a year Has rolled away, Since that long day, But yet, behold, this truant tear Proclaims that trying day is set Among the few we ne'er forget. " Methinks I'm getting sad, and see ; The sun's behind yon orange-tree : 'Tis well my tale holds little more ; It wearies, and I wish it o'er. Some time, perchanoe, when thou'rt inclined, I'll yield thee more of what befell The throne and bride I left behind : But now I do not care to dwell On what to me Will ever be A most embittered tale to tell. " I walked the world, unmarked, unknown ; Remote from Man, but not alone ; I kept one friend, the closely bound ; The dear, the changeless, in my Hound. He had become my spirit's part ; And rarely did he leave my side : He shared my board, my couch, my heart ; Till pressed by time he drooped, and died Of sheer old age. Why, Murkim, why Did not Melaia too then die ! I miss thee still, I mourn thee yet. But lo ! again my cheek is wet. Vool that I am — this will not do — /Vrtist, this suits nor me nor you : MELAIA. 21 My words have just worn down the sun. One question, Friend, and I have done. I've told thee how he bore and braved The darkest chequer in my lot : Tou know his worth ; — he served, and saved. Now ; wilt thou carve my Dog, or not?" Pillars had mouldered, Ages waned; Since this plain tale beguiled an hour : And Time and "War had both profaned The Glory-seat of Arts and Power. Famed Greece, the beautiful and great ; Was but a wrecked and fallen state ; She was but as a funeral urn, Holding the ashes, worlds revere ; O'er which the coldest heart will mourn, And strangers hang to shed the tear. Each monument was laid in dust, By some ungodly, savage hand ; Her palace gates had gathered rust ; Her picture scrolls had fed the brand : When, 'mid the relics scattered round ; One of surpassing skill was found, The work was rare, The marble fair, The form, a bold and. couchant Hound. The old and wise, with judgment stern ; In curious search were seen to turn With careless glance from all the rest, And own that image, first and best. The artist boy was seen to pause ; Ecstatic in his rapt applause. No idle wanderer passed it by, But marked with brighter, closer eye. They lingered there to ask and trace The legend such a form might lend ; But naught was known, save what its base Told in the words, " Melaia's Friend." 22 % Qammnt TRACT DE VORE AND HUBERT GREY. A. TALE. Know ye not tie stripling child That strolls from the Castle wall ; To play with the mate he likes the best, By the mountain waterfall ? With delicate hand, and polished skin, Like Parian marble fair ; Know ye him not ? 'Tis Tracy de Vore, The Baron's beautiful heir. 'Tis Tracy de Vore, the Castle's pride : The rich, the nobly born : Pacing along the sun-lit sod With the step of a playful fawn. The waving plume in his velvet cap Is bound with a golden band ; His lich, embroidered suit exhales The breath of Arabia's land. His light and fragile form is graced With a girdle of silvered blue ; And of matchless azure the belt would seem, Were it not for his eyes' own hue. Look on those eyes, and thou wilt find A sadness in their beam ; Like the pensive shade that willows cast On the sky-reflecting stream. Soft flowing curls of an auburn shade Are falling around his brow ; There's a mantling flush that dwells on his cheek, Like a rose-leaf thrown on the snow. There's a halcyon smile spread o'er his face, Shedding a calm and radiant grace ; There's a sweet, soft sound in his laughing tones, Betraying the gentle spirit he owns. TRACY BE VORE AND HUBERT GREl 23 And scarcely an accent meets Ms ear But the voices of praise and love : Caressed and caressing, he lives in the world Like a petted and beautiful dove. He is. born to bear the high command Of the richest domain in Switzerland ; And the vassals pray that fame and health May bless the child of rant and wealth. Oh ! truly does every lip declare What a cherub-like boy is Lord Tracy's heir. And now on the green and sedgy bank Another stripling form is seen : His garb is rough, his halloo loud ; He is no Baron's heir, I ween. Know ye him not ? — 'tis the mountain child, Born and reared 'mid the vast and wild; And a brighter being ne'er woke to the day Than the herdsman's son, young Hubert Grey. There's a restless flashing in his eye, That lights up every glance ; And now he tracks the wheeling bird ; And now he scans the distant herd ; And now he turns from earth and sky, To watch where the waters dance. A ruddy tinge of glowing bronze Upon his face is set ; Closely round his temples cling Thick locks of shaggy jet. Mark him well ! there's a daring mien In Hubert Grey, that's rarely seen ; And suiting that mien is the life he leads Where the eagle soars, and the chamois feeds. He loves to climb the steepest crag, Or plunge in the rapid stream ; He dares to look on the thunder-cloud, And laugh at the lightning's gleam. The snow may drift, the rain may fall, But what does Hubert care ? As he playfully wrings with his hardy hand, His drenched and dripping hair. 24 TBAOY BE VORE AND HUBERT GREY. He can tread through the forest, or over the rocks. In the darkest and dreariest night, With as sure a step, and as gay a song, As he can in the noon-day's light. The precipice, jutting in ether air, Has naught of terror for him ; He can pace the edge of the loftiest peak Without trembling of heart or limb. He heeds not the blast of the winter storm, Howling on o'er the pine-covered steep ; In the day he will whistle to mimic its voice, In the night it lulls him to sleep. And now he has brought, from his mountain home, (With feet and forehead bare), A tiny boat, and lancewood bow, The work of his own young hand, I trow, To please the Baron's heir. And now, at the waterfall, side by side, Stand the Herdsman's son and the Castle's pride ! Tracy de Vore hath high-born mates Invited to share his play ; But none are half so dear to him, As the lowly Hubert Grey. He hath a spaniel taught to mark, And wait his word with a joyous bark ; He hath a falcon taught to fly When he looses its silver chain ; To range at his bidding round the sky, Then seek his hand again. His ear is used to the softest song ; To the lute, and gay guitar ; But the echoing call of the herdsman's son Is sweeter to him by far. He hath toys and trinkets, bought with gold ; And a palfrey in the stall : "But Hubert's bow and Hubert's boat,— Oh, they are worth them all ! TBAGY BE VOBE AND HUBERT OBEY. 25 And Hubert Grey hath learnt to love The smile of Tracy de Vore ; He delights in leading the timid boy Where he never trod before. He teaches him how to note the hours, By where the sunbeams rest ; He wades for him where the virgin flowers Gracefully bend 'neath the cascade's showers; To pluck the whitest and best. He tells him the curious legends of old, Known by each mountaineer; He tells him the story of ghost and fay ; Waking his wonder and fear. Never so joyful is Hubert's shout As when his eagle eyes look out, And spy afar in the plain below, Young Tracy's cap with its plume of snow, Never so glad is Tracy de Vore As when he can steal away From his father's watchful, doting care, To rove with Hubert Grey. And now, by the waterfall, side by side, Stand the Herdsman's son and the Baron's pride. The summer beams are falling there On the mountain boy and the noble heir. Time flies on ; a year has sped, And summer comes again ; The sun is shining warm and bright, O'er forest, hill, and plain. But never again will Tracy de Vore Stroll from the Castle wall, To play with the one he loves the best, By the mountain waterfall. There's silence in the mansion now ; Loud mirth is turn'd to sighing ; The Baron weeps, the vassals mourn ; For the darling heir is dying. 26 TBAGY BE VOBE AND HUBERT GBEY. Look on the lip that so sweetly smiled, The cheek that was freshly fair ; Oh, cruelly sad is the tale they tell ! Consumption revels there. With panting breath and wasting frame, The languid boy lives on ; With just enough of life to show That life will soon be gone. Pallid and weak, he is slowly , led, Like an infant, from his downy bed ; He turns his dimmed and sunken eye To look once more upon the sky : But, ah ! he cannot bear the rays Of a glowing sun to meet his gaze. He breathes a sigh, and once again Looks out upon the grassy plain ; He sees his milk-white palfrey there j His own pet steed, so sleek and fair: But there's no silken rein to deck The beauty of its glossy neck ; No saddle-cloth is seen to shine Upon its sides — the steed doth lack A coaxing hand, and seems to pine ; Missing the one that graced its back. Tonng Tracy stands,— his azure eye Dwells fondly on the petted brute ; The struggling tear-drop gathers fast ; But still his lip is mute. He looks once more in the Castle court ; The scene of many a festive Bport : He sees his spaniel dull and lone ; He hears its plaintive, whining tone ; He looks beyond the Castle wall, Where he used to play by the waterfall; He thinks on the days of health and joy, When he roved abroad with the mountain boy ; And the gushing tears start down his cheek ; His eyelids fall — he cannot speak — He turns away — a gentle arm Receives his fainting form : Exhausted, trembling, pale ; he sinks Like a lily from the storm. TBAOY BE VOBE AND HUBERT OBEY. 27 His mother sits beside his couch, Her arm around him thrown ; And bitterly she grieves above Her beautiful, her own. He is dying fast — he murmurs forth The name of Hubert Grey — " Where ? where is he I love so well? Why comes he not to-day ? " Oh ! bring him to me ere I die" — Enough — away ; away ! With eager speed, dash man and steed, To summon Hubert Grey. Arid where is he ? the herdsman's son, The bold, the strong, the dauntless one ? The dew is off the shadiest spot, The noon is nigh, why comes he not ? Long since, the mountain boy was brought Within the Castle gate ; For none could soothe the pining heir, Like his old and lowly mate. And, true as sunrise, with the dawn Has Hubert bent his steps at morn Over the crags where torrents roar, To tarry till night with Tracy de Vore. But where is he now ? the sun is hot, The noon is past — why comes he not ? The vassal, Oswald, wends his way, To Hubert's home he hies ; To the herdsman's hut that stands alone, Where cataract streams dash wildly on ; Where giant mountains rise. He calls aloud : " Hist, Hubert Grey ! Quick, baek with me on my gallant bay ; Why have ye kept so long away ? Our darling heir is dying fast ; This day, this hour, may be his last;— Come, haste thee, quick, I say !" The door flings back— the herdsman's wife Comes forth with wondering look ; " "Tis strange !" she cries, " three hours ago He started, with his staff and bow, 4nd the Castle way he took ! 28 TRACY BE VORE AND HUBERT GREY. " He talked of gathering for the heir A bunch of wild flowers, sweet and rare — He talked of climbing Morna's height, Where the large blue-bells grow ; They overhang — yes, yes — oh heaven ! Tnat dark ravine below ! " Hubert ! my child ! where art thou gone ? Thy mother calls to thee !" No answer ! — " To the rock !" she cries — " On, Oswald ! on, with me !" Together, up the craggy path, Speed Oswald and the herdsman's wife: She calls and listens — calls again — Her heart with fear is rife. And Oswald gives the well-known sign ; He whistles shrill and clear ; He winds his horn, and blows the blast, That Hubert loved to hear. But ah ! the whistle and the horn Are only echoed back ; No Hubert comes — and now they reach The highest mountain track. The foot of Oswald presses on, Right cautiously, and slow ; For few would dare, like Hubert Grey, Near Morna's edge to go. The dark gulf breaks with frightful yawn ; Terrific to the gaze, A murky horror shades the spot, Beneath meridian rays. But hush ! — that sound — a hollow moan — Again, a stifled, gurgling groan ! The mother stands, nor speaks nor moves, Transfixed with mute dismay ! The vassal fears, his footsteps shrink ; He trembles as he gains the brink : He shudders, looks with straining eyes Adown the abyss — " Heaven !" he cries " "Kb he— 'tis Hubert Grey !" Tes, yes, 'tis he ! the herdsman's son — The bold, the strong, the daring one. TBA&Y BE VORE AND HUBERT GREY. 29 He hath bent him o'er to reach the flowers That spring along the dreaded steep : His brain grows dizzy — yet again — He snatches, totters, shrieks, in vain — He falls ten fathoms deep ! The groan that met his mother's ear, Gave forth his latest breath : The mountain boy is sleeping fast, The dreamless sleep of death. Thrown wildly back, his clotted hair Leaves his gashed forehead, red and bare. Look on his cheek — his dauntless brow — There's blood, warm blood, upon them now ! His hand is clenched with stiffened clasp ; The wild flowers still within its grasp. The vulture, perched upon the crag, Seems waiting for its prey : The vulture that at morning's light, His halloo scared away. Stretched like a lion-cub he lies ; As free he lived, as lonely dies : The mountain-born ; the strong, the brave ; Too soorrhath found, a mountain-grave. And many an eye shall weep his fate ; And many a heart shall rue the day : For a brighter being ne'er had life Than the herdsman's son ; young Hubert Grey. And Tracy de Vore, the Baron's heir, The meek ; the cherub-like ; the fair : He is sinking to eternal rest ; Soft pillowed on his mother's breast ; He knows not that his lowly mate Has met so terrible a fate. No dark convulsion shakes his frame ; No change comes o'er his face : The icy hand hath touched his heart ; But left no scathing trace. One murmuring sigh escapes his ]ip ; The sweetest toned, the last : Like the faint echo harpstrings give Of thrilling music past. 30 TRACY BE VORE AND HUBERT GREY. The signet seal of other worlds Falls gently on his brow : He seemed but sleeping when it came ; He seems but sleeping now. For death steals slow and smilingly To close his earthly day ; Like the autumn breeze that lightly wafts The summer leaf away. The Baron weeps ; his star has set ; All hope, all joy has fled. His soul's adored ; his house's pride; His only born, is dead. The Castle is dark— no sound is heard But the wailing of deep despair. The lord and the vassal are mourning alike For the well-loved, noble heir. Oh ! truly does every heart deplore The young and beautiful Tracy de Vore. And Sorrow has found a dwelling-place In the herdsman's lowly hut. The door is fast against the sun-j The casement is closely shut. Death gave no warning there ; but struck With a fierce and cruel blow : Like the barb that sinks from hand unseen In the heart of the bounding roe. The mother mourns with a hopeless grief; Her sobbing is bitterly loud : Her eye is fixed on her mangled boy ; As he lies in his winding shroud. The herdsman's voice hath lost its tone ; His brow is shaded o'er : There's a speechless anguish in his breast ; That he never felt before. There's a tear on his cheek when the sun gets up; He sighs at the close of day : His mates would offer the cheering cup ; But he turns his lip away. He mourns for the one that promised well To walk his land like another Tell. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. The doleful tidings speed swiftly on Of the promising spirits for ever gone : And the words fall sadly on the ear Of every listening mountaineer. They grieve for their own, their free-born child ; Nestled and reared 'mid the vast and wild : For there trod not the hills a dearer one To the hearts of all than the Herdsman's son. They sigh to look on the turrets below ; And think 'tis the lordly abode of woe : They sigh to miss from the waterfall's side, The mountain boy and the Baron's pride. And many a tongue shall tell the tale, And many a heart shall rue the day ; When the Hut and Castle lost their hopes In Tracy de Vore and Hubert Grey ! xm^wazam Items. THE OLD AEM-CHAIE. I love it, I love it ; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old Arm-chair ? I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. "Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Mot a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair. In Childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give ; To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide 5 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ; As I knelt beside that old Arm-chair. 32 OH I BEAR TO MEMORY ARE THOSE HOURS. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her looks were grey : And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible, to bless her child. Tears rolled on ; but the last one sped — My idol was shattered ; my earth-star fled : I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in that old Arm-chair. 'Tis past, 'tis past,, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died : And Memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old Arm-chair. OH! DEAR TO MEMORY ARE THOSE HOTJES. Oh ! dear to Memory are those hours When every pathway led to flowers ; When sticks of peppermint possessed A sceptre's power o'er the breast, And heaven was round us while we fed On rich ambrosial gingerbread. I bless the days of Infancy, When stealing from my mother's eye, Elysian happiness was found On that celestial field — the ground ; When we were busied, hands and hearts ; In those important things, dirt tarts. Don't smile ; for sapient, full-grown Man Oft cogitates some mighty plan ; And, spell-bound by the bubble dream, He labours till he proves the scheme About as useful and as wise As manufacturing dirt pies. For many a change on Folly's bells Quite equals dust and oyster-shells. Then shone the meteor rays of Youth; Eclipsing quite the lamp of Truth ; And precious those bright sunbeams were; That dried all tears, dispersed all care j SONG OF THE BUSHLIGHT. 3S That shed a stream of golden joy, Without one shadow of alloy : Oh ! ne'er in mercy strive to chase Such dazzling phantoms from their place ; However trifling, mean, or wild, The deeds may seem of youth or child ; While they still leave untarnished soul, The iron rod of stern control Should be but gentle in its sway ; Nor rend the magic veil away. I doubt if it. be kind or wise, To quench the light in opening eyes ; By preaching fallacy and woe As all that we can meet below. I ne'er respect the ready tongue ; That augurs sorrow to the young; That aptly plays a sibyl's part, To promise nightshade to the heart. Let them exult ! their laugh and song Are rarely known to last too long. Why should we strive with cynic frown To knock their fairy castles down ? We know that much of pain and strife Must be the common lot of life : We know the World is dark and rough, But Time betrays that soon enough. SONG OF THE RUSHLIGHT. Oh ! scorn me not as a fameless thing, Nor turn with contempt from the song I sing. 'Tis true, I am not suffered to be On the ringing board of wassail glee : My pallid gleam must never fall In the gay saloon or lordly hall ; But many a tale does the Rushlight know Of secret sorrow and lonely woe. I am found in the closely-curtained room, Where a stillness reigns that breathes of the tomb- Where the breaking heart, and heavy eye, Are waiting to see a loved one die^— „ 34- SONG OF THE RUSHLIGHT. Where the doting child with noiseless tread Steals warily to the mother's bed ; ; To mark if the faint and struggling bieath Is fluttering still in the grasp of Beath. The panting has Geased < the cheek is chill ; And the ear of the child bends closer still. It rests on the lips, but listens in vain ; For those lips have done with life and pain. — I am wildly snatched, and heid above The precious wreck of hope and love : The work is sealed, for my glimmering ray Shows a glazing eye, and stiffening clay. I am the light that quivering flits , In the joyless home where the fond wife sits ; Waiting the one that flies his hearth, For. the gambler's dice arid drunkard's mirth. Long hath she kept her wearying watch, Now bitterly weeping, now breathless to catch The welcome sound of a footstep neaiv Till she weeps again, as it dies on her ear. Her restless gaze, as the flight wears late, Is anxibiisly thrown on the dial-plate ; And a sob responds to the echoing sound That tells the hand hath gone its round : She mournfully trims my slender wick, As she sees me fading and wasting quick ; And many a time has my spark expired, And left her, still the weeping and tired. I am the light that dirnly, shines . Where the frifeiidless child of Genius pines — Where the godlike mind is trampled down By the callous sneer, and freezing frown. Where Want is playing a demon part, And sends its iron to the heart, — Where the soul burns on in the bosom that mourns Like the incense fire in funeral urns. '< I see the 1 hectic fingers fling The thoughts intense, that flashingly spKng ; And my flickering beam illumes the page That may live in the fame of a future age. I see the pale brow droop and mope, Till the breast turns sick with blasted hope — Till the harsh, cold world has done its worst, And the goaded Spirit has groaned and burst. TttE LAfcD OF MY BI&TH. 35 I am the light that's doomed to share The meanest lot that man can bear : I see the scanty portion spread, Where children struggle for scraps of bread — Where squalid forms and faces seem Like phantoms in a hideous dream — Where the soul may look, with startled awe^ Oh the work of Poverty's vulture-claw. Many a lesson the bosom learns Of hapless grief while the Eushlight burns ; Many a scene unfolds to me That the heart of Mercy would bleed to see. Then scorn me not as a fameless thing, Nor turn with contempt from the song I sing ; But smile as ye will, or scorn as ye may, There's naught but truth to be found in my lay. THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. There's a magical tie to the land of our home, Which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam: Be that land where it may, at the Line or the Pole, It still holds the magnet that draws back the soul. 'Tis loved by the freeman, 'tis loved by the slave, 'Tis dear to the coward, more dear to the brave ! Ask of any the spot they like best on the earth, And they'll answer with pride, " 'Tis the land of my birth." Oh, England ! thy white cliffs are dearer to me Than all the famed coasts of a far, foreign sea ; What emerald can peer or what sapphire can vie, With the grass of thy fields or thy summer-day sky ? They tell me of regions where flowers are found, Whose perfume and tints spread a paradise round j But brighter to me cannot garland the earth Than those that spring forth in the land of my birth. Did I breathe in a clime where the bulbul is heard, Where the citron -tree nestles the soft humming-birds Oh ! I'd covet the notes of thy nightingale still, And remember the robin that feeds at my sill. Did my soul find a feast in the gay " land of song," In the gondolier's chant, or the carnival's throng ; Could I ever forget, 'mid their music and mirth. The national strain of the land of my birth 86 THE MOTHER WHO HATH A CHILL AT SEA. My country, I love thee: — though freely I'd rove Through the western savannah, or sweet orange grove ; Yet warmly my bosom would welcome the gale That bore me away with a homeward-bound sail. My country, I love thee ! — and oh, mayst thou have The last throb of my heart, ere 'tis cold in the grave ; Mayst thou yield me that grave, in thine own daisied earth, And my ashes repose in the land of my birth ! THE MOTHER WHO HATH A CHILD AT SEA. There's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud, Folding the moon in a funeral shroud : That watches the stars dying one by one, Till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone. There's an ear that lists to the hissing surge, As the mourner turns to the anthem dirge : That eye ! that ear ! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea ? There's a cheek that is getting ashy white, As the tokens of storm come on with the night ; There's a form that's fixed at the lattice pane, To mark how the gloom gathers over the main ; While the yeasty billows lash the shore With loftier sweep, and hoarser roar. That cheek ! that form ! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea ? The rushing whistle chills her blood, As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood : And the icy shiver spreads to her heart, As the first red lines of lightning start. The ocean boils ! All mute she stands, With parted lips and tight-clasped hands : Oh ! marvel not at her fear, for she Is a mother who hath a child at sea ! She conjures up the fearful scene Of yawning waves, where the ship between, With striking keel and splintered mast, Is plunging hard and foundering fast. She sees her boy, with lank, drenched hair, Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair. SUMMER'S FAREWELL. 37 Oh ! the vision is maddening. No fear can he Like a mother's who hath a child at sea. She presses her brow, she sinks and kneels ; Whilst the hlast howls on and the thunder peals ; She breathes not a word, for her passionate prayer Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear : It is poured in the long, convulsive sigh, In the straining glance of an upturned eye ; And a holier offering cannot be Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea. Oh ! I love the winds when they spurn control, For they suit my own bond-hating scul ; I like to hear them sweeping past, Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast : But a pang will rise, with sad alloy, To soften my spirit, and sink my joy; When I think how dismal their voices must be To a mother who hath a child at sea. SUMMER'S FAREWELL. What sound is that ? 'Tis Summer's farewell, In the breath of the night- wind sighing ; The chill breeze comes like a sorrowful dirge, That wails o'er the dead and the dying. The sapless leaves are eddying round, On the path which they lately shaded : The oak of the forest is losing its robe ; The flowers have fallen and faded. All that I look on but saddens my heart, To think that the lovely so soon should depart. Yet why should I sigh ? Other summers will come, Joys like the past one bringing : Again will the vine bear its blushing fruit ; Again will the birds be singing. The forest will put forth its " honours" again ; The rose be as sweet in its breathing; The woodbine will climb round the lattice pane, As wild and rich in its wreathing. The hives will have honey, the bees will hum ; Other flowers will spring, other summers will come! 38 SAILING SONG. They will, they will; but ah! who can tell Whether J may live on till their coming ? This spirit may sleep too soundly then To wake with the warbling or humming. This cheek, now pale, may be paler far, "When the summer gun next is glowing ; The cherishing rays may gild with light The grass on my grave-tun growing. Oh ! what a change in my spirit's dream May there be ere the summer sun next shall beam.' SAILING SONG, We have left the still earth for the billows and breeze, 'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas ; We have music, hark ! hark ! there's a tone o'er the deep Like the murmuring breath of a Hon asleep. There's enough of bold dash in the rich foam that laves, Just to whisper the slumber-wrapt might of the waves ; But yet there's a sweetness about the full swell, Like the song of the mermaid — the chords of the shell. We have jewels. Oh ! what is your casket of gems To the pearls hanging thick on the red coral stems ? Are there homes of more light than the one where we are ; For it nestles the dolphin and mirrors the star ? We may creep, we may scud, we may rest, we may fly ; There's no check to our speed, there's no dust for our eye ; Oh ! well may our spirits grow wild as the breeze, 'Neath the brightest of moons on the bluest of seas ! SPEING. Welcome, all hail to thee I welcome, young Spring ! Thy sun-ray is bright on the butterfly's wing. Beauty shines forth in the blossom-robed trees ; . Perfume floats by on the soft, southern breeze. Music, sweet music, sounds over the earth ; One glad, choral song greets the primrose's birth; The lark soars above, with itp shrill, matin steam ; The shepherdrboy tunes, his reel-pipe on the plain. TEE GIPSY'S TENT. Music, sweet music, cheers meadow and lea ; In the song of the blackbird, the hum of the bee ; The loud, happy laughter of children at play, Proclaims how they worship Spring's beautiful day, The eye of the hale one, with joy in its gleam ; Looks up in the noontide, and steals from the beam .• And the cheek of the pale one is marked with despair, To feel itself fading when all is so fair The hedges, luxuriant with flowers and .''aim, Are purple with violets, and shaded with palm ; The zephyr-kissed grass is beginning to wave, Fresh verdure is decking the garden and grave. Welcome, all hail to thee, heart-stirring May ! Thou hast won from my wild harp a rapturous lay ; And the last, dying murmur that sleeps on the string, Is " Welcome ! All hail to thee, welcome, young Spring !" THE GIPSY'S TEUT. Oue fire on the turf, and our tent 'neath a tree — > Carousing by moonlight, how merry are we ! Let the lord boast his castle, the baron his hall ; But the house of the gipsy is widest of all. We may shout o'er our cups, and laugh loud as we will Till echo rings back from wood) welkin, and hill ; No joys seem to us like the joys that are lent To the wanderer's life and the Gipsy's tent. Some crime and much folly may fall to our Jot ; We have sins ; but pray where is the one who has not ? We are rogues, arrant rogues : — yet remember ! 'tis rare We take but from those who can very well spare. You may tell us of deeds justly branded with shame ; But if great ones heard truth, you could tell them the same; And. there's many a king would have less to repent If his throne were as pure as the Gipsy's tent. Pant ye for beauty ?— Oh ! where would ye seek Such bloom as is found on the tawny one's cheek ? Our limbs, that go bounding in freedom and health, Are worth all your pale faces and coffers of wealth. J'O THE MI8EE. There are none to control us, we rest or we roam ; Our will is our law, and the world is our home : E'en Jove would repine at his lot if he spent A night of wild glee in the Gipsy's tent. THE MISBE. " To be frugal is wise ;" and this lesson of truth Should ever be preached in the ears of youth. The young must be curbed in their spendthrift hasfco ; Lest meagre Want should follow on Waste : But to see the hand that is withered and old So eagerly clutch at the shining gold — Oh ! can it be good that man should crave The dross of the world — so near his grave ? Sad is the lot of those who pine In the gloomy depths of the precious mine ; But they toil not so hard in gaining the ore, As the miser in guarding the glittering store. He counts the coin with a feasting eye ; And trembles the while if a step comes nigh: He adds more wealth ; and a smiling trace Of joy comes over his shrunken face. He. seeks the bed where he cannot rest ; Made close beside his idol chest : Ho wakes with a wildered, haggard stare, Eor he dreams a thief is busy there : He searches around — the bolts are fast ; And the watchmen of the night go past. His coffers are safe ; but there's fear in his brain, And the miser cannot sleep again. He never flings the blessed mite To fill the orphan child with delight. The dog may howl, the widow may sigh ; He hears them not — they may starve and die. His breast is of ice, no throbbing glow Spreads there at the piercing tale of woe ; All torpid and cold, he lives alone In his heaps, like the toad embedded in stone. Death comes — but the miser's friendless bier Is freed from the sobbing mourner's tear ; THE FBEE. 41 Unloved, unwept, no grateful one Will tell of the kindly deeds he has done. Oh ! never covet the miser's fame ; 'Tis a cheerless halo that circles his name; And one fond heart that will truly grieve, Will outweigh all the gold we can leave. THE FREE. The wild streams leap with headlong sweep In their curbless course o'er the mountain steep ; All fresh and strong, they foam along ; Waking the rocks with their cataract song. My eye bears a glance like the beam on a lance ; While I watch the waters dash and dance : I burn with glee, for I love to see The path of anything that's Free. The skylark springs, with dew on his wings ; And up in the arch of heaven he sings Trill-la, trill-la — oh ! sweeter far Than the notes that come through a golden ban The joyous bay of a hound at play, The caw of a rook on its homeward way : Oh ! these shall be the music for me, For I love the voices of the Free. The deer starts by, with his antlers high ; Proudly tossing his head to the sky : The barb runs the plain, unbroke by the vein, With steaming nostrils and flying mane. The clouds are stirred by the eaglet bird, As the flap of its swooping pinion is heard : Oh ! these shall be the creatures for me, For my soul was formed to love the Free. The mariner brave, in his bark on the wave, May laugh at the walls round a kingly slave ■, And. the one whose lot, is the desert spot, Has no dread of an envious foe in his cot. The thrall and state at the palace gate, Are what my spirit has learnt to hate • Oh ! the hills snail be a home for me, For I'd leave a throne for the hut of the Free, 42 OLD POBBIS". Here's a song for old Dobbin, whose temper and worth Are too rare to be spurned on the score of his birth. He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed ? 'Tis deeds, and not blood, make the man and the steed. He was bred in the forest, and turned on the plam, Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane. All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy The spark of good-nature that dwelt in his eye. The Summer had waned, and the Autumn months rolled Into those of stern Winter, all dreary and cold ; But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance- The colt of the common was left to his chance. Half-starved and half-frozen, the hail-storm would pelt ; Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt : But we pitied the brute, and, though laughed at by all, We filled him a manger and gave him a stall. He was ftmd as a spaniel, and soon he became The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame. 'Tis well that his market-price cannot be known ; But we christened him Dobbin, and called him our owu. He grew out of colthood, and, lo ! what a change ! The knowing ones said it was " mortally strange ;" For the foal of the forest, the colt of the waste, Attracted the notice of jockeys of taste. The line of his symmetry was not exact ; But his paces were clever, his mould was compact ; And his shaggy, thick coat now appeared with a gloss, Shining out luce the gold that's been purged of its dross. ■ We broke him for service, and tamely he wore Girth and rein, seeming proud of the thraldom he bore ; Each farm, it is known, must possess an " odd" steed. And Dobbin was ours, fpr all times, and all need. He carried the master to barter his grain, And ever returned with him safely again : There was merit in that, for deny it who may, When the master could not, Dobbin could find his way. OLD BOBBIN. 43 The dairy-maid ventured her eggs on his back : 'Twas him, and him only, she'd trust with the pack. The team -horses jolted, the roadster played pranks ; So Dobbin alone had her faith and her thanks. We fun-loving urchins would group by his side ; "We might fearlessly mount him, and daringly ride : "We might creep through his legs, we might plait his long tail: But his temper and patience were ne'er known to fail. We would brush his bright hide till 'twas free from a speck ; We kissed his brown muzzle, and hugged his thick neck : Oh ! we prized him like life, and a heart-breaking sob Ever burst when they threatened to sell our dear Dob. He stood to the collar, and tugged up the hill, With the pigs to the market, the grist to the mill ; With saddle or halter, in shaft or in trace ; He was stanch to his work, and content with his place. When the hot sun was crowning the toil of the year, He was sent to the reapers with ale and good cheer ; And none in the corn-field more welcome were seen Than Dob and his well-laden panniers, I ween. Oh ! those days of pure bliss shall I ever forget, When we decked out his head with the azure rosette ; All frantic with joy to be off to the fair, With Dobbin, good Dobbin, to carry us there ? He was dear to us all, ay, for many long years ; But, mercy ! how's this? my eye's filling with tears. Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start ; When Memory plays an old tune on the heart ! There are drops on my cheek, there's a throb in my breast ; But my song shall not cease, nor my pen take its rest ; Till I tell that old Dobbin still lives to be seen, With his oats in the stable, his tares on the green. His best years have gone by, and the master who gave The stern yoke to his youth has enfranchised the slave : So browse on, my old Dobbin, nor dream of the knife ; For the wealth of a king should not purchase thy life. SLEEP. I've mourned the dark long night away With bitter tears and vain regret ; Till, grief-sick, at the break of day.. I've left a pillow cold and wet. I've risen from a restless bed, Sad, trembling, spiritless, and weak ; With all my brow's young freshness fled ; With -pallid lips and bloodless cheek. Hard was the task for aching eyes ; So long to wake, so long to weep : But well it taught me how to prize That precious, matchless blessing — Sleep. I've counted every chiming hour, While languishing 'neath ceaseless pain ; While fever raged with fearful power, To drink my breath, and scorch my brain. And oh ! what earnest words were given ! What long, imploring prayers arose ! How eagerly I asked of Heaven A few, brief moments of repose ! Oh ! ye who drown each passing night In peaceful slumber, calm and deep ; Fail not to kneel at morning's light, And thank your God for health and Sleep. WINTER. We know 'tis good that Old Winter should come, Roving awhile from his Lapland home ; 'Tis fitting that we should hear the sound Of his reindeer sledge on the slippery ground : For his wide and glittering cloak of snow Protects the seeds, of life below ; Beneath his mantle are nurtured and born The roots of the flowers, the germs of the coi-a. HALLOWED BE THY NAME. The whistling tone of his pure, strong breath Bides, purging the vapours of pestilent death. I love him, I say, and avow it again, For God's wisdom and might show well in his train. But the naked — the poor ! I know they quail With crouching limbs from the biting gale ; They pine and starve by the fireless hearth, And weep as they gaze on the frost-bound earth. Stand nobly forth, ye rich of the land, With kindly heart, and bounteous hand ; Bemember, 'tis now their season of need, And a prayer for help is a call ye must heed. A few of thy blessings, a tithe of thy gold, Will save the young, and cherish the old. 'Tis a glorious task to work such good — Do it, ye great ones ! — Ye can, and ye should. He is not worthy to hold from Heaven The trust reposed, the talents given, Who will not add to the portion that's scant, In the pinching hours of cold and want. Oh ! listen in mercy, ye sons of wealth, Basking in comfort and glowing with health ; Give what ye can spare, and be ye sure He serveth his Maker who aideth the Poor. HALLOWED BE THY NAME. List to the dreamy tone that dwells In rippling wave, or sighing tree ; Go, hearken to the old, church bells ; The whistling bird, the whirring bee : Interpret right, and ye will find 'Tis " power and glory" they proclaim : The chimes, the creatures, waters, wind; All publish, " hallowed be Thy name !" The pilgrim journeys till he bleeds, To gain the altar of his sires ; The hermit pores above his beads, With zeal that never wanes nor tires : 46 TEE ENGLISH SfflP kt MdOftLIGET. But holiest rite or longest prayer That soul can. yield or wisdom frame ; What better import can it bear Than, " Father ! hallowed be Thy name !" The savage kneeling to the sun, To give his" thanks, or ash a boon— The, raptures of the idiot one Who laughs to see the clear, round moon : — The saint, well taught in Christian lore— The Moslem prostrate at his flame — All worship, wonder, and adore ; All end in, " hallowed be Thy name !" Whate'er. may be Man's faith or creed, Those precious words comprise i\ still ; We trace them on the bloomy mead, We hear them in the flowing rill. One chorus hails the Great Supreme ; Each varied breathing tells the same : The strains may differ ; but the tlieme Is, " Father, hallowed be Thy name I'* THE ENGLISH SHIP BY MOONLIGHT. The world below hath not for me Such a fair and glorious sight, As an English ship on a rippling sea, In the full moon's placid light. My heart leaps high as I fi£ my eye On her dark and sweeping hull, Laying its breast on the billowy nest, Like the tired, sleeping gull. The masts spring up, all tall and boid, With their heads among the stars ; The white sails gleam in the silvery beam Brailed up to the branching spars. The wind just breathing to unroll A flag that bears no stain. Projad ship ! that need'st no other scroll, To warrant thy right on the main. WATER. 4? The sea-boy hanging on the shrouds Chants out his fitful song, And watches the scud of fleecy clouds. That melts as it floats along. Oh * what is there on the sluggard land That I love so well to mark, In the hallowed light of the still midnighb As I do a dancing bark ! The ivied tower looks well in that hour, And so does the old church-spire ; When the gilded vane, and Gothic pane Seem tinged with quivering fire. The hills shine out in the mellow ray, The love-bower gathers a charm ; And beautiful is the chequering play On the willow's graceful arm. But the world below holds not for m8 Such a fair and glorious sight As a brave ship on a rippling sea In the full moon's placid light. WATEK. Wine, wine, thy power and praise Have ever been echoed in minstrel lays ; But Water, I deem, hath a mightier claim To fill up a niche in the temple of Fame. Ye who are bred in Anacreon's school May sneer at my strain, as the song of a fool ; Te are wise, no doubt, but have yet to learn How the tongue can cleave, and the veins can burn. Should ye ever be one of a fainting band, With your brow to the sun and your feet to the sand ; I would wager the thing I'm most loth to spare, That your Bacchanal dhorus would never ring there. Traverse the desert, and then ye 'can tell What treasures exist in the cold, deep well ; Sink in despair on the red, parched earth, And then ye may reckon what Water is worth. 4,8 THE QUIET EYE. Famine is laying her hand of bone On the ship becalmed in a torrid zone ; The gnawing of Hunger's worm is past, But fiery Thirst lives on to the last. The stoutest one of the gallant crew Hath a cheek and lips of ghastly hue ; The hot blood stands in each glassy eye ; And, " Water, God !" is the only cry. There's drought in the land, and the herbage is dead, No ripple is heard in the streamlet's bed : The herd's low bleat, and the sick man's pant, Are mournfully telling the boon we want. Let Heaven this one rich gift withhold, How soon we find it is better than gold ; And Water, I say, hath a right to claim The Minstrel's song, and a tithe of Fame. THE QUIET EYE. The orb I like is not the one That dazzles with its lightning gleam ; That dares to look upon the sun, As though it challenged brighter beam. That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll ; Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly ; But not for me : I prize the soul That slumbers in a quiet eye. There's something in its placid shade That tells of calm, unworldly thought ; Hope may be crowned, or joy delayed. — No dimness steals, no ray is caught. Its pensive language seems to say, " I know that I must close and die ;" And death itself, come when it may, Can hardly change the quiet eye. There's meaning in its steady glance, Of gentle blame or praising love ; That makes me tremble to advance A word, that meaning might reprove. The haughty threat, the fiery look, My spirit proudly can defy ; But never yet could meet and brook The upbraiding of a quiet eye. SNOW. 49 There's firmness in its even light, That augurs of a breast sincere : And, oh ! take watch how ye excite That firmness till it yield a tear. Some bosoms give an easy sigh, Some drops of grief will freely start; But that which sears the quiet eye Hath its deep fountain in the heart. SNOW. Bbave Winter and I shall ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he. I like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window pane : I like to see him come marching forth, Begirt with the icicle gems of the north ; But I like him best when he comes bedigh*. In his velvet robes of stainless white. A cheer for the Snow — the drifting Snow ; Smoother and purer than Beauty's brow ; The creature of thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet so richly spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diadems crowned : 'Tis the fairest scene we can have below. Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting Snow ! The urchins gaze with eloquent eye, To see the flakes go dancing by. In the thick of the storm how happy are they To welcome the first, deep, snowy day. Shouting and pelting — what bliss to fall Half-smothered, beneath the well-aimed ball, Men of fourscore, did ye ever know Such sport as ye had in the drifting Snow ? I'm true to my theme, for I loved it well, When the gossiping nurse would sit and tell The tale of the geese — though, hardly believed— I doubted and questioned the words that deceived, I rejoice in it still, and love to see The ermine mantle on tower and tree ; 'Tis the fairest scene we caa have below. Hurrah ( then ; hurrah J for the drifting Snow 1 50 THE GALLANT ENGLISH TAR. There's one whose fearless courage yet has never failed in figl t ; Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, and our right ; But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow ; Cry " Quarter !" and that arm will be the first to spare its foe. He recks not though proud Glory's shout may be the knell of death ; The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath. He's Britain's boast, and claims a, toast ! " In peace, my boys, or war Here's to the brave upon the wave ; the Gallant, English Tar." Let but the sons of Want come nigh, and tell their tale to him ; He'll chide their eyes for weeping, while his own are growing dim : " Cheer up," he cries, " we all must meet the storm as well as calm ;" But, turning on his heeL Jack slips the guineas in their palm. He'll hear no long oration, but tell you every man Is born to act a brother's part, and do what good he can. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast ! " In peace, my boys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave ; the Gallant, English Tar." The dark, blue jacket that enfolds the sailor's manly breast ; Bears more of real honour than the star and ermine vest. The tithe of folly in his head may wake the landsman's mrrth, But Nature proudly owns him as her child of sterling worth. His heart is warm, bis hand is true, his word is frank and free ; And though he plays the ass on shore, he's lion of the sea. He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast ! " In peace, my hoys, or war, Here's to the brave upon the wave ; the Gallant, English Tar." BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart. My smile expires into a sigh ; I .feel a struggling in the eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way j Eor soul and brain will travel back Through Memory's chequered mazes, To days when I but trod. Life's track " TTor 1 " buttercups and Daisies." THE OLD FARM-GATE. 51 Tell me, ye men of wisdom rare, Of sober speech, and silver hair ; Who carry counsel, wise and sage, With all the gravity of age : Oh ! say, do ye not like to hear The accents ringing in your ear, When sportive urchins laugh and shout, Tossing those precious flowers about, Springing with bold and gleesome bound, Proclaiming joy that -crazes ; And chorusing the magic sound Of " Buttercups and Daisies ?" Are there, I ask, beneath the sky Blossoms that knit so strong a tie With Childhood's love P Can any please Or light the infant eye like these ? No, no ; there's not a bud oh earth, Of richest tint, or warmest birth, Can ever fling such zeal and zest Into the tiny hand and breast. Who does not recollect the hours When burning words and praises Were lavished on those shining flowers, " Buttercups and Daisies ?" There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell ; And though old Time has marked my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if ye will, but some heart-strings Are closest linked to simplest things ; And these wild flowers will hold mine fust, Till love, and life, and all be past : And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf-sod o'er me plant my grave With " Buttercups and Daisies." THE OLD FARM-GATE. Where, where is the gate that once served to divide The elm-shaded lane from the dusty road-side r 1 I like not this barrier, gaily bedight, Wi*h its glittering latch and its trellis of white. TEE OLD F ABM-GATE. It is seemly, I own — yet, oh. ! dearer by far Was the red-rusted hinge, and the weather-warped bar. Here are fashion and form of a modernized date, But I'd rather have looked on the Old Farm-gate. 'Twas here where the urchins would gather to play, In the shadows of twilight, or sunny mid-day ; For the stream running nigh, and the hillocks of sand, Were temptations no dirt-loving rogue could withstand. But to swing on the gate-rails, to clamber and ride, Was the utmost of pleasure, of glory, and pride ; And the car of the victor, or carriage of state, Never carried such hearts as the Old Farm-gate. 'Twas here where the miller's son paced to and fro, When the moon was above and the glow-worms below; Now pensively leaning, now twirling his stick, While the moments grew long and his heart-throbs grew quick. Why, why did he linger so restlessly there, With church-going vestment and sprucely-combed hair ? He loved, oh ! he loved, and had promised to wait For the one he adored, at the Old Farm-gate. 'Twas here where the grey-headed gossips would meet ; And the falling of markets, or goodness of wheat — This field lying fallow — that heifer just bought — Were favourite themes for discussion and thought. The merits and faults of a neighbour just dead — The hopes of a couple about to be wed — The Parliament doings — the Bill ; and Debate — Were all canvassed and weighed at the Old Farm-gate. 'Twas over that gate I taught Pincher to botind With the strength of a steed and the grace of a hound. The beagle might hunt, and the spaniel might swim, But none could leap over that postern like him. When Dobbin was saddled for mirth-making trip, And the quickly pulled willow-branch served for a whip, ■Spite of lugging and tugging, he'd stand for his freight ; While I climbed on his back from the Old Farm-gate. "Tis well to pass portals where pleasure and fame May come winging our moments, and gilding our name ; But give me the joy and the freshness of mind, When, away on some sport— the old gate slammed behind— I've listened to music, but none that could speak In such tones to my heart as the teeth-setting creak That broke on my ear when the night had worn late, And the dear ones came home through the Old Farai-eate. STANZAS. Oh ! fair is the barrier taking its place, But it darkens a picture my soul longed to trace, T sigh to behold the rough staple and hasp, And the rails that my growing hand scarcely could clas'3. Oh ! how strangely the warm spirit grudges to part With the commonest relic once linked to the heart ; And the brightest of fortune— the kindliest fate- Would not banish my love for the Old Farm-gate. STANZAS. Tnou hast left us long, my mother dear ; Time's sweeping tide has run ; But failed to wash away the tear Prom the eye of thy youngest one. The heart so closely knit to thine, That held thee as its all ; Adored too fondly, to resign It's love with the coffin and pall. Thou art lost to these arms, my mother dear, But they crave to enfold thee still ; And thy spirit may find those arms entwined Round thy gravestone, damp and chill. The reptile thing thy lips may greet, The shroud enwraps thy form ; But I covet the place of thy winding-sheet, And am jealous of the worm. Thou hast fled from my gaze, my mother dear, But sleep is a holy boon ; For its happy visions bring thee near : Ah ! why do they break so soon ? I look around when voices ring Where thine once used to be ; And deep are the secret pangs they bring, For my eye still asks for thee. Oh ! I worship thee yet, my mother dear, Though my idol is buried in gloom : I cannot pour my love in thine ear, But I breathe it o'er thy tomb. Death came to prove if that love would hold, When the sharpest ordeal tried ; But it passed like the flame that tests the gold, And hath only purified. THE IDIOT-BORN. "OtjT, thou silly moon- struck elf; _ Back, poor fool, and hide thyself!'' This is what the wise ones say, Should the Idiot cross their way : But if we would closely mark, We should see him not all dark ; We should find we must not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-horn. He will screen the newt and frog ; He will cheer the famished dog ; He will seek to share his bread With the orphan, parish fed : He will oifer up his seat To the stranger's wearied feet : Selfish tyrants, do not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-horn. Use him fairly, he will prove How the simple breast can love ; He will Spring with infant glee To the form he likes to see. Gentle speech, or kindness done ; Truly binds the witless one. Heartless traitors, do not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-born. He will point with vacant stare At the robes proud churchmen wear ; But he'll pluck the rose, and tell, God hath painted it right well. He will kneel before his food, Softly saying, " God is good." Haughty prelates, do not scorn The teaching of the Idiot-born. Art thou great as man can be ? — The same hand moulded him and thee. Hast thou talent P — Taunt and jeer Must not fall upon his ear. Spurn him not ; the blemished part Had better be the head than heart. Tlwu wilt be the fool to scorn The teaching of the tdiot-borri« THE STAR 0' GLENGAR1 The red moon is up, o'er the moss-covered mountain ; The hour is at hand when I promised to rove With the turf-cutter's daughter, by Logan's bright Water ; And tell her how truly her Donald can love. I ken there's the miller, wi' plenty o' siller, Would fain win a glance from her beautiful e'e ; But my ain, bonnie Mary, the star o' Glengary, Keeps a' her sweet smiles, and saffc kisses, for me. 'Tis lang sin' we first trod the Highlands togither, Twa frolicksome bairns, gaily starting the deer ; When I ca'd her my life ! my ain, bonnie, wee wife, And ne'er knew sic joy as when Mary was near. And still she's the blossom I wear in my bosom, A blossom I'll cherish and wear till I dee ', For my ain, bonnie Mary, the star o' Glengary ! She's health, and she's wealth, and she's a' good to tne. THE WATERS. What was it that I loved so well about my childhood's home ? It was the wide and wave-lashed shore, the black rocks, crowned with foam. It was the sea-gull's napping wing, all trackless in its flight ; Its screaming note that welcomed on, the fierce and stormy night. The wild heath had its flowers and moss, the forest had its trees, Which, bending to the evening wind, made music in the breeze : But earth, ha ! ha ! I laugh e'en now, earth had no charms for me. ; No scene half bright enough to win my young heart from the sea ! No ! 'twas the ocean, vast and deep, the fathomless, the free ! The mighty, rushing waters that were ever dear to me ! My earliest steps would wander from the green and fertile land, Down where the clear, blue ocean rolled, to pace the rugged strand ; I'd proudly fling the proffered bribe and gilded toy away, To gather up the salt sea weeds, or dabble in the spray 1 I shouted to the distant crew, or launched my mimic bark; I met the morning's freshness there, and lingered til! the dark ; When dark, I climbed, with bounding step, the steep and jutting cliff; To see them trim the beacon-light to guide the fisher'!.' skiff I Oh ! how I loved the Waters, and even longed to be A bird, or boat, or anything that dwelt upon the Sea". 56 THE POET The moon ! the moon ! oh, tell me, do ye love her placid ray ? Do ye love the shining, starry train that gathers round her way ? Oh ! if ye do, go watch her when she climbs above the main, While her full transcript lives below, upon the crystal plain. While her soft light serenely falls ; and rising billows seem Like sheets of silver spreading forth to meet her hallowed beam : Look ! and thy soul will own the spell ; thou'lt feel as I have felt ; Thou'lt love the waves as I have loved, and kneel as I have knelt ; And, well I know, the prayer of saint or martyr ne'er could be More fervent- in its faith than mine, beside the moon-lit Sea. I liked not those who nurtured me ; they gave my bosom pain ; They strove to, fix their shackles on a soul that spurned the chain : I grew rebellious to their hope, disdainful of their care ; And all they dreaded most, my spirit loved the most to dare. And am I changed ? have I become a tame and fashioned thing ? Have I yet learned to sing the joys that pleasure's minions sing ? Is there a smile upon my brow, when mixed with Folly's crowd ? Is the false whisper dearer than the storm- wail, shrill and loud? No !_ no ! my soul is as it was, and as it e'er will be — Loving, and free as what it loves, the curbless, mighty Sea. THE POET. Look, on the sky, all broad and fair ; Sons of the earth, what see ye there ? The rolling clouds to feast thine eye With golden burnish and Tyrian dye ; The rainbow's arch, the sun of noon, The stars of eve, the midnight moon : These, these to the coldest gaze are bright, They are marked by all for their glory and light ; But their colour and rays shed a richer beam As they shine to illumine the Poet's dream. Children of pleasure, how ye dote On the dulcet harp and tuneful note ; Holding your breath to drink the strain, Till throbbing joy dissolves in pain. There's not a spell aught else can fling Like the warbling voice and the silver string •. But a music to other ears unknown, Of deeper thrill and sweeter tone, Comes in the soft and gurgling stream To the Poet wrapt in his blissful dream. THE POET. 57 The earth may have its buried stores Of lustrous jewels, and coveted ores ; Ye may gather hence the marble stone To house a monarch or wall a throne ; Its gold may fill the grasping hand, Its gems may flash in the sceptre wand ; But purer treasures, and dearer things Than the coins of misers, or trappings of kings — Gifts and hoards of a choicer kind, Are garnered up in the Poet's mind. The mother so loves, that the world holds none To match with her own fair, lisping one ; The wedded youth will nurture his bride, With all the fervour of passion and pride ; Hands will press, and beings blend, Till the kindliest ties knit friend to friend. Oh ! the hearts of the many can truly burn, They can fondly cherish, and closely yearn ; But the flame of love is more vivid and strong, That kindles within a child of Song. Life hath much of grief and pain To sicken the breast, and tire the brain ; All brows are shaded by sorrow's cloud, All eyes are dimmed, all spirits bowed; Sighs will break from the careworn breast, Till death is asked as a pillow of rest ; But the gifted one, oh ! who cm tell How his pulses beat, and his heart's strings swell. His quivering pain, Ms throbbing woe None but himself and his God can know. Crowds may join in the festive crew, Their hours may be glad, and their pleasures true ; They may gaily carotise, and fondly believe There's no greater bliss for the soul to receive. But ask the Poet if he will give His exquisite moments, like them to live : And the scornful smile on his lips will play. His eye will flash with exulting ray ; For he knows and feels to him is given The joys that yield a glimpse of heaven. Oh ! there's something holy about each spot Where the weary sleep, and strife comes not ; And the good and great ones, passed away, Have worshippers still o'er their soulless clay ; 58 THE SONG OF MARION. But the dust of the Bard is most hallowed and dear, "Tis moistened and blest by the warmest tear 5 The prayers of the Worthiest breathe his name, Mourning his loss, arid guarding his fame ; And the truest homage the dead can have, Is poured from the heart, at the Poet's grave. THE SONG OF MABION. She snt down agaiu to look, but her eyes were blinded with tears, and in a voice interrupted by sighs, she exclaimed — "Not yet, not yet. Oh, my "Wallace, what evil hath betided thee ?"— Scottish Chiefs. " "Not yet, not yet ! I thought I saw The foldings of his plaid ; Alas ! 'twas but the mountain pine, That cast a fitful shade. The moon is o'er the highest crag, It gilds each tower and tree ; But Wallace comes not back to bless The hearts in Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! Is that his plun 3 I see beside the hill ? Ah, no ! 'tis but the waving fern ; The heath is lonely still. Dear Wallace, day-star' of niy soul, Thy Marion weeps for thee ; She fears lest evil Should betide The guard of Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! I heard a sound, A distant, crashing din ; 'Tis but the night-breeze bearing on The roar of Corie Lin. The grey-haired harper cannot rest, He keeps his watch with me ; He kneels— he prays that Heaven may shield The laird of Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! My heart will break ; Where can the brave one Stay ? I know 'tis not his own free will That keeps him thus away. THE GTPSY OttlLB. £9 The lion may forsake his lair, The dove its nest may flee, But Wallace loves too well, to leave His bride and Ellerslie. Not yet, not yet ! The moon goes down, And Wallaee is not here ; And still his sleuth-hound howls, and still I shed the burning tear. Oh, come, my Wallace, quickly come, As ever, safe and free : Come, or thy Marion soon will find A grave in Ellerslie." THE GIPSY CHILD. He sprung to life in a crazy tent, Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent ; Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands That soothed his wailings, and swathed his bands. No tissue of gold, no lawn was there, No snowy robe for the new-born heir; But the mother wept, and the father smiled With heartfelt joy o'er their Gipsy child. He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad, With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward ; Half-naked, he wades in the limpid stream, Or dances about in the scorching beam. The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen Hath never fallen on him, I ween ; But fragments are spread, and the wood-fire piled ; And sweet is the meal of the Gipsy child. He wanders at large, while maidens admire , His raven hair and his eyes of fire ; They mark his cheek's rich, tawny hue, With the deep carnation flushing through : He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth, All pure and white as their own pearl wreath : And the courtly dame, and damsel mild, Will turn to gaze on the Gipsy child. 60 NATURES GEXTLI-3UX, Up with the sun, lie is roving along, "Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song ; He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl, And is baying again to the watch-dog's howl. His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold, He is free from the evils of fashion and gold : His dower is scant and his life is wild, But kings might envy the Gipsy child. NATUEE'S GENTLEMAN. Whom do we dub as Gentlemen ? The knave, the fool, the brute— If they but own full tithe of gold, and wear a courtly suit ; The parchment scroll of titled line, the riband at the knee ; Can still suffice to ratify and grant such high degree : But Nature with a matchless nand, sends forth her nobly born, And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn ; She moulds with care, a spirit rare, half human, half divine ; And cries, exulting, "Who can make a Gentleman like mine?" She may not spend her greatest skill about the outward part, But showers beauty, grace, and light, upon the brain and heart ; She may not shed ancestral fame his pathway to illume — The sun that flings the brightest ray may rise from mist and gloom. Should Fortune pour her welcome store, and useful gold abound, He shares it with a bounteous hand, and scatters blessings round. The treasure sent, is rightly spent, and serves the end designed, When held by IS ature's Gentleman, the good, the just, the kind. He turns not from the cheerless home, where Sorrow's offspring dwell; He'll greet the peasant in his hut, — the culprit in his cell : He stays to hear the widow's plaint, of deep and mourning lovo ; He seeks to aid her lot below, and prompt her faith above. The orphan child, the friendless one, the luckless, or the poor, Will never meet his spurning frown, nor leave his bolted door ; His kindred circles all mankind, his country all the globe — An honest name his jewelled star, and Truth his ermine robe. He wisely yields his passions up to Eeason's firm control — His pleasures are of crimeless kind, and never taint the soul. He may be thrown among the gay and reckless sons of life : But will not love the revel scene, nor head the brawling strife. NOBAE M'SHANE. 61 He wounds no breast with jeer or jest, yet bears no honied tongue ; He's social with the grey -haired one, and merry with the young ; He gravely shares the council speech, or joins the rustic game ; And shines as Nature's Gentleman, in every place the same. No haughty gesture marks his gait, no pompous tone his word ; No studied attitude is seen, no ribald gossip heard ; He'll suit his bearing to the hour — laugh, listen, learn or teach ; With joyous freedom in his mirth, and candour in his speech. He worships God with inward zeal, and serves him in each deed ; He would not blame another's faith, nor have one martyr bleed ; Justice and Mercy form his code ; he puts his trust in Heaven : His prayer is, " If the heart mean well, may all else be forgiven !" Though few of such may gem the earth, yet such rare gems there are : Each shining in his hallowed sphere as Virtue's polar star. Though human hearts too oft are found all gross, corrupt, and dark, Yet, yet, some bosoms breathe and burn, — lit by Promethean spark ; ■ There are some spirits nobly just, unwarped by pelf or pride, Great in the calm, but greater still when dashed by adverse tide, — They hold the rank no king can give, no station can disgrace : Nature puts forth her Gentleman, and monarchs must give place. NOEAH M'SHANE. I've left Ballymornach a long way behind me ; To better my fortune I've crossed the big sea ; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me, And, faith ! I'm as wretched as wretched can be. I think of the buttermilk, fresh as a daisy ; The beautiful hills and the emerald plain ; And oh ! don't I oftentimes think myself crazy, About that young black-eyed rogue, Norah M'Shane. I sigh for the turf -pile, so cheerfully burning, When barefoot I trudged it, from toiling afar ; When I tossed in the light the thirteen I'd been earning, And whistled the anthem of " Erin-go-bragh." In truth, I believe that I'm half broken-hearted ; To my country and love I must get back again ; For I've never been happy at all since I parted From sweet Ballymornach and Norah M'Shane. Oh ! there's something so dear in the cot I was born in, Though the walls are but mud, and the roof is but thatch ? How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the morning, What music in lifting the rusty, old latch! TBUTS. 'Tis true I'd no money, but then I'd no sorrow; My packets were light, but my heart had no pain ; And if I but live till the sun shines to-morrow, I'll be off tp old Ireland and Korah M'Shane. TRUTH. 'Tis passing sad to note the face Where haggard Grief has taken its place ; Where the soul's keen anguish can but speak In the glistening lash and averted cheek — When the restless orbs, with struggling prids, Swell with the tears they fain would hide, Till the ponring drops and heaving throbs Burst forth in strong, impassioned sobs. 'Tis fearful to mark where Passion reigns, With gnashing teeth and starting veins ; When the reddened eyeballs flash and glare, With dancing flame in their maniac stare ; When fury sits on the gathered brow, With quivering muscle and fiery glow ■ 'Tis fearful indeed just then to scan The lineaments of Grod-like man. 'Tis sad to gaze on the forehead fair, And mark the work of Suffering there ; When the oozing, pain-wrung moisture drips, And whiteness dwells round the parted lip;) ; When the breath on those lips is so short and faint That it falters in yielding the lowest plaint : Who does not sigh to read such tale On cheeks all shadowy and pale ? But have ye watched the mien that bore A look to be feared and pitied more — Have ye seen the crimson torrent steal O'er the one who has erred, and yet can/tej- - When the stammering speech and downcast eye Quailed from the mean, detected lie ? Have ye marked the conscious spirit proclaim Its torture 'neath the brand of shame ? Oh ! thiB to me is the look which hath More hideous seeming than honest wrath, THE SEXTON. Let pain distort with its harrowing might, Or sorrow rob the glance of its light ; Yet the pallid chill, or the fevered flush, Sears less than Falsehood's scathing blush : Nay, look on the brow ; 'tis better to trace The lines of Death than the shade of Disgrace. THE SEXTON. " Mine is the fame most blazoned of all 5 Mine is the goodliest trade ; Never was banner so wide as the pall, Nor sceptre so feared as the spade," This is the lay of the Sexton grey ; King of the churchyard he— - While the mournful knell of the tolling bell, Chimes in with his burden of glee. He dons a doublet of sober brown And a hat of slouching felt ; The mattock is over his shoulder thrown, The heavy keys clank at his belt. The dark, damp vault now echoes his tread. While his song rings merrily out: With a cobweb canopy over his head, And coffins falling about. His foot may crush the full-fed worms, His hand may grasp a shroud ; H_ gaze may rest on skeleton forms, Yet his tones are light and loud. He digs the grave, and his chant will break. As he gains a fathom deep — " Whoever lies in the bed I make I warrant will soundly sleep." He piles the sod, he raises the stone, He clips the cypress-tree ; But whate'er his task, 'tis plied alone 5 No fellowship holds he, 34 GALLA BBAE. For the Sexton grey is a scaring loon; His name is linked with death. The children at play, should he cross' their way, Will pause, with fluttering breath. They herd together, a frightened host, And whisper with lips all white, — " See, see. 'tis he that sends the ghost, To waik the world at night !" The old men mark him, with fear in their eye, At his labour 'mid skulls and dust ; They hear him chant : " The young may die, But we know the aged mmst." The rich will frown; as his ditty goes on — " Though broad your lands may be ; Six narrow feet to the beggar I mete, And the same shall serve for ye." The ear of the strong will turn from his song, And Beauty's cheek will pale ; " Out, out," they cry, "what creature would stay, To list thy croaking tale !" Oh ! the Sexton grey is a mortal of dread ; None like to see him come near ; The orphan thinks on a father dead, The widow wipes a tear. All shudder to hear his bright axe chink, Upturning the hollow bone ; No mate will share his toil or his fare, He works, he carouses, alone. By night, or by day, this, this, is his lay : " Mine is the goodliest trade ; Never was banner so wide as the pall, Nor sceptre so feared as the spade." GALLA BRAE. O, tell me, did ye ever see Sweet Galla on a simmer night, When ilka star had oped its e'e, An' tipped the broom wi' eaft, pale light P THE CLOUDS. 05 Ye'd never gang toward the town, Ye wadna Eke the flauntie day ; If ance ye saw the moon blink down Her bonnie beams on Galla Brae. A' silent, save the wimplin tune, The win's asleep, nae leaflet stirs : gie me Galla 'neath the moon, Its siller birk, and gowden furze. There's monie anither leesome glen, But let 'em talk o' whilk they may, O' a' the rigs an' shaws I ken, There nane sae fair as Galla Brae. 1 crept a wee thing 'mang its heath, A laughing laddie there I stray'd ; I roved beside its burnie's tide In caller air, an' gloaming shade. Its gowans were the first I pu'd, An' still my leal heart loves it sae, That wheu I dee, nae grave would be Sic hallowed earth as Galla Brae. THE CLOUDS. Beautiful Clouds ! I have watched ye loHg Fickle and bright as a fairy throng ; Now ye have gathered golden beams, Now ye are parting in silver streams, Now ye are tinged with a roseate blush, Deepening fast to a crimson flush ; Now, like aerial sprites at play, Ye are lightly dancing another way ; Melting in many a pearly flake, Like the cygnet's down on the azure laks ; Now ye gather again, and run To bask in the blaze of a setting sun ; And anon ye serve as Zephyr's car, Flitting before the evening star. Now ye ride in mighty form, With the arms of a giant to nurse the storm ; Ye grasp the lightning, and fling it on earth, All flashing and wild as a maniac's mirth. •5 HANG UP HIS HARP; HE'LL WAKE NO MORE ! Ye cavern the thunder, and bravely it roars, While the forest groans, and the avalanche pours ; Te launch the torrent with headlong force, Till the rivers hiss in their boiling course ; t Ye come, and your trophies are scattered around In the wreck on the waters, the oak on the ground. Oh ! where is the eye that doth not love The glorious phantoms that glide aboye P. That hath not looked on the realms of air, With wondering soul, and bux'stihg prayer ! Oh ! where is the spirit that hath not bowed At the holy shrine of a passing Oloud ? HANG TJP HIS HARP; HE'LL WAKE NO MORES His young bride stood beside his bed, Her weeping watch to keep ; Hush ! hush ! he stirred not—was he dead, Or did he only sleep ? His brow was calm, no change was there, No sigh had filled his breath ; Oh ! did he wear that smile so fair In slumber, or in death ? " Reach down his harp," she wildly cried, " And if one spark remain, Let him but hear * Loch Erroeh's side :' He'll kindle at the strain. " That tune e'er held his soul in thrall; It never breathed in vain ; He'll waken as its echoes fall, Or never wake again." The strings were swept ; 'twas sad to hear Sweet music floating there; For every note called forth a tear Of anguish and despair. " See ! see !" she cried, " the tune is o'er ., No opening eye, no breath : Hakg up. his. harp ; he'll wake no mora$ He sleeps the sleep of death." 67 THE POET'S WBEATfl, Jove said one day, he should like to know What would part the Child of Song from his Lyre; And he summoned his minions, and bade thein g'o, With all their bribes and powers, below ; Nor return till they wrought his desire. The agents departed — Jove's will must be done ; They vowed to perform the deed full soon : Vainly they searejied jn the crowd and the sun, But at last they found a high-sou'led one, Alone with his harp and the niopn. Fortune first tempted : she scattered her gold, And placed on his temples a g«m-bright rim ; But he scarcely glanced on the wealth as it rolled j He said the circlet was heavy and cold, And only a burden to him. Venus came next, and she whispered rare things, And praised him for scorning the bauble and pelf; She promised him Peri's in all but the wings ; But he laughed, and told her, with those soft strings He could win such creatures himself. Oppression and Poverty tried their spell ; Nigh sure he would quail at such stern behest ; His pittance was scant, in a dark, dank cell, Where the foam -spitting toad would not choose to dwell ; But he still hugged the harp to his breast. They debated what effort the next should be, When Death strode forth with his ponderous dart ; He held it aloft — "^5Te should know," cried he, " This work can only be done by me ; So, at once, my barb to his heart !" It struck ; but the last, faint flash- of his eye Was thrown on the Lyre as it fell from nis hand : The trophy was seized, and they sped to the sky, Where the Thunderer flamed in his throne on high ; And told how they did his command. 08 THE ENGLISHMAN. Jove heard, and he scowled with a gloomier frown ; 'Twas the cloud Pride lends to keep Sorrow unseen— He put by his sceptre, and flung his bolt down ; And snatched from the Glory that haloed his crown, The rays of most burning sheen. He hastened to earth ; by the minstrel he knelt ; And fashioned the beams round his brow in a wreath; He ordained it Immortal, to dazzle, to melt ; And a portion of Godhead since then has e'er dwelt On the Poet that slumbers in death. THE ENGLISHMAN. Theke's a land that bears a world-known name, Though it is but a little spot ; I say 'tis first on the scroll of Fame, And who shall say it is not? Of the deathless ones who shine and live In Arms, in Arts, or Song ; The brightest the whole wide world can give, To that little land belong. 'Tis the star of earth, deny it who can ; The island home'of an Englishman. There's a flag that waves o'er every sea, No matter when or where ; And to treat that flag as aught but the free Is more than the strongest dare. For the lion-spirits that tread the deck Have carried the palm of the brave ; And that flag may sink with a shot-torn wreck, But never float over a slave ; Its honour is stainless, deny it who can ; And this is the flag of an Englishman. There's a heart that leaps with burning glow, The wronged and the weak to defend; And strikes as soon for a trampled foe, As it does for a soul-bound friend. It nurtures a deep and honest love ; It glows with faith and pride ; And yearns with the fondness of a dove, To the light of its own fireside. "Tis a rich, rough gem, deny it who can ; And this is the heart of an Englishman. TO A FAVOURITE PONY. 69 The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone, And boldly claim his right ; For he calls such a vast domain his own, That the sun never sets on his might. Let the haughty stranger seek to know The place of his home and birth ; And a flush will pour from cheek to brow j While he tells his native earth. For a glorious charter, deny it who can, Is breathed in the words " I'm an Englishman." TO A FAVOURITE PONY. Come, hie thee on, niy gentle Gyp ; Thy rider bears nor spur nor whip, But smooths thy jetty, shining mane, And loosely flings the bridle rein. The sun is down behind the hill, The noise is hushed about the mill ; The gabbling geese and ducks forsake Their sports upon the glassy lake ; The herd-boy folds his bleating charge, The watch-dog, chainless, "roves at large ; The bees are gathered in the hive, The evening flowers their perfumes give. On, on, my gentle Gyp ! but stay ; Say, whither shall we bend our way? Down to the school-house, where the boys Greet us with rude, caressing noise ; Where urchins leave their balls and bats, To stroke thy neck with fondling pats ; Where laughing girls bring tares and hay. And coax thy ears ; well knowing they Can sport right fearlessly and free With such a gentle brute as thee ? Or shall we take the sandy road Toward the wealthy squire's abode, Where the lodge gate swings freely back, To let us take the well-known track ? I'll warrant me, that gate thou'dst find, Though reinless, riderless, and blind. Thou'rt restless, Gyp'; come start, and go ;- You take tlie hill ; well, be it so— ^ TO- A FAVOURITE PONY.; The squire's abode, I plainly see, Has equal charms for you and me< 'Tis there thou art allowed to pick The corners of the clover rick ; 'Tis there by lady's hand thou'rt fed On pulpy fruit, and finest bread. The squire himself declares thou art The' prettiest pony round the part : Nor black, nor chestnut, roan, nor grey, Can tnateh with thy rich, glossy bay. He says, thy neck's proud, curving line The artist's pencil might define; With blood and spirit, yet so mild, — ■ A fitting playmate for a child ; So meekly docile, thou'rt indeed More like a pet lamb than a steed ; That when thou'rt gone, St. Leonard's plain Will never see thy like again ! He says all this f No wonder* then, I think the squire the best of men ; For they whd praise thy form and paces, Are sure to get in my good graces. The squire tells truth ; to say the least, Thou really art a clever beast : A better one, take altogether , Ne'er looked from out a hempen tether. Full many a mile thcrtt'st borne me, Gyp, Without a stumble, shy, or slip ; Excepting, when that dedp morass, All overgrown with weeds and grass. Betrayed us to a headlong tumble, And made me feel a little humble ; But on we went, though 'well bespattered ; Thy knees uhciit, my bones unshattered. My gentle Gyp ! I've seen thee prove How fast a tiny steed can move ; I've seen thee keep the foremost place, And winthe harcf-cOntested race : I've seen.thee lift as light-a leg. . - As Tarn Q'Shanter's famous Meg, Who galloped On right helter-skelter, . With goblins in her rear to pelt her ; And, closely pressed by evil kind, Left her unhappy tail behind. Stop— fair and softly, gentle Gyp — I've jingled thus far in our trip ; 8TANZA8. 71 But now we're nigh, the well-known gate ; So steady — stand at ease — and wait- While I restore to hiding-place My paper and my pencil-case ; Stand steady — and another time I'll sing thy praise in better rhyme. STANZAS. 'Tis well to give honour and glory to Age, With its lessons of wisdom and truth ; Yet who would not go back to the fanciful page, And the fairy tale read but in Youth ? Let Time rolling on crown with fame or with gold — Let us bask in the kindliest beams ; Yet what hope can be cherished, what gift can we hold, That will bless like our earlier dreams ? As wine that hath stood for a while on the board May yet glow as the luscious and bright ; But not with the freshness, when first it was poured, Nor its brim-kissing sparkles of light ; As the flowers live on in their fragrance and bloom, The long summer-day to adorn ; Yet fail with their beauty to charm and illume, As when clothed with the dew gems of morn. So Life may retain its full portion of joy, And Fortune give all that she can ; But the feelings that gladden the breast of the hoy Will rarely be found in the man. ABC. Oh ! thou Alpha, Beta row, Fun and freedom's earliest foe ; Shall I e'er forget the primer, Thumbed beside some Mrs. Trimmer,- While mighty problem held me fast, To know rf Z were first or last P And all Pandora had for me Was emptied forth in ABC. A LOVE SONG. Teasing things of toil and trouble, Fount of many a. rolling bubble ; How I strived with pouting pain, To get thee quartered on my brain ; But when the giant feat was done, How nobly wide the field I'd won ! Wit, Reason, Wisdom, all might be Enjoyed through simple ABO. Steps that lead to topmost height Of worldly fame and human might ; Ye win the orator's renown, The poet's bays, the scholar's gown ; Philosophers must bend and say 'Twas ye who oped their glorious way. Sage, statesman, critic, where is he Who's not obliged to A B C P Ye really ought to be exempt From slighting taunt and cool contempt 5 But drinking deep from Learning's cup, We scorn the hand that filled it up. Be courteous, pedants — stay and taanlc Your servants of the Roman rank. For F.R.S. and LL.D. Can only spring from A B C. A LOVE-SONG. Deak Kate — I do not swear and rave, Or sigh sweet things as many can ; But though my lip ne'er plays the slave, My heart will not disgrace the man. I prize thee — ay, my bonnie Kate, So firmly fond this breast can be ; That I would brook the sternest fate If it but loft me health and thee. I do not promise that our life Shall know no shade on heart or brow ; For human lot and mortal strife Would mock the falsehood of such vow. But when the clouds of pain and care Shall teach us we are not divine ; My deepest sorrows thou shalt share, And I will strive to lighten thine. NAB STAB WAS GLINTIN OUT ABOON, 73 We love each other, yet perchance The murmurs of dissent may rise ; Fierce words may chase the tender glance, And angry flashes light our eyes : But we must learn to check the frown, To reason rather than to blame ; The wisest have their faults to own, And you and I, girl, have the same. You must not like me less, my Kate, For such an honest strain as this ; I love thee dearly, but I hate The puling rhymes of "kiss" and "bliss." There's truth in all I've said or sung ; I woo thee as a man should woo ; And though I lack a honied tongue, Thou'lt never find a breast more true, NAE STAR WAS GLINTIN OUT ABOON. Nae star was glintin out aboon, The cluds were dark and hid the moon ; The whistling gale was in my teeth, And round me was the deep, sriaw wreath ; But on I went the dreary mile, And sung right cantie a' the while, I gae my plaid a closer fauld ; My hand was warm, my heart was bauld, I didna heed the storm and cauld, While ganging io my Katie. But when I trod the same way back, It seemed a sad and waefu' track ; The brae and glen were lone and lang; I didna sing my cantie sang ; I felt how sharp the sleet did fa', And couldna face the wind at a'. Oh ! sic a change! how could it be ? I ken fu' well, and sae may ye — The sunshine had been gloom to me While ganging frae my Katie. 74 CUPID'S ARROW. Young Cupid went storming to Yulcan one day, And besought him to look at his arrow. " "lis useless," he cried ; " you must mend it, I say ! "lis not fit to let fly at a sparrow. There's something that's wrong in the s,haft or the dart, For it flutters, quite false to my aim ; 'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart, And the world really jests at my name. "I have straightened, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare; I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs ; 'Tis feathered with ringlets my mother might wear, And the barb gleams with light from young eyes ; But it falls without touching — I'll break it, I vow, For there's Hymen beginning to pout ; He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low That Zephyr might puff it right out." Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale, Till Vulcan the weapon restored. " There, take it, young sir ; try it now — if it fail, I will ask neither fee nor reward." The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made ; The wounded and dead were untold: But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trads, For the arrow was laden with gold. SONG OF THE CARRION CRQW. The wolf may hdwl, the jackal may prowl,— Rare, brave beasts are they ; The worm may crawl in the carcass foul, The tiger may glut o'er his prey ; The bloodhoiind may hang with untired fang,— He is cunning and strong, I trow ; But Death's stanch crew holds none more true Than the broad-winged Carrion Crow. SONG OF TEE GABBION O&OW. 75 My roost ia the creaking gibbet's beam, Where the murderer's bones swing bleaching ; Where the clattering chain rings back again To the night-wind's desolate* screeching. To and fro, as the fierce gusts blow, Merrily rocked am I ; And I note with delight the traveller's fright As he cowers and hastens by. I scent the deeds of fearful crime ; I wheel o'er the pai'ricide's head ; I have watched the sire, who, rnad with ire, The blood of his child hath shed. I can chatter the tales at which The ear of innocence starts ; And ye would not mark my plumage as dark If ye saw it beside some hearts. I have seen the friend spring out as a foe, And the guest waylay his host; And many a right arm strike a blow The lips never dared to boast. I have seen the soldier, millions adored, Do other than deed of the brave ; When he wore a mask as well as a sword, And dug a midnight grave. I have fluttered where secret work has been done, Wrought with a trusty blade ; Biit what did I care, whether foul or fair, If I shared the feast it made ? A struggle, a cry, a hasty gash ; A short and heavy groun ! Bevenge was sweet-^its work was complete— The dead and -I were alone ! I plunged my beak in the marbling cheek, I perched on the clammy brow ;' And a dainty treat was that fresh meat To the greedy Carrion Crow. I have followed the traveller, dragging on O'er the mountains long and cold; For I knew at last he must sink ih the blast, Though spirit was never so bold. 76 TEE YOUNG MARINERS. I hovered close ; his limbs grew stark — His life-stream stood to congeal; And I whetted my claw, for I plainly saw I should soon have another meal. He fell, and slept like a fair, young bride, In his winding-sheet of snow ; And quickly his breast had a table guest In the hungry Carrion Crow. If my pinions ache in the journey I take, No resting-place will do Till I light alone on a churchyard stone, Or a branch of the gloomy yew. Famine and Plague bring joy to me, For I love the harvest they yield ; And the fairest sight I ever see Is the crimson battle-field Far and wide is my charnel range, And rich carousal I keep ; Till back I come to my gibbet home, To be merrily rocked to sleep. When the world shall be spread with tombless dead, And darkness shroud all below ; What triumph and glee to the last will be, For the sateless Carrion Crow ! THE YOUNG MAKINBES. Bred up beside the rugged coast, three brothers bold were we ; Wild urchin mariners, who knew no play-place but the sea : We spurned all space the earth could give — the valley, hill, and field; The main, the boundless main alone, our reckless sports could yield. We long had borrowed sail and skiff, — obliged to be content With any crazy, sluggard hull, that kindly fisher lent : At last our spirits, like our limbs, all strong and broad had grown ; And all our thoughts were centred in " a vessel of our own .'" The eldest-born, our hope and pride, the brightest of the three, Had entered on the busy world, a sturdy shipwright he ; And mighty project filled our heads — we sat in council sage, With earnest speech and gravity beseeming riper age : THE YOUNli MARINERS. ?'/ We dared to think, we dared to say, that he, could frame a boat, And many others said the same, but questioned— " would it float?" Yet lines were drawn and timbers bought; all well and wisely planned: And steadily he set to work to try his " 'prentice hand." He soon gave proof of goodly skill, and built a tiny craft; While grey-haired sailors shook their heads and beardless landsmen laughed. '"Tis a sweet cockleshell," cried they, "well formed to please a boy; With silken sails the thing will be a pretty water toy !" We took their taunts all quietly, till she was fit to launch; And then some eyes began to find she looked a little atanch. All trim and neat, rigged out complete, we hailed our fairy bark, And chose her name the Petrel, from the bird of storm and dark. We three, and Will, the smuggler's son, composed her stripling crew; Her sheets were white as breaker's spray, her pennon old true blue ; And blessed was the breezy hour, and happy wights were we, When first we gave her wings the wind, and saw her take the sea. She cleared the bay, and shot away with free and steady speed ; Ne'er faster sped the desert child upon his Arab steed ; And though that squally day had served the fishers to deter; The Petrel fairly showed us, that it failed to frighten her. We reefed — she slacked ; " Helm down !" — she tacked : she scudded— went about : All nobly done, our hopes were won— what triumph filled our shout ! And miser never prized, his heaps, nor bridegroom loved his bride, As we did our brave Petrel when she cut the booming tide. Full many a fearful trip we made ; no hazard did we shun ; We met'the gale as readily as butterflies the sun : No terror seized our glowing hearts ; the blast but raised our mirth ; We felt as safe upon her planks, as by our household hearth. When many a large and stately ship lay rolling like a log, With more of water in her hold than that which served for grog, — "What ho!" we'd cry, wmle skimming by, "look here, ye boasting band! Just see what boys with water toys and silken sails can stand !" Old Nep might lash his dolphins on with fierce and splashing wrath, And summon all the myrmidons of death about his path ; The Triton trumpeter might sound his conch-horn long and loud, Till scaly monsters woke and tossed the billows to the cloud. The Nereids might scream their glee, bluff Boreas howl and rave ; But still the little Petrel was as saucy as the wave. By day or night, in shade or light, a fitting mate was she To ramble with her sponsor-bird, and live on any sea. 78 THE HEART THAT'S TRVE. She tempted with a witching spell, she lured us to forget A sister's fear, a mother's tear, a father's chiding threat : Away we'd'dash through foam and flash, and take the main as soon Amid the scowling tempest as beneath the summer moon. Some thirty years of toil and moil have done their work since then ; And changed us three young mariners to staid and thoughtful: men : But when by lucky chance we meet, we ne'er forget to note The perils that we dared with such a " wee thing" of a boat. Oh ! were it so that time could give some chosen moments back, Full well we know the sunniest that ever lit life's track ; We'd ask the days beside the coast, of freedom, health, arid joy-- The ocean for our play-place, and the Petrel for our toy. THE HEART THAT'S TRUE. Tell me not of sparkling gems, Set in regal diadems, — You may boast your diamonds rare, Rubies bright, and pearls so fair ; , But there's a peerless gem on earth, Of richer ray and. purer worth ; 'Tis priceless, but 'tis worn by few — It is, it is the heart that's true. Bring the tulip and the rose, While their brilliant beauty glows ; Let the storm-cloud fling a shade, Rose and tulip both will fade : But there's a flower that still is found. When mist and darkness close around ; Changeless, fadeless in its hue — It is, it is the heart that's true. Ardent in its earliest tie, Faithful in its latest sigh, — Love and Friendship, godlike pair, Find their throne of glory there. Proudly scorning bribe and threat, Naught can break the seal once set ; All the evil gold can do Cannot warp the heart that's true. First in freedom's cause to bleed, . First in joy when slaves are freed ; Their hearts were true — and what could quel] The might of Washington or Tell P LIGHT. 79 Oh ! there is one mortal shrine Lighted up with rays divine : Seek it, yield the homage due ; Deify the heart that's true. NIGHT. The God of Day is speeding his way Through the golden gates of the West 5 The rosebud sleeps in the parting ray, The bird is seeking its nest. I love the light — yet welcome, Night ; For beneath thy darkling fall, The troubled breast is soothed in rest, And the slave forgets his thrall. The peasant child, all strong and wild, Is growing quiet and meek ; All fire is hid 'neath his heavy lid, The lashes yearn to the cheek. He roves no more in gamesome glee, But hangs his weary head; And loiters beside the mother's knee, To ask his lowly bed. The. butterflies fold their wings of gold, The dew falls chill in the bower; The cattle wait at the kineyard gate, The bee hath forsaken the flower : The roar of the city is dying fast, Its tongues no longer thrill ; The hurrying tread is faint at last, The artisan's hammer is still. Night steals apace : she rules supreme ; A hallowed calm is shed : Ho footstep breaks, no whisper wakes — 'Tis the silence of the dead. The hollow bay of a distant dog Bids drowsy Echo start ; The chiming hour, from an old church tower, Strikes fearfully on the heart. 80 THIS IS THE HOUR FOB ME. All spirits are bound in slumber sound ; Save those o'er a death-bed weeping; Or the soldier one that paces alone, His guard by the watch-fire keeping. With ebon wand and sable robe, How beautiful, Night, art thou I Serenely set on a throne of jet; With stars about thy brow. Thou comest to dry the mourner's eye, That, wakeful, is ever dim ; To hush for awhile the grieving sigh, And strengthen the wearied limb. Hail to thy sceptre, Ethiop_ queen : Fair mercy marks thy reign ; For the careworn breast may take its rest, And the slave forget his chain. THIS IS THE HOUR FOR ME. I'll sail upon the mighty main — but this is not the hour ; There's not enough of wind to move the bloom in lady's bower : Oh ! this is ne'er the time for me : our pretty bark would take Her place upon the ocean like a rose-leaf on a lake. There's not a murmur on the ear, no shade to meet the eye ; The ripple sleeps ; the sun is up, all cloudless in the sky : I do not like the gentle calm of such a torpid sea ; I will not greet the glassy Bheet — 'tis not the hour for me. Now, now, the night-breeze freshens fast, the green waves gathe: strength ; The heavy mainsail firmly swells, the pennon shows its length ; Our boat is jumping in the tide— quick, let her hawser slip : Though but a tiny thing, she'll live beside a giant ship. Away, away ! what nectar spray she flings about her bow ; What diamonds flash in every splash that drips upon my brow, — She knows she bears a soul that dares and loves the dark rough sea : More sail ! I cry : let, let her fly ! — this is the hour for me. SI THERE'S A STAR IN THE WEST. There's a star in the "West that shall never go down Till the records of Valour decay ; We must worship its light, though it is not our own, For liberty burst in its ray. Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard By a freeman and thrill not his breast ? Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word, As the Bethlehem Star of the West ? " War, war to the knife ! be enthralled or ye die," Was the echo that woke in his land ; But it was not Ids voice that promoted the cry ; Nor his madness that kindled the brand. He raised not his arm, he defied not his foes, While a leaf of the olive remained ; Till goaded with insult, his spirit arose, Like a long-baited lion unchained. He struck with firm courage the blow of the brave, But sighed o'er the carnage that spread : He indignantly trampled the yoke of the slave, But wept for the thousands that bled. Though he threw back the fetters and headed the strife. Till Man's charter was fairly restored ; Yet he prayed for the moment when Freedom and Life Would no longer be pressed by the sword. Oh, his laurels were pure ; and his patriot name In the page of the Future shall dwell ; And be seen in all annals, the foremost in fame, By the side of a Hofer and Tell. The truthful and honest, the wise and the good, Among Britons have nobly confessed That his was the glory and ours was the blood Of the deeply-stained field of the West. THE LOVED ONE WAS NOT THERE. We gathered round the festive board, The crackling fagot blazed ; But few would taste the wine that poured, Or join the song we raised : 32 THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND. For there was now a glass unfilled — A favoured place to spare ; All eyes were dull, all hearts were chilled— The loyed one was not there. No happy laugh was heard to ring, No forim would lead the dance ; A smothered sorrow seemed to fling A gloom in every glance. The grave had closed vipon a browv The honest, bright, and fair ; We missed our mate, we mourned the blow — ■ The loved one was not there. THE PLOUGHSHARE OE OLD ENGLAND* The sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the isle ; The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while; But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls, And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals. We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn, To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn ; We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land ; The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy, peasant band. The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told ; We see it in the teeming barns, and fields Of waving gold; Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there : God speed it well* and let it thrive unshackled everywhere. The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust ; But never maythe prow that cuts the furrow lie and rust. Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land, The Ploughshare' of Old England, and the sturdy, peasant band. GRATITUDE. The hound willfaw-h oa any-wone That greets him with a kind caress ; The. flower will turn towards the suH That nurtures it id loveliness. GRATITUDE. §3 The drooping bird with frozen wing, That feeds in winter at your sill,' Will trim his glossy plumes in spring, And perch about your window still, The grazing steed will mark the voice That rules him with a gentle word ; And we may see the brute rejoice, As though he loved the tones he heard I've taught the speckled frog to leap At twilight for the crumbs I've spread: I've lured the fawn till it would keep Beside me, crouching, bound, and led. We find the fiercest things that live, The savage-born, the wildly rude, When soothed by Mercy's hand, will give Some faint response of gratitude. But Man ! — oh blush, ye lordly race ! Shrink back, and question your proud heart, Do ye not lack that thankful grace Which ever forms the soul's best part P Will ye not take the blessings given ; The priceless boon of ruddy health ; The sleep unbroken ; peace nnriven ; The cup of joy ; the mine of wealth P Will ye not take them all — and yet Walk from the cradle to the grave, Enjoying, boasting, and forget To think upon the One that gave ? Thou'lt even kneel to blood-stained kings, Nor fear to have thy serfdom known ; Thy knee will bend for bauble things, . Yet fail to seek its Maker's throne. The bosom that would most repine At slightest comforts snatched away — The lip that murmurs to resign, Is last to thank, is last to pray. Call home thy thoughts, vain child of dugti _ ,. % . .- However sad thy lot may be ; There is a something good, that must Demand acknowledgment from thee. 84 AWAY FROM THE BEVEL. What wouldst thou have from Him above ? Gaze but on Nature's ample field ; And that one type of mystic love Will ask more praise than thou canst yield. AWAY FROM THE REVEL. Away from the revell the night-star is up ; Away, come away, there is strife in the cup ; There is shouting of song, there is wine in the bowl — But listen and drink, they will madden thy soul. The foam of the goblet is sparkling and bright, Rising like gems in the torches' red light ; — But the glance of thine eye, if it linger there, Will change its mild beam for the maniac's glare. The golden-wrought chalice, displaying in pride, May challenge thy lip to the purple draught's tide ; But the pearl of the dew-drop, the voice of the breeze, Are dearer and calmer, more blessed Chan these. Oh ! come, it is twilight ; the night-star is up ; Its ray is more bright than the opal-rimmed cup ; The boat gently dances, the snowy sail fills ; We'll glide o'er the waters, or rove on the hills. We'll kneel on the mountain beneath the dark pine ; Our heart's prayer the incense, and Nature the shrine ! Back on the festal we'll look from the wave, As the eye of the free on the chains of the slave. Oh ! come, it is twilight ; the moon is awake ; The breath of the vesper-chime rides o'er the lake ; There is peace all around us, and health in the breeze, And what can be dearer, more blessed than these ? .. THE FAIRY OF THE SEA. Tiibbu's a frigate on the waters, fit for battle, storm, or sun ; She dances like a life-boat, though she carries flag and gun. I'm rich and blest while I can call that gallant craft my own ; I'm king of her, and Jove himself may keep his crown and thvono. OH, NEVER BREATHE A DEAD ONE'S NAME. m She'll stem the billows mountain high, or skim the moonlit spray ; She'll take a blow and face a foe, like Hon turned at bay ; Whate'er may try, she'll stand the 'test; the brave, the stanch, the free : She bears a name of stainless fame, the " Fairy of the Sea." The gale is up, she feels the breath, the petrel is behind ; She travels through the white foam like an arrow on the wind. Softly, softly, — hold her in — let her slacken in her pace ; She'll do the pilot's bidding with a greyhound's gentle grace. The rocks are round her — what of that? she turns them like a sw&n; The boiling breakers roar, but she is safely creeping on. Hurrah ! hurrah ! she's clear again ! More canvas ! helm a-lee ! Away she bounds, like deer from hounds, the " Fairy of the Sea !" I've met with life's rough- weather squalls, and run on shoals ashore ; AH passed me iinder scudding-sails, and friends were friends no more : But when the storm-fiend did its worst, and blanched the firmest crew, No timber yawned, no cordage broke ; my bark, my bark was true. We've lived together, closely bound, too long to lightly part ; I love her like a living thing ; she's anchored in my heart ; But Death must come, and come he may ; right welcome he shall be, So that I sleep ten fathoms deep in the " Fairy of the Sea!" OH, NEVEE BEEATHE A DEAD ONE'S NAME. Oh, never breathe a dead one's name, When those who loved that one are nigh ; It pours a lava through the frame That chokes the breast and fills the eye. It strains a chord that yields too much Of piercing anguish in its breath ; And hands of mercy should not touch A string made eloquent by death. Oh, never breathe a lost one's name To those who called that one their own ; It only stirs the smouldering flame That burns upon a charnel-stone. The heart will ache and well-nigh break, To miss that one, for ever fled ; And lips of mercy should not wake A love that cherishes the dead. 80 THE SAILOE'S GRAVE. Our bark was out — far, far from land, When the fairest of our gallant band (Jrew sadly pale, and waiiicl away Like the twilight of ah autumn day. "We watched him through long hours of pain; But our cares were lost, our hopes were vain. Death brought for him no coward alarm; }?Qr he smiled as he died on a messmate's arm. He had no costly winding- sheet, But we placed a round shot at his feet ; And he slept in his hammock as safe and sound As a king in his lawn shroud, marble-bound. We proudly decked his funeral vest With the English flag about his breast ; We gave him that as the badge of the brave, And then he was fit for his sailor's grave. Our voices broke — our hearts turned weak- Hot tears were seen on the brownest cheek — And a quiver played on the lips of pride, As we lowered him down the ship's dark side. A plunge — a splash— and our task was o'er ; The billows rolled as they rolled before ; But many a rude prayer hallowed the wave That closed above the' sailor's grave. A SONG FOE MERRY HARVEST. Bring forth the harp, and let us sweep jts fullest, loudest string ; The bee below, the bird above, are teaching ns to sing A song for merry Harvest ; and the one who will not bear His grateful part, partakes a boon he ill deserves to share. The grasshopper is pouring forth his quick and trembling notes ; The laughter of the gleaner's child, the heart's own music, floats. Up ! up ! I say, a roundelay from every voice that lives Should welcome merry Harvest, and bless the Hand that gives. The buoyant soul that loves the bowl may see the dark grapes shine j And gems of melting ruby deck the ringlets of the vine ; Who prizes more the foaming ale, may gaze upon the plain ; And feast his eye with fallow hops and sheets of bearded grain. I JI77W? TITEE, MY MOTHER. 87 The kindly one whose bosom aches to see a dog unfed ; May bend the knee in thanks to see the ample promised bread : Awake, then, all ! 'tis Nature's call ; and every voice that lives Shall welcome merry Harvest, and bless the Hand that gives. I MISS THEE, MY MOTHEK. I miss thee, my Mother, thy image is still The deepest impressed on my heart, — And the tablet so faithful, in death must be chill, Ere a line of that image depart. Thou wert torn from my side when I treasured thee most ; When my reason could measure thy worth ; "When I knew but too well that the idol I'd lost, Could be never replaced upon earth. I miss thee, my Mother in circles of joy, Where I've mingled with, rapturous zest ; For how slight is the touch that will serve to destroy All the fairy web spun in my breast. Some melody sweet may be floating around — 'Tis a ballad I learnt at thy knee ; Some strain may be played, and I shrink from the sound : For my fingers oft woke it for thee. I miss thee, my Mqther when young health has fled, And I sink in the languor of pain : Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head, And the ear that once heard me complain ? Other hands may support, gentle accents may fall— For the fond and the true are yet mine : I've a blessing for each; I am grateful to all — But whose care, can be soothing as thine ? I miss thee, my Mother in summer's fair day, When I rest in the ivy -wreathed bower ; When I hang thy pet linnet's cage high on the spray, Or gaze on thy favourite flower. There's the bright gravel-path where I played by thy side, When Time had scarce wrinkled thy brow, Where I carefully led thee with worshipping pride, When thy glossy locks gathered the snow. I miss thee, my Mother in winter's long night : I remember the tales thou wouldst tell — The romance of wild fancy, the legend of fright — Oh. ! who could e'er tell them so well ? THE WORLD. Thy corner is vacant ; thy chair is removed ; It was kind to take that from my eye : Yet relics are round me — the sacred and loved— To call up the pare, sorrow-fed sigh. I miss thee, my Mother, oh, when do I not ? Though I know 'twas the wisdom of Heaven That the deepest shade fell on my sunniest spot ; And such tie of devotion was riven. For when thou wert with me, my soul was below, I was chained to the world I then trod ; My affections, my thoughts, were all earth-bound ; hviuow They have followed thy spirit to God. THE WOKLD. Talk, who will of the World as a desert of thrall ; Yet, yet, there is bloom on the waste : Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall, There are honey-drops too for the taste. We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay. And note all the shades of our lot ; But the rich scintillations that brighten our way, Are basked in, enjoyed, and forgot. Those who look on Mortality's ocean aright, Will not mourn o'er each billow that rolls, But dwell on the glories, the beauties, the might, As much as the shipwrecks and shoals. How thankless is he who remembers alone, All the bitter, the drear, and the dark; Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone, Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark ? We may utter farewell when 'tis torture to part, But, in meeting the dear one again, Have we never rejoiced with that wildness of heart, Which outbalances ages of pain ? Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss, When the soul, in its fulness of love, Would waver, if bidden to choose between this And the Paradise promised ahravaP STANZAS. sn Though tho eye may be dimmed with its grief-drop awhile, And the whitened lip sigh forth its fear ; Yet pensive indeed is that face, where the smile Is not oftener seen than the tear. There are times when the storm-gust may rattta around; There are spots where the poison- shrub grows ; Yet are there not hours when naught else can bo found But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose ? haplessly rare is the portion that's ours, And strange is the path that we take ; If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers. To soften the thorn and the brake ! The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife, The soul's harmony often may mar; But I think we must own, in the discords of life, 'Tis ourselves that oft waken the jar. Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom ; And the voice of the grateful will tell, That He who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb, Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal as well. Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit, oppressed, O'er its own shattered happiness pine ; Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast. And some pleasure must kindle in mine. Then say not the World is a desert of thrall, — There is bloom, there is light on the waste ; Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall, There are honey-drops too for the taste. STANZAS. The dark and rugged mountain-steep, The sloping, emerald glade ; The beam-lit valley where vines may creep- The harebell low in the shade : The towering hill ; the shimmering rill; The fields and forest trees — Oh, he is blind who cannot find Good company in these ! 90 ENGLAND. I have seen ]the harvest sun pour down Its rays on the rustling sheaf, Till gold flashed out from the wheat-ear.brown, And flame from the poppy's leaf: I have heard the music the woods have made In deep and sullen roar. When the mighty winds of Winter played On branches grey and hoar : I have seen the merry .Spring steal nigh, And my soul has leaped tq meet The rainbow clouds that flitted pn high, The daisy that kissed my feet : I have watched the slowjyrgathering gloom Of mournful Autumn throw Its pensive shade on the dying bloom, Like sorrow on beauty's brow : And though I have garnered little of light From Learning's glorious store, These, these have taught God's mercy and might ; And who can teach me more ? My spirit has glqwed, the rapt, the blest ; Flushed with the fervent zeal That may gush from the eyes and burn in the breast; But the weak lips never reveal. The giant rock, the lowliest flower Can lead to Him above, And bid me worship the hand of power, Of mystery and love. Does my heart grow prond P I need but turn To Nature, and confess" A Maker's greatness — shrink and learn My own unworthiness. ENGLAND. My heart is pledged in wedded faith to England's " merry isle ;" I love each low and straggling cot, each famed ancestral pile ; I'm happy when my steps are free upon the sunny glade ; I'm glad and proud amid the crowd that throngs its mart of trade. " THY KINGDOM GOME," -91 I gaze upon our open port, where Commerce mounts her throne, "Where every flag that comes, ere now has lowered, to our own. Look round the globe ; and tell me, can ye find more blazoned names, Among its cities and its streams, than London and the Thames ? My soul is linked, right tenderly, to every shady copse ; I prize the creeping violets, the tall and fragrant hops ; The citron-tree or spicy grove, for me would never yield A perfume half so grateful as the lilies' of the field. I thread the wood, I rob the hedge, and glad content is -mine; Although they lack the orange-branch, pomegranate, date, and vine. I covet not the rarest fruit exotic region shows, While England has its hazel-nuts, its blackberries, and sloes. I'll ask if there's a British boy — whate'ermay be his rank — Who does not dearly love to climb his native bramble bank ; Who would not trudge for many a mile to gain a nutting track ; Proud of the crook'd stick in his hand, and basket at his back ? Our songsters, too, say, can we breathe of them one slighting word? Their plumage dazzles not — but yet can sweeter strains be heard? Let other feathers vaunt the dyes of deepest rainbow flush ; Give me old England's nightingale, its robin, and its thrush. I'd freely rove through Tempe's vale, or scale the giant Alp, Where roses list the bulbul's tale, or snow-wreaths crown the scalp ; I'd pause to hear soft Venice streams plash back to boatman's oar ; Or hearken to the western flood in wild and falling roar. I'd tread the vast of mountain range, or spot serene and flowered ; I ne'er could see too many of the wonders that are showered ; Yet though I stood on fairest earth, beneath the bluest heaven, Could I forget our summer sky, our Windermere and Devon ? I'd own a brother in the good and brave of any land, Nor would I ask his clime or creed before I gave my hand ; Let but the deeds be ever such that all the world may know ; And little recks " the place of birth," or colour of the brow. Tet, though I'd hail a foreign name among the first and best, Our own transcendent stars of Fame would rise within my breast ; I'd point to hundreds who have done the most e'er done by man ; And cry, " There's England's Glory-scroll— ^show brighter il ye can !" <■■ THY KINGDOM COME." ! Tis human lot to meet and bear The common ills of human life ; There's not a breast but hath its share Of bitter pain, and vexing strife. S2 THE BOW. The peasant in his lowly shed ; The noble 'neath a gilded dome : Each will at some time bow his head, And ask and hope, " Thy kingdom come V* When some deep sorrow, surely slow, Despoils the cheek, and eats the heart, Laying our busy projects low, And bidding all earth's dreams depart— Do we not smile, and calmly turn From the wide world's tumultuous hum, And feel the immortal essence yearn, Eich with the thought, " Thy kingdom come I" The waves of Care may darkly bound And buffet, till, our strength outworn, We stagger as they gather round ; All shattered, weak, and tempest torn : But there's a lighthouse for the soul, That bsacons to a stormless home ; It safely guides through roughest tides — It shines, it saves ! " Thy kingdom come !" To gaze upon the loved in death, To mark the closing, beamless eye, To press dear lips, and find no breath— This, this is life's worst agony ! But God, too merciful, too wise, To leave the lorn one in despair ; Whispers, while snatching those we prize, " My kingdom come ! — Ye'U meet them there !" THE BOW. A cheer for Bobin Hood And Nottingham's famed wood ; When the greensward was the merry men's resort : When the tough and springy yew, Was the bravest tree that grew, And the Bow held foremost place in English sport. Bight glorious, I ween, Was the olden, forest scene ; When bugles rang and sturdy yeomen met : When the flying bird was hit, The willow sapling split ; And Bow and shaft had fame unrivalled yet. THE FOREST TREES. 93 In the fields our fathers won We shall find the Bow has done Some work our annals proudly may record ; Did they prove it bent in vain, On Poictiers or Oressy's plain ? Had the arrow there less glory than the sword ? The whizzing barb that flew, Bore its message home and true ; As swift as sun-ray, free as eagle's wing ; And many a haughty foe Was taught to feel and know What English arms could do with wood and string. See, see the hunter hold His Weapons, firm and bold, With spreading chest, and clear, uncovered brow ; The arrow 'neath his eye, Drawn to the head — let fly — Fixed in the prey. Ha ! ha ! who scorns the Bow ? Then a cheer for Robin Hood And Nottingham's famed wood, When the greensward was the merry men's resort; When the tough and springy yew, Was the bravest tree that grew, And the Bow held foremost place in English sport. THE FOREST TREES. Up with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave proudly in the breeze ; For our cradle bands and coffin boards, Must come from the Forest trees. We bless ye for your summer shade, When our weak limbs fail and tire ; Our thanks are due for your winter aid, When we pile the bright log fire. Oh ! where would be our rule on the sea, And. the fame of the sailor band ; Were it not for the oak and cloud-crowned pine, That spring on the quiet land ? THE KING OF THE WIND. When the ribs and masts of the good ship live And weather the gale with ease ;_ Take his glass from the tar, who will not give A health to the Forest trees. Te lend to Life its earliest joy, And wait on its latest page ! In the circling hoop for the rosy boy. And the easy" chair for Age. ~ The old man totters on his way, With footsteps short and slow ; But without the stick for his help and stay Not a yard's length could he go. The hazel twig in the stripling's hand Hath magic power to please ; And the trusty staff and slender wand Are plucked from the Forest trees. Ye are seen in the shape of the blessed plough, And the merry, ringing flail; Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home, And the sacred altar-rail. In the rustic porch, the panelled wall, In the gay triumphal car ; In the rude-built hut, or the bauqaet hall ; No matter ! there ye are ! Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave' proudly m the breeze ; From our cradle bands to our coffin boards, We're in debt to the Forest trees. THE KING OF THE WIND. He burst through the ice-pillared gates of the north, And away on his hurricane wings he rushed forth ; He exulted, all free, in his might and his speed ; He mocked at the lion, and taunted the steed. He whistled along, through each cranny and creek ; He whirled o'er the mountains with hollow-toned shrieki The arrow and eagle were laggard behind, And alone in his flight sped the King of the Wind. TEE HOESE. »5 He swept o'er the earth. — the tall battlements fell ; And he laughed, as they crumbled, with maniac yell ; The broad oak of the wood dared to wrestle again, Till, wild in his fury, he snapped it in twain. He grappled with pyramids, works of an age, And dire records were left of his havoc and rage. No power could brave him, no fetters could bind ; Supreme in his sway was the King of the Wind. He careered o'er the waters with death and despair ; He wrecked the proud ship, and his triumph was there ; The cheeks that had blanched not at foeman or blade, At the sound of his breathing turned pale and afraid. He rocked the stanch lighthouse, he shivered the mast ; He howled — the strong life-boat in fragments was cast; And he roared in his glory, " "Where, where will ye find A despot so great as the King of the Wind f" THE HOESE. -.The Horse ! the bi-ave, the gallant Horse- Fit theme for the minstrel's song ! He hath good claim to praise and fame- As the fleet, the kind, the strong. What of your foreign monsters rare ? I'll turn to the road or course ; And find a beauteous rival there In the Horse, the English Horse. Behold him free in his native strength, Looking fit for the sun-god's car ; With a skin as sleek as a maiden's cheek, And an eye like the Polar star. Who wonders not such limbs can deiga To brook the fettering girth ; As we see him fly the ringing plain, And paw the crumbling earth ? His nostrils are wide with snorting pride. His fiery veins expand ; And yet he'll be led by a silken thread, Or soothed by an infant's hand. 96 THE MOURNERS. He owns the lion's spirit and might, But the voice he has learnt to love Needs only be heard, and he'll turn to the word, As gentle as a dove. The Arab is wise who learns to prize His barb before all gold ; But is his barb more fair than ours, More generous, fast or bold P A song for the steed, the gallant steed— Oh ! grant him a leaf of bay ; For we owe much more to his strength and speed, Than Man can ever repay. Whatever his place — the yoke, the chase, The war-field, road, or course, One of Creation's brightest and best Is the Horse, the noble Horse ! THE MOUBNERS. King Death sped forth in his dreaded power To make the most of his tyrant hour ; And the first he took was a white-robed girl, With the orange-bloom twined in each glossy curl. Her fond Betrothed hung over the bier, Bathing her shroud with the gushing tear ; He madly raved ; he uttered his pain ; With frantic speech and burning brain. " There's no joy," cried he, " now my dearest is gone. Take, take me, Death ; for I cannot live on !" The Sire was robbed of his eldest-born ; And he bitterly bled while the branch was torn : Other scions were round, as good and fair ; But none seemed so bright as the breathless heir. " My hopes are crushed," was the father's cry ; " Since my darling is lost, I, too, would die." The valued. Friend was snatched away ; Bound to another from childhood's day ; And the one that was left, exclaimed in despair ; " Oh ! he sleepy in the tomb— let me follow him there !" TEE MOURNERS. 9? A Mother was taken, whose constant love Had nestled her child like a fair, young dove ; And the heart of that child to the mother had grown, As the ivy to oak, or the moss to the stone. Nor loud nor wild was the burst of woe ; But the tide of anguish ran strong below ; And the reft one turned from all that was light ; From the flowers of day and the stars of night ; Sighing— where none might hear or see — " Where thou art, my mother, thy child would bo." Death smiled, as he heard each earnest word : " Nay, nay," said he, " be this work deferred; I'll see thee again in a fleeting year, Aid, if grief and devotion live on sincere, I promise then thou shalt share the rest Of the being now plucked from thy doting breast. Them,, if thou cravest the coffin and. pall, As thou dost this moment, my spear shall fall." Aud Death fled, till Time on his rapid wing Gave the hour that brought back the Skeleton King. But the Lover was ardently wooing again, Kneeling in serfdom, and proud of his chain ; He had found an idol to adore, Barer than that he had worshipped before. His step was gay, his laugh was loud, As he led the way for the bridal crowd ; And his eyes still kept their joyous ray, Though he went by the grave where his first love lay. " Ha ! ha !" shouted Death, " 'tis passing clear, That I am a guest not wanted here !" The Father was seen in his children's games, Kissing their flushed brows and blessing their names : And his eye grew bright as he marked the charms Of the boy at his knee, and the girl in his arms : His voice rang out in the merry noise, He was first in all their hopes and joys ; He ruled their sports in the setting sun, Nor gave a thought to the missing one. " Are ye ready ?" cried Death, as he raised his dart : " Nay ! nay !" shrieked the Father, " in mercy depart !" The Friend again was quaffing the bowl, Warmly pledging his faith and soul ; His bosom cherished with glowing pride A stranger form that gat by his side : m MY GRAVE. His hand the hand of that stranger pressed; He praised his song, he echoed his jest ; And the mirth and wit of that new-found mate Made a blank of the name so prized of late. " See ! see !" cried Death, as he hurried past, " How bravely the bonds of friendship last !" But the orphan Child ! Oh ! where was she ? With clasping hands, and bended knee, All alone on the churchyard's sod, Mingling the names of Mother and God. Her dark and sunken eye was hid, Fast weeping beneath the swollen lid; Her sigh was heavy, her forehead was chill, Betraying the wound was unhealed still; And her smothered prayer was yet heard to cr&TO A speedy home in the self-same grave. Hers was the love, all holy and strong; Hers was the sorrow, fervent and long ; Hers was the spirit whose light was shed As an incense fire above the dead ! Death lingered there, and paused awhile ; But she beckoned him on with a welcoming smile. " There's a solace," cried she, " for all others to fine!, But a mother leaves no equal behind." And the kindest blow Death ever gave Laid the mourning Child in the Mother 1 ^ gram MY GBAVE. SweEI is the ocean grave, under the azure wave, Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes; Where pearis/and amber meet, decking the winding-siiee*, Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs. Let the proud soldier rest, wrapt in his gory vest, Where h^pray happen to fall' on his shield. To sink in the glory-strife, was his first hope" in life-; » "' Dig him his grave on the red battle-field. Lay the one great and rich, in the strong cloister niche ; Give him his coffin of cedar and gold ; Let the wildtorchlight fall, flouting the velvet pall : Lock him in marble vault, darksome and coltt TEE WBEATB8. $$ But there's a sunny hill, fondly remembered still; Crowned with fair grass and a bonny elm tree : Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf; There be the resting-place chosen by me ! Though the long, formal prayer ne'er has been uttered there, Though the robed priest has not hallowed the sod ; Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask, " Where is the spot that's unwatched by a God !" There the wind loud and strong whistles its winter song ; Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep ; 'Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by my soul and ear; Let it breathe on where I sleep the last sleep. There in the summer days rest the bright, flashing rays, There spring the wild flowers — fair as can be ; Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip bell, These be the grave flowers chosen by me. There would I lie alone, marked by no sculptured stone : Few will regret when my spirit departs j And I loathe the vain, charnel fame, praising an empty name ; Dear, after all, but to two or three hearts. "Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph, Painting man spotless and pure as the dove ? If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth ; All that I heed, is its record above. 'Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remembered still ; Where my young footsteps climbed, happy and free ; Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf- There be the sleeping-place chosen by me. THE WBEATHS. Whom do we crown with the Laurel leaf? The hero god, the soldier chief. But we dream of the crushing cannon-wheel, Of the flying shot and the reeking steel, Of the crimson plain where warm blood smokesy Where clangour deafens and sulphur chokes : Oh ! who can love the Laurel wreath, Plucked from the gory field of death ? 100 THE WREATHS. Whom do we crown with summer Flowers ? The young and fair in their happiest hours : But the buds are only seeu in the light Of a festive day or a glittering night; "We know the vermeil tints will fade — That pleasure dies with the bloomy braid : And who can prize the coronal That's formed to dazzle, wither, and fall ? Who wears the Cypress, dark and drear?. The one who is shedding the mourner's tear : The gloomy branch for ever twines Bound foreheads graved with Sorrow's lines. 'Tis the type of a sad and lonely heart, That hath seen its dearest hopes depart. Oh ! who can like the chaplet band That is wove by Melancholy's hand? Where is the Ivy circlet found? On the one whose brain and lips are drowned In the purple stream — who drinks and laughs Till his cheeks outflush the wine he quaffs. Oh ! glossy and rich is the Ivy crown, With its gems of grape-juice trickling down; But, bright as it seems o'er the glass and bowl, It has stain for the heart and shade for the souL But there's a green and fragrant leaf Betokens nor revelry, blood, nor grief; 'Tis the purest amaranth springing below, And rests on the calmest, noblest brow. It is not the right of the monarch or lord, Nor purchased" by gold, nor won by the sword; For the lowliest temples gather a ray Of quenchless light from the palm of Bay. Oh, beautiful Bay ! I worship thee — I homage thy wreath — I cherish thy tree ; And of all the chaplets Fame may deal, 'Tis only to this one I would kneel : For as Indians fly to the banian branch, When tempests lower and thunders launch, So the spirit may turn from crowds and strife And seek from the Bay-wreath joy and life, 101 HOPE. There is a star that cheers our way Along this dreary world of woe, That tips with light the waves of life, However bitterly they flow. 'Tis Hope ! 'tis Hope ! that blessed star Which peers through Misery's darkest cloud; And only sets where Death has brought The pall, the tombstone, and the shroud. But, ah ! to look upon the dead, And know they ne'er can wake again! To lose the one we love the best ! — 'Tis this that sears the breast and brain. Then, then, the human heart will groan, And pine beneath the stroke of Fate ; 'Twill break, to find itself alone, A thing all sad and desolate. OLD PINCHER. When I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due; Apollo, I feared, would look scornfully blue : I thought he might spurn the low station and blood, And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud. But another "four-footed " comes boldly to claim His place beside Dobbin for merit and fame ; He shall have it, — for why should I be over nice, Since Homer immortalized Ilion and — mice ? I frolicked, a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat; When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat ; And the long-promised puppy was hailed with a joy, That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy. " What a darling !" cried I ; while my sire, with a frown, Exclaimed, " Hang the brute ! though 'tis easy to drown :" But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail. 102 OLD PINCHES. Eegarding his beauty, I'm. silent : forsooth, I've a little, old-fashioned respect for the truth ; And the praise of his colour or shape to advance "Would he that part of History known as Romance. There were some who most rudely denounced him " a cur ;"- How I hated that name, though I dared not demur ! I thought him all fair ; yet I'll answer for this, That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his. Now, Dobbin, the pony, belonged to us all, Was at every one's service, and every one's call: But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine, "Was held, undisputed, as whole and sole, mine. Together we rambled, together we grew : Many plagues had the household, but we were the two Who were branded the deepest ; all doings reviled, ; ' Were sure to be wrought by " that dog and that- child." Unkennelled and chainless, yet truly he served ; No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved ; A dog has a hea/rt, — secure that, and you'll find That love, even in brutes, is the safest to bind. If my own kin or kind had demolished my ball, The transgression was marked with a scuffle and squall; But with perfect consent he might mouth it about, Till the very last atom of sawdust was out. When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat, How I longed for the, comfits, so lusciously sweet; But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share ? I fondled, I fed him, I coaxed or I cuffed, — I drove or I led him, I soothed or I huffed : He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love, But which gave most pain, 'twere a puzzle to prove. If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage : I might ply him with kicks, or belabour with blows ; But Pincher was never once known to oppose. Did a mother appear, the loud quarrel to learn ; If 'twere only with him, it gave little concern : No ill-usage could rouse him, no insult could chafe ; While Pinch was the playmate, her darling was safe. OLD PINCHER. 103 If the geese on the common gave signal of fear, And screams most unmusical startled the ear, The cause was soon guessed, for my foremost delight Was in seeing Pinch put the old gander to flight. Had the pantry been rifled of remnant of beef, Shrewd suspicions were formed of receiver and thief; Tor I paused not at crime, and I blushed not at fibs, That assisted to nurture his well-covered ribs. The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared: The gamekeeper threatened me Pinch should be shot; But the threat was by both of us always forgot. The linen, half -bleached, must be rinsed o'er again ; And our footsteps in mud were " remarkably" plain. The tulips were crushed, to the gardener's dismay ; And when last we were seen, we were bending that way. When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done, Some atrocious spoliation I chose to call " fun" : Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try, Knew well that the active Sejanus was I. But we weathered all gales, and the years sped away, Till his glossy, black hide was fast turning to grey ; When accents were heard most alarmingly sad," Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad. It was true : his fixed doom was no longer a joke ; He that moment must die : my young heart was nigh broke. I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest, And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppressed. A shot, — a faint howl,— and old Pincher was dead : How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed ! Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling and clear: Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear. Our winter-night circle was now incomplete ; We missed the fond brute that had snoozed at our feet: All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot, We lauded his merits, and sighed o'er his lot. Poodle, spaniel, and greyhound, were brought for my care, Of beauty and breed reckoned preciously rare ; But the playmate of infancy, friend of my youth, Was linked with a lasting affection and truth. 104 CHRISTMAS TIDE. lie was never supplanted ; nay, mention him now, And a something of shadow will steal from my brow. " Poor fellow !" will burst in such tone of regret, That whispers my heart is his lurking-place yet. No wonder ; for Memory brings back with him The thoughts that will render the lightest eye dim ; He is mingled with all that I idolized most ; The brightest, the purest, the loved, and the lost. The smile of a parent, the dearest, the best, The joys of my forest home spring to my breast; And those days reappear with a halo divine, When a Mother, old Pincher, and Childhood were mine. CHRISTMAS TIDE. When the merry Spring-time weaves Its peeping bloom and dewy leaves ; When the primrose opes its eye, And the young moth flutters by ; When the plaintive turtle-dove Pours its notes of peace and love ; And the clear sun flings its glory bright and wide — Yet, yet my soul will own More joy. in Winter's frown, And wake with warmer flush at Christmas tide. The Summer beams may shine On the rich and curling' vine, And the noontide rays light up The tulip's dazzling cup ; But the pearly mistletoe And the holly-berries' glow Are not even by the boasted rose outvied ; For the happy hearts beneath The green and coral wreath Love the garlands that are twined at Christmas tide. Let the Autumn days produce Yellow corn and purple juice, And Nature's feast be spread In the fruitage ripe and red ; KINGS. 105 "lis grateful to behold Gushing grapes and fields of gold, When cheeks are browned and rich lips deeper dyed ; But give, oh ! give to me The Winter night of glee, The mirth and plenty seen at Christmas tide. The northern gust may howl, The rolling storm-cloud, scowl, King Frost may make a slave Of the river's rapid wave, The snow-drift choke the path, Or the hail-shower spend its wrath ; But the sternest blast right bravely is defied : While limbs and spirits bound To the merry minstrel sound, And social wood-fires blaze at Christmas tide. The song, the laugh, the shout, Shall mock the storm without ; And sparkling wine-foam rise 'Neath still more sparkling eyes ; The forms that rarely meet, Then hand to hand shall greet, And soul pledge soul that leagues too long divide : Mirth, Friendship, Love, and Light, Shall crown the Winter night, And every glad voice welcome Christmas tide. But while Joy's echo falls In gay and plenteous halls, Let the poor and lowly share The warmth, the sports, the fare ; ITor the one of humble lot Must not shiver in his cot, Bat claim a bounteous meed from Wealth and Pride : Shed kindly blessings round, Till no aching heart be found ; And then all hail to merry Christmas tide ! KINGS. Oh, covet not the throne and crown, Sigh not for rule and state ; The wise would fling the sceptre down, And shun the palace gate. 106 KINGS. Let wild ambition ■wing its flight, 1 Glory is free to all : But they who soar a regal height Oft risk a deadly fall. Take any high, imperial name, The great among the great ; "What was the guerdon of his fame? And. what his closing fate ? The hero of immortal Greece, Unhappy, fled to wine ; And died in Satumalian peace, As drunkard, fool, and swine. The first in arms, Rome's victor son a Fell by a traitor's aim ; And drew the purple robes he'd won, To hide his blood and shame. Bold Richard, England's lion-hearti Escaped the burning frayj To sink beneath a peasant's dart, And groan his life away. Gaul's eagle, he whose upraised hand Swayed legions of the brave, Died in a prison, " barred and banned," An exile and a slave. Scoises may be found whose tyrant-time Knew not one hour of rest ; Their lives one course of senseless crime, Their every deed unblest. Ye blazing stars of gems and gold, What aching hearts ye mock ! Strong marble walls, do ye not hold Sword, poison, axe, and block ? Many have cursed the crown they've worn When hurled from place and rank, They met a people's groaning scorn, And trod the scaffold plank. " Uneasy lies the monarch's head," Despite his dazzling wreath; The hireling by his dying bed May aid the work of death- LINES WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 107 His cringing horde may bow the neck, Though bid to lick the dust ; He may have serfs) to wait his beck, But not one friend to trust. Ye, lowly born ! oh, covet not One right the sceptre brings ; The honest name and peaceful lot, Outweigh the pomp of Kings ! LINES WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, IN THE ANTICIPATION OF A DREADED BEREAVEMENT. Though to the passing world my heart A quiet, untouched thing may seem, It bleeds, my Mother, bleeds for thee ; My love, my sorrow, and my theme, How many a night these aching eyes Have watched beside thy wasting form ; Watched, like the anxious mariner, Who marks and dreads the coming storm, How many a time I've bent mine ear, To catch thy low and fainting breath ; And trembled lest thy soul had fled, Unnoticed, to the realms of death. My Mother ! thou wilt die, and leave The world, with life and grief, to me ; Oh ! would the human branch might fade, When severed from its parent tree ! I do adore thee ! such my first Pond, broken lisping did proclaim ; And all I suffer now but proves My shrine and homage still the same. Time, that will alter breast and brow So strangely that we know them not; That sponges out all trace of truth, Or darkens it with many a blot; 108 LINES WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. In me hath wrought its changes too, Alike in bosom, lip, and brain; And taught me^much, much that, alas ! Is learnt but in the school of Pain. I'm strangely warped from what I was, For some few years, in Life's fresh morn ; When Thought, scarce linked with Beason's chain, Nor dared to question, doubt, or scorn. Though young in years, I've learnt to look With trustless eye on all and each ; And shudder that I find so oft, The coldest heart with gentlest speech. But one deep stream of feeling flows With warm devoted love for thee ; A stream whose tide, without an ebb Will reach Eternity's vast sea. Time has not dimmed, nor will it dim, One ray of that bright, glowing flame Which constant burns, like Allah's fire. Upon the altar of thy name. But, ah ! that name, so dearly prized, So fondly cherished, soon must be A beacon quenched ; a treasure wrecked — To live but in the memory. Father of Mercy, is there naught Of tribulation Thou canst send Upon my heart but this dire stroke, To scathe, to sadden, and to rend ? Wilt Thou not spare, at least awhile, The only one I care to call My own ? Oh ! wilt thou launch the blot, And crush at once my earthly all ? But this is impious. Faith and Hope Will teach me how to bear my lot; To think Almighty Wisdom best, To bow my head, and murmur not The chastening hand of One above Falls heavy ; but I'll kiss the rod ; He gives the w^und, and I must trust Its healing to the self-same God. 109 THE PIEST VOYAGE. He stood upon the sjandy beach, And watched the dancing foam ; He gazed upon the leaping -waves, Which soon would he his home : And then he eyed his sailor's garb, With look of proud delight; The flowing kerchief round his neck, The trousers, wide and white. The rose of health was on his cheek, His forehead fair as day ; Hope played within his hazel eye, And told his heart was gay. And many a time the sturdy boy Longed for the hour to come ; Which gave the hammock for his couch, The ocean for his home ! And now the gallant ship rides nigh, The wind is fair and free, The busy hands have trimmed her sails : She stems the open sea. The boy again is on the beach ; A mother's arms have pressed him ; A sister's hand is linked in his, A father's lip hath blessed him. The eyes that lately sparkled bright, Are swollen with many a tear ; His young heart feels a choking pang, To part from all so dear. Another kiss — another sob, And now the struggle's o'er : He springs into the tiny boat, And pushes from the shore. The last, sad drop upon his cheek Falls mingling with the foam : The sea-bird, screaming, welcomes him, The Ocean is his home .' 110 TO FANCY. Spib.it of ethereal birth ! Aerial visitant of earth ! Plashing vivid through the sou\, Warm as the spark Prometheus stoie ; Hither, Fancy, hither come ; 'Neath thine Iris wings I'll roam. Take me to the crystal caves, Glassy chambers of the waves ; Where the dolphin's golden back Splashes gems around its track, Cleaving through the rocky cells, Green with weeds, and rich with shells; Where the Nereids keep their court, Where the Mermaids hold their sport ; Where the Syren sings to sleep All the tenants of the deep ; Take me through the proud, blue sea, Show its beauties all to me. Waft me where the stars appear, Where the other worlds career ; Let me scan the dazzling scroll God's hand only can unrol._ : Let me hear the saints rejoice, Giving praise with harp and voice ; Let me tread the welkin round, Lulled in soft Blysian sound ; Let me rove the fields of light, Giveiheir glories to my sight. Take me where the fairies spring Bound about their moonlit ring ; Where the dancing elfin sprites Consecrate their mystic rites ; Lead where Hippocrene's bright fount Gushes down the flowery mount ; Where Apollo's hand bestows Fadeless wreaths on Poets' brows. Hither, Pancy, hither come ; 'Neath thine Iris wings I'll roam. Ill THE OLD WATER-MILL, And is this the Old Mill-stream that ten years ago Was so fast in its current, so pure in its flow ; Whose musical waters would ripple and shine With the glory and dash of a miniature Rhine ? Can this be its bed ? I remember it well When it sparkled like silver through meadow and dell; When the pet-lamb reposed on its emerald side, And the minnow and perch darted swift through its tide. Yes ! here was the miller's house, peaceful abode ! Where the flower-twined porch drew all eyes from the road ; Where roses and jasmine embowered a door That never was closed to the wayworn or poor : Where the miller, God bless him ! oft gave us a " dance," And led off the ball with his soul in his glance ; Who, forgetting grey hairs, was as loud in his mirth As the veriest youngsters that circled his hearth. Blind Ralph was the only musician we had, But his tunes — oh, such tunes — would make any heart glad ! " The Roast Beef of Old England," and " Green grow the Rushes," Woke our eyes' brightest beams, and our cheeks' warmest flushes. No lustre resplendent, its brilliancy shed, But the wood fire blazed high, and the board was well spread ; Our seats were undamasked, our partners were rough, Tet, yet we were happy, and that was enough. And here was the mill where we idled away Our holiday hours on a clear, summer day ; Where Roger, the miller's boy, lolled on a sack, And chorused his song to the merry click-clack. But lo ! what rude sacrilege here hath been done J The streamlet no longer purls on in the sun ; Its course has been turned, and the desolate edge Is now mournfully covered with duck-weed and sedge. The mill is in ruins. No welcoming sound, In the mastiff's gruff bark and the wheels dashing round 5 The house, too, untenanted — left to decay — And the miller, long dead : all I loved passed away ! 112 CHILDREN'S WELCOMING. This play-place of childhood was graved on my heart In rare Paradise colours that now must depart; The Old Water-mill's gone, the fair vision is fled, And I weep o'er its wreck as I do for the dead. CHILDEBN'S WELCOMING. They were indeed a lovely group Of happy, sportive creatures ; With all of beauty that can dwell In earthly forms and features. There was a light in every eye, A tint on every cheek ; So bright, so deep, that rarer ones A limner would not seek. They sprang about the spangled grass Like young and gamesome deer ; And thrillingly their voices fell Upon my heart and ear. With minds of childish innocence, Unsullied and unbent ; Though living in a world of sin, They knew not what sin meant. " Come on," they cried, " we've decked your seat With fresh-pulled oaken boughs ; We've gathered flowers, and you must weave Them round about your brows ! " We've chased each other down the lull, And through the primrose vale ; But now we'll listen while you sit And tell the promised tale. " W e've run to meet you at the gate, And watched and waited long : Come on, come on, — we're all right glad To have you in our throng !" And then the urchins, clambering up, Gave many an earnest kiss ; And led me on, with wild delight, Towards their fields of bliss. TEE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS. 115 Oh, how I loved the fairy elves ! I blessed them, for I knew Their inmost thoughts were on their lips. Their welcoming was true. There was a strong, endearing spell Around their artless ways ; I feared no treachery 'neath their smiles. 2STo falsehood in them- praise. I helped to weave their daisy chains, I wreathed their waving hair ; And, pleased as they, 'twere hard to tell. Which heart was happiest there. I blessed them all ; and much I donbt If Time will ever bring Words to my ear more musical Than Children's Welcoming. THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS. The incident on which the following is founded is related (if my memory errs not) in a work entitled " Sketches of a Seaport Town." The particulars of the circumstances I cannot remember, but the recital amounts to this, A traveller, passing through a country town in the dead of night, saw a light in the church, which equally excited his wonder and curiosity. He procured two companions, and, carrying a. ladder, placed it against a window immediately above the altar, from which part the strongest light emanated : one of them ascended, and witnessed a scene of depravity perhaps unequalled. Three young men, of most abandoned character, wero seated at the communion-table, engaged in gambling. The wax-candles were lighted ; the sacramental wine reeked on their lips, and, to complete the impious orgies, they had exhumed a corpse, and set it at the table among them. The whole, it appeared, had originated in a drunken frolic ; but the affair created so much horror and disgust, that the wretched profligates who enacted it were eventually compelled to quit the town. This is the sole outline which my memory will afford : I have taken a little liberty with the subject, which, I believe, most scribblers are allowed to do. A stranger journeyed through the town, One dark and wintry night ; And, as he passed the ivied church, He marked a flitting light. It shed a restless, waving gleam Through the Gothic window-pane ; And now it vanished for a space, And now it camo nrroin. J14 THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTEESi He stood, and thought it wondrous strange That such a scene should be ; He stood, and now the full, red beam Shone strong and steadily. He looked around ; all else was dark, Not e'en a star was left ; The townsmen slumbered, and he thought Of sacrilege and theft. He roused two sleepers from their beds, And told what he had seen ; And they, like him, were curious To know what it should mean. They hied together to the church; And heard strange sounds within Of undistingnishable words, And laughter's noisy din. The window's high ; a ladder — quick — "Tis placed with stealthy care, And one ascends — he looks below ; Oh ! what a sight is there ! The white communion-cloth is spread With cards, and dice, and wine ; The naming wax-lights glare around, The gilded sconces shine. And three of earthly form have made The' altar-rail their seat, With the Bible and the books of prayer As footstools for their feet. Three men, with flashing, bloodshot eye& And burning, fevered brows, Have met within those holy walls To gamble and carouse. But the darkest work is not yet told: Another guest is there, ■ - With the earthworm trailing o'er his cheek To hide in his matted hair ! He lifted not the foaming cup, He moved not in his place ; There was slime upon his livid lips, And dust upon his face. THE SACBILEGIOUS GAMESTEBS. 115 The foldings of a winding-sheet His body wrapped around, And many a stain the vestment bore Of the clay from the charnel ground. A rent appeared, where his withered hands Fell out on the sacred board ; And between those hands a goblet stood) In which bright wine was poured. Oh ! he was not like the other threes But ghastly, foul, and cold ; He was seated, there, a stiffened corpse, All horrid to behold. He had been their mate for many a year, Their partner many a game ; He had shared alike their ill-got gold, And their deeply-tarnished fame. He had died in the midst of his career, As the sinful ever die ; Without one prayer from a good man's her„rt r One tear from a good man's eye. He had died a guilty one, unblessed, Unwept, unmourned by all; And scarce a footstep ever bent To his grave by the old church wall. The other three had met that night, And revelled in drunken glee ; And talked of him who a month ago Formed one of their company. They quaffed another brimming glass, And a noisy oath they swore, That he who had joined their game so oft Should join their game once more. And away they strode to the old church wall, Treading o'er skull and tomb ; And dragged him out triumphantly, In the midnight, murky gloom. They carry him down the chancel porch^ And through the fretted aisle ; And many a heartless, fiendish laugh, Is heard, to ring the while. 116 THE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS. They place him at the hallowed shrine, They call upon his name ; They bid him wake to life again, And play his olden game. They deal the cards : — the ribald jest And pealing laugh ring on : A stroke — a start — the echoing clock Proclaims the hour of one ! And two of the three laugh louder still, But the third stares wildly round : He drops the cards, as if his hand Were palsied at the sound. His cheeks have lost their deepened flush,. His lips are of paler hue ; And Fear hath fallen on the heart Of the youngest of that crew : His soul is not yet firmly bound In the fetters of reckless sin ; Depravity hath not yet wrought Its total work within : The strong potation of the night Drowned all that might remain Of feeling ; and his hand shrunk not While madness fired his brain. But now the charm hath lost its spell,. The heated fumes have passed ; ' And banished Reason, to her throne Usurped, advances fast. He rises — staggers — looks. again Upon the shrouded dead: A shudder steals upon his frame ; His vaunted strength is fled. He doubts — he dreams — can, can it be ? A mist is o'er his eyes ; He stands aghast. " Oh ! what is this!' Where ? where?" he wildly cries. "Where am IP — see the altar-piece — The Holy Bible. Say- Is this the place where I was brought A tiny boy to pray ? TSE SACRILEGIOUS GAMESTERS. II? " The church — the churchyard too— I know I have been there to-night ; For what ? Ha ! mercy ! see that corps ? Oh ! hide me from the light ! " I have been deemed a profligate, A gamester, and a knave, But ne'er was known to scoff at God Or violate the grave : " I've long been what man should not be, But not what I am now. Oh ! help me ! help ! My tongue is parched 2 There's fire upon my brow ! " Oh ! save me ! hide me from myself! I feel my pulses start : The horror of this drunken crime Hath fixed upon my heart : " Again ! I feel the rushing blood, I die ! — the unforgiven ! Again, it comes ; all — all is dark— 1 choke — Oh ! mercy, Heaven !" One struggling groan — he reels — he falls — On the altar-steps he lies ; And the others gasp with fear, for now Two corpses meet their eyes. But, hark ! swift footsteps echo round, Encircled now they stand : Surprised, detected, they are seized By many a grappling hand ; And soon the dreadful tale is spread, And many a finger raised To point them out ; while the listening one Looks fearfully amazed. They are shunned by all : the son, the sire, The heedless and the gay ; Their old associates leave their side, And turn another way. Hate, Shame, and Scorn have set a mark Upon them : one by one, Of all they knew, forsakes their patii, Till they are left alone : 118 DUNCAN LEEi ; And they have sought another land, . And breathe 'another elime ; Where men may deem them fellow-men, Nor hear their blasting crime : And gossips, in their native town, Even now are heard to tell Of the Sacrilegious crew that turned The Old Church to a Hell. DUNCAN LEE. The owl hath left its hiding-place, The mist is o'er the sea ; And wistfully a' maiden's eyes Look out for Duncan Lee. The one who seeks the meeting-spot Is not the child of pride ; She has no circlet round her arm, No greyhound by her side. But ah! her brow betrays a soul As true as aoul can be ; And dearer to that soul than life Is gallant Duncan Lee ! " Where ? where ?" she cries, " My Duncan, art thou roving ; The hour is passed, — but' yet I cannot doubt thy loving." And now there moves a gallant form Within the Castle hall ; It hurries on with eager bound Beyond the Castle wall : 'Tis Duncan Lee, the wealthy heir To all Cathullin's lands; Whose name and tartan keep their place Among the kilted bands. The sire hath listened to his son ; The son hath fondly sued ; The laird hath given the boy his will To wed the one he's wooed, Who still is crying, " Where, My Duncan, art thou roving ? The hour is past, — but yet I cannot doubt thy loving," SONG OF THE SEA-GULLS. U9 And now the foot of Duncan Lee Is dashing through the heather ; And now the moon peeps out, and finds The beauteous pair together. Oh ! what hallowed bliss is there, What rapture in their greeting ! His face is flushed with doting joy, Her heart is wildly beating. And soft he whispers in her ear, " To-morrow thou shalt be, Before the face of heaven and earth, The bride of Duncan Lee !" No more she's heard to cry, "Where, Duncan, art thou roving?" The bridal day is past, Their hearts are blessed in loving. SONG OF THE SEA-GULLS. Birds of the land, ye may carol and fly O'er the golden corn 'neath a harvest sty ; Tour portion is fair amid fields and flowers, But it is not so broad or so free as ours. Te are content with the groves and the hills, Te feed in the valleys and drink at the rills ; But what are the joys of the forest and plain To those we find on the fresh, wide main ? Birds of the land, ye rear your broods In the lofty tree, or tangled woods, Where the branch may be reft by the howling wind, Or the prowling schoolboy seek and find. But we roost high on the beetling rock, That firmly stands the hurricane's shock ; Our callow young may rest in a home Where no shot can reach, and no footstep come. Birds of the land, ye shrink and bide As the tempest cloud spreads black and wide ; Tour songs are hushed in cowering fear As the startling thunder-clap breaks near. But the brave Gull soars while the deluge pours, While the stout ship groans and the keen blast roars : Oh ! the Sea-Gull leads the gayest life While the storm-fiends wage their fiercest strife. 120 'TIS WELL TO WAKE THE THEME OF LOVE. We lightly skim o'er the breaker's dash, Where timbers strike with parting crash ; We play round the dark hull, sinking fast, And find a perch on the tottering mast : More loud and glad is our shrieking note As the planks and spars of the wrecked bark float: There live we in revelling glee, 'Mid the whistling gale and raging sea. We are not caught and caged to please The fondled heirs of wealth and ease ; The hands of beauty never come With soft caress or dainty crumb : We are not the creatures of petted love, We have not the fame of the lark or dove ; But our screaming tone rings harsh and wild, To glad the ears of the fisher's child. He hears our pinions flapping by, And follows our track with wistful eye, As we leave the clouds with rapid whirl To dive 'neath the water's sweeping curl. He laughs to see us plunge and lave, While the northern gale is waking the wave ; And dances about 'mid sand and spray, To mimic the Sea-Gull's merry play. We hold our course o'er the deep, or the land, O'er the swelling tide, or weed-grown strand; We are safe and joyous when mad waves roll, We sport o'er the whirlpool, the rock, and the shoal,- Away on the winds we plume our wings, And soar, the freest of all free things : Oh ! the Sea-Gull leads a merry life In the glassy calm or tempest strife. 'TIS WELL TO WAKE THE THEME OP LOVE. 'Tis well to wake the theme of Love When chords of wild ecstatic fire Fling from the harp, and amply prove The soul as joyous as the lyre. " WINTER 18 COMING:' 121 Such theme is blissful when the heart Warms with the precious name we pour ; When our deep pulses glow aud start Before the idol we adore. Sing ye, whose doting eyes behold — Whose ears can drink the dear one's tone ; Whose hands may press, whose arms may fold — The prized, the beautiful, thine own ! But should the ardent hopes of youth Have cherished dreams that darkly fled ; Should passion, purity, and truth, Live on, despairing o'er the dead : Should we have heard some sweet voice hushed, Breathing our name in latest vow ; Should our fast heavy tears have gushed Above a cold, yet worshipped brow : Oh ! say, then, can the minstrel choose The theme that gods and mortals praise ? No, no ; the spirit will refuse, And sadly shun such raptured lays. For who can bear to touch the string That yields but anguish in its strain ; Whose lightest notes have power to wring The keenest pangs from breast and brain? " Sing ye of Love in words that burn P" Is what full many a lip will ask ; But love the dead, and ye will learn Such bidding is no gentle task. Oh ! pause in mercy, ere ye blame The one who lends not Love his lyre; That which ye deem ethereal flame May be to him a torture pyre. "WINTER IS COMING-." WniTEB. is coming : who cares ? who cares P Not the wealthy and proud, I trow ; " Let it come !" they cry, " what matters to us How chilly the blast may blow ? 122 DINNA FORGET, LOVE. " We'll feast and carouse in our lordly halls, The goblet of wine we'll drain ; We'll mock at the wind with shouts of mirth, And music's echoing strain. " Little care we for the biting frost, While the fire gives forth its blaze ; What to ns is the dreary night, While we dance in the waxlight's rays !" "lis thus the rich of the land will talk : But think, oh, ye pompous great ! That the harrowing storm ye laugh at within, Falls bleak on the poor at your gate. They have blood in their veins, ay, pure as thine ! But naught to quicken its flow ;— They have limbs that feel the whistling gale, And shrink from the driving snow. Winter is coming — oh, think, ye great ! On the roofless, naked, and old ; " Deal with them kindly, as man with man, And spare them a tithe of your gold. DINNA FOKGET, LOVE. The last time we roved through Lochaber's dark glen, When the red blooming heather wi' night-dew was wet, You ken, bonnie lass, what you promised me then ? Tou canna forget, love ! you canna forget ! You said when the harvest moon blinked forth again, When the gowans' gay hues and the summer-beams met, That the kirk and the gowd ring should make you my ain ! Dinna forget, love ! oh, dinna forget ! And now the sun glitters o'er brae, and through birk; Though late in the gloaming his ray lingers yet : Simmer is come,' love, the ring and the kirk — ■ Dinna forget, love ! oh, dinna forget ! 123 OUE NATIVE SONG. Oua Native Song,— our Native Song ! Oh, where is he who loves it not ? The spell it holds is deep and strong, Where'er we go, whate'er our lot. Let other music greet our ear With thrilling fire or dulcet tone ; We speak to praise, we pause to hear, But yet — oh yet — 'tis not our own ! The anthem chant, the ballad wild, The notes that we remember long — The theme we sung with Jisping tongtie — 'Tis this we love — our Native Song ! The one who bears the felon's brand, With moody brow and darkened name ; Thrust meanly from his father-land, To languish out a life of shame ; Oh, let him hear some simple strain- Some lay his mother taught her boy— He'll feel the charm, and dream again Of home, of innocence, and joy. The sigh will burst, the drops will start, And all of virtue, buried long — The best, the purest id his heart,— Is wakened by his Native Song. Self-exiled from our place of birth, To climes more fragrant, bright and gay ; The memory of our own fair earth May chance awhile to fade away : But should some minstrel echo fall, Of chords that breathe Old England's fame; Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn, True to the land we love and claim. The high — the low — in weal or woe, Be sure there's something coldly wrong About the heart that does not glow- To hear its own, its Native Song. 124 LOCH LEVEL'S GENTLE STREAM, I've gazed upon the rapid Rhine, I've aeen its waters foam and shine ; I've watched its cascades, wild and bright, Leap proudly on, in rainbow light : Its waves have charmed my dazzled eye, Like molten silver dashing by : Still, still, I could not love the Rhine ; The land it watered was not mine : I sighed to see the moon's mild beam Fall on Loch Leven's gentle stream ! I've wandered by the placid Rhone, When night was on her starry throne ; I've looked upon the Tiber's tide, And plucked the wild flowers by its side ; I've heard the gondolier's wild note O'er the Lagoon's fair waters float : — Still, still, I turned, with willing feet, My native North again to greet ! Again to see the moon's mild beam Fall on Loch Leven's gentle stream ! SIR HAROLD THE HUNTER. Sia Harold, the hunter, was rarely seen , At rest in his lordly home ; But, roughly clad in his forester's green, Par over the hills he'd roam. "With his hounds and his bugle, he greeted the dawn Tracing the roebuck's track ; Oft was he seen, at the rosy morn, With the wild fawn slung at his back Merrily carolled the bold, young knight, — " No love, no bride for me ! I'll never go wooing to beauty bright, But live as a hunter free." Sir Harold, the hunter — what ails him now? His beautiful dogs are at play ; He has thrown aside the twanging bow 5 His tunic is courtly and gay. MUSIC. 125 His quiver is hung wnere the barbs may rust, On high with his hunting spear ; His echoing bugle is covered with dust, And a softer note comes near. Sir Harold is singing, beneath the moon,— " List, dearest Ella, to me ! Life to thy knight is a joyless boon If he's parted long from thee." Sir Harold, the hunter, is often known To go forth at the sunset hour : He roves in the twilight — but roves not alone, He leads a fair maid from her bower. He has doffed his belt and forester's green, And shines in a bridal suit : Wooing, and wedding, are there, I ween, With the priest, the dance, and the lute. Merrily carols the gay young knight — " Love and my bride for me ! "Tis better to kneel to beauty bright Than live as a hunter free." MUSIC. On, Music ! gentle Music ! There's a magic in thy strain ; Come where thou wilt, in lady's bower, Or on the battle plain. The wild harp hath a witching spell About its silver strings ; Can aught on earth excel the charm Its pensive breathing flings ? 'Tis Music's, gentle Music's power, That steals the listening soul away, Till Man, entranced in rapture's dream, Forgets he wears a form of clay. Oh, Music ! stirring Music ! We see the war-steed rest, With dust upon his tired limbs, And white foam on his chest ; Stretched, quivering with many a wound, Upon the red sod lying, His rider leaves him, for he deems The gallant charger dying ; 126 ON SEEING A BIRD-CATCHER. But hark ! lie hears the trumpet's blast, He starts, he shakes his clotted mane; Music ! bold Music ! fires his blood,_ And brings hint to the ranks again, Oh, Music ! mighty Music ! Thou art all of bliss on earth; Thou givest the lover's moonlight tale And poet's song their birth. There's not a heart, however rude, However base it be ; But hath some slender string that yields An answering tone to thee. With promised Music heaven allures, With golden harps, and cherubs' love; Rejoice then ! that we have below A foretaste of the bliss above ! OW SEEING A BIRD-CATCHER. Health in his rags, Content upon his face, He goes th' enslaver of a feathered race : And cunning snares, warm hearts, like warblers, take ; The one to sing for sport, the other, break. GIVE ME THE LAMA'S FABLED POWER. The wild bee and the butterfly Are bright and happy things to see ; Living beneath a summer sky, And nestling in an orange tree. The eagle, monarch of the rocks, Soars nobly in his lonely flight, 'Mid lightning streams and thunder shocks ; The bird of freedom, strength; and might. The graceful chamois* bounding, leaps Where other steps would pause and shrink; He spans the gulf; he climbs the steeps, And sports Xipon the topmost brink. ROVER'S SONG. 127 Blest tilings of earth, the strong, the brave, In lands of serfdom still the free ! STet not one privilege ye have Is sought or coveted by me. But I have heard an eastern tale— Of creature patient, mild, and fair ; "Whose faith is never known to fail Till man gives more than brute should bear. Then, meekly proud, its head is bowed, With wrong and suffering oppressed ; To breathe its gentle life away, And sink at once in death and rest. This is the privilege I'd ask — When throbbing pulse and aching brow Betray how sadly dark the task The soul may have to learn below. Oh, I have lived through many an hour That bade my writhing spirit cry — " Give me the Lama's fabled power : Break, break, mj heart, and let me die !" BOVEE'S SONG. I'm afloat — I'm afloat — on the fierce rolling tide ; The Ocean's my home ! and my bark is my bride ; Up, up, with my flag ; let it wave o'er the sea ; I'm afloat — 'I'm afloat — and the Bover is free ! I fear not a monarch ; I heed not the law ! I've a compass to steer by, a dagger to draw ; And ne'er as a coward or slave will I kneel, While my guns carry shot, or my belt bears a steel. Quick — quick — trim her sails ; let her sheets kiss the wind ; And I'll warrant we'll soon leave the sea-gull behind ; Up, up with my flag ; let it wave o'er the sea ; I'm afloat — I'm afloat — and the Bover is free ! The night gathers o'er us ; the thunder is heard : What matter ! our vessel skims on like a bird ; What to her is the dash of the storm-ridden main ? She has braved it before, and will brave it again. The fire-gleaming flashes around us may fall ; They may strike ; they may cleave j but they cannot appal ; 128 THE DEAD. With lightnings above us, and darkness below, Through the wild waste of waters right onward we go. Hurrah, my brave boys ! ye may drink; ye may sleep; The storm-fiend is hushed ; we're alone on the deep ; Our flag of defiance still waves o'er the sea ; Hurrah, boys ! hurrah, boys ! the Rover is free ! THE DEAD. "When the clear red sun goes down, Passing in glory away ; And Night is spreading her twilight frown On the open brow of Day ; When the faintest glimmering trace is gone 3 And all of light is fled; Then, then does Memory, sad and lone, Call back the dear ones dead. When the harp's soul-touching chord Is roughly frayed and torn ; When of all tones the string that poured The fullest is outworn; When it is heard to breathe and break, Its latest magic shed ; Then, then will my warm heai't bleed and ache, And weep for the kind ones dead. When the elm's rich leaf is seen Losing its freshness fast ; And paleness steals on its vivid green, As the autumn wind moans past; When it eddies to the cold damp ground, All crushed beneath the tread : Then, then may the sigh on my lip be found, For I muse on the fair ones dead. For, like that orb of light, That chord, and shining leaf; Forms were once near, as rare and bright j And, oh ! their stay as brief. I watched them fading— I saw them sink, Light, beauty, sweetness fled; And a type of their being bids me think Too fondly of the dead. TKfl THAMES. 129 The sun will rise again, The string may be replaced, The tree will bloom— but the loved in the tomb Leaves the world for ever waste. Let earth yield all the joys it may, Still should I bow my head ; Still would my lonely breathing say, Give, give me back the dead ! As the thickest verdure springs From the ashes of decay, And the living ivy closest clings To the ruins cold and grey ; So my feelings most intense and deep By the shrouded and lost are fed ; So my thoughts will yearn, and my spirit turn, To be nurtured by the Dead. THE THAMES. Let the Rhine be blue and bright In its path of liquid light, Where the red grapes fling a beam Of glory on the stream ; Let the gorgeous beauty there Mingle all that's rich and fair ; Yet to me it ne'er could be Like that river great and free, The Thames ! the mighty Thames I Though it bear no azure wave, Though no pearly foam may lave, Or leaping cascades pour Their rainbows on its shore ; Yet I ever loved to dwell Where I heard its gushing swell ; And never skimmed its breast, But I warmly praised and blest The Thames ! the mighty Thames ! Can ye find in all the world A braver flag unfurled, Than that which floats above The stream I sing and love ? 130 THROUGH THE WATBlih. Oh ! what a burning glow Has thrilled my breast and brow, To see that proud flag come With glory to its home, The Thames ! the mighty Thames; Did ribs more firm and fast E'er meet the shot or blast Than the gallant barks that glide On ite full and steady tide P Would ye seek a dauntless crew, With hearts to dare and hands to do P You'll find the foe proclaims They are cradled on the Thames ; The Thames ! the mighty Thames! They say the mountain child Oft loves his torrent wild So well, that should he part He breaks his pining heart ; He grieves with smothered sight Till his wearing spirit dies ; Arid so I yearn to thee, Thou river of the free, My own, my native Thames ! THROUGH THE WATERS. Theodoh the forest, through the forest, oh ! who would not like to roam, Where the squirrel leaps right gaily, and the shy fawn makes a home! Where branches, spreading high and wide, shut out the golden sun, And hours of noontide steal away, all shadowy and dun ? 'Tis sweet to pluck the ivy sprigs or seek the hidden nest, To track the spot where owlets hide and wild deer take their rest ; Through the forest, through the forest, oh, 'tis passing sweet to takt Our lonely way 'mid springy moss, thick bush, and tangled brake ! Through the valley, through the valley, where the glittering harebells peep, Where laden bees go droning by, and hum themselves to sleep ; Where all that's bright with bloom and light springs forth to greet the day, And every blade pours incense to the warm and cloudless ray j THE STAB OF MY HOME. 131 Where children come to laugh away their happy, summer hours, To chase the downy butterfly, or crown themselves with flowers ; Through the valley, through the valley, oh, who does not like to bask Amid the fairest beauties Heaven can give or man can ask ? Through the desert, through the desert, where the Arab takes his course, With none to bear him company except his gallant horse ; Where none can question will or right, where landmarks ne'er impede, But all is wild and limitless to rider and to steed : No purling streamlet murmurs there, no chequered shadows fall ; "Tis torrid, waste, and desolate, but free to each and all : Through the desert, through the desert, oh, the Arab would not change For purple robes or olive trees his wild and burning range ! Through the Waters, through the Waters, ah! be this the joy for me, Upon the flowing river, or the broad and dashing sea ; Of all that wealth could offer me the choicest boon I'd crave, Would be a bold and sturdy bark upon the open wave. I love to see the wet sails fill before the whistling breath, And feel the ship cleave on as though she spurned the flood beneath. Through the Waters, through the Waters, can ye tell me what below Is freer than the wind-lashed main, or bolder than the prow ? I love to see the merry craft go running on her side ; I laugh to "see her splashing on before the rapid tide ; I love to mark the white and hissing foam come boiling up, Fresh as the froth that hangs about the Thunderer's nectar cup. All sail !— Away — ah ! who would stay to pace the dusty land, If once they trod a gallant ship, steered by a gallant band ? Through the Waters, through the Waters. Oh, there's not a joy for me liike racing with the gull upon a broad and dashing sea ! THE STAE OF MY HOME. I hemembek the days when my spirit would turn From the fairest of scenes and the sweetest of song, When the hearth of the stranger seemed coldly to burn, And the moments of pleasure for me were too long ; For one name and one form shone in glory and light, And lured back from all that might tempt me to roam The festal was joyous, but was not so bright As the smile of a Mother, the Star of my Home J THE BRAVE. I remember the days when the tear filled my eye, And the heaving sob often disturbed my young breast ; But the hand of that loved one the lashes would dry, . And her soothing voice lull my chafed bosom to rest. The sharpest of pam and the saddest of woes, The darkest, the deepest of shadows might come ; Tet each wound had its balm, while my soul could repose On the heart of a Mother, the Star of my Home ! But now let me rove the wide world as I may, There's no form to arise as a magnet for me ; I can rest amid strangers, and laugh with the gay — Content with the pathway, where'er it may be. Let Sorrow or Pain fling their gloomiest cloud, There's no haven to shelter, no beacon to save; For the rays that e'er led me are quenched by the shroud, And the Star of my Home has gone down in the Grave. THE BEAVE. Fob, whom are your gyves ? for the cowardly one, Who would strike in the dark, and steal back in the aun ! For the felon who never hath used his right hand But to injure his brothers and merit the brand ? Go,- fetter the traitor and dastardly spy ; Let them joylessly live, and despairingly die : They are guerdoned right well with the doom of the slave; But away with your chains from the honestly Brave ! Could a Wallace or Washington — spirits divine! Live on as the captured to languish and pine ? Should earth show a wall as the dungeon of such, Or aught like a fetter profane with its touch ? No, no ! when the destiny woven by Fate Gives us power to trample and vanquish the Great, Strike, strike in pure mercy ; 'twere torture to save ; Fell at once, but oh ! forge not a link for the Brave. The lion may yield — let him sink, let him bleed ; But seek not to tame him, to bind, and to lead. Launch thy barb, bring the proud eagle down from his swoop -• But a curse on the hand that would build him a coop. SONG OF TEE MARINERS. 133 Oh, give not the noble one trammels to wear, Till the heart-strings are snapped by the pressure they bear : Let him fall like the free — give him death and a grave -. But never, in mercy, place chains on the Brave ! SONG OF THE MARINERS. The Miser will hold his darling gold Till hiseyes are glazed, and his hands are cold ; The Minstrel one to his soft lyre clings As though its chords were his own heart-strings; No dearer boon will the Reveller ask Than the draught that deepens the purple flask ; But the firmest love-link that can be Chains the Mariners bold to the pathless sea. Choose, ye who will, earth's dazzling bowers, But the great and glorious sea be ours ; Give us, give us the dolphin's home, "With the speeding keel, and splashing foam : Bight merry are we as the sound bark springs On her lonely track like a creature of wings. Oh ! the Mariner's life is blithe and gay, When the sky is fair and the ship on her way. We love the perilous sea, because It will not bend to man or his laws ; It ever hath rolled, the uncontrolled, It cannot be warped to fashion or mould. Now quiet and fair as a sleeping child ; Now rousing in tempests madly wild; And who shall wean the mighty flood From its placid dream or passionate mood? We are not so apt to forget our God As those who dwell on the dry, safe sod, For we know each leaping wave we meet May be a crystal winding-sheet ; We know each blustering gale that blows May requiem to a last repose ; And. the chafing tide, as it roars and swells, Hath as solemn a tone as the calling bells. 134 STANZAS TO THE YOUNG. The land has its beauty, its sapphire, and rose : But look on the colours the bright main shows, While each billow flings from its pearly fringe The lucid jewels of rainbow tinge. Go, mark the waters at sunny noon, Go, float beneath the full clear moon ; And cold is the spirit that wakes not there With wondering praise, and worshipping prayer. 'Tis true, we may sink 'mid deluge and blast, But we cope with the strong, we are quelled by the vast, And a noble urn is the foundered wreck, Though no incense may burn, and no flower may deck. We need no stately funeral car ; But, tangled with salt-weeds, and lashed to a spar, Down, down below, the Mariners go, While thunders volley, and hurricanes blow. But little do we bold Mariners care What hour we fall or what risk we dare, For the groan on the struggling sailor's lip Is less for himself than his. dying ship. , . Oh ! ours is the life for the free and the brave ; We dance o'er the planks that may yawn as a grave, We laugh 'mid the foam of our perilous home, And are ready for death whene'er it may come. STANZAS TO THE YOUNG. Long have the wisest lips confessed. That minstrel ones are far from wrong Who "point a moral" in a jest, Or yield a sermon in a song. So be it ! Listen ye who will, And though my harp be roughly strung, Tet never shall its lightest thrill Offend the old or taint the young. Mark me ! I ne'er presume to teach The man of wisdom, grey and sage ; 'Tis to the growing I would preach From moral text and simple page. BTANZAB TO TEE YOUNG. 135 First, I would bid thee cherish Truth As leading star in Virtue's train ; Folly may pass, nor tarnish youth, But Falsehood leaves a poison stain. Keep watch, nor let the burning tide Of Impulse break from all control ; The best of hearts needs pilot-guide To steer it clear from Error's shoal. One wave of Passion's boiling flood May all the sea of Life disturb ; And steeds of good but fiery blood Will rush on death without a curb. Think on the course ye fain would run, And moderate the rash desire ; There's many a one would drive the sun, Only to set the world on fire. Slight not the one of honest worth, Because no star adorns his breast ; The lark soars highest from the earth, Tet ever leaves the lowest nest. Heed but the bearing of a tree, And if it yield a wholesome fruit ; A shallow, envious fool is he, Who spurns it for its forest root. Let fair humanity be thine, To fellow-man and meanest brute : "Tis nobly taught — the code's divine — Mercy is God's chief attribute. The coward wretch whose hand and heart Can bear to torture aught below, Is ever first to quail and start From slightest pain or equal foe. Be not too ready to condemn The wrong thy brothers may have done ; Ere ye too harshly censure them For human faults, ask — " Have I none P" Live that thy young and glowing breast Can think of death without a sigh ; And be assured that life is best Which finds us least afraid to die. 136 WEDDING BELLS. Twilight shade is calmly falling Round about the dew-robed flowers f Philomel's lone song is calling Lovers to their fairy bowers ; Echo, on the zephyrs gliding, Bears a .voice that seems, to say, " Ears and hearts, come, list my tiding, This has been a wedding-day !" Hark! the merry chimes are pealing, Soft and glad the music swells ; Gaily on the night-wind stealing, Sweetly sound the Wedding Bells. Every simple breast rejoices; - i Laughter rides upon the gale ; Happy hearts and. happy voices Dwell within the lowly vale. Oh !.:hpw sweet, on, zephyrs gliding Sound the bells that seem to say, " Ears and hearts, ,come, list my tiding. This has been, a wedding-day!" Hark ! the merry chimes are pealing, Soft and glad the music swells; Gaily on the night-wind stealing, Sweetly sound the Wedding Bells. A HOME IN THE HEART. Oh ! ask not a home in the mansions of pride,' Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ; Though the roof be of gold.it is brilliantly cold, And joy may not be found in its torch- lighted halls. But seek for a bosom all honest and true, Where love, once awakened, will never depart : Turn, turn' to that breast like the dove to its nest, And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart. Oh ! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere, That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. SONG FOB THE NEW TEAR. 137 Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot, The cheek-searing tear-drops of Sorrow may start. But a star never dim sheds a halo for him Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. SONG FOE, THE NEW YEAH. Old Time has turned another page Of Eternity and Truth ; He reads with a warning voice to age, And whispers a lesson to youth. A year has fled, o'er heart and head Since last the yule log burnt ; And we have a task, to closely ask What the bosom and brain have learnt? Oh, let us hope that our sands have run With Wisdom's precious grains ! Oh, may we find that our hands have done Some work of glorious pains ! Then a welcome and. cheer to the merry New Year While the holly gleams above us ; With a pardon for the foes who hate, And. a prayer for those who love us. We may have seen some loved ones pass To the land of hallowed rest ; We may miss the glow of an honest brow And the warmth of a friendly breast : But if we nursed them while on earth With hearts all true and kind ; Will their spirits blame the sinless mirth Of those true hearts left behind ? No, no ! it were not well nor wise To mourn with endless pain ; There's a better world beyond the skies, Where the good shall meet again. Then a welcome and cheer to the merry New Year, While the holly gleams above us ; With a pardon for the foes who hate, And a prayer for those who love us. Have our days rolled on, serenely free Prom Sorrow's dim alloy ? Do we still possess the gifts that bles^ And fill our souls with jov? 138 THE HOMES OF THE DEAD. Are the creatures dear still clinging near? Do we hear loved voices come r Do we gaze on eyes whose glances shed A halo round our home ? Oh, if we do, let thanks be poured To Him who hath spared and given, And forget not o'er the festive board The mercies held from Heaven. Then a welcome and cheer to the merry New Tear, While the holly gleams above us ; With a pardon for the foes who hate, And a prayer for those who love us ! THE HOMES OF THE DEAD. We must not make a home for the dead, Nor raise an osiered mound, Till the eloquent prayer and priestly tread Have sanctified the ground. But there are those who fall and die Upon the desert land ; With no pall above but the torrid sky, No bier but the scorching sand. No turf is laid, no sexton's spade Chimes in with the mourner's groans ; But the prowling jackal finds a feast, And the red sun crumbles the bones. There are those who go down in the dark, wild sea, When storms have wrecked proud ships ; With none to heed what the words may be That break from their gurgling lips. No anthem-peal flows sweet and loud, No tablets mark their graves ; But they soundly sleep in a coral shroud To the dirge of the rolling waves. There are those who sink on the mountain path, With cold and curdling blood ; With the frozen sleet for a funeral sheet, And no mates but the vulture brood : THE KING'S OLD- HALL. 139 No tolling bell proclaims their knell, No memory-stone is found ; But the snowdrift rests on their skeleton brea:3t3, And the bleaching winds sweep round. There are those who fall on the purple field, In glory's mad career : Their dying couch — a battered shield, Their cross of faith — a spear : No priest has been there with robes and prayer To consecrate the dust : Where the soldier sleeps his steed sleeps too, And his gore-stained weapons rust. No cypress waves, no daisy grows, Above such pillows of rest ; Yet say, are the riteless graves of those Unholy or unblest ? "lis well to find our last repose Where the churchyard yew is nigh ; But those who sleep in the desert or deep Are watched by the selfsame eye. THE KING'S OLD HALL. Few ages since, and wild echoes awoke In thy sweeping dome and panelling oak : Thy seats were filled with a princely band, Rulers of men and lords of the land. Loudly they raved, and gaily they laughed, O'er the golden chalice and sparkling draught; And the glittering board and gem-studded plume Proclaimed thee a monarch's revelling room. But now the spider is weaving his woof, Making his loom of thy sculptured roof; The slug is leaving his slimy stain, Trailing his way o'er thy Gothic pane : Weeds have gathered and moss hath grown On thy topmost ridge and lowest stone ; And tiie wheeling bat comes flapping hiswing On the walls that circled a banqueting king. 140 THERE' 8 ONE TO GUARD AND SAVE. The idle stare and vulgar tread May fall where the regal train was spread ; The gloomy owl may hide its nest, And the" speckled lizard safely rest. Who were the revellers P where are their forms? Go to the charnel, and ask of the worms. They are low in the dust, forgotten and past, And the pile they raised is following fast. Oh ! Man, vain Man ! how futile your aim, When building your temples to pleasure and fame S G-dj work for Heaven with Faith and Care ; Let good works secure thee a mansion there, For the palace of pageantry crumbles away ; Its beauty and strength are mocked by decay ; And a voice from the desolate halls of kings Cries, " Put not your trust in earthly things !" THEKE'S ONE TO GUABD AND SAVE. They tell us that the deep sea hath More dangers than the shore ; They whisper tales of ocean wrath, And breakers' deadly roar. How oft the ruddy cheek will pale To leave the earth behind ! How oft the glowing heart will quail Before the tempest-wind ! We fear the billows' dash, but why ? There's One to guard and save ; There's one whose wide and watchful eye Sleeps not above the wave. Why should the soul withdraw its trust Upon the foamy track P He who gave life, all wise and just, Knows when to ask it back. Though death were nigh, I would not shrink: My faith, my hope, should rest Upon a Maker's will, and think Whate'er He willed the best. I'd ever trust the ruling hand, Howe'er the storm might rave, For He who watches o'er the land Sleeps not above the wave. 141 THE FLAG OF THE FREE. 'Tis the streamer of England— it floats o'er the brave— "Ks the fairest unfurled o'er the land or the wave ; But though brightest in story and matchless in fight, "Tis the herald of Mercy as well as of Might. In the cause of the wronged may it ever be first — When tyrants are humbled and fetters are burst : Be " Justice " the war- shout, and dastard is he Who would scruple to die 'neath the Flag of th'e Free 1 It may trail o'er the halyards — a bullet-torn rag, Or flutter in shreds from the battlement-crag ; Let the shot whistle through it as fast as it may. Till it sweep the last glorious tatter away. What matter ! we'd hoist the blue jacket on high, Or the soldier's red sash from the spearhead should fly : Though it were but a riband, the foeman should see The proud signal, and own it — the Flag of the Free i Have we ever looked out from a far foreign shore, To mark the gay pennon each passing ship bore ; And watch'd every speck that arose on the foam, In hope of glad tidings from country and home ? — Has our straining eye caught the loved colours at last. And seen the dear bark bounding on to us fast P Then, then have our hearts learnt how precious can be The fair streamer of England — the Flag of the Free I PRAYER. How purely true, how deeply warm, The inly -breathed appeal may be, Though adoration wears no form, In upraised hand, or bended knee ! One Spirit fills all boundless space, No limit to the when or where ; And little reeks the time or place That leads the soul to Praise and Prayer Father above, Almighty one. Creator, is that worship va'iti That hails each mountain as thy throne, And finds a universal fane ? 142 PRAYER. When shining stairs, or spangled soe, Call forth devotion, who shall dare To blame, or tell me that a God Will never deign to iear such Prayer < Oh ! prayer is good when many pour Their voices in one solemn tone ; Conning their sacred lessons o'er, Or yielding thanks for mercies shown. 'Tis good to see the quiet train Forget their worldly joy and care;_ While loud response and choral strain Be-echo in the house of Prayer. But often have I stood to mark The setting sun and closing flower ; When silence and the gathering dark Shed holy calmness o'er the hour. ; ; Lone on the hills my soul confessed More rapt and earnest homage there, And served the Maker it addressed With stronger zeal and closer Prayer. When watching those we love and prize Till all of life and hope be fled ; When we have gazed on sightless eyes, And gently stayed the falling head : Then what can soothe the stricken heart, What solace overcome despair ; What earthly breathing can impart Such healing balm as lonely Prayer ? When fears and perils thicken fast, And many dangers gather round ; When human aid is vain and past, No mortal refuge to be found ; Then can we firmly lean on Heaven, And gather strength to meet and bear : No matter where the storm has driven, A saving anchor lives in Prayer. Oh, God ! how beautiful the thought, How merciful the blessed decree, That Grace can e'er be found when sought, And naught shut out the soul from Thee. The cell may cramp, the fetters gall, The flame may scorch, the rack may tear ; But torture-stake, or prison wall, Can be endured with Faith and Prayer. MY JOY, MY HOPES, LET OTHERS SHARE. 148. In desert wilds, in midnight gloom ; In grateful joy, in trying pain ; In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb ; Oh ! when is prayer unheard or vain ? The Infinite, the King of kings, "Will never heed the when or where ; He'll ne'er reject the heart that brings The offering of fervent Prayer. MY JOT, MY HOPES, LET OTHEES SHARE. My Joy, my Hopes, let others share, — In Grief, I'd play the miser's part ; My lips, my brow shall never bear The index of a stricken heart.. If riches were consigned to me, No griping hand would clutch tlie pelf; For valueless the gold would be If hoarded only for myself. If Pleasure's cheering rays were mine, I would not bask in selfish light ; But have the circle spread and shine, And make all round as glad and bright. But should my spirit bend and ache Beneath some pressing load of woe ; Unheard the heavy sigh must break, Unseen the scalding drop must flow. With sudden stroke or wearing pain , The barb might pierce, the worm might feed : I'd cloak the wound, I'd hide the chain — In secret weep — in silence bleed. For did my troubled breast reveal Its anguish to the world's wide ear, The few would grieve, partake, and feel— The many would not care to hear. And could I bear the few, the loved, To make my fears and sorrows theirs? Could I e'er wish a bosom moved, To note and mourn m.y doubts and cares f 144 THE SLUMBER OF DEATH. 'Twere easier far to inly groan, And let the canker rankle deep ; Better the worst of pangs my own Than see a dear one watch and weep. And who among the busy throng Would heed my words or mark my tear? The saddest tale, the foulest wrong, Might raise a smile or call a sneer. Oh ! well I know, whate'er my fate, I'd meet and brook it, firmly proud ; And rather die beneath the weight - "Than tell it to the SouUes's crowd. Joy, Hope, and Wealth, let others share ; In grief I'd play the miser's jlart : I'd scatter all that's sweet and fair, But lock the nightshade in my heart. THE SLUMBER OF DEATH. Peaceful and fair is the smiling repose That the breast-cradled slumber of infancy knows ; Sound is the rest of the weary and worn, Whose feet have been galled with the dust and the thorn : Sweet is the sleep on the eyelids of youth, When they dream of the world as all pleasure and truth : Yet child, pilgrim, and youth shall awaken again To the journeys of toil and the trials of pain. But, oh ! there's a fast and a visionless sleep, The calm and the stirless, the long and the deep : 'Tis the sleep that is soundest and sweetest of all, When our couch is the bier, and our night-robe the pall. No voice of the foe or, the friend shall impart The proud flush to the cheek or warm throb to the heart: The lips of the dearest may seek for the breath, But their kiss cannot rouse the cold stillness of death. 'Tis a long, 'tis a last, 'tis a beautiful rest, When all sorrow has passed from the brow and the breast, And the lone spirit truly and wisely may crave The sleep that is dreamless, the sleep of the grave. 145 OUR SAILORS AND OUR SHIPS. How dashingly in sun and light the frigate makes her way; Her white wings spreading full and bright beneath the glancing ray ! The gale may wake, but she will take whatever wind may come ; Fit car to bear the ocean-god upon his crystal home. She cleaves the tide with might and pride, like war-horse freed from rein ; She treats the wave like abject slave— the empress of the main : All, all shall mark the gallant bark, their hearts upon their lips ; And cry, "Old England, who shall match thy Sailors and thy Ships ?" Stout forms, strong-arms, and dauntless spirits dwell upon the deck ; True to their cause in calm or storm, in battle or in wreck. No foe will meet a coward hand, faint heart or quailing eye : They only know to fall or stand, to live the brave, or die. The flag that carries round the world a Nelson's victor name Must never shield a dastard knave or strike in craven shame. Let triumph scan her blazing page, no record shall eclipse The glory of Old England's Cross, her Sailors and her Ships. The tempest breath sweeps o'er the sea with howlings of despair, Death walks upon the waters, but the tar must face and bear : The bullets hiss, the broadside pours, 'mid sulphur, blood, and smoke, And prove a British crew and craft alike are hearts of oak. Oh ! ye who live 'mid fruit and flowers — the peaceful, safe, and free — Yield up a prayer for those who dare the perils of the sea. " God and our Right !" these are the words e'er first upon our lips ; But next shall be, "Old England's flag, our Sailors and our Ships !" CHARLIE O'ROSS, "WT THE SLOE-BLACK EEN. 'Tis down in the glen where the wild thistle grows, Where the golden furze glitters and bonnie broom blows j There dwells the braw laddie, sae gallant and free; The laddie wha blithely comes wooing o' me. Ton may ken him from a' by his beauty sae rare, By the bloom on his cheek, and his dark, glossy hair ; Oh ! there's nane half sae bright on the hills to be seen As Charlie O'Ross, with the sloe-black een. 146 THE FISHES BOY JOLLILY LIVES. He looks like a laird, in his bonnet o' blue ; His words are sae soft, and his heart is sae true ; The sang that he sings is sae sweet, and sae clear, That it falls like the mavis's notes on the ear. To be loved by him dearly is a' my delight ; And he'll gang through the heather to meet me to-night; For I promised to lead off the dance on the green, Wi' Charlie O'Eoss, wi' the sloe-black een. THE FISHER BOY JOLLILY LIVES. Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! The nets are spread out to the sun : Merrily oh ! the Fisher Boy sings, Eight glad that his labour is done. Happy and gay, with his boat in the bay, The storm and the danger forgot ; The wealthy and great might repine at their state, And envy the Fisher Boy's lot, Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! ■'- . This is the burden he gives: " Cheerily oh ! though the blast may blow, The Fisher Boy jolhly lives." Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! He sleeps till the morning breaks ; Merrily oh ! at the seagull's scream The Fisher Boy quickly awakes. Down on the strand he is plying his hand, His shouting is heard again ; The clouds are dark, but he springs to his bark With the same light-hearted strain. Merrily oh ! merrily oh ! This is the burden he gives ; " Cheerily oh ! though the blast may blow, ■ - The Fisher Boy jollily lives." I THANK THEE, GOD ! FOE "WEAL AND WOE. I thank Thee, God ! for all I've known Of kindly fortune, health, and joy ; And quite as gratefully I own The bitter drops of life's alloy. THE SMUGGLER BOY. 147 Oh ! there was wisdom in the blow That wrung the sad and scalding tear ; That laid my dearest idol low, And left my bosom lone and drear. I thank thee, God ! for all of smart That thou hast sent ; for not in vain Has been the heavy, aching heart, The sigh of grief, the throb of pain. What if my cheek had ever kept Its healthful colour, glad and bright — What if my eyes had never wept Throughout a long and sleepless night ? Then, then, perchance, my soul had not Remembered there were paths less fair ; And, selfish in my own blest lot, Ne'er strove to soothe another's care. But when the weight of sorrow found My spirit prostrate and resigned ; The anguish of the bleeding wound Taught me to feel for all mankind. Even as from the wounded tree The goodly precious balm will pour ; So in the riven heart there'll be Mercy that never flowed before. 'Tis well to learn that sunny hours May quickly change to mournful shade ; 'Tis well to prize life's scattered flowers, Yet be prepared to see them fade. I thank Thee, God ! for weal and woe : And whatsoe'er the trial be ; 'Twill serve to wean me from below, And bring my spirit nigher Thee. THE SMUGGLES BOY. We stole away at the fall of night, When the red round moon was deep'ning her light; But none knew whither our footsteps bent, Wor how those stealthy hours were spent; 148 TEE TOMB. For we crept away to the rooky bay, Where the cave and <;raft of a fierce band lay ; We gave the signal cry, " Ahoy !" And found a mate in the Smuggler Boy. His laugh was deep, his speech was bold, And we loved the fearful tales he told, Of the perils he met in his father's bark ; Of the chace by day and the. storm by dark. We got him to take the light boat out, And gaily and freshly we dashed about : And naught of pleasure could ever decoy From the moonlight sail with the Smuggler Boy. We caught his spirit, and learnt to love The cageless petrel more than the dove; And wild and happy souls were we, Roving with him by the heaving sea. He whispered the midnight work they did, And showed us where the kegs were hid : All secrets were ours— a word might destroy — But we never betrayed the Smuggler Boy. We sadly left him, bound to range A distant path of care and change f We have sought him again, but none could relate The place of his home, or a word of his fate. Long years have sped but we dream of him now, With the red cap tossed on his dauntless brow ; And the world lifith given no greater joy Than the moonlight sail with ijhe Smuggler Boy. THE TOMB. Few years ago I shunned the tomb, And turned me from a tablet- stone ; I shivered in the churchyard gloom, And sickened at a bleaching bone. Then all were tound my warm, young heart — The kindred tie— the cherished form ; I knew not what it was to part, And give them to the dust and worm. BLUE-BELLS IN THE SHADE: 149 But soon I lost the gems of earth, I saw the dearest cold in death : And sorrow changed my joyous mirth To searing drops and sobbing breath. I stood by graves all dark and deep, Pale, voiceless, wrapt in mute despair,- I left my soul's adored to sleep In stirless, dreamless slumber there And now I steal at night to see The soft clear moonbeams playing o'er Their hallowed beds, and long to be Where all most prized have gone before. Now can I calmly gaze around On osiered heaps, with yearning eye, And murmur o'er the grassy mound — " 'Tis a glorious privilege to die !" The grave hath lost its conquering might, And death its dreaded sting of pain, Since they but ope the path of light To lead me to the loved again. BLTJE-BBLLS IN THE SHADE. The choicest buds in Flora's train, let other fingers twine ; Let others snatch the damask rose, or wreath the eglantine ; I'd leave the sunshine and parterre, and seek the woodland glade To stretch me on the fragrant bed of blue-bells in the shade. Let others cull the daffodil, the lily soft and fair ; . And deem the tulip's gaudy cup most beautiful and rare ; But give to me, oh, give to me the coronal that's made Of ruby orchis mingled with the blue-bells from the shade. The sunflower and the peony, the poppy bright and gay, Have no alluring charms for me, I'd fling them all away : Exotic bloom may fill the vase, or grace the high-born maid, But sweeter far to me than all, are blue-bells in the shade. 150 SONG OF THE IMPRISONED BIED. Ye may pass me by with pitying eye, And cry " Poor captive thing !" But I'll prove ye are caged as safely as I, If ye'll list to the notes I sing. I flutter in thrall, and so do all ; — Te have bonds ye cannot escape ; With only a little wider range, And bars of another shape. The noble ranks of fashion and birth Are fettered by courtly rule ; They dare not rend the shackles that tend To form the knave and fool. The parasite, bound to kiss the hand That, perchance, he may loathe to touch ; The maiden, high-born, wedding where she may scorn,- Oh ! has earth worse chains than such ? The one who lives but to gather up wealth, — Though great his treasures may be ; Yet, guarding with care and counting by stealth, — What a captive wretch is he ! The vainly proud, who turn from the crowd, And tremble lest they spoil The feathers of the peacock -plume With a low, plebeian soil : Oh ! joy is mine to see them strut In their chosen, narrow space ; They mount a perch, but ye need not search For a closer prison-place. The being of fitful, curbless wrath May fiercely stamp and rave ; He will call himself free, but there cannot be More mean and piteous slave ; — For the greatest victim, the fastest-bound, Is the one who serves his rage : The temper that governs will eve.r be found A fearful, torture-cage. THE WILLOW TREE. 151 Each breathing spirit is chastened down By the hated or the dear ; The gentle smile or tyrant frown Will hold ye in love or fear. How much there is self-will would do, Were it not for the dire dismay That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think Of " What will my neighbour say ?" Then pity me not ; for mark mankind, Of every rank and age ; Look close to the heart, and ye'll ever find, That each is a bird in a cage. THE WILLOW TREE. Tree of the gloom, o'erhanging the tomb, Thou seemest to love the churchyard sod ; Thou ever art found on the charnel ground, Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod. When thy branches trail to the wintry gale, Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men ; When the world is bright in a summer's light, "lis only the wretched that love thee then. The golden moth and the shining bee Will seldom rest on the Willow-tree. The weeping maid comes under thy shade, Mourning her faithful lover dead ; She sings of his grave in the crystal wave, Of his seaweed shroud and coral bed. A chaplet she weaves of thy downy leaves, And twines it round her pallid brow ; Sleep falls on her eyes while she softly sighs, " My love, my dearest, I come to thee now !" She sits and dreams of the moaning sea, While the night wind creeps through the Willow-tree. The dying one will turn from the sun, The dazzling flowers, and luscious fruit ; To set his mark in thy sombre bark, And find a couch at thy moss-clad root. 152 THE BREAM IS BROKEN. He is fading away like the twilight ray, His cheek is pale and his glance is dim ; But thy drooping arras, with their pensive charms, Can yield a joy till the last for him ; And the latest words on his lips shall be, " Oh, lay me under the Willow-tree !" THE DREAM IS BROKEN. They told me in my earlier years, Life was a dark and tangled web ; A gloomy sea of bitter tears, Where Sorrow's influx had no ebb. But such was vainly taught and said, My laugh rang out with joyous tone; The woof possessed one brilliant thread Of rainbow colours, all my own. They talked of trials, sighs, and grief, And called the world a wilderness ; Where dazzling bud or fragrant leaf Bui rarely sprung to cheer and bless. But there was one, dear precious flower Engrafted in my bosom's core, Which made my home an Eden bower, And caused a doubt if heaven held more. I boasted — till a mother's grave Was heaped and sodded — then I found The sunshine strickeli from the wave, And all the golden thread unwound. Where was the flower I had worn So fondly, closely, in my heart ? The bloom was crushed, the root was torn, And left a cureleSs, bleeding part. Preach on who will— say "Life is sad," I'll not refute as once I did ; You'll find the eye that beamed so glad Will hide a tear beneath its lid. FIRE. 153 Preach on of woe ; the time hath been I'd praise the world with shadeless brow , The dream is broken — I have seen A mother die : — I'm silent now. FIBE. Blaudly glowing, richly bright, Cheering star of social light ; While I gently heap it higher, How I"bless thee, sparkling fire ! Who loves not the kindly rays Streaming from the tempered blaze ? Who can sit beside his hearth Dead to feeling, stern .to mirth P Who can watch the crackling pile, And keep his breast all cold the while ? Fire is good, but it must serve : Keep it thralled— for if it swerve Into freedom's open path, What shall check its maniac wrath ? Where's the tongue that can proclaim The fearful work of curbless flame ? Darting wide and shooting high, It lends a horror to the sky ; It rushes on to waste, to scare ; Arousing terror and despair ; It tells the utmost earth can know, About the demon scenes below ; And sinks at last, all spent and dead, Among the ashes it has spread. Sure the poet is not wrong To glean a moral from the song. Listen, Youth ! nor scorn, nor frown, — Thou must chain thy Passions down : Well to serve, but ill to sway, Like the Fire they must obey. They are good in subject state, To strengthen, warm, and animate ; But if once we let them reign, They sweep with desolating train, Till they but leave a hated name, A ruined soul, and blackened fame. 154 ALONE. I've tracked the paths of the dark, wild wood, No footfall there but my own ; I've lingered beside the moaning flood, But I never felt alone. There were lovely things for my soul to meet, Rare work for my eye to trace : I held communion close and sweet With a Maker — face to face. I have sat in the cheerless, vacant room, At the stillest hour of night ; With naught to break upon the gloom But the taper's sickly- light : And there I have conjured back again The loved ones, lost and dead ; Till my swelling heart and busy brain Have hardly deemed them fled. I may rove the waste or tenant the cell, But alone I never shall be ; While this form is a home where the spirit may dwell ; There is something to mate with me. Wait till ye turn from my mindless clay, And the shroud o'er my breast is thrown ; And then, but not till then, ye may say That I am left alone ! SONG OF THE SUN. Supreme of the sky — no throne so high— I reign a monarch divine ; What nave ye below that doth not owe Its glory and lustre to mine ? Has Beauty a charm I have not helped To nurture in freshness and bloom ? Can a. tint be spread — can a glance be shed Like those I deign to illume ? Though ye mimic my beams, as ye do and ye wilL Let all galaxies meet, I am mightiest still ! SONG OF THE SUN. 155 The first red ray that heralds my way, Just kisses the mountain top ; And splendour dwells in the cowslip bells While I kindle each nectar drop ; I speed on my wide, refulgent path, And Nature's homage is given ; All tones are poured to proclaim me adored, As I reach the blue mid-heaven, And the sweetest and boldest, the truly free — The lark and the eagle come nearest to me. The glittering train so praised by man, The moon, night's worshipped queen ; The silvery scud, and the rainbow's span; Snatch from me their colours and sheen. I know when my radiant streams are flung, Creation shows all that is bright, But I'm jealous of naught save the face of the young Laughing back my noontide light : I see nothing so pure or so dazzling on earth, As Childhood's brow with its halo of mirth. My strength goes down in the crystal caves, I gem the billow's wide curl ; I paint the dolphin and burnish the waves, 1 tinge the coral and pearl. Love ye the flowers ? What power, save mine, Can the velvet rose unfold ? Who else can purple the grape on the vine. Or flush the wheat-ear with gold ? Look on the beam-lit wilderness spot — 'Tis more fair than the palace where I come not. Though giant clouds ride on the whirlwind's tide, And gloom on the world may fall ; I yet flash on in gorgeous pride, Untarnished, above them all. So the pure, warm heart for awhile may appear, In probations of sorrow and sin, To be dimmed and obscured, but trial or tear Cannot' darken the spirit within. Let the breast keep its truth, and Life's shadow may roll, But they quench not, they reach not the Sun nor the Soul. 156 A. SUMMER SKETCH. 'Tis June, 'tis merry, smiling June,. 'Tis blushing Summer now ; The rose is red — the bloom is dead — The fruit is on the bough. Flora, with Ceres, hand in hand, Bring all their smiling train ; The yellow corn is waving high, To gild the earth again. The bird-cage hangs upon the wall, Amid the clustering vine ; The rustic seat is in the porch, "Where honeysuckles twine. The rosy, ragged urchins play Beneath the glowing sky; They scoop the sand, or gaily chase The bee that buzzes by. The household spaniel flings his length Along the stone-paved hall ; The panting sheep-dog seeks the spot Where leafy shadows fall. The petted kitten frisks among The bean-flowers' fragrant maze ; Or, basking, throws her dappled form To court the warmest rays. The opened casement, flinging wide, Gerariiums gives to view ; With choicest posies ranged between, Still wet with morning dew. "Tis June, 'tis merry, laughing June, There's not a cloud above ; The air is still, o'er heath and hill, The bulrush does not move. The pensive willow bends to kiss The stream so deep and clear ; While dabbling ripples, gliding on, Bring musio to mine ear. THE WELCOME BACK. Wj The mower whistles o'er his toil The emerald grass must yield ; The scythe is out, the swath is down, There's incense in the field. Oh ! how I love to calmly muse In such an hour as this ; To nurse the joy Creation gives, In purity and bliss'! There is devotion in my soul My lip can ne'er impart ; Hut One above will deign to read The tablet of my heart. And if that heart should e'er neglect The homage of its prayer, Lead it to Nature's altar-piece, — 'Twill always worship there. THE WELCOME BACK. Sweet is the hour that brings us home, Where all will spring to meet us ; Where hands are striving as we come, To be the first to greet us. When the world hath spent its frowns and wrath, And care been sorely pressing ; 'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path, And find a fireside blessing. Oh ! joyfully dear is the homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. What do we reck on a dreary way, Though lonely and benighted ; If we know there are lips to chide our stay, And eyes that will beam, love-lighted ? What is the worth of your diamond ray, To the glance that flashes pleasure ; When the words that welcome back betray We form a heart's chief treasure ? Oh ! joyfully dear is our homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back. 158 WHILE THE CHRISTMAS LOG IS BURNING. Hail to the night when we gather once more All the forms we love to meet ; When we've many a guest that's dear to our breast ; And the household dog at our feet. Who would not be in the circle of glee, When heart to heart is yearning — When joy breathes out in the laughing shout While the Christmas log is burning ? 'Tis one of the fairy hours of life, When the world seems all of light ; For the thought of woe, or the name of a foe Ne'er darkens the festive night. When bursting mirth rings round the hearth, Oh ! where is the spirit that's mourning ; While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme, And the Christmas log is burning ? Then is the time when the gray, old man Leaps back to the days of youth ; When brows and eyes bear no disguise, But flush and gleam with truth. Oh ! then is the time when the soul exults, And seems right heavenward turning ; When we love and bless the hands we press, While the Christmas log is burning. THE ACORN. Beautiful germ ! I have set thee low In the dewy earth — strike, spring, and grow ! Oh ! cleave to the soil, and thou mayst be The king of the woods, a brave, rare tree. Acorn of England? thou mayst bear Thy green head high in the mountain air : Another age, and thy mighty form May scowl at the sun and mock at the storm. A hundred years, and the woodman's stroke May fiercely fall on thy heart of oak : Let Time roll on and thy planks may ride In glorious state o'er the fathomless tide. TO A OBIOKET. 159 Thou mayst baffle the waters, and firmly take The -winds that sweep and waves that break ; And thy vaunted strength shall as nobly stand The rage of the sea as the storm on the land. A hundred years, and in some fair hall Thou mayst shine as the polished wainscot wall; And ring with the laugh and echo the jest Of the happy host and the feasting guest. Acorn of England ! deep in the earth Mayst thou live and burst in flourishing birth ; May thy root be firm and thy broad arms wave, When the hand that plants thee is cold in the grave. TO A CEICKET. Meeby Cricket, twittering thing, How I love to hear thee sing ! Chirping tenant, child of mirth, Minstrel of the poor man's hearth !-- Stay, merry Cricket, stay, and be Companion in our jollity. Winter days are round us now, Stormy winds and falling snow; Pelting hail is rattling fast, Driven by the northern blast ; Dark December's dreary night Needs the fagot's blazing light ! Grandsires tell the goblin tale, Urchins listen, — mute and pale ; Mistletoe is hung on high ; Christmas tide is drawing nigh ; — Stay, merry Cricket, stay, and be Partner in our jollity. Holly branches deck the walls Of peasants' cots and barons' halls ; Scarlet berries peep between Twined with laurel, darkly green, Close commingled, rudely bound ; Sacredly they wreath around. — Polished tankards grace the board ; Racks and cellars yield their hoard ; 160 ANACREONTIC. Flowing ale, with cheering zest, Animates the song and jest ; Wine, rich sparkling, greets the lip, Such as Bacchus' self might sip ; Such that Horace might have sung Praises of with honest tongue ; Giving to the world its name, Sharing the Falernian fame. — Laughing voices, bounding feet, In many a happy circle meet ; ; Sports and feasting make the hours Light as those in summer bowers ; — Stay, then, merry -Cricket, stay, Tarry with the glad and gay. Spring about the oaken floor, Dread not pussy's murderous paw ; Dainty crumbs and fragments rare Shall be scattered for thy fare ; Gambol in thy covert warm, None shall chase thee, naught shall harm; I will guard thee, for I dote Upon thy timid, whistling note. Stay, then,, merry Cricket, stay, Tarry with the glad and gay ; Share our blazing fire, and be Partner in our jollity. ANACREONTIC. Wine! Wine! Wine! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. Go, look upon the boundless sky, Where shining planets roll ; There's none can match the sparkling eye, When Wine lights up the soul ! Let monarchs say, their eastern gems All other gems surpass ; We'll show them brighter in the drops That stud each draining glass ; " THY WILL BE BONE." 161 Wine ! Wine ! Wine ! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. There's beauty round that might entice The angels as of yore : Once drawn to Earth by such a charm, They'd seek the sky no more. There's music, soft and thrilling — hark ! What magic in the strain ! 'Twere madness for to listen long, Come, fill the glass again. Wine ! Wine i Wine ! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. Yoking Bacchus reels about our board With face like morning's blush ; His cheeks have pilfered from the grapes Then - rich, carnation flush. The rosy rogue around to-night A treble rapture flings ; He revels with Apollo's lyre, And Cupid's rainbow wings, Wine! Wine! Wine! Thou purple stream of bliss ; Thy Lethe powers drown bygone hours, And make a heaven of this. "THY WILL BE DONE." Let the scholar and divine Tell us how to pray aright ; Let the truths of gospel shine With their precious, hallowed light ; But the prayer a mother taught, Is to me a matchless one ; Eloquent and spirit-fraught Are the words—" Thy will be done." Though not fairly understood, Still those words at evening hour, Implied some Being, great and good, Of mercy, majesty, and power. SONG OF OLD TIME. Bending low on infant knee, And gazing on the setting sun, I thought that orb his Tiome must be, To whom I said — " Thy will be done." I have searched the saered page, I have heard the godly speech; But the lore of saint or sage Nothing holier can teach. Pain has wrung my spirit sore, But my soul the triumph won ; When the anguish that 1 bore Only breathed — " Thy will be done." They have served in pressing need, Have nerved my heart in every task ; And howsoever my breast may bleed, No other balm of prayer I ask. When my whitened lips declare Life's last sands have almost run, May the dying breath they bear Murmur forth^"Thy will be done." SONG OF OLD TIME. I wear not the purple of earth-born kings, Nor the stately ermine of lordly things ; But monarch and courtier, though great they be, Must fall from their glory and bend to me. My sceptre is gemless ; yet who can say They will not come under its mighty sway ? Ye may learn who I am,— there's the passing chime* And the dial to herald me — Old King Time ! Softly I creep, like a thief in the might, After cheeks all blooming and eyes. all light; My sjeps are seen on the patriarch's brow, In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow. Who laugh at my power ? the young and the gay : But they dream iiol how closely I track their way. Wait till their first, bright sands have run, And thsy will not smile at what Time hath done. SONG OF THE GOBLET, K53 I eat through, treasures with moth and u'uii I lay the gorgeous palace in dust; I inalce the shell-proof tower my own, And break the battlement, stone from stona. Work on at your cities and temples, proud man, Build high as ye may, and strong as ye can ; But the marble shall crumble, the pillar shall fall, And Time, Old Time, will be king, after all. SONG OF THE GOBLET. I have kept my place at the rich man's board For many a waning night ; "Where streams of dazzling splendour poured Their galaxy of light : No wilder revelry has rung Than where my home has been ; All that the bard of Teos sung, Has the golden Goblet seen : And what I could tell, full many might deela A fable of fancy, or tale of a dream. I have beheld a courteous band Sit round r in bright array ; Their voices firm, their words all bland, And brows like a cloudless day : But soon the guests were led by the host ' To dash out Reason's lamp ; And then God's noble image had lost The fineness of its stamp : And theiiv sober cheeks have blushed to hear What they told o'er me without shame or feai\ Their loud and tuneless laugh would tell Of a hot and. reeling brain ; Their right arms trembled, and red wine fell Like blood on a battle-plain. The youth would play the chattering ape, And the gray-haired one would let The foul and sickening jest escape Till I've loathed the lips I've met ; And the swine in the dust, or the wolf on iti> pre Gave less of sheer disgust than they. 164 SONG OF THE GOBLET. The drunkard has filled me again and again 'Mid the roar of a frantic din ; Till the starting eyeballs told his brain Was an Etna pile within. Oh ! sad is the work that I have done In the hands of the sot and fool ; Cursed and dark is the fame I have won, As Death's most powerful tool : And I own that those who greet my rim Too oft, will find their bane on the brim. But all the golden Goblet has wrought Is not of the evil kind ; I have helped the creature of mighty thought, And quickened the Godlike mind. As gems of first water may lie in the shade, And ho lustre be known to live ; Till the kiss of the noontide beam has betrayed What a glorious sheen they can give : So, the breast may hold fire that none can see, Till it meet the sun-ray shed by me. I have burst the spirit's moody trance, And woke it to mirth and wit ; Till the soul would dance in every glance Of eyes that were rapture-lit. I have heard the bosom all warm and rife With friendship, offer up Its faith in heaven, its hope on earth, With the name it breathed in the cup ! And I was proud to seal the bond Of the truly great and the firmly fond. I have served to raise the shivering form That sunk in the driving gale ; I have fanned the flame that famine and storm Had done their worst to pale. The stagnant vein has been curdled and cold As the marble's icy streak ; But I have come, and the tide hath rolled Bight on to the heart and cheek ; And bursting words from a grateful breast Have told the golden Goblet was blest. Oh ! Heaven forbid that bar or ban Should be thrown on the draught I bear, But woful it is that senseless man Will brand me with sin and despair. THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY. 165 Use me wisely, and I will lend A joy ye may cherish, and praise ; But love me too well, and my potion shall send A burning blight on your days. This is the strain I sing as ye fill — " Beware ! the Goblet can cheer or kill." THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY. The Holly ! the Holly ! oh, twine it with bay — Come, give the Holly a song ; For it helps to drive stern Winter away, "With his garments so sombre and long. It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnished green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen. Then sing to the Holly, the Christmas Holly, That hangs over peasant and king : While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas Holly we'll sing. The gale may whistle, and frost may come, To fetter the gurgling rill ; The woods may be bare, and the warblers dumb— • But the Holly is beautiful still. In the revel and. light of princely halls, The bright Holly-branch is found ; And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls, While the brimming horn goes round. Then drink to the Holly, &c. The ivy lives long, but its home must be Where graves and ruins are spread ; There's beauty about the cypress tree, But it flourishes near the dead : The laurel the warrior's brow may wreaths, But it teils of tears and blood. I sing the Holly, and who can breathe Aught of that that is not good ? Then sing to the Holly, &c. 166 WASHINGTON. Land of the West ! though passing brief the record of thine age, Thou hast a name that darkens all on History's wide page ! Let all the blasts of Fame ring out — thine shall be loudest far ; Let others boast their satellites — thou hast the planet star. Thou hast a name whose characters of light shall ne'er depart ; 'Tis stamped iipon the dullest brain, and warms the coldest heart; A w,ar-cry fit for any land where Freedom's to be won : Land of the West ! it stands alone — it is thy Washington ! Rome had its Osesar, great and brave ; but stain was on his wreath : He lived the heartless conqueror, and died the tyrant's death. France had its Eagle ; but his wings, though lofty they might soar, Were spread in false ambition's flight, and dipped in murder's gore. Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have chained the waves- Who fleshed their blades with tiger zeal, to make a world of slaves — Who, though their kindred barred the path, still fiercely waded on. Oh, where shall be iheir " glory" by the side of Washington ! He fought, but not with love of strife ; he struck but to defend ; And ere he turned a people's foe, he sought to be a friend : He strove to keep his country's right by Reason's gentle word, And sighed when fell Injustice threw the challenge — sword to sword. He stood the firm, the calm, the wise, the patriot and sage ; He showed .no deep, avenging hate — no burst of despot rage. He stood for Liberty and Truth, and daringly led on, Till shouts of Victory gave forth the name of Washington. No car of triumph bore him through a city -filled with grief; No groaning captives at the wheels proclaimed him victor-chief: He broke the gyves of slavery with strong and high disdain ; But cast no sceptre from the links when he had rent the chain. He saved his land, but did not lay his soldier trappings down, To change them for a regal vest, and don a kingly crown. Fame was too earnest in her joy— too proud of such a son — ■ To let a robe and title mask her noble Washington. England, my heart is truly thine — my loved, my native earth — The land that holds a mother's grave, and gave that mother birth'. Oh, keenly_ sad would be the fate that thrust me from thy shore, And faltering my breath that sighed "Farewell for evermore !" But did I meet such adverse lot, I would not seek to dwell Where olden heroes wrought the deeds for Homer's song to tell. " Away, thou gallant ship !" I'd cry, " and bear me swiftly on ; But bear me from my own, fair land to that of Washington." 167 SONNET. "Tis midnight ! and pale Melancholy stands Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath Of yew and cypress : the faint dirge of Death Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around. She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet, Points to the clinging clay upon her feet, And whispers tidings of the charnel-ground. Oh ! pray thee, Melancholy, do not bring These bitter emblems with thee ; I can bear With all but these — 'tis these, oh God ! that wring And plunge my heart in maddening despair. Hence, for awhile, pale Melancholy ; go ! And let sweet slumber lull my weeping woe. LOVE'S EIEST DREAM, Bhight is the froth of an eastern wave, As it plays in the sun's last glow ; Pure is the pearl in its crystal bed, Gemming the worlds below ; Warm is the heart that mingles its blood In the red tide of Glory's stream ; But more flashingly bright, more pure, more warm, Is " Love's first Dream." Hope paints the vision with hues of her own, In all the colours of Spring ; While the young lip breathes like a dewy rose Fanned by the fire-fly's wing. 'Tis a fairy scene, where the fond soul roves, Exulting in Passion's warm "beam ; Ah, sad 'tis to think we should wake with a chill, From " Love's first Dream." But it fades like the rainbow's brilliant arch, Scattered by clouds and wind ; Leaving the spirit, unrobed of light, In darkness and tears behind. 168 TIME, When mortals look back on the heartfelt woes They have met with in Life's rough stream, That sigh is oft deepest which Memory gives To " Love's first Dream." TIME. On ! never chide the wing of Time, Or say 'tis tardy in its flight ! You'll find the days speed quick enough, If you but husband them aright. Thy span of life is waning fast ; Beware* unthinking youth, beware ! Thy soul's eternity depends Upon the record moments bear I Time is indeed a precious boon, But with the boon a task is given ; The heart must learn its duty well, To man on earth, and God in heaven. Take heed, then, play not with thine houra, Beware, unthinking youth, beware ! The one who acts the part he ought, Will have but little Time to spare. THE SURGEON'S KNIFE. Theee are hearts — stout hearts — that own no fear At the whirling sword or the darting spear, — That are ready alike to bleed in the dust, 'Neath the sabre's cut or the bayonet's thrust ; They heed not the blows that Tate may deal, Prom the murderer's dirk or the soldier's steel : But lips that laugh at the dagger of strife Turn silent and white from the surgeon's knife. Though bright be the burnish and slender the blade, Bring it nigh, and the bravest are strangely afraid ; And the rope on the beam or the axe on the block Have less terror to daunt, and less power to shock. LOVE ON. 169 Science may wield it, and danger may ask The hand to be quick in its gory task : The hour with torture and death may be rife, But death is less feared than the surgeon's knife. It shines in the grasp — 'tis no weapon for play, A shudder betrays it is speeding its way ; While the quivering muscle and severing joint Are gashed by the keen edge and probed by the point. It has reeked in the dark and welling flood, Till purple and warm with the heart's quick blood ; Dripping it comes from the cells of life, While glazing eyes turn from the surgeon's knife. Braggarts in courage, and boasters of strength, At the cannon's mouth or the lance's length ; Ye who have struggled sword to sword, With your wide wounds drenching the battle-sward — Oh ! boast no more till your soul be found Unmoved with a breathless silence around ; And a dread of the grave and a hope of life ; That rest on the work of the surgeon's knife. LOVE ON. Love on, love on, the soul must have a shrine — The rudest breast must find some hallowed spot ; The One who formed us left no spark divine In him who dwells on earth, yet loveth not. Devotion's links compos a sacred chain Of holy brightness and unmeasured length ; The world with selfish rust and reckless stain May mar its beauty, but not touch its strength. Love on, love on— ay, even though the heart We fondly build on proveth like the sand ; Though one by one Faith's corner-stones depart ; And even Hope's last pillar fails to stand : Though we may dread the lips we once believed, And know their falsehood shadows all our days ; Who would not rather trust and be deceived, Than own the mean, cold spirit that betrays ? 170 TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG. Love on, love on, though, we may live to see The dear face whiter than its circling shroud ; Though dark and dense the gloom of Death may be, Affection's glory yet shall pierce the cloud. The truest spell that Heaven can give to lure, The sweetest prospect Mercy can bestow; Is the blest thought that bids the soul be sure 'Twill meet above the things it loved below. Love on, love on — Creation breathes the words — Their mystic music ever dwells around ; The strain is echoed by unnumbered chords, And gentlest bosoms yield the fullest sound. As flowers keep springing though their dazzling bloorr Is oft put forth for worms to feed upon, So hearts, though wrung by traitors and the tomb, Shall still be precious, and shall still love on. TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG. Spirit op Song, thou hast left me awhile To find my joy in the world's false smile ; Thou hast left me to prove that world to be A dull, sad desert, uncheered by thee. Oh ! my heart has been a shivering thing ; Like a young bird missing its mother's wing : It has ached in secret and pined away Through the festive night and the weary day. Spirit of Song, when thou art fled, No light is left on my earthly track ; We must not part till I sleep with the dead — Spirit of song, I'll woo thee back ! And yet I know 'tis kind and best That thou for awhile shouldst leave my breast ; Strings tuned too highly must soon be snapt, Though the tone may be rich and the minstrel rapt; The heart that kindles a flame so strong Can never feed that flame for long ; It would burn as a sacred incense pyre, And be consumed by its own wild fire. Spirit of S on g> thou hast wrung the tear ; Thou hast tortured with joy and maddened with pain ; Yet shine, thou star of a. holier sphere ; Spirit of Song, be mine again! TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 171 I'll seek thee, but not in the midnight crowd, Where revels are kept by the gay and proud ; Not "in the city's clamorous mart, Where wealth is the idol of each cold heart ; Not at the sculptured palace gate, That bars out peace with towering state ; Not in the region of a throne, Where truth and repose are rarely known. Spirit of Song, thou dost not dwell With the sons of pomp or the slaves of care : Their homes may hold the glories of gold, But, Spirit of Song, thou art not there ! I'll seek thee when the night winds blow, Warming the bosom and cooling the brow ; When the moon climbs over the misty hill, When the steed is unyoked and the hamlet still s When the flowers are sleeping, and dripping gems Hang like pearls on their emerald stems ; When the cawing rook has gone to rest, And the lark is hid in his lowly nest. Spirit of Song, this, this is the time When wisp-lights dance on the moor and fen. ; When the watch-dog bays to the curfew chimes- Spirit of Song, I'll woo thee then ! I'll seek thee where the moonshine falls On ivied towers and crumbling walls ; Where the frog leaps on in the rising dew, And the owl hoots out with his loud too-whoo : Where the arms of the clustering alders moan, Where the tall larch straggles dark and lone, Where black pines crown the rugged steep, Where heather blooms and lichens creep — Spirit of Song, 'tis there thou art, By the desolate shore and heaving sea : Oh ! come thou rainbow of my heart, Spirit of Song, come back to me ! Thou comest ! I hear thy voice once more 111 the waters laving the pebbly shore ; Thou comest with breathing deep and sweet, Where the fitful breeze and the willows meet. Thou comest ! I feel thy presence around ; My harp and my soul are alike unbound ; The world is wearing the selfsame hue Of fairy tinge it was wont to do. 172 GOD SPEED TEE PLOUGH. Spirit of Song, thou hast left me long, But the prayer of thy child has not been vain ; Thou hast come in the might of thy glory and light j Spirit of Song, thou art mine again ! GOD SPEED THE PLOUGH, " God speed the plough !" he this a prayer To find its echo everywhere ; But curses on the iron hand That grasps one rood of " common" land. Sure there's enough of earth beside, Held by the sons of Wealth and Pride ; Their glebe is wide enough without Our " commons" being fenced about ! We guai'd the spot where steeples rise In stately grandeur to the sMes ; We mark the place where altars shine, As hallowed, sainted, and divine ; And just as sacred should we hold The turf, where peasants blithe and buld, Can plant their footsteps day or night, In free, unquestioned, native right. The common range — the common range — ■ Oh ! guard it from invading change ; ' Though rough, 'tis rich — though poor, 'tis blesfr- Anji will be while the skylark's nest And early violets are there, Filling with sweetness earth and air. It glads the eye— it warms the soul, To gaze upon the rugged knoll ; Where tangled brushwood twines across The straggling brake and sedgy moss. Oh ! who would give the blackthorn leave? For harvest's full and rustling sheaves ? Oh ! who would have the grain spring up Where now we find the daisy's cup ; Where clumps of dark red heather gleam, With beauty in the summer beam — And yellow furze-bloom laughs to scorn Tour ripened hops and bursting corn ? GOD SPEED THE PLOUGH. 173 " God speed the plough !" but let us trace Something of Nature's infant face ; Let us behold some spot where man Has not yet set his " bar and ban ;" Leave us the green wastes, fresh and wild, For poor man's beast and poor man's child ! "Tis well to turn our trusty steeds In chosen stalls and clover meads ; We like to see our " gallant grey" Snuff daintily his fragrant hay ; But the poor sandman's " Blind old Ball" Lacks grooms and clover, oats and stall. "With tired limbs and bleeding back He takes his steady, homeward track ; The hovel gained, he neighs with glee, From burthen, whip, and bridle free : Turned forth, he flings his bony length, And rolls with all his waning strength ; TJp on his trembling legs again, He shakes himself from tail to mane, And, nibbling with a grateful zest, Finds on " the common" food and rest. Hark to the shouts of peasant boys, "With ill-carved bats, and unchecked noise ! "While " cricket," with its light-heeled mirth, Leaves scars upon the grassy earth Too deeply lined by Summer's play, For Winter's storms to wear away. Spent by the game, they rove apart, With lounging form and careless heart ; One by the rushy pond will float Old " Dilworth" in a paper boat ; Another wades, with legs all bare, To pluck the water-lily fair ; Others will sit and chatter o'er The village fund of cricket lore — Quote this rare " catch," and that bold " run," Till, having gossiped down the sun, They promise, with a loud " Good night !" That, if to-morrow's sky be bright, They'll be again where they have been For years — upon the " common green." The chicken tribe— the duckling brood, Go there to scratch their daily food ; 174 THE OLD MILL-STREAM. The woodman's colt— the widow's cows, Unwatched-^imtethered — there may browse ; And, though the pasturage be scant, It saves from keen and starving want. " God speed the plough !" let fields be tilled, Let ricks be heaped and garners filled ; 'Tis good to count the Autumn gold, And try how much our barns can hold : But every English heart will tell It loves an "English common" well; And curse the hai'd and griping hand That wrests away such " hallowed" land : That shuts the green waste, fresh and wild : From poor man's beast and poor man's child. THE OLD MILL-STREAM, Beautiful streamlet ! how precious to me Was the green-swarded paradise watered by thee ; I dream of thee still, as thou wert in my youth, Thy jneanderings haunt me with freshness and truth. I had heard of full many a river of fame, • With its wide rolling flood, and its classical name ; But the Thames of Old England, the Tiber of Rome, Oould not peer with the mill-streamlet close to my borne. Full well I remember the gravelly spot, Where I slyly repaired though I knew I ought not ; Where I stood with my handful of pebbles to make That formation of fancy, a duck and. a drake. How severe was the scolding, how heavy the threat When my pinafore hung on me dirty, and wet ; How heedlessly silent I stood to be told Of the danger of drowning^ the risk of a cold! " Now mark !" cried a mother, " the mischief done there Is unbearable — go to that stream if you dare !" But I sped to that stream like a frolicsome colt, For I knew that her thu'nder-eloud carried iio bolt. THE OLD MILL-STBEAM. 175 Though puzzled with longitude, adverb and noun, Till my forehead was sunk in a studious frown ; Tet that stream was a Lethe that swept from my soul The grammar, the globes, and the tutor's control. I wonder if still the young anglers begin, As I did, with willow- wand, packthread, and pin ; When I threw in my line, with expectancy high As to perch in my basket, and eels in a pie : When I watched every bubble that broke on a weed, Tet found I caught nothing but lily and reed ; Till time and discernment began to instil The manoeuvres of Walton with infinite skill. Full soon I discovered the birch- shadowed place That harboured the trout and the silver-backed dace ; Where the coming of night found me blest and content, With my patience unworn, and my fishing-rod bent. How fresh were the flags on the stone-studded ridge, That rudely supported the narrow cak bridge : And that bridge, oh ! how boldly and safely I ran On the thin plank that now I should timidly scan. I traversed it often at fall of the night, When the clouds of December shut out the moon's light ; A mother might tremble, but I never did ; For my footing was sure, though the pale stars were hid. When the breath of stem winter had fettered the tide, What joy to career on its feet-warming slide ; With mirth in each eye, and bright health on each cheek, While the gale in our faces came piercing and bleak. The snow-flakes fell thick on our wind-roughened curls, But we laughed as we shook off the feathery pearls ; And the running, the tripping, the pull and the haul Had a glorious end in the slip and the sprawl. Oh ! I loved the wild place where the clear ripples flowed On their serpentine way o'er the pebble-strewed road ; Where, mounted on Dobbin, we youngsters would dash ; Both pony and rider enjoying the splash. How often I tried to teach Pincher the tricks Of diving for pebbles and swimming for sticks ; But my doctrines could never induce the loved bruts To consider hydraulics a pleasant pursuit. I7<3 THE OLD MILL-STREAM. Did a, forcible argument sometimes prevail, What a woful expression was seen in his tail ; And, though bitterly vexed, I was made to agree, That Dido, the spaniel, swam better than he. What pleasure it was to spring forth in the sun, When the school-door was oped, and our lessons were done, When " Where shall we play ?" was the doubt and the call, And " Down by the mill-stream" was. echoed by all. When tired of childhood's rude, boisterous pranks, We pulled the tall rushes that grew on its banks ; And, busily quiet, we sat ourselves down To weave the rough basket, or plait the light crown. I remember the launch of our fairy-built ship, How we set her white sails, pulled her anchor atrip ; Till mischievous hands, working hard at the craft, Turned the ship to a boat, and the boat to a raft. The first of my doggerel breathings was there, — 'Twas the hope of a poet, " An Ode to Despair ;'' I won't vouch for its metre, its sense, or its rhyme, But I know that I then thought it truly sublime. Beautiful streamlet ! I dream of thee still, Of thy pouring cascade, and the tic-tac-ing mill ; Thou livest in memory, and wilt not depart, For thy waters seem blent with the streams of my heart. Home of my youth ! if I go to thee now, None can remember my voice or my brow ; None can remember the sunny-faced child, That played by the water-mill joyous and wild. The aged, who laid their thin hands on my head, To smooth my dark, shining curls, rest with the dead ; The young, who partook of my sports and my glee, Can see naught but a wandering stranger in me. Beaxitiful streamlet ! I sought thee again, But the changes that marked thee awakened deep pain ; Desolation had reigned, thou wert not as of yore — Home of my Childhood, I'll see thee no more ! 177 SONG OP THE RED INDIAN. Oh ! why does the white man hang on my path. Like the hound on the tiger's track P Does the flush of my dark skin awaken his wrath ? Does he covet the bow at my back ? He has rivers and seas where the billow and breeze Bear riches for him alone ; And the sons of the wood never plunge in the flood That the white man calls his own. Then why should he covet the streams where none But the red-skin dare to swim ? Oh ! why should he wrong the hunter one "Who never did harm to him ? The Father above thought fit to give To the white man corn and wine ; There are golden fields where he may live, But the forest shades are niine. The eagle has its place of rest, The wild horse where to dwell ; And the Spirit who gave the bird, its nest, Made me a home as well. Then back, go back from the red-skin's tracks For the hunter's eyes grow dim, To find the white man wrongs the one Who never did harm to him. Oh ! why does the pale-face always call The red man " heathen brute ?" Me does not bend where the dark knees fall, But the tawny Up is mute. We cast no blame on his creed or name, Or his temples, fine and high ; But he mocks at us with a laughing word When we worship a star-lit sky. Tet, white man, what has thy good faith done, And where can its mercy be, If it teach thee to hate the hnnter one Who never did harm to thee ? We need no book to tell us how Our lives shall pass away ; For we see the onward torrent flow, And the mighty tree decay. 178 SONG OF THE BED INDIAN. " Let thy tongue be true and thy heart he brave," Is among the red-skins' lore ; We can bring down the swift wing and dive in the wave, And' we 1 seek to know no more. Then back, go back, and let us run With strong, unfettered limb ; For why should the white man wrong the one Who never did harm to him ? We know there's a hand that has fixed the hill And planted the prairie plain ; That can fling the lightnings when it will, And pour out the torrent rain. Far away and' alone, where the headlong tide Dashes on with our bold canoe, We ask and trust that hand to guide And carry us safely through. The Great Sphit dwells in the beautiful sun, And while we kneel in its light, Who will not own that the hunter one Has an altar pure and bright ? The painted streak on a warrior's cheek Appears a wondrous thing ; The white man stares at a wampum belt, And a plume from the heron's wing. But the red man wins the panthers' skims To cover his dauntless form ; While the pale-face hides his breast in a garb That he takes from the crawling worm. And your lady fan - , with her gems so rare, • Her ruby, gold, and pearl, Would be as strange to other eyes As the Toone-decked Indian girl. Then why does the cruel, white man como With tike war-whoop's yelling sound ? Oh ! why does he take our wigwam home, And the ljungled hunting-ground? The wolf-cub has its lair of rest, The wild horse where to dwell, And the Spirit who gave the bird its Hes% Made mo a place as well. Then back, go back, from the reel-skin's track ; For the hunter's eyea grow dim, ; To find that the white man wrongs the one Who never did harm to him. 179 'TIS SWEET TO LOVE IN CHILDHOOD. 'Tis sweet to love in Childhood, when the sonls that we bequeath Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we wreathe ; When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the leaping hound, And linger latest on the spot where buttercups are found ; When we seek the bee and ladybird with laughter, shout, and song, And think the day for wooing them can never be too long : Oh ! 'tis sweet to love in Childhood, and though stirred by meanest things, The music that the heart yields then, will never leave its strings. "Tis sweet to love in after years the dear one by our side ; To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, hope, and pride ; To think the chain around our breast will hold still warm and fast ; And grieve to know that Death must come to break the link at last. But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning, hue by hue, When eyes forget their kindly beams, a,nd lips become less true ; When stricken hearts are pining on through many a lonely hour, Who would not sigh " 'Tis safer far, to love the bird and flower !" 'Tis sweet to love in ripened age the trumpet blast of Fame, To pant to live on Glory's scroll, though blood may trace the name ; "Tis sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it to our breast- To trust it as the guiding star, and anchor of our rest, But such devotion will not serve, however strong the zeal, To overthrow the altar where our Childhood loved to kneel. Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of wealth and power, And then proud man would fain go back to worship bird and flower. HONESTY— A FKAGMENT. I tell you, sir, that Honesty is nought Bat a mere word bandied by men's lips ; It is a quality that does insure Hate's venomed arrows, and affords a prey For human bloodhounds to hunt down to death. There have been honest men — there may be such. Some have been bold enough to breathe aloud Their own peculiar homage to the God Who formed at first, and who at last shall judge. They did avow their faith with steady zeal, Nor let their breast be warped by bribe or threat. 180 UONESTY—A FRAGMENT. What were the guerdons of such honest tongues ? ■The chain, the rack, the fagot, and the stake : And the sharp crackling of consuming bones, Commingled with the yell of saintly fiends, Served as encouragement to speak the truth. Some have been honest — rarely ; strangely so ; In that Elysium of craft — a Court. With most presuming speech the patriot one Has offered stern advice to sceptred fools, Serving a people rather than a king : And what the thanks he gained ? A traitor's name At least ; perchance the secret poison-cup Or public scaffold, teaching senators A glorious lesson in the book of — truth. Go, face the hungry lion in his path, Tread on the serpent in his torpid coil, And less of risk will wait upon such deed Than on the effort that shall seek to tear The specious mask from gilded roguery. Oh ! 'tis a goodly thing this Honesty ! An estimable feature in a watchdog ; And there repaid and valued ; but the man Who takes up Candour for his standard word, Scorning the Proteus shapes of mean dissemblance, Acts just as wisely as the soldier does Who draws his sword and flings away his shield. Try ye how uncloaked Honesty will thrive With close and kindred friends or passing strangero. Confess your errors with a ready grace ; Own you have sins, and tell how Passion throbs With earnest pulse at some forbidden shrine ; Proclaim how dark Eevenge excites your soul ; Betray the latent spring of selfish Pride That moves the blazoned hand of Chai'ity : Publish the flaws and blots that " flesh is heir to ;" Speak out — appear the chequered thing you are; And see if Mercy will befriend your cause, Or any voice commend your guileless tongue. No, no. _ The herd around, who hide, perchance, More guilt under more cunning, will pounce down, Like hungry hawks upon a wandering bird. They will condemn the heart that's frank enough To speak its folly, and yet babble forth "An honest man's the noblest work of God." SONG OF THE WORM. 18) Oh, Honesty ! thou art indeed a gem Of matchless brilliancy ; but he who wears thee. Finds the pure jewel is a target mark For every bolt that worldly knaves can shoot ; Till, worn and harassed by the goading strife, He flings the lustre from his struggling breast, And walks the road of life like all wise men, A flattering trickster. He must learn to look All smiles and courtesy to those above him ; Be their ways good or evil. He must give The hand of Friendship where he may despise Woo the rich fool, and meet the titled villain With eulogistic greeting and glad aspect. He must be all things for all purposes ; Veer with Opinion's compass, let it point Wherever it may, and breathe soft eloquence In praise of even that he inly loathes. 'Tis sad, but 'tis most true — that Honesty Is like the phantom sprites in grandams' tales — Much oftener prated of than seen ; and 'tis As true and sad, that it is safer far To sin, like Lucifer, in wily guise ; Than simply err, and tell the wrong we do. SONG OF THE WOEM. The worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain In the field, that is stored with its millions of slain ; The eharnel-grounds widen, to me they belong, With the. vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong. The tower of ages in fragments is laid, Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade ; And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave Must turn weak and submit to the worm and the grave. Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-treading feet — Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust From the thing you must mate with in darkness and dust. Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride, 'Neath the crown of a Queen or the wreath of a bride ; Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair- Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there. 182 WEALTH. Cities of splenflour, where palace and gate, Where the marble of strength and the purple of state; Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine, Once flourished in glory ; oh ! are ye not mine ? G-o look for famed Carthage, and I shall be found In the desolate ruin and weed-covered mound ; And the slime of my trailing discovers my home, 'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Rome. I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed Where the velvet bedecks, and the white lawn is spread ; I may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows. The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade, Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade. They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee To learn what the churchyard has given to me. Oh ! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain, For where monarehs are voiceless I revel and reign ; I delve at my ease and regale where I may ; None dispute with the worm in his will or his- way. The high and the bright for my feasting, must fall — Youth, Beauty, and Manhood, I prey on ye all : The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slare ; .411, all must bow down to the worm and the granre. WEALTH. What is Wealth ? ye worldly knaves, Mammon's crew of fettered slaves— Te who seem to know so well What is Wealth— I bid ye tell ! Spendthrift young, and miser grey ; All may guess what ye will say ; Millions cry, " 'Tis gold alone !" And millions echo back the tone. What is Wealth ? ask all around — We hear men breathe one common sound.; We see them turn with eager stare, To gaze upon " the richest heir," WEALTH. 18» The maiden weds, and we are told, ■ Weds well, because her lord hath gold, Ye fools, and is there nothing more Worth calling wealth, but yellow ore?. Hath Heaven dispensed to mortal share Nought else to claim our ceaseless care ? Is there no music we can think So perfect as the ducat's chink ? No Eden left to wander through, Save the deep caverns of Peru? Is wealth a blessing none can hold, Save in the shape of worshipped " gold ?" Oh, hoodwinked creatures that we are ! To see but one soul-guiding star, When there are myriad rays of light More pure, more warm, and full as bright ! Riches, what are ye ? r Oh, how blind Is he who cannot, will not find The choicest " wealth" held from above In peaceful health and trusting love 1 Who shall say what the boon is worth, To rise from slumber and go forth,. To shout, to leap, to laugh, to, run, 'Twixt the green grass and golden sun ? To see the mountain high and wide, And feel that we can climb its side, And breathe upon that mountain peak With bounding limb and mantling cheek,,- Oh, who would weigh the coffer- chest Against a fond and faithful breast? Who would not rather bear to part With all before a clinging heart ? What though no gleaming gem may deck The arm that twines about our neck; Does not that arm keep out the cold Better than stately cloth-of-gold ? Riches, what are ye ? let us look Abroad upon the gushing brook, Where the cool tide pours fast and clear, Fresh to the pilgrim as the peer. Let our steps wander where the mead Fattens the wild bee and the steed : These, these are " wealth," ye sons of d'ist ; That does not flee nor " gather rust." 384 THE BOOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD. Go, taste the morning's spicy breeze, That plays among the forest trees ! Go, loiter in the noon-tide ray, That flashes on the harvest day ! Go, dream in evening's twilight hour, With nestling bird and closing flower ! No look is placed, no bar, no wall — These, these are " wealth " that's free to all. Go where the lime and citron spread Their branches round the wearied head [ Go where the bloomy clusters shine, And myrtles mingle with the vine ! Was it not said of one of old, Great with his glory and his gold ; That he, in all his pomp, must yield, To the sweet " lilies of the field ?" Wealth, Wealth ! oh, God has given much Of treasure that we deem not such ; And lips of truth will quickly own Riches dwell not in gold alone. Toil on, vain man, and think no fame Like that which marks a Croesus' name ; But sadly poor are they who hold No Wealth that's dearer than their goM. THE ROOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD. There's a room I love dearly — the sanctum of bliss, That contains all the comforts I least like to miss ; Where, like ants in a hillock, we run in and out, Where sticks grace the corner, and hats lie about ; Where no idlers dare come to annoy or amuse With their " morning call" budget of scandalous news. 'Tis the room of the Household — the sacredly free — 'Tis the room of the Household that's dearest to me. The romp may be fearlessly carried on there, No " bijouterie" rubbish solicits our care ; All things are as meet for the hand as the eye, And patchwork and scribbling unheeded may lie ; "Black Tom" may be perched on the sofa or chairs, He may stretch his sharp -talons and scatter his hairs ; Wet boots may " come in," and the ink-drop may fall, For the room of the Household is "liberty hall." THE BOOM OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 185 There is something unpleasant in company days, When saloons are dressed out for Terpsichore's maze ; When the graceful Mazourka and Weippert-led band Leave the plain countrydance-people all at a stand. There's more mirth in the jig, and the amateur's strum, When the parchment-spread battledore serves as a drum, When Apollo and Mourns together unite, Till the Household-room rings with our laughing delight. Other rooms may be rich iii the gorgeous display Of Murillos, and Titians in boasted array : But the Morland and Wilkie that hang on the wall Of the family parlour, out-value them all. The gay ottomans, claiming such special regard, Are exceedingly fine, but exceedingly hard ; They may serve for state purpose — but go, if you please, To the Household-room cushions for comfort and ease. And the bookshelves — where tomes of all sizes are spread, Not placed to be looked at, but meant to be read ; AH defaced and bethumbed, and I would not be sworn, But some volumes, perchance the most precious, are torn. There's the library open ; — but if your heart yearns, As all human hearts must, for the song of a Burns, Or the tale of a " Vicar" — that ever rich gem, — You must go to the room of the Household, for them. 'Tis the shadiest place when the blazing sun flings His straight rays on the rose and the butterfly's wings ; For the first beams of morning are all that dare peep Through the windows where myrtle and eglantine creep. Happy faces assemble with cheerful salute, When the summer meal tempts with its cream and its fruit : But the board's not so merry, the meal's not so sweet If 'tis out of the room of the Household we meet. And that room is the one that is sought by us still, When the night clouds of winter bring darkness and chill When the ramblers return from their toil or their play, And tell over the news and the deeds of the day. When the favoured old dog takes his place on the rug, Curled up in the firelight — all warmly and snug ; While the master sits nodding before the bright flame, Till the hound snores aloud, and the Squire does the same. I've wandered far off, over "moorland and lea," O'er the fairest of earth and the bluest of sea ; It was health that I sought — but, alas! I could find The pursuit was in vain while my heart looked behind. 186 THE PLEDGE. The room of the Household had bound with a spell, And I knew not till then that I loved it so well : " Take me back to that room," was my prayer and my cry, " For my languishing spirit does nothing but sigh." There was light in my glance when I saw the green woof Of old elm-ti-ees half screening the turreted roof; I grew strong as I passed o'er the daisy-girt track, And the Newfoundland sentinel welcomed me back. But the pulse of my joy was most warmly sincere When 1 met the old faces, familiar and dear ; When I lounged in the "Household-room," taking my rest; With a tinge on my cheek, and content in my breast. THE PLEDGE. Full oft we breathe and echo round, With cheering shout and minstrel sound, A name that Honesty would write In colours anything but bright. But shame be on the hands that hold The wine-cup at the shrine of gold ! Shame on the slavish lips that part To utter what belies the heart! Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by To echo back the lauding cry : But gall be on the goblet's edge For him who yields the worthless pledge. However rich the stream that's poured In homage at the banquet board, To coward, fool, or wealthy knave ; Let, let us spurn the tainted wave. Ear sweeter is the foaming ale That circles with the fireside tale : While sacred words and beaming eyes Proclaim we pledge the souls we prize. Eillhigh, fill high, while Truth stands by To echo back the lauding cry ; But let the glad libation prove The meed of Friendship, Worth, and Love. THE FUTURE, 187 Let warm Affection light the draught, Then be the nectar deeply quaffed : Let Genius claim it — gift divine — And all shall drain the hallowed wine ; Let goodness have the honour due, Drink to the poor man if he's true ; And ne'er forget that star's the best That's worn not on but in the breast. Fill high, fill high, while Truth stands by To echo back the lauding cry : But gall be on the goblet's edge For him who yields the worthless pledge, THE FUTITEE. It was good, it was land, in the Wise One above, To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years ; That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love, And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears. Did we know that the voices, now gentle and bland, Would forego the fond word and the whispering tone ; Did we know that the eager and warm pressing hand Would be joyfully forward in " casting the stone ;" Did we know the affection engrossing our soul Would end, as it oft does, in sadness and pain ; That the passionate breast would but hazard its rest, And be wrecked on the shore it is panting to gain : Oh ! did we but know of the shadows so nigh, The world would indeed be a prison of gloom ; All light would be quenched in youth's eloquent eye, And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb. For if Hope be a star that may lead us astray, And " deceiveth the heart," as the aged ones preach ; Yet 'twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way, Though its halo illumes where we never can reach. Though Friendship but flit, like a meteor gleam, Though it burst, like a morn-lighted bubble of dew; Though it passes away, like a leaf on the stream, Yet 'tis bliss while we fancy the vision is true. 188 MY MURRAY PLAID. Oh ! 'tis well that the Future is hid from our sight ; That we walk in the sunshine, nor dream of the cloud ; That we cherish a flower, and think not of blight ; That we dance with the loom that may weave us a shroud. It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above, To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years ; That we dread not the blow that will strike at our love, And expect not the beams that will dry up our tears. MY MURRAY PLAID. My Murray plaid, my Murray plaid, I love thee, though vain tongues have said That thou art all unfit to be So praised, so worn, so prized by me. Wise men have ever shrewdly guessed That plainest friends are oft the best ; 'Tis so — my silks and lustres fade, But thou'rt unchanged, my Murray plaid. There was no colour, gay or light, To lure and fix my wandering sight ; But darkened shades of myrtle green, Parted with sombre black between ; The lines of purple broadly spread, Right-angled with the stripes of red. These, these were all the tints that made The charms about my Murray plaid. How soft and full the foldings lie, In close and clinging drapery ; Satin or velvet, truly both Are harsh beside the woollen cloth. Thou'rt fashioned with a goodly taste, High wrapping corsage — girdled waist — And snowy collar, smoothly laid, Looks well upon my Murray plaid. The clouds are dark, the roads are wet, The glass at " stormy" firmly set ; And none dare brave the threatened rain, Lest valued garments gather stain ; MY MURRAY PLAID. But I, well muffled, — thanks to thee, My darling dress, — can wander free : The roughest journey may be made In " double soles" and Murray plaid. The petted hound, all joy and play, Forgets 'tis a November day ; And, leaping up with bounding zeal, Heeds not what mud-strokes he may deal. "Tasso, get out!" and "Down, sir, down!" Echo with many a chiding frown ; Till, fondly safe, his paws are laid Upon his owner's Murray plaid. Full oft my roving limbs, oppressed, "Would turn to seek a place of rest ; And soon the welcome ease is found On dusty stile or mossy ground. The ridge of chalk — the pile of clay — The gravel bank — the ram grey ; 'Tis all the same, in sun or shade, For nought can spoil my Murray plaid. When Pleasure rules the festive night, Crowned with her garlands briefly bright, And bids her worshippers appear In laughing mood and rainbow gear ; Oh, how I grieve to throw aside Comfort's old garb for that of Jride ! How long the moment is delayed That sees me change my Murray plaid ! I shun the world — I cannot bear The worldling's greeting, worldling's stare — And placed among them, soul and eye Grow strangely haughty, strangely shy ; I'm happier far when I can find The few, the genial, and the kind ; Whose warm, fond spirits are betrayed, And welcome me in " Murray plaid." That world may smile above my song- But thou hast served me well and long ; And, somehow, mine's a foolish heart, That, once endeared, 'tis hard to part. Let ladies sneer, and dandies scoff, I cannot, will not fling thee off ; And wonder not, if I'm arrayed On wedding-day in Murray plaid. 190 HARVEST SONG. I love, I love to see Bright steel gleam through the land; ! Tis a goodly sight, but it must be In the reaper's tawny hand. The helmet and the spear Are twined with the laurel wreath ; But the trophy is wet with the orphan's tear. And blood-spots rust beneath. I love to see the field That is moist with purple stain ; But not. where bullet, sword, and shield Lie strewn with the gory slain. , Mb, no ; 'tis where the sun Shoots down his cloudless beams, Till rich and bursting juice-drops run On the vineyard earth in streams. Mj glowing heart beats high At the sight of shining gold ; But it is not that which the miser's eye Delighteth to behold. A brighter wealth by far, Than the deep mine's yellow vein, Is seen around in the fair hills crowned With sheaves of burnished grain. Look forth, thon thoughtless one, Whose proud knee never bends ; Take thou the bread that's daily spread, But think on Him who sends. Look forth, by toiling men, Though little ye possess, — Be glad that dearth is not on earth To make that little less. Let the song of praiae -be .poured In gratitade and Jay, By the rich man with im garners stored And the ragged gleaner boy. SONG OF THE WIND. 191 The feast that Nature gives Is not for one alone ; 'Tis shared by the meanest slave that lives And the tenant of a throne. Then glory to the steel That shines in the reaper's hand, And thanks to Him who has blest the seed, And crowned the harvest land. SONG OF THE WIND. I've cradled on the topsail, o'er a smooth and glassy deep, Till mariners have whistled to arouse me from my sleep ; I've seen the lovegift kissed by him who had the watch aloft ; And breathed no ruffling whisper round the tress so dark and. soft : But lo ! I started into life, I called the tempest band, And soon th.e hull was on the rock, the spars were on the strand : I snatched the glossy ringlet from the struggling sea-boy's breast, And dropped it on the mountain-side within an eagle's nest. Outwearied with my fierce career, I left the frantic train, Whose lightning-brands and thunder-roars had helped the hurricane — And, sinking into gentle mood, I took my lonely way, Just breaking through the cobweb film, and dancing on the spray. A castle door was flinging wide, and straight I entered there, Where rich aroma greeted, me of luscious banquet-fare ; I travelled on by silken walls, and loitered round the board, Where forest deer was smoking high, and bubbling wine was poured. Choked with the mingled odours nigh, and sickened with the fume Of hot and tainted revel breath, I left the palace -room : I hastened to the harvest-fields, I scattered poppy leaves, And plumed and purified my wings upon the harvest-sheayes. A young child came and stood to gaze on all things bright and sweet ; The butterfly was round his head, the wild-flower ut his feet : I grasped an airy thistle-tuft, I cried, " Come, follow me," And off he bounded, light and fast, and rare good sport had we. Full long he strove with all his strength to gain the bubble prize, As high and low it scudded on, and danced before his eyes ; Until his panting heart became half angry and half sad, To think he had not caught a thing worth nothing if he had. At last I blew it into nought, and then the boy stood still ; And found the chase had tired him, as all such chases will : But while I lingered round the spot, I saw him turn and creep Beneath a spreading chestnut-tree, and calmly fall asleep. 192 SONG OF THE WIND. Man, like the child, will often run in close and fond pursuit Of what will prove but thistle-down, or yield a bitter fruit; But ah ! unlike the tired child, 'tis rarely that his breast Can meet its disappointed hopes with deep, unbroken rest. On to the busy town I went, and fanned the burning brow That many an hour had fed the loom, or faced the furnace glow , Lips never dimpled with a smile, all tintless, parched, and thin, Parted as I went wafting by and gladly drank me in. I played about the shrivelled hand, whose hard and fevered palm Grew somewhat softer as it felt my cool refreshing balm. The tear-drop that was trickling from a friendless orphan's eye Was lightly breathed upon by me, and soon the cheek was dry. I wandered on till suddenly I heard a fervent prayer, That gasped the last of mortal need in "Give, oh, give me air !" I rushed beside the bed of death — the dying one had gold, But he had piled it round his heart, and. kept that heart too cold ; He clung to earth like leech to blood, but, ah ! he had forgot To weave the strongest of earth's ties, Affection's silken knot. And when his latest moments came, no kindred could he find, None round him but the hireling, and the wandering, zephyr Wind. Again I sought the fragrant fields, and merrily I rung A fairy peal of changes whei'e the bonnie hare-bells hung; And soon there came the grasshoppers, the ladybirds, and bees ; And never was a purer host of willing devotees. I bowed the bulrush to the stream, I swayed the willow-bough, And pushed a mimic boat along till ripples washed the prow. I galloped with the noble steed, freed from his girth and rein, And proudly did I toss about his thick and flying mane. I sped across the lonely waste, and there I heard strange tones, For I had swung the gibbet-chains against the bleaching bones ; I clanked the rusted fetter-links with white ribs, hard and dry, Till I had scared the crows away, and then away went I. From East to West, from North to South, a roving life is mine ; JNow howling round the snow-topped fir, now toying with the vine-, From beggar's rags to prince's robes, from hut to court I go ; I rule the golden clouds above, and drive the waves below. Away ! away ! I cannot stay, I hear the ploughboy's song — ■ But I can chant as carelessly and whistle just as long : It comes again — up, up, my wings ! the saucy loon shall find He hath a goodly challenger in me, the angry Wind, 193 A GENTLE HEAET. A. gentle Heart went forth one day— As many another heart has done — ■ To take a strange and friendless way, And walk the mazy world alone. It had no shield, no help, no guide, And soon that Heart began to find Rude foes come jostling side by side — ■ Darkness before, despair behmd. The beggar's rags that wrapped it round Met but the glance of bitter scorn ; And all the earth seemed desert ground, Where nothing flourished but the thorn. It journeyed on its pilgrim road, 'Twixt barren waste and gloomy sky : And sank beneath Oppression's goad, To pine unseen — to break and die. The haggard Ghosts — Want, Pain, and Care—^. More fiercely laughed, more closely pressed; And all the wild fiends gathered there That seek to hunt down life and rest. It chanced young Love came by just then — ■ Love wanders at all times and seasons : He travels how he will and when, He asks no leave, he gives no reasons. He saw the Heart, and bent above The cheerless thing with whispered word; And whatsoe'er the tidings were, The heart revived at what it heard. " Avaunt !" cried Love, " I'll shed a light To scare ye all, ye demon crew ; And Poverty, thou beldam sprite, _ For once I'll try my strength, with you." To work he went — a pile was reared — Such fingers work with magic charm; Ajid soon a brilliant flame appeared — 'Twas Love's own watchfire, strong and warm. 13 194 THE DYING OLD MAN TO HIS YOUNG WIFE. The Heart grew bold beneath the rays ; Its pulse beat high, it pined no more — It had fre^h hope, and dared to gaze On all from whom it shrunk before. It daised to smile, it dared to scoff At squalid Want and weeping Woe ; While Pain and Care went farther off, A.nd grim Despair packed up to go. And thus it is, the soul may smart Beneath all ills that goad and tire ; But bravely rallies when the Heart Is guarded by Love's beacon-fire. SONG OF THE DYING OLD MAN TO HIS YOUNG WII'E. Kate, there's a tremblmg at my heart, a cpldness on my brow, My sight is dim, my breath j§ faint, I feel I'm dying now ; But ere my vision fadeth quite, ere all of strength be o'er, Oh ! let me look intp thy fape and pyess thy liq,nd once more. I would my latest glance should fall on what I hold most dear ; But, ah ! thy cljepK is wet again — wipe, wipe away the tear. Such tears of late have often gemmed thy drooping eyelids' fringe ; Such tears of late have washed away thy young cheek's ruddy tinge. I brought thee from a. simple hfiwe to be an old man's bride ; Thou west the altar where I laid affection, joy, and pride ; My heart's devotion, like the sun, shone forth with glowing power, And kept its brightest glqry r^ys tp mark its setting hour. I brought thae fi'Qm n, simple home, when early friends had met ; And something filled thy farewell tone t^iat whispered of regret : Oh ! could I wondej— when you left warm spirits like your own, To dwell upon far distant earth, with Age and Wealth alone. I gazed with holy fondness on thy meek, retiring eye, Soft in its beaming as. the first, fair star of evening's sky ; I marked the dimpled mirth around thy sweet lips when they smiled : And while I loved thee as a bride, I blest thee as a child. TBUTH. 1^5 But, oh ! thy young and ardent soul eauld not respond to mine ; My whitened hairs seemed mocked by those rich, sunny curls of thine ; And though thy gentle faith was kind as woman's faith can be ; 'Twas as the spring flower clinging round the winter-blighted tree. My speech is faltering and low — the world is fading fast — The sands of life are few and slow — this day will be my last : I've something for thine ear — bend close — list to my failing word; Lay what I utter to thy soul, and start not when 'tis heard. There's one who loves thee — though his love has never lived in speech : He worships as a devotee the star he cannot reach ; He strives to mask his throbbing breast, and hide its burning glow — But I have pierced the veil and seen the struggling pulse below. Hay, speak not : I alone have been the selfish and unwise ; Young hearts will nestle with young hearts, young eyes will meet young eyes ; And when I saw his earnest glance turn hopelessly away, I thanked the hand of Time that gave me warning of decay. I question not thy bosom, Kate — I cast upon thy name No memory of jealous fear, no lightest shade of blame : I know that he haa loved thee long, with deep and secret truth, I know he is a fitting one to bless thy trusting youth. Weep not for me with bitter grief; I would but have thee tell That he who bribed thee to his care has cherished thee right well. I give thee to another, Kate — and may that other prove As grateful for the blessing held, as doting in his love. Buiy me in the churchyard where the dark yew-branches wave, And promise thou wilt come sometimes to weed the old man's grave ! 'Tis all I ask ! I'm blind — I'm faint — take, take my parting breath — I die within tby arms, my Kate, and feel no sting of death. TEUTH. Truth ! Truth ! where is the sound Of thy calm, unflattering voice to be found ? We may go_ to the Senate, where wisdom rules, And find but deceived or deceiving fools ; 196 TRUTH. Who dare trust the sages of old ; When one shall unsay what another has told? And even the lips of childhood and youth But rarely echo the tones of Truth. We hear the full-toned anthem-hymn Pealing along the cloisters dim : We hear the priest, in his eloquent pride. Bless those of his faith, and none beside : We hear the worshippers gathered there Muttering forth the lengthy pi-ayer ; But few of the throng shall come or depart With the peaceful truth of a lowly heart. Truth ! Truth ! thy echoes are mute In the tyrant's oath and the courtier's salute, The Bacchanal screams in his maniac laugh, The hermit groans over his pilgrim-staff; But hollow and wild is the maniac's glee, The penance is false as penance can be ; And Love itself has learned to lie, In the faithless vow and unfelt sigh. Where then, O Truth, may thy voice be found ? — In the welcoming bay of a faithful hound. Thy form is seen and thy breathing heard In the leaping fawn, and warbling bird. There is truth in the soft sweet tones that come In the ringdove's coo, and the honey-bee's hum; In the dabbling stream, whose ripples gem The lily-cup's brim and the bulrush-stem. There is Truth in the south wind stealing by, 'Neath the clear; blue span of a sunlit sky ; When it hardly deigns in its perfumed way To rustle the leaves on the topmost spray : There is truth in the grasshopper's twittering song; In the owlet's night shriek, loud and strong ; In the steed's glad neigh on the grassy plain, In the sea-mew's cry on the stormy main. There is Truth, good Truth, in the ringing stroke Of the axe that is felling the giant oak ; In the shrivelled leaves that the hollow blast flings To dance at our feet, cold, sapless things ! In the tumbling stone that tears away The ivy branch from the ruin grey ; In the billow that bears on its crystal car The rock -torn plank .and shattered spar. BOBY O'MOBE. 1«7 There is nothing that saint or sage may tell Can school the bosom half so well As the chink of the sexton's polished spade, Digging a grave 'neath the yew-tree's shade. Truth ! Truth is there ! You may hear her tones In the rattling heap of gathered bones ; " Live but to die" is her lesson to man, —And learn a wiser if ye can. RORY O'MORE. Jove had gathered his band,— and to every one Gave peremptory notice of what he wished done ; And he sat on his throne with expectancy great As to when they'd return, and what news they'd relate. He sat till his patience was nearly outworn — Disappointment by gods is not easily borne — " 1 am sure," he exclaimed, " 'tis full two hours ago Since Mercury sped with that message below. " There's Bacchus, too — he was to bring me some wine And Hebe, that teasing, young scapegrace of mine, She knows she should serve it, but neither is here, — 'Tis strange that not one of my minions appear. "This neglect is atrocious, — there must be.- some cause For such absolute scorn of the King and his laws ; I'll just walk through the court to examine and see Why thi3 truly unbearable conduct should be." He went, and behold ! the whole outermost court Was thronged like a market of vulgar resort ; All idle — and seeming as much at their ease As though they'd no master to serve or to please. In the midst was Apollo with laughter-lit face, Bending over his harp with all passion and grace ; And there was the tribe of Olympus around, With their fettered ears eagerly drinking the sound. There was Boreas, hoarse Boreas, attempting to sing, And Mars chiming in with his rude tink-a-ting ; For, instead of careering on red battle-field, He had turned into cymbals the sword and the shield. 198 BOBY O'MOBK There was Mercury beating strict time with his wings, And looking as though he'd fain pilfer the strings ; The poppies had fallen from Somnus's wig, And his tiptoeing feet seemed inclined for a jig. Bacchus leaned on a barrel with tankard in hand, It was useless his trying to sit or to stand ; And he saw not the nectar-juice running about, That the tap was unturned and the spigot was out. There was Cupid, forgetting loves, doves, hearts, and smarts Had bundled together his bow and his darts ; And pressed through the gods with a push and a bob, Just as other young urchins will do in a mob. There was Venus, who seemed half-ashamed to be seen, For a blush marked the cheek of the Paphian Qiteen ; She said she had come there to look for her soil, Who of all children was the most troublesome one. So mothers on earth often steal to a crowd Where the puppets are droll and the music is loud; To seek for their "wee ones," the worrying' elves, But, in truth, 'tis to peep and to listen themselves. All, all were delighted, but Mercury's eye Saw the form of the thundering Monarch draw nigh : And the minstrel one stopped ere the tune was played out, And the listeners looked, half in fear, half hi doubt. Jove stared with astonishment, " How's this P" he cried ; "My commands disobeyed — my displeasiii'e defied; 'Tis open rebellion — quick — tell me who leads ; Or, by Juno, I'll level a bolt at your heads. " You, King of the battle-plain, loitering here ! I'll make you spin petticoat fringe for a year ; And Boreas, I told you to get up a gale In the Baltic-^you villain, how came you to fail ? " And you, Miss Aurora, 'tis two hours at least Since I saw you set off for your place in the east ; Yet Day's portal is closed and the night-cloud's still black ;— You heedless young Spirit, how dare you come back ?" He threatened them all, and he terrified each With his light-flashing glance and his thundering speech, Till Hebe stepped forth,— the rogue didn't forget That Jupiter often had called her his pet, RORY O'MORE. 199 She raised her fair hand ere she ventured to speak, And threw back the curls from her down-covered cheek ; She looked up in his face, — and 'twere easy to mark, That the frown on his brow was a great deal less dark. " Indeed, Sire," she cried, " 'tis that serpent of song Who has lured us from duty, and made us do wrong ; We all were intent on your mission and word, When he struck up a tune that we never had heard. " We believe that he picked it up somewhere on earth, But 'tis rife with sweet melody, humour, and mirth ; I attempted to pass, but I really could not ; For my wings and my senses were chained to the spot. " Just allow him to play it ?" Apollo's best skill Was that moment exerted to charm and to thrill : Jove laughed with delight, as he shouted " Encore !" And inquired the name— it was " Kory O'MoTe." " "Tis well," cried the King, " here's a pardon for all, But mind, 'Pol, play that at our annual ball. And, really (while looking at Hebe askar.ce) I think now we could manage a bit of a dance." It was done, and they merrily footed awhile In the good old Sir Roger de Coverley style ; Till Juno appeared in all possible state,' And looked most unlovable things at her mate. " Come, Madam," cried Jove, " let us have no to-do, Here's Mars wants a partner, no dottbt he'll take you." Juno listened a moment, then ran to her place, As the music went on, with a smile on her face. " Bless me !" and " How wonderful !" whispered the gods, With very significant shruggings and nods ; " Why, her Majesty ne'er was so pleasant before, It must be all owing to ' Eory O'More.' " So it was, and a glorious time they all had ; Blithe Momuc was crazy, Melpomene glad ; They danced till the minstrel began to complain That his fingers were sore, and his wrists were in pain. But 'tis noted that Jove since that musical day Has most graciously bowed when 'Pol comes in his way ; And his manners and bearing most courteously tend To make the god-minstrel his intimate friend: 200 TEDDY O'NEALE. For he knows very well that Apollo's soft lyre Is more than a match for his thunder and fire ; That his slaves would revolt — all supremacy o'er If led on by the quick-step of " Rory O'More." TEDDY O'NEALE. I've come to the cabin he danced his wild jigs in, As neat a mud palace as ever was seen ; And considering it served to keep poultry and pigs in, I'm sure it was always most elegant clean. But now all about it seems lonely and. dreary, All sad and all silent, no piper, no reel ; Not even the sun, through the casement, is cheery, Since I miss the dear, darling boy, Teddy O'Neale. I dreamt but last night — oh ! bad luck to my dreaming, I'd die if I thought 'twould come truly to pass, — But I dreamt, while the tears down my pillow were streaming, That Teddy was courting another fair lass. Oh ! didn't I wake with a weeping and wailing, — The grief of that thought was too deep to conceal ; My mother cried — " Norah, child, what is your ailing ?" And all I could utter was—" Teddy O'Neale !" Shall I ever forget when the big ship was ready, And the moment was come when my love must depart ; How I sobbed like .a spalpeen, " Good-bye to you, Teddy !" With drops on my cheek and a stone at my heart. He says 'tis to better his fortune he's roving, But what would be gold to the joy I should feel, If I saw him come back to me, honest and loving, Still poor, but my own darling, Teddy O'Neale. UNDER THE MOON. Brownies, and goblins, and kelpies, and fays, Dance it away in the greenwood, maze, Or merrily swing on the aspen's sprays, While glowworms are setting the sward in a blaze, Under the moon. UNDER THE MOON. 201 Young eyes from young eyes are gathering light, Hearts heat the faster as Luna grows hright ; And Love daps his soft wings with all his might, Forgetting he's wandered so late in the night, Under the moon. The language that charms, and the voices that fill Our fond hosoms with bliss, are more exquisite still When blent with the wind sighing over the hill, Or the musical chime of the shimmering rill, Under the moon. Sorrow is taking its desolate way, Where the grave-grass is kissed by the quivering ray, And tears that were dried by the sunshine of day, Are falling again on the mouldering clay, Under the moon. The blighted in feeling, the sad yet the proud, Whose soul- wearing grief is too deep to be loud, Who has smiles for the noontide and jests for the crowd Now wander unmarked, with their throbbing heads bowed Under the moon. Lips that are flushed when the morning is new, And carry their roses the whole day through ; Like the billow-dashed coral, in freshness and hue, Seem fresher and redder when meeting the dew, Under the moon. The shades of the summer eve beckon us out, Tracking and beating the wild woods about ; But freer the footstep and blither the shout. As homeward we hie while the young owlets flout, Under the moon. The robin's sweet note and the lark's matin call Are spells that e'er hold the warm spirit in thral) ; But the nightingale's warble is clearest of all, When the tones of its echoing cadences fall, Under the moon. We may breathe a farewell in a sigh-deepened tone, Yet devotion shall live though the idol be gone ; The heart shall still pant for the well-cherished one, But never so truly as when 'tis alone, Under the moon. 202 THE OLD MAN'S MARVEL. Old Man, Old Man, come tarry awhile, There is something I fain would, ask of thee ; Fc* thy hands are thin and thy lips fall in, And thou'st been a long time in the world, I see. Thy hack is bowed and thy forehead is ploughed ; Thou'st a tapering chin, and a sunken cheek ; Oh ! thou hast been long in the mortal throng, So tarry, and give me the wisdom I seek. Of all thou hast marked and all thou hast met In wide Creation's curious host ; Oome, tell me, I say, through thy pilgrim way, What is it hath called up thy wonder most ? " I'll tell you full soon," quoth the grey Otd Man, " Though, methinks, you might be as wise as I ; It is not the moon," quoth the grey Old Man, " Nor the rolling s\m, nor the azure sky : " There is that which can change with swifter might Than the orb that maketh the ghost-hour fair; There is that which gloweth with warmer light Than the crimson globe in the purple air. " It is not the main with its rushing tides, Fitful in fury and curbless in will ; Nor the black ravine with its iron sides, Nor the pathless peak of the mountain hill. " There is that which taketh its own wild course, In madder mood than the raging waves ; There is that which mocks the fissured rocks "With harder walls and darker caves. " There's a loftier thing than the hills that spring, Though, perchance, 'tis alone in its daring height ; There's a loftier thing than the eagle king. And it striketh out with a bolder flight. " It is not the wolf, nor the tiger dam, With red fangs laved in their reeking food; There is that which drams and laps from the veins, Fiercer in preying and fonder of blood. THE OLD MAN'S MAUVE L. 202 " It is not the worm that dwelleth in shade, Leaving its slime as it travelleth slow; There is that which is bound to the dusty ground, Mare' abjectly crawling — more meanly low. " It is not the sweet bird that dies in its nest, Pining to miss its chosen love ; For I have seen truth and affection rest In a deeper fount than the breast of the dove. " It is not the snake in the jungled brake, Crushing and stinging with venomed fold; There is that which coils with deadlier toils, Griping its victim with firmer hold. " I have measured the star," quoth the grey Old Man, " And can guess what its limits in space may be ; I have found how far," quoth the grey Old Man, " The lead will sink in the ' deep, deep sea.' " But there is that which hath baffled my skill, Though my brain to the task was closely set ; I have watched and sought with right goodwill, But its power and depth I know not yet. " 'Tis an Etna burning with demon hate ; 'Tis an Eden breathing devotion's sigh ; 'Tis a tyrant wielding the sceptre of state ; 'Tis a crouching slave to a gentle eye. " It panteth to claim the laurel of Fame ; It statteth in chase of the daisies of spring ; It labours in search of a deathless name ; It runneth a race with a painted wing. " It hath fouler blots than the leper's spots ; It leapeth in freedom, nobly pure ; It quails at the touch of a careless word ; It can stretch to the rack-rope, and bravely endure. "It yieldeth the fire that hallows the lyre ; It formeth the poet's rich key-note ; It nerveth the murderer's lurking hand, To clutch the knife and grapple the throat. " It doeth in mercy the deeds divine ; It works in oppression, accursed and cold ; It stands unbrited by an Eastern mine — For a ducat of dross 'tis bought and sold. 204 STANZAS FOB THE SEASON " Oh ! 'tis a mazy and mystic thing ; It deceiveth my trust and foileth my lore ; I am watching it still with a right goodwill, But it winneth my wonder more and more. " I am waning away," quoth the grey Old Man, " My sands are few — I shall soon depart ; But, while I stay," quoth the grey Old Man — " I shall marvel most at the human heart." STANZAS FOR THE SEASON. Once again, once again, Christmas wreaths are twining ; Once again, once again, Mistletoe is shining. Time is marching through the land, Decked with leaf and berry ; He leads the Old Tear in his hand, But both the churls arc merry. He speaketh in the clanging bells, He shouts at every portal ; God speed the tidings that he tells, — • " Goodwill and peace to mortal." Gladly welcome shall he be, Even though he traces Silver threads upon our heads And wrinkles on our faces. For once again, once again, He brings the happy meeting ; When cynic lips may preach in vain That life is sad and fleeting. Christmas logs should beacon back The wanderer from his roving ; Loavo,_oh ! leave the world's wide track- And join the loved and loving. STANZAS FOB TEE SEASON. 205 Spirits that have dwelt apart, Cold with pride and folly ; Bring olive in your hand and heart, To weave with Christmas holly. Breathe a name above the cup, And leave no drop remaining ; When Truth and Feeling fill it up, 'Tis always worth the draining. Though few and short the flashes are That break on Care's dull story; Yet, like the midnight shooting star, Those moments pass in glory. Then once again, once again, We'll tap the humming barrel : " Goodwill and peace" shall never cease To be a wise man's carol. All, all we love ! — a health to those ! A bumper ! — who wont fill it ? A health to brave and open foes, A bumper ! — who would spill it ! And here's to him who guards our right Upon the distant billow ! And him who sleeps in watch-fire light Upon his knapsack pillow ! If changing fate has frowned of late, And of some joys bereft us, Still, let \ts " gang a gleesome gait,'' And prize the blessings left us. Wisdom's helmet strapped too tight Wearies in the bearing; And Folly's bells on Christmas night Are always pleasant wearing. Then once again, once again, Let holly crown each portal ; And echo round the welcome sound — " Goodwill and peace to mortal !" 206 SONG 0? THE BLIND ONE. They talk of rainbows in the sky, and blossoms on the earth ; They sing the beanty of the stars jn songs of love and mirth ; They say the rippling wave is fair — they tell of dewdrops bright ; They praise the sun that warms the day, and moon that cheers the night. I do not sigh to watch the sky, I do not care to see The lustre drop on green-hill top, pr fruit upon the tree ; I've prayed to have my lids unsealed, but 'twas not to behold The pearly dawn of misty morn, or evening cloud of gold. No, no, my Mary, I would turn from flower, star, and sun ; For well I know thou'rt fairer still, my own, my gentle one. I hear the music others deem most eloquent and sweet, The merry lark above my head^-the pricket at my feet ; The laughing tones of childhood's glee that gladden while they ring, The robm in the winter time — the cuckoo in the spring ; But never do I think thpse tpnes. sp beautiful as thine, When kind words from a kinder heart confirm that heart is mine. There is no melody of sound that bids my soul rejoice As when I hear my simple name breathed by thy happy voice; And, Mary, I will ne'er believe that flower, star, or sun, Can ever be so bright as thee, my true, my gentle one. THE BOAT-OLOAK. He is ready to sail, and he gazes with pride On the bright-buttoned jacket, the dirk by his side ; But the trappings of gold do not waken his joy Like the boat-cloak his mother flings over her boy. With graceful affection 'tis hung on his arm, While he marks its full drapery, ample and warm. " Thou'rt my shipmate," he ones " 'twill go hard if we part," And the boat-cloak seems linked to the sailqr-boy's heart. Long years brown his cheek, and, far, far on the sea, While the storm threatens, keeping the mid- watch is he; The chill breeze is defied by his close-clinging vest, For the weather-tanned boat-cloak encircles his breast, 8UN8RINE. 207 The rocks are before, and the sands are behind, The -wind mocks the thunder, the thunder the wind : The noble ship founders— he leaps from the deck, And hjs boat-clpak is all that he saves from the wreck. Age pomes, and he tells of his perils gone by, Till the vpteran lays him down calmly to die : And soft is the pillow that bears his grey head, And warm is the clothing that's heaped on his bed. But " My boat-cloak !" be cries ; " I am turning all cold ; Oh ! wrap me once more in its cherishing fold !" 'Tis around him, he clasps it, he smiles, and he sighs, He murmurs, " My boatrdoak, thou'rt warmest !" and dies. SUNSHINE. Who Jqveth not the sunshine ? oh ! who loveth not the bright And blessed mercy of His smile, who said, '- Let there be light" ? Who lifteth not his face to meet the rich and glowing beam P Who dweljeth not with miser eyes upon such golden stream ? Let thqse whq will accord their song to hail the revel blaze That only comes where feasting reigns and courtly gallants gaze ! But the sweet and merry sunshine is a braver theme to sing, For it kindles round the peasant while it bursts above the king. We hear young voices round us now swell loud in eager joy, We're jostled by the tiny child, and sturdy, romping boy; In city street and hamle^ path, we see blithe forms arise ; And childhood's April life comes forth as glad as April skies. Oh ! what can pe the magic Jure that beckons them abroad To sport upon the grassy plain, or tread the dusty road ? 'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has called them out to play, And scattered them like busy bees, all humming in our way. The bloom is on the cherry-tree — the leaf is on the elm ; The bird and butterfly have come to claim their fairy realm ; Unnumbered stars are on the earth — the fairest who can choose, When all are painted with the tints that form the rainbow's hues ? What spirit- wand hath wakened them ? the branch of late was bare, The world was desolate — but now there's beauty everywhere. 'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine has unfolded leaf and flower, And tells us of the Infinite, of Glory, and of Power. 208 TEE SABBATH BELL. We see Old Age and Poverty forsake the fireside chair, And leave a narrow, cheerless home, to taste the vernal air : The winter hours were long to him who had no spice-warmed cup, No bed of down to nestle in, no furs to wrap him up. But now he loiters 'mid the crowd, and leans upon his staff, He gossips with his lowly friends, and joins the children's laugh. Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has led the old man out, To hear once more the Babel roar, and wander round about. The bright and merry sunshine — see, it even creepeth in Where prison bars shut out all else from solitude and sin ; The doomed one marks the lengthpned streak that poureth through the chink ; It steals along — it flashes ! oh ! 'tis on his fetter link. Why does he close his bloodshot eyes ? why breathe with gasping groan ? Why does he turn to press his brow against the walls of stone P The bright and merry sunshine has called back some dream of youth, Of green fields and a mother's love, of happiness and truth. The sweet and merry sunshine makes the very churchyard fair ; We half forget the yellow bones, while yellow flowers are there ; And while the summer beams are thrown upon the osiered heap, We tread with lingering footsteps where our " rude forefathers sleep." The hemlock does not seem so rank — the willow is not dull ; The rich flood lights the coifin nail and burnishes the skull. Oh ! the sweet and merry sunshine is a pleasant thing to see, Though it plays upon a grave-stone through the gloomy cypress tree. There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer e'en than this ; That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper bliss j That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own, As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's throne. It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away ; And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its ray : 'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's gentle light, That never wears a sullen cloud, and fadeth not in night. THE SABBATH BELL. Peal on, peal on, — I love to hear The old church ding-dong soft and clear ! The welcome sounds are doubly blest With future hope and earthly rest. THE FISHER-BOAT. 209 Yet were no calling changes found To spread their cheering echoes round, There's not a place where Man may dwell But he can hear a Sabbath bell. Go to the woods, when Winter's song Howls like a famished wolf along ; Or when the south winds scarcely turn The light leaves of the trembling fern, — Although no cloister chimes ring there, The heart is called to faith and prayer ; For all Creation's voices tell The tidings of the Sabbath bell. Go to the billows, let them pour In gentle calm, or headlong roar ; Let the vast ocean be thy home, Thou'lt find a God upon the foam ; In rippling swell or stormy roll, The crystal waves shall wake thy soul; And thou shalt feel the hallowed spell Of the wide water's Sabbath bell. The lark upon his skyward way, The robin on the hedge-row spray, The bee within the wild thyme's bloom, The owl amid the cypress gloom, All sing in every varied tone A vesper to the Great Unknown ; Above — -below — one chorus swells Of God's unnumbered Sabbath bells. THE EISHEK-BOAT. No reefer struts upon her deck — no boatswain pipes her crew, Whose rough and tarry jackets are as often brown as blue ; Her sails are torn, her timbers worn, she's but a crazy craft, Yet luck betides her in the gale, and plenty crowns her draught. Let but a foe insult the land that holds their cottage home, And English hearts will spring from out the merry, little Foam. .- What, oh ! what, oh I away they go, the moon is high and bright, God speed the little fisher-boat, and gran}; a starry night. 14 210 BTAMZA8. Kb pennant flutters at her mast, no port -holes raoge her side ; A dusky speck — she tabes her place upon the uaaohfight tide, While gaily sings some happy hoy, " A life upon the sea, With jolly mates, a whiskey-can, and trusty mete &r me !" Bnt many an hour of fearful risk she meets upon the wave, That ships of stout and giant form would scarcely eare to brave, And many a one with trembling hand will trim the beacon-ligb4 And cry " God speed the fisher-boait upon a stormy night !" We prondly laud the daring ones who cross the pathless main, The shining gems and yellow dusit of other climes to gain ; We honour those whose blood is with the mingled "praters found, Who fight till death to guard the cliffs those waters circle round. : Tis well ; but let us not forget the poor and gallant set, Who toil and watch, when others sleep, to east the heavy net : Their perils are not paid by fame — so trim tlfce beacon-light ; And cry *• God speed the fisher-boat, and grant, av6.ta.rry night !" STANZAS. Though like the marble rock of old, This heart may seem all hard and cold, Yet, like that rock, a touch will bring The water from the secret spring : Let Memory breathe her softest tone, With magie force it breaks the stone ; And forth will gush, all fresh and bright, The living tide of love and light, That pours in vain. Though like the cloud of gathered storm, This brow may be of dull, dark form ; Yet, like that cloud, the brow may bear The spirit lightning hidden there. The pensive mood, with charmless frown, May weigh my heavy eyelids down ; The gloom is deep, but it is fraught With flashings of electric thought, That burst in pain. The eastern flower of desert birth Is prized not while it decks the earth ; But, snatched, and gathered, crushed and, dead i Is valued for its odour shed. SILENCE— A FRAGMENT. $Jl And so this lyre, whose native sound Scarce ■wins the ear of those around, May wear a richer wreath of bay, When still in death the hand shall Jay That wakes its, strain, SILENCE— A FRAGMENT. Poverty has a sharp and goading power To wring the torture-cry, and fill the breath With frantic curses or despairing sighs ; ' ' But her cold, withering grasp is deepest felt By the. proud Thinker who endures' in Silence, Aid trembles lest his shallow purse be sounded By the sleek friends about him— him who dreads The taunting mockery that ever waits On sensibility unwarranted By wealth. Distress, with heavy, mildew blight, Blackens each flower that else would .cheer his patn; It steals health's steady lustre from his glance, ' Draws his pale lip into a stronger curve — Pinches his lank cheek — whitens his thin hand, And saps the very roots of joy and hope : But none may dream of the consuming fire That spends his oil of life. He does not show The vagrant's rags, and tell the whining tale Of doleful falsehood. He has never learnt To shape his language^ in beseeching tpne, And stand a mendicant beneath the roof Of some rich kin — who gives stich good advice To qualify the charitable gold, That proud and honoiirablc palms shrink back, And rather grapple with the spectre hand Of P amine, than accept the boon so granted. He is not one of the contented poor Who, if they have their simple meals insured, Care not, though thousands mark the trenchered scrap, And spurn it ! He is not a mindless brute, To meet misfprtiine in a ruffian garb, And leap the low-pitched barrier that parts Mean, shivering Want, from bold and well-fed Crime. Mixed with the wealthy crowd he walks erect, And screens his beggar's fester from the world, As closely as the Spartan boy of old Hid the fierce talons bearing out his heart. 212 SILENCE— A FRAGMENT. Love hath its utterance of magic sound, When soft confession calls the ruddy flush Into the maiden's cheek, and gentle vows Breathe whispered music in the willing ear ; Even as the nightingale is said to woo The listening rose. And Love, too, hath its kini And merry mood of fond loquacity ; _ When happy confidence and long-tried truth Set the soul prating of its full delight With easy freedom ; but the hallowed tone Of pure Affection's richest, sweetest string, Affords no echo of its thrilling note In measured syllables. When severed long From the dear, chosen one whose presence flings A summer sunshine on our wintry way, That ever comes as welcome to our sight As the cool stream amid the desert sand ; — Oh ! words can never tell our ecstasy When once again we hold the idol form Close to our heart, and look into the eyes Where fond devotion finds a faithful mirror, And doting glances are reflected back In silent bliss. The debt of Gratitude Is not the best remembered where the lips Pour forth their voluble and fluent tide Of warm acknowledgment. Pair-spoken phrases, Graced with a courtier's bow, are pleasant things, But rarely hold much more of grateful truth Than the bright slime that cunning reptiles spread To catch their prey, — and they who oftenest turn In fierce recoil upon the helping hand, Are oftenest those whose hollow hearts have sworn A changeless sense of benefits received. The breast where Gratitude is firm and deep Gives least expression to the one it serves ; As trees that bear the heaviest of fruit Yield the least rustling to the cherishing breeze. Prayer has its decalogue and well-set chant To say or sing ; but Prayer can offer up A purer tribute to the mighty One Who rules the thunder and restrains the wave, Than ever cloistered walls responded to. —The lonely, orphan child, who steals at night Where the round moon shines on a mother's grave, Knows little how to mould; his trusting faith DREAMS OF THE PAST. 213 In proper sentences ; but the dim eye That sheds its blinding tear upon the turf, And then looks up to the fair, silver stars, Carries a ray of holy fervency That will not be rejected at the throne Of Him who suits the " wind to the shorn lamb." The erring one, whose right arm has been strong In working evil, may repent, " and save His soul alive." He cannot frame his thoughts In saintly code, — but the pale, moping brow That droops in silence, penitence, and shame, Shall plead for him at the eternal bar, Where boundless mercy fills the judgment- seat. The Poet wins the world with minstrelsy, And holds the ear of wondering nations fast; But fuller melodies and rarer themes Dwell in his soul, and people his quick brain, Than any that his breathing song can give. Swift-flashing streams from Helicon's high fount Rush through his breast ; but their cherubic sounds Of murmuring music are too strangely wild To live again, even upon his lyre. — Let the proud Orator assert the power That Language holds ; but the Soul, prouder still, Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own, And mock the tongued interpreter. DEEAMS OP THE PAST, (For Music.) As we wander alone where the moonlight reposes, And the wind o'er the ripple is tuneful and sweet; When the stars glitter out as the day-flower closes, And the night-bird and dewdrop are all that we meet ;— ■ Oh ! then, when the warm flush of thought is unsealing The bonds that a cold world too often keeps fast ; We shall find that the deepest and dearest of feeling Is pouring its tide in a dream of the Past. Oh ! who shall have travelled through Life's misty morning, Forgetting all waymarks that rose on their track ? Though the things we loved then had Maturity's scorning, Though we oast them behind, yet we like to look back. 2l4' BIBBS. Though the Present may charm us with magical tmmbers, And lull the rapt spirit, entrancing it fast ; Tet 'tis rarely the heart is so sound in its slumbers, As to rest without mingling some dream of the Past. Oh ! the days that are gone — they will have no returning, And 'tis wisest to bury the hopes that decay ; But the incense that's purest and richest in burning) Is oft placed where all round it is fading away. Though the days that are gone had more canker than blossom, And even that blossom too tender to last ; Tet had we the power, oh ! where is the bosom Would thrust from its visions the dreams of the Past BIRD'S. Birds! Birds! ye are beautiful things, With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings ! Where shall Man wander, and where shall he dwell, Beautiful birds, that ye come not a's' well P Te have nests' oil the mountain all rugged and stark, Te have nests in the forest alltangled and dark ; Te build and ye brood 'neath the cottagers' eaves, And ye sleep on the sod 'mid the bonnie green leaves. Te hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake, Te dive in the sweet flags that shadow the lake ; Te skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land, Te dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand ; Beautiful Birds, ye come thickly around, When the bud's on the branch and the snow's on the ground- Ye come when the richest of roses flush out, And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about! Grey-haired pilgrim, thou hast been Round the chequered world, I ween: Thou hast lived in happy lands, Where the thriving city stands; Thou hast travelled far to see Where the city used to be ; Cha'nce and change are everywhere, Riches here and ruins there ; Pilgrim, thou hast gazed on all ; On rising pile and tumbling wall— BIBBS. 215 Tell fts, saw ye not brave Birds) In the crumbled halls of old, Where Monarchs smiled and rulers' words Breathed above the ohaliced gold ? Say, who is it now that waits At the " hundred brazen gates" ? Who is now the great High Priest, Bending o'er the carrion feast ? Who is now the reigning one O'er the dust of Babylon ?— It is the Owl with doleful scream, Waking the Jackal from his dream ; It is the Baven black and sleek, With shining claw and sharpened beak 5 It is the Vulture sitting high, In mockery of thrones gone by. Pilgrim, say, what dost thou meet In busy mart and crowded street ? There the smoke-brown Sparrow sits, There the dingy Martin flits, There the tribe from dove-house coop Take their joyous morning swoop ; There the treasured, singing pet In his narrow cage is set, Welcoming the beams that come Upon his gilded prison-home. Wearied Pilgrim, thou hast marched O'er the desert dry and parched, Where no little flower is seen, No dewdrop, no Oasis green, — What saw'st thou there ? the Ostrich, fast As Arab steed or tempest blast, And the stately Pelican, Wondering at intrusive Man- Pilgrim, say, who was it showed A ready pathway to the Alp P Who was it crossed your lonely road Prom the valley to the scalp ? Tired and timid friends had failed, Besting in the hut below ; But your bold heart still was hailed By the Eagle and the Crow. Pilgrim, when you sought the clime Of the myrtle, palm, and lime, Where the diamond loves to hide Jostling rubies by its side, — BIRDS. Say, were not the brightest gleams Breaking on your dazzled eye From the thousand glancing beams Poured in feathered blazonry ? Pilgrim, hast thou seen the spot Where the winged forms came not ? Mariner ! mariner ! thou mayst go Par as the strongest wind can blow, But much thou'lt tell when thou comest back Of the sea running high and the sky growing black, Of the mast that went with a rending crash, Of the lee-shore seen by the lightning's flash, And never shalt thou forget to speak Of the white Gull's cry and the Petrel's shriek. Por out on the ocean, leagues away, Madly skimmeth the boding flock, — The storm-fire burns, but what care they ? "Tis the season of joy and the time for play ; When the thunder-peal and the breaker's spray Are bursting and boiling around the rock. Lovers linger in the vale While the twilight gathers round, With a fear lest mortal ear Should listen to the whispered sound. They would have no peering eye While they tell the secret tale, Not a spy may venture nigh, Save the gentle Nightingale. Perched upon the tree close by, He may note each trembling sigh ; Swinging on the nearest bough, He may witness every vow. Favoured bird, oh ! thou hast heard Many a soft and mystic word, While the night-wind scarcely stirred, And the stars were in the sky. Up in the morning, while the dew Is splashing in crystals o'er him ; The ploughman hies to the upland rise, But the Lark js there before him : He sings while the team is yoked to the share ; He sings when the mist is going ; He sings when the noon-tide south is fair ; He sings when the west is glowing : SONQ OF TEE BEGGARS. 217 Now his pinions are spread o'er the ploughman's head, Now he drops in the farrow behind him ; Oh ! the Lark is a merry and constant mate, Without favour or fear to bind him. Beautiful Birds ! how the schoolboy remembers The warblers that chorused his holiday tune ; The Robin that chirped in the frosty Decembers, The Blackbird that whistled through flower-crowned Juns. That schoolboy remembers his holiday ramble, When he pulled every blossom of palm he could see ; When his finger was raised, as he stopped in the bramble, With " Hark ! there's the Cuckoo, now close he must be I" Beautiful Birds ! we've encircled your names With the fairest of fruits and the fiercest of flames. We paint War with his Eagle, and Peace with her Dove ; With the red bolt of Death, and the olive of Love. The fountain of Friendship is never complete Till ye coo o'er its waters, so sparkling and sweet ; And where is the hand that would- dare to divide Even Wisdom's grave self from the Owl by her side ? Beautiful creatures of freedom and light, Oh ! where is the eye that groweth not bright As it watches you trimming your soft, glossy coats, Swelling your bosoms and ruffling your throats ? Oh ! I would not ask, as the old ditties sing, To be " happy as sand-boy," or " happy as king ;" For the joy is more blissful that bids me declare, " I'm as happy as all the wild birds in the air." I will tell them to find me a grave, when I die, Where no marble will shut out the glorious sky ; Let them give me a tomb where the daisy will bloom, Where the moon will shine down, and the leveret pass by ; But be sure there's a tree stretching out, high and wide, Where the Linnet, the Thrush, and the Woodlark may hide For the truest and purest of requiems heard, Is the eloquent hymn of the beautiful Bird. SONG OF THE BEGGARS. Through the city, the hamlet, and province we roam ; Every country is ours, every spot is our home : Y^e ask pity from all, and our claim is allowed, With fair words from the poor, and contempt from the proud. 218 SWf& OF $ffi! BEG&A&8. The boyhas his satchel — the pedlar his pack, But we have no burthen for heart or for back; While nations' are struggling for right or for wrong. The Beggar, in freedom., goes whistling along. The earth may be parched 'neath a shadowless sky, We've no grain in the soil that may wither and die ; Let the 1 lightning-sheets flash' out as : strong aB- they like, We've no ship for the tempest-roused waters to strike : Let the gold- spreading rays of wide Commerce depart, 'Tis no matter to us^weVeiio' place in.' the mart: Let the* waves of the world efeV and- flow as they will, The Beggar, unchanged, is the merriest still. The rich man is fed till the dainties but pall ; He is sated with banquet-; -and thankless for all ; And the scrap that Be' turns' from is relished with zest By the stroller whose pittance is short as his rest. Hunger fathoms our Wallet, and up and away-^- At the board that is empty the guests' never stay. Those with supper secured o'er their dinner may sit, But the Beggar's next- meat must' be worn by his wit. The wooer that's wealthy is certain to meet- The caresses of lips that are' smilingly sweet ; And he pledges' the girl that he' reckons most fair, In his claret so brigfit, arid his- Burgundy rare. Tet the name of a false one" may sully the brim,- She may cling to his broad lands more fetidly than Ham. ; But if any love us, 'tis'th'elove thai? will hold^ For the Beggar will' never be wed 1 for his gold. The gentleman's form is all stiffly bedight ; His cheek must be' smooth and his hands must be white ; And though fashion may war with his will or his ease, 'Tis the world he must heed— 'ti3 the world he must please. But free are the limbs that our motley garbs wrap ; Though the cold wind may pierce and the tatters may flap/ And Liberty's' self, if her garment were made Of the Beggar's coarse rags, would be fitly arrayed. All wearied with pleasure the lord may recline, Where the feathers are soft and the drapery fine ; He may loll amid luxury' s trappings,', but we On our pillowless couch sleep as soundly as he. Though the blanket and straw-heap be all that are spread lu some comfortless hovel or desolate shed, Prom robber or cut-throat our rest is secure, The Beggar is safe— for he's known to be poor. SOME GALL THE WORLD A DREARY PLAGE. 219 The children of earth, who have fortune or fame, Must endure the fierce arrows of envy and blame : Those who sit in high places with crosier or crown, Only waken a spirit for hurling them down. But no rivalry enters in Poverty's state, We have nothing 1 for others to covet or hate ; And the blasting of Calumny's withering power Cannot injure the Beggar in name or in dower. As the atom may fall from the mountain of sand, So we in our littleness pass from the land. None pray for the pauper — none think of his soul, 2*To dirge will they sing, and no bell will they toll. But they mlodt dig the deep hole and lay us below, And the worms they will feed, and the grass itivill grow. 'Tis enough — for the dust- o'er the Beggar's grey bones, Is as hallowed as all your rich epitaph' stones. SOME CALL THE "WORLD A DREARY PLACE. Some call the world a dreary place, And tell long tales of sin and woe ; As if there were no blessed trace Of sunshine to be found below. They point, when autumn winds are sighing, To falling leaves and withered flowers ; But shall we only mourn them dying, And never note their brilliant hours ? They mark the rainbow's fading light, And say it is the type of man ; V So passeth he " — but, oh ! how bright The transient glory of the span ! Thev liken Life unto the stream. . That, swift and shallow, pours along ; But beauty marks the rippling gleam, And music fills the bubbling sbng. Why should the preacher ever rave Of sorrow, death, arid " dust to dust" ? We know that we shall fill a grave, — ^ut why be sad before we must ? 220- THE WATEBS- Look round the world and we shall see. Despite the cynic's snarling groan, Much to awaken thankful glee, As well as wring the hopeless moan. Perchance the laden tree we shake May have a reptile at its root ; But shall we only see the snake, And quite forget the grateful fruit ? Shall we forget each sunny morn, And tell of one dire lightning-stroke ? Of all the suits that we have worn, Shall we but keep the funeral cloak ? Oh ! why should our own hands be twining Dark chaplets from the cypress tree ? Why stand in gloomy spots, repining, When further on sweet buds may be ? 'Tis true that nightshade oft will bind us, That eyes, the brightest, will be dim ; Old wrinkled Care too oft will find us, But why should we go seeking him? THE WATERS, Waters, bright Waters, how sweetly ye glide Where the tapering bulrush stands up in your tide ; Where the white lilies peep and the green cresses creep, And your whimple just lulleth the minnow to sleep. .Now lurking in silence, all lonely you take Your meandering course through the close-tangled brake r Where the adder may wink as he basks on the brink, And the fox-cub and timid fawn fearlessly drink. 'Mid valley and greenwood right onward ye ramble, Through the maze of the rushes and trail of the bramble ; Where the bard with his note and the child with his boat, Will linger beside yo to dream and to dote. Eor a moment the mill-wheel may waken your wrath, And disturb the repose of your silvery path ; But your passionate spray falls like rainbows at play, And as gently as ever ye steal on your way, TEE WATEBS. 321 Humming a song as ye loiter along, Looking up in the face of a shadowless day. Waters, bright Waters, how sweetly ye glide In the brooklet, with blossoms and birds by your sideS Now the precious Waters lie In a fountain never dry, " Full fathoms five" below; While above, the moss is springing, And the old well-bucket swinging To and fro. Brown and busy hands are plying, Fresh and limpid streams are flying, Splashing round ; Merrily the bumper floweth, And down again the bucket goeth With a hollow sound. Pilgrim bands on desert sands, With panting breath and parching skiu, What would ye not give to see That crazy bucket tumble in ? How gladly palms all dry and burning Would help that old rope in its turning ; How the sore and cracking lip Wo*dd laugh to see it drain and drip, And prize each dribbling, icy gem Beyond an eastern diadem ! Let the merchant's garners hold Silken sheen and molten gold : Kicher treasures still shall dwell, Gathered in the poor man's well, Dark and cold. Waters, gentle Waters, Ye are beautiful in Kain, Coming oft and pattering soft On hedgerow, hill, and plain. Wandering from afar In a cloud-swung car— Ye dim the blaze of noon, Shut out the midnight moon, And veil the evening star. The seed is in the earth Of promised bread ; But ye must aid its sacred birth, Or nations, pressed by starving dearth, Will groan, unfed. 222 THE WATERS. Man may plant, the root In some fair spot'; •-But where will foe the sprjngitjme sjip^, And who shall pluck the autumn fruit, If ye come not P How the red grapes flush, Till the rich streams burst ! But your crystal gush Must have trickled, first. The .amjjent fqrgs't lord Had ne'er looked proudly up, Had ye not glittered on.the sward ■Jljhat held the acom-cup. Waters, gentle Waters, Beautiful. in. Showers, Ye|h^lp to wreathe the arms that breath*; A perfume through the bowers ; Ye feed.^he bl9.de. in lowland glade, And nurse the. mountain flowers : Ye foat&e Creatjon!s loyely^ace, And keep it young in.eyery grace ; Where'er ye fall ye cheris]i all .Most foeautiful in fieauty,s,traini Then, welcome, gentle Waters, sin the, soft, sweet f Eain ! Now ye come, in incense Dew, Dis^jping from the churchyard yew, Hemlock, rosemary, and rue, Odours, s^yeet in.'eyening .?ha.de. Now.ye dim> into ■the.^e, Silently to heal and. close Wounds the rifling bee has made. Now ye tremble on the spray, Just abovethe, nightingale; While he chants his roundelay, Einging thimigh the moonlit vale. Now ye rest upon his wing, Till his constant- trillings fling Your diamond lustres scattering Upon the glow-worm's meteor.tail. King Oberonis on his throne In the fairy hall of light; AncLa merry set of. sprites' have met WTo dance aw,ay the night, hat do they quaff im that revelling hour ? 'Tis the waters' caught from the spicy flower ; TEE WATERS. "223 And reeling away go the elfin crew, Drunk with the balmy, nectar Dew. Waters, broad Waters, how nobly ye swell Bound the huge coral reef and the nautilus shell! Glory is shed on your Ocean breast, Heaving in fury or placid in rest. Ye live far down in the sparry cave, Where the sea-boy lies in his amber grave ; Ye braid the dank weed in his hair, And deck him with jewels pure and rare ; He keep the .record of where and when The brave ship stink with her braver men; Ye have treasures and. secrets, and guard them well — For no stores will ye.giye, and no word will ye tell. Ye spread your waves on the rifted strand ; Where the .white, foam spangles the golden sand ; And ebb away with, the deep. perfume Of the citron branch and orange blopm. Ye dash.where the gloflmy^iije-tree grows, Where the northern tempest beats ahd-blows ; The thunder may,bnrs,t.and,the .wolf-dog bay, But ye will be, louder and tplder than they. Ages ago ye washed the, feet Of cities that sent ye a galley fleet ; Cities, and Galleys, and People, are gone, But the great Waters still roll on : Kingdoms and empires flourish no more, But ye still dwelliby the desolate shore — As fresh in your brightness, as strong in your flood, As when the Immortal One " saw ye were good." Waters, ye are fair In the winding River, Running here, and twining there, While the waking, twilight air Stirs the spreading sails ye bear, To a flapping shiver. " Outward bound," the stripling one Sighs to see the setting sun; And shadows lengthen on his heart, As the rays that meet his gaze, One by one depart. " Outward bound" for many a year, — A dream ccmes o'er his brain ; He looks into the lucid wave, Where he was wont to, plunge and -lavs In waters cool and clear ; A THANKSGIVING. And wonders if the chance of time Will bring him to his native clime And native stream again. He leans against the vessel's side, And the big burning tear He cannot check, but fain would hide, Has mingled with the Biver's tide. Waters, ye are beautiful, Take what form ye will ; Leaping in the yeasty_ billow, Toying with the pensive willow, Bearing the mast before the blast, Or straws upon the rill ! Waters, ye are beautiful, Howsoe'er ye come, In sheets that pour with falling roar — Or moisture on the purple plum. Te are free as aught can be, Singing strains of liberty In bubbling Spring and booming Sea I Waters, living Waters, Strew your pearls upon the sod, And Man needs no other beads To count in memory of God . A THANKSGIVING. Almighty Spirit ! Father, Lord ! Thou Worshipped ! Thou Unknown ! Whose mystic glory spreadeth round a Universal Throne ; Whose breath is in the summer wind, and in the ocean's roar : Whose presence lights the saintly shrine, and fills the desert shore. Thou who dost guide the lightning shaft, and mark the rainbow's span ; Creator of the reptile worm, and fashioner of Man ; — Hear Thou my song of praise and love ! Hear Thou my song, God ! My temple-dome is Thy broad sky, my kneeling-place Thy sod. Far from the busy world, alone, I bring my heart to Thee, And bend in fervent homage where no eye but thine can see ; I seek Thee, and it cannot be that seeking will be vain ; Because Thy servant does not stand within a cloistered fane. Who will, may give the sacrifice, reeking in gory flood, And supplicate a God with hands ^,11 hot and dark with blood ; I could not sue for mercy at a victim-laden shrine, — The altar and the incense of the mountain-top be mine. THE OLD BARN. 225 What though I have no zealot priest in white robes at my side I Such robes too often mask a form corrupt with sin and pride ; What though no formal code of speech my faith and hopes shall bear ! My warm and trusting soul still yields its own adoring prayer. I thank Thee, G-od ! enough of joy has marked my span of days, To thrill my heart with gratitude, and wake the words of praise : I have accepted at Thy hands much more of good than ill, And all of trouble has but shown the wisdom of Thy will. I see the climbing sun disperse the misty clouds of night, And pour devotion to the One who said, " Let there be light :" I watch the peeping star that gleams from out the hazy west ; And offer thanks to Him who gave his creatures hours of rest. I see the crystal dewdrop stand upon the bending stem, And find as much of glory there as in the diamond gem ; I look upon the yellow fields, I pluck the wild hedge-flower ; And pause to bless Thy lavish hand, and wonder at its power. Father ! Beneficent, Supreme, All-Bounteous ! could I bring My trembling soul before Thee, as before a tyrant king ? Never — my secret orisons are fervent as sincere ; I love, I serve, I worship Thee, but never yet could fear. I see too much of happiness for human hearts to find ; To hold the Maker that bestows, as aught else but the kind. Let Man be but as kind to man, and soon our woe and strife Would fade away like mists, and leave us well content with life. And what is death, that e'en its thoughts should make us sigh and weep? The grave, to me, but seems a couch of sound and holy sleep. Why should I dread the fiat, when my trusting spirit knows That He who bids my eyelids fall will watch their last repose ? THE OLD BARN. The Barn, the Old Barn, oh ! its dark walls were rife With the records most fair in my tablet of life ; And a rare barn it was, for, search twenty miles round, Such another brave building was not to be found. 15 226 TEE OLD BARtf. 'Twas large as an ark, 'twas as strong as a church, "Twajs the chicken's resort, 'twas the young raven's perch ; There the bat flapped his wing, and the owlet might screech, Secure in the gable-ends, far out of reach. For many a year had the harvest-home wain Creaked up to its door with the last load of grain ; And 'twas evident Time had been playing his pranks With the, moss-garnished roof, and the storm-beaten plaftks. A wee thing, they tumbled me into its mow ; And left me to scramble put, Heaven knows how , A wild, merry girl, the Old Barn was the spot Which afforded delight that is still unforgot. 'Twas a birthday, one scion was walking life's stage, In youth's proudest of characters — just come of age ; Many joys were devised — but the chosen of all Was to clear out the Old Barn, and " get up a ball." We had prayed, we had hoped that the lanes might be dry, That no cloud would come over the moon-lighted, sky ; But, alas! 'twas November, and fog, sleet, and gloom Made the night of our jubilee dark as the tomb. The rain fell in torrents — the wind roared along — The watch-dog howled back to the rude tempest song ; And we trembled, and feared lest the merriest set Shpuldbe scared by that true English sunshine— the wet. But, hark ! — what loud voices — what rumbling of wheels — What stepping in puddles — what tragical " squeals !" While close-tilted waggons and mud-spattered carts Set down a rare cargo, of happy young hearts. What a dance was the first — with what pleasure we went Down the middle and up, till our breathing was spent ! Though Musard might have shrugged at a bit of a strife 'Twixt the notes of the fiddle and key of the fife. Our flooring was rugged, our sconces had rust ; There was falling of grease — there was raising of dust ; But Terpsichore published a Morning Post " yarn" Of the Almacks we held in the noble Old Barn. Then the rat-hunt— oh, mercy ! we hear poets speak Of the tug of fierce battle when " Greek joins with Greek ," But war held as wild and as deadly a reign When the terriers met the (Jegfe^ers, of grajn. THE OLD BARN. 227 The smith left his bellows— the miller his sack,— It was lucky that business grew suddenly slack : ihe thatcher was there, and the thatcher's boy too, And somehow, the butcher had nothing to do. The Squire lent his whip and his voice to the fray ■ He, °f course, only " chanced to be riding that way ■" And the master— the ploughman— the rich and the poor, btood Equality's jostling about the Barn door. There was bustling, old Pincher, all fierceness and bark ■ And even fat Dido, as gay as a lark ; Snap, Vixen, and Bob, and another full score, Tor though rats might be many— the dogs were oft more. It was sport,! dare say, but such works were torn down, That the sapient " master" looked on with a frown ; And saw without aid of astrologer's star, That the hunters were worse than the hunted, by far. Full well I remember our taking the ale To the good-natured fellow who toiled at the flail ; When the boy — who now sleeps with a stone at his feet — "Would fain try his hand as a thrasher of wheat. 'Twas agreed to— and boldly he swung the bright staff, With an awkwardness raising a tittering laugh, Which strengthened to bursting Vulgarity's tone, When, instead of on wheat-ears, it fell on his own. Ever luckless in daring, 'twas he who slipped down, With a broken-out tooth and a broken-in crown — When he clambered up high on the crossbeams, to feed The unhappy stray cat and her tortoiseshell breed. 'Twas he who, in petulance, sulked with his home, And packed up his bundle the wide world to roam ; But, with penitent heart, and a shelterless head, He came back to the sheaves in the Bam for a bed. 'Twas a bitter cold night when I heard with a pout, That the stables were full, and old Dobbin turned out ; Old Dob who had seen a score miles since the morn ; 'Twas a shame and a cruelty not to be borne. A brother was ready — the pony was caught— Brought in he must be — yet where could he be brought ? But short was the parley ; and niunching away, He was warm in the Barn with his oats and his hay. 228 STANZAS. The Barn was the place where the beams and the rope Gave our mischievous faculties plenty of scope ; And when rick-lines were found, knotted, severed, and frayed ; Not a word did we breathe of the swings we had made. "Hide and Seek" was the game that delighted us most, When we stealthily crept behind pillar and post ; "When the law was enforced that " Home" should not be won Before we'd encircled the Barn in our run. I'd a merry heart then,— but I scarcely know why I should look into Memory's page with a sigh ; 'Tis ungrateful to turn to the past with 'regret, When we hold a fair portion of happiness yet. My laugh in that day was a spirited shout, But still it is heard to ring joyously out ; My friends were the warmest that childhood could find, But those round me still are endearingly kind. " Long ago" has too often awakened my soul, Till my brow gathered shade, and the tear-drop would roll ; Down, down, busy thought, for the future may be As bright as the time of the Old Barn for me. STANZAS. The Mind, the great, the mighty Mind, Now soars and leaves all earth behind, To claim its kindred with a God, — And now sinks down on flagging wing, Till Man becomes the meanest thing That walks the sod. The Form, the upright, beauteous Form, Towering like lighthouse 'mid the storm, Now stands in wondrous power and grace,- Anon, the shrivelled, angled bones, Crazy and warped as old gravestones, Are all we trace. The Hand, the strong, the ruling Hand, That piles the pyramids on land, And builds what tempests fail to break, — With palsied trembling holds the staff, While rosy children gaze and laugh To see it shake. TEE SEW AND TEE MAIDEN. 2® The Voice, the deep, the full, firm Voice, That swells to threaten or rejoice In pompous oath or revel shout, — Is now so mumbling, thin, and weak, We wonder what the garrulous squeak Is all about. Oh, Man, when thou art getting vain Of courtly rank or treasured gain, Just turn towards the cypress-tree, — " Ashes to ashes" form the prayer, And yellow skulls are crumbling there, Where thou shalt be. THE SHIP AND THE MAIDEN. The Ship was at rest in the tranquil bay, Unmoved by a ripple — undimmed by a cloud ; The winds were asleep, and her broad sails lay As still and as white as a winding-shroud. She was a fair and beautiful thing, With the waters around her, all peaceful and bright; Ready for speed as a wild bird's wing, Graceful in quiet — 'mid glory and light. There was a Maiden wandering free, With a cheek as fresh as the foam at her feet ; With a heart that went forth, like a summer-day bee, To take nothing but honey from all it might meet. She stood on the land as the bark on the main, As placid in beauty as lovely in form ; The maiden had dreamt not of sadness or pain, The vessel had never been dashed by the storm. Where are they now — the brave Ship and fair Girl ? Gaze on the fragments that scatter the shore : The tempest is raging— the mad billows curl, And the glorious bark shall be looked on no more. And the Maiden so fair — oh ! what change has come there I She is wandering still, and she wanders alone ; But her cheek has grown white, and her eye lost its light, And the dove from her breast, with its olive, has flown. 230 THE ghandfatheks stick. She has loved, but "not wisely,"— she walks to the grave; Unwept and unmarked shall her spirit depart ; There's a record of ships that go down in the wave, But no whisper to tell of the wreck of a liea/rt ! THE GRANDFATHER'S STICK. 'Twas as bonnie an ash- staff as ever was seen In the hands of a pilgrim or paths of a wood ; It as tough as the bow of Ulysses, I ween ; Its polish was high, and its fibre was good. It the- Grandfather's Stick — it was his stick alone — Of its forty years' service, how proudly he'd tell ; It was all very just — he might call it his own ; But every one else seemed to claim it as well. It was his when the soft, Sabbath chimes floated by, When the sun might be hot, or the mud might be thick ; The church was up-hill, and the youngsters would fly To carry his prayer-book, and find him his stick. It was his when they coaxed him for wickets or bat, Now pleading with tears, and now trusting a laugh; It was not half a mile to thevillage — and that He could manage right well with the help of his staff. But often he wanted his faithful supporter, When as often 'twas asked for and sought for in vain ; Perhaps Master Dick had it down by the water, Or the young ones had carried it out in the lane. It was not a whit safer for all the close-hiding, For corners were peeped in and cupboards explored ; Till some urchin came shouting, careering, and riding On his Grandfather's Stick, like a tournament lord. There were sticks in abundance, from bamboo to oak, But all eyes and all hands singled that from the rest ; For business or fun that old staff was the one, For all times and all purposes that was the best. The herd-boy, perchance, had to cross the bleak waste, When the sky had no star, and the winter blast wailed; His eye lost its light, and his red lips turned white, While, 'twas easy to see that his rude spirit quailed. THE GRANDFATHER'S STICK, 231 He thought of the murdered ghost haunting that spot; Of the gibbet's loose beams — and the boy's heart turned sick," But half of the soul-thrilling fear was forgot If he might but take with him the Grandfather's Stick. " Look, Susan, the flowers !" was cried in alarm ; " Seel see ! the old sow's in the garden — quick ! quick !" And the very next moment found Susan's strong arm Belabouring Bess with the Grandfather's Stick. When the dust-laden carpets were swung on the line, And brave cudgels were chosen— the strong and the thick, It. would not take Sibyllin'e art to divine That among them was always the Grandfather's Stick. A branch of the pear-tree hung, drooping and wide, And the youngsters soon joined in the pilfering trick ; "This, this will just reach all the ripest !" they cried, As they scampered away with the Grandfather's Stick. Rich Autumn came on, and they roved far and near, With the sun on each cheek and red stain on each mouth ; They basked in the rays of the warm harvest days Till iheir faces were tinged with the glow of the South. Luscious berries and nuts formed the vineyard they sought, And the branches were highest where fruit was most thick Hooks and crooks of all sizes were theirs, but none caught The tall bramble so well as the Grandfather's Stick. Full often they left the long willow behind, — The dandified cane was forgotten and lost ; . What matter?— who cared R not a soul seemed to mind The pains in the cutting, the shilling it cost: But that brave bit of ash, let it fall where it might, In the brier-grown dell, or the nettle-bed's mound ; Every eye was intent, every heart in a fright — For they dared not go home if that stick were not found. Old Winter stepped forth, and the waters were still, The bold hearts were bounding along on the slide ; And the timid one ventured, all trembling and chill, If he had but the Grandfather's Stick by his side. But the Grandfather waned from the earth, day by day,— Hoards must be opened and treasures must fall ; No selfish heart watched o'er his "passing away," Yet that stick was the coveted relic by all. 232 SONG OF TEE SPIRIT OF GOLD. Serenely the old man went down to his grave, Looking on to a future with faith, hope, and joy ; But, ere the flame died in the socket, he gave His favourite stick to his favourite boy. That boy was a spendthrift, all reckless and gay, Keeping nought but a warm heart and fair honest name ; He was wild in his home — a few years rolled away, He was out in the world, but the man was the same. He parted from all — from his land and his gold ; But, with wealth or without, it was all one to Dick ; The same merry laugh lit his face when he told That he'd nothing more left save his Grandfather's Stick. The merry laugh still echoed out, though he found That friends turned their backs when his money was spent ; He sung, " The world's wide, and I'll travel it round," — And far from his kindred the wanderer went. He lives and yet laughs in the prodigal's part ; But whatever his fortune' — wherever his land, There's a lock of white hair hanging close to his heart, And an ash staff— the Grandfather's Stick— in his hand. SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF GOLD. Mine is the rare magician's hand ; Mine is the mighty fairy wand ! Monarchs may boast, but none can hold Such powerful sway as the spirit of Gold. The wigwam tent, the regal dome, The senator's bench, the peasant home ; The menial serf, the pirate bold,— All, all are ruled, by the spirit of Gold. I spread my sceptre, and put to flight Stern Poverty's croaking bird of night ; And where I come 'tis passing strange To note the swift and wondrous change. I rest with the one whose idiot tongue Was the scorn of the old, and jest of the young ; But flattering worshippers seon crawl round, And the rich man's wit and sense are found. SONG OF TEE SPIRIT OF GOLD. 233 Some lowly child of earth has erred, And Mercy breathes no lenient word ; The fallen one becomes a mark Tor every human bloodhound's bark. Virtue can spare no pitying sigh ; Justice condemns with freezing eye ; Till the pressing load of blight and blame Goad on to deeper guilt and shame. But let me shield the sinning one, — And dark are the deeds that may be done; Vice in its " high career" may reign, It meets no bar, it leaves no stain. Passion and crime may wear the mask, No hand will strip, no lip will task ; The record of sin may be unrolled, None read, if 'tis traced in letters of Gold, The dame has come to her waning years — And man goes by with his laughing jeers. Who, who can love ! what creature seeks The softness of such wrinkled cheeks ? But, lo ! she is rich, and scores will bring The lover's vow and the bridal ring ; And many a heart so bought and sold Has lived to curse the spirit of Gold. Does it not pain the breast to note How the eyes of the aged will glisten and gloat ? How the hands will count with careful stealth O'er the growing stores of useless wealth ? They bend to me with a martyr's knee — And many a time have I laughed to see The man of fourscore, pale and cold, Stinting his fire to save his Gold. Pile on to yoiir masses, add heap to heap, While those around you may starve and weep ; But forget not, hoary -headed slave, That thou, not gold, must fill a grave : Thou canst not haggle and bargain for breath, Thy coffers wont serve to bar out death ; Thou must be poor when the churchyard stone And the shroud will be all that thou canst own. Hatred dwells in the poor man's breast, But the foe may safely be his guest ; Though his wrongs may madden to despair,. The injured one must brook and bear, 234 Bom OF THE SPIRIT OF GOLti. But let the princely heart desire Bevenge to quench its raging fire; Though it even crave to be fed with life, Gold, Gold will find the ready knife. The pateiot boasts his burning zeal In the people's good and his country's weal; But let me whisper a word in his ear, And Freedom and Truth become less dear ;— The honest friend will turn a spy, The witness swear to the hideous lie : Oh ! the souls are unnumbered, and crimes untold, That are warped and wrought fey the spirit of Gold. I work much evil, — but, yet, oh! yet, I reign with pride when my throne is set In the good man's heart, where Feeling gives Its aid to the meanest thing that lives. My glorious home is made m the breast That loves to see the weary rest ; That freely and promptly yields a part Of its riches to gladden the toil-worn heart; That loathes the chance of the rattling dice', And turns from the gambler's haunts of vice ; That does not watch with, frenzied zeal The tossing throw or circling deal ; That squanders not with spendthrift haste, Nor lets glad Plenty run to "Waste ; But saves enough to give or lend The starving foe or needy friend. Glory is mine when I shed my light On the heart that cannot be lured from right ; That seeks to spread the Gheering ray On all that come around its way. Cursed is wealth when it falls to the share Of the griping dotard or selfish heir I But wisely scatter the talents ye hold, And blessings shall fall on the spirit of Gold. 235 FRAGMENT. ' Man, Man, thou art too vain ! Look round, and see Mountain o'er mountain rising, till thine eye Fails to observe the ether-circled tops, Whose every atom is a work of might And mystery as complex as thyself. Gaze on the flood of waters rolling on In strength and freshness. Billow after billow Spreading in sudden fury to contend With wind and cloud, or, hushed in glassy rest, Scarce ripples loud enough against the ship, To lull the drowsy sea-boy to his sleep. Is there a bubble of the foamy spray — Is there one drop of the great briny world That is not like thyself — a miracle ? The throb that marks the current of thy blood, With constant and unerring beat, is not More curious or regular in course Than the vast tides that form the Ocean's pulse. Oast thy proud glance upon the concave span Where suns shine out with pure, eternal light, And starry myriads dwell in endless space ; Where Godhead flings such flashing lustre round, That Reason shrinks before the blinding ray ; While Knowledge gazes with an idiot stare Upon the illumined scroll, and owns 'tis traced In characters it cannot comprehend. Watch the mute creatures that obey thy nod — The steed that bears thee, and the hound that follows,- There shalt thou meet an Instinct, hedging close Upon thy vaunted attribute of Mind; An Instinct so allied to human wit That pale Reflection knows not where to set The delicate boundary 'twixt soul and sense, But wonders at the brute-embodied spirit That often mocks the claim of baser Man, And shames him in his high supremacy. Philosophy and Science, stand ye forth, — Array your crucibles of magic flame, Unroll your parchments of long-gathered lore; And see if ye can shape with chemic craft A blade of grass, or tell us where the wind Goeth or listeth. Man, thou art too vain ! Exert thy cunning brain and dext'rous hand 236 TO MY LYRE. With, all the daring energy and skill That mortal loves to boast; yet wilt thou find The particle of dust thou tramplest on, Too much for thy weak power to analyze. TO MY LYRE. My lybe ! oli, let thy soothing power Beguile once more the lonely hour ; Thy music ever serve3 to cheer, To quell the sigh and chase the tear. Thy notes can ever wile away The sleepless night and weary day ; And howsoe'er the world may tire, I care not while I've thee, my Lyre ! None were around to mark and praise The breathings of thy first, rude lays ; But many a chiding taunt was thrown To mock and crush thy earliest tone. 'Twas harshly done — yet, ah ! how vain The cruel hope to mar thy strain ; For the stern words that bade us part But bound thee closer to my heart. Let the bright laurel- wreath belong To prouder harps of classic song ; I'll be content that thou shouldst bear The wild flowers children love to wear. If warmth be round thy chords, my Lyre, 'Tis Nature that shall yield the fire ; If one responsive tone be found, 'Tis Nature that shall yield the sound. Gold may be scant — I ask it not ; There's peace with little — fairly got. The hearts I rjrize may sadly prove False to my hopes, my trust, my love. Let all grow dark around, but still I find a balm for every ill : However chequered fate may be, I find wealth, joy, and friends in thee. BHYMES BY TEE ROADSIDE. 237 What are the titles monarchs hold ? — Mere sounding nothings, bought and sold ; The highest rank that man can gain, Fortune may bribe or fools attain. But they who sweep the glowing strings, Mock the supremacy of kings : The Minstrel's skill is dearer far Than Glory's crown or Triumph's car. My Lyre ! I feel thy chords are rife With music ending but with life : When the " cold chain" shall round thee dwells 'Twill bind this fervid breast as well. My Lyre ! my Lyre ! I hang o'er thee With lifted brow and bended knee, And cry aloud, " For every bliss I thank thee, God ! but most for this." EHYMES BY THE KOADSIDE. We'ke losing fast the good, old days Of rattling wheels and gallant greys ; We're losing fast the luggaged roof, The whistling guard and ringing hoof;— The English stage and high-bred teams Will soon exist but in our dreams ; And whirling mail or startling horri Ne'er cheer the night, nor rouse the morn. Ah, well-a-day ! no cracking lash, No champing bit, no restless dash, No " pull up" at the " Cross" or " Crown," 'Mid all the gossips of the town ; For Time, with deep railroaded brow, Changes all things but horses, now. Yet, who shall wish for nobler speed ? Who would forego the rapid steed ? Who that loves beauty would resign The winding road for formal " line" ? 'Tisjoy to mount the lofty seat, That bears us from the city street ; To lightly roll from pent-up smoke, To singing bird and towering oak, Scanning, despite our bounding haste, The forest dell and heath-clad waste, — 238 RHYMES BY TEE ROADSIDE, On through the valley, rich and rife "With fragrant air and blooming life. Where the clear brooklet softly flows, Kissing the lily as it goes ; — Where quiet herds lie down to crop The grass-blade and the cowslip-drop ; Where the low cottage-thatch is seen 'Mid trailing arms of jasmine green, And the wide-flinging casement glass Shows the pet flower to all who pass. Away ! away ! — one lingering look At valley, cottage, herds and brook: ; And bowling on, we gain the hill Crowned with the old.' church and the mill. The sun-ray plays upon the spire, Tinging the cross with glancing fire ; The south" wind freshens there, but faife- To turn the heavy, sluggard sails ,- The miller stands with peering eye, To see the famed " Eclipse" go by ; His next five minutes fairly lost In wondering what tha,t chestnut cost ; And why they've chariged the clever bay That graced the pole the other day. Onward ! the tiny hamlet comes ; The village nest of pleasant homes ; The ploughman's cur wakes from his doze With jerking ears and sniflmg nose ; The -child upon the red-brick floor Crawls quickly to the open door ; The old man and the matron stand With staring gaze and idle hand ; The maiden, smiling, nods her head- To the blithe fellow donned in red ; No matter what they have to do, They_ all must see the mail, go through. The inn is reached : host, men, and boys, Gather around with bustling noise. Few moments serve — the harness bands Are flnng off as by magic hands ; The loosened nags are panting hard, Seeking the well-known stable-yard ; Forth come the wheelers — glossy black — With bit in mouth, and cloth on back r Quick ! bring the leaders — two bright roans As ever spurned tile waysjfte stones; LOVE'S HOSES. 239 Each buckle tight— 'tis done, " All right !" The steeds are ready for their flight; And old, bluff Jehu once again Swings up to rule the whip and rein. Onward we hie, like shooting star That runs all dazzling— fleet and far; And worthy sight for king to see, Are four bold coursers, fast and free. England ! many an olden tale Shall yet be told o'er Christmas ale, By lips unborn, and they shall say What rare works graoed their fathers' day. Young boys shall chatter in the sun, And tell what English steeds have doue ; Records shall note the bygone age, And vaunt the matchless, English stage. Ah ! well-a-.day ! the glory's o'er ; Soon steed and stage shall be no more : The roads that break our fertile earth Seem lo»ely in then - human dearth. Ah ! grieve I will, and grieve I must, To miss the mail-coach cloud of dust; To think that I shall never see The blood-like team, so fast and free ; And find old Time, with scowling brow, Changing all things but horses, now. LOVE'S ROSES, It chanced that late on a summer eve, Young Love went scampering through the dew ; When Old Time met him, and cried, " By your leave, Master Cupid, I'll have a few words with you : '• The flowers you own are of great renown, And you place them in every mortal breast ; But most of them fade before my frown, As fast as the sun-rays from the west. " I have only to walk around the stalk, And scatter a handful of bitter seeds ; When lo ! where the, young rose used to be, There dwelleth a crop pHasting weeds- 240 LOVE'S ROSES. " But here and there (not oft, I allow) I meet with a curious blossom of yours, That lifteth its head 'neath my heaviest tread, And is sweeter, methinks, for the crush it endures. " Many a vigorous effort I've made To mow down that blossom so fairly blown ; But it turns the edge of my well-tried blade, Though whetted anew on an old gravestone. " I have hidden the worm in the innermost germ, I have sprinkled the leaves with mildew blight ; But the magical bloom defleth my strength, And nourishes on in perfume and light. " Come, tell me, boy, how this may be, That I, who can crumble the pyramid tower, And wither the sap of a mountain tree, , r Am baffled in strength by a tiny flower ?" " Oh, oh !" cried Love, " why, I sadly fear That you, like me, are among the blind : Or you'd surely have seen in your long career, That the roses I plant are of various kind. " You must know I've a hotbed here below, Where most of the glittering scions spring ; They burst and they blow with a dazzling show, But I cannot say much for the scent they fling. " The gold-dust of Fortune I've always found Will engender the bud and deepen the hue ; And the warm breath of Passion, exhaling around, Will quicken the growth, as nought else can do. " They are forward and shining things, forsooth, And look well as I lavish them carelessly forth : They are vividly fair, but I know they wont bear Many sweeps of your scythe, or a gust from the north, " They serve for the million creatures of clay, And, in truth, are the only flowers that su't The manifold hearts that crowd in my way, That have no depth for a firmer root. " But hearken, old fellow ; I'd soon resign A godship based on such hollow fame, If I held no privilege more divine, To cast a glory about my name. THE POOR MAX 8 GRAVE. 2*11 " There is a fount in the realms above With a bubbling stream that hath no end ; "Where the red rose dips its fadeless lips In the waters where Life and Affection blend. " As the gates of that realm are open to me, Why I oftentimes choose to wander there ; And I never return, but I bring two or three Of the flowers whose tint is beyond compare. " I do not pluck many, because I have learnt 'Tis in very few bosoms those flowers can thrive ; The soil must be the same as the spot whence they came, Where such exquisite blossoms will deign to live. "By chance, I discover a spirit of worth, As strong as the eagle, though soft as the dove ; That spurns my ephemeral roses of earth, And will not be bribed by a butterfly love. " So, deep in that heart I ingraft the stem That blunts your cormorant scythe, old friend 5 And try as you will, 'twill conquer you still. For it never is known to break or bend. " "Tis a flower that nothing below can desteoy 1 'Tis unwithered by Poverty, Age, or Pain • So take for once the advice of a boy, And never go wasting your labour again." Time turned away on his iron-shod heel, Muttering, after a short " Good night"— " I think such a heart must be parcel and pai i Of a very great fool," — and Time was right. THE POOE MAN'S GEAVE. No sahle pall, no waving plume, No thousand torchlights to illume, No parting glance, no heavy tear, Is seen to fall upon the bier. There is not one of kindred clay To watch the coflm on its way : No mortal form, no human breast Cares where the pauper's bones may rest. 16 THE DAISY. But one deep mourner follows there, Whose grief outlives the funeral prayer ', He does not sigh — he does not weep, But will not leave the fresh-piled heap. 'Tis he who was the poor man's mate, And made him more content with fate ; The mongrel dog that shared his crust, Is all that, stands beside his dust. He bends his listening head, as though He thought to hear a voice below ; He pines to miss that voice so kind, And wonders why he's left behind. The sun goes down, the night is come ; He needs no food — he seeks no home ; But, stretched upon the dreamless bed, With doleful howl calls back the dead. The passing gaze may coldly dwell On all that polished marbles tell ; For temples built on churchyard earth, Are claimed by riches more than worth. But who would mark with lindimmed eyes The mourning dog that starves and dies ; Who would not ask, who -would not crave, Such love and faith to guard his grave ? THE DAISY. Wuen first the teeming world was rife With beauty, plenty, light, and life ; When Nature's Godhead, great and wise, . Had looked upon the earth and skies, And " saw all good" that he had done, From glowworm's spark to rolling sun ; When every tribe and every race, Seemed well contented with their place ; One little voice alone, was heard To utter a complaining word. Creation's Spirit, ever just, Turned to the murmuring thing of dust — " Stand forth," He said, " and tremble not, Relate the evil of thy lot ; Low as thou art, thou shalt be heard, — Stand forth, thou need'st not fear nty