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 k^i f 
 
 ^ ^ I 
 
ROBIN HOOD: 
 
 ^ dTragment. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE LATE ROBEET SOUTHEY, 
 
 AND 
 
 CAROLINE SOUTHEY. 
 
 WITH OTHER FRAGMENTS AND POEMS 
 
 By R. S. & C. S. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON. 
 
 M.DCCC.XLVII. 
 
:^-:^- 
 
 ^-r--\D '^•' 
 
 LONDON: 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
TO 
 
 EDITH MAY WARTER. 
 
 Daughter and friend ! my husband's daughter dear,— 
 Thou who hast been a very Ruth to me, — 
 Accept (to thee inscribed how lovingly) 
 This wintry coronal ; pale leaves and sere, 
 My latest — last. Some strewn as o'er a bier, 
 Inwoven some with his immortal bay 
 Who loved to think that, with the linked lay 
 Fast linked, our names to many an after-year, 
 Memorial of our friendship, should go down 
 
 Tho' far apart we made our bed in death. — 
 I gather up the scantlings for that crown 
 
 Prepared ; the first and few. A withering breath 
 Hath scattered all beside. — God's will be done ! — 
 And the two names shall live — for they are one. 
 
 CAROLINE SOUTHEY. 
 
PEEPACE. 
 
 Nothing can be more fitting in the way of preface to 
 the first part of this volume — the only part of it which 
 needs explanation — than a letter of Mr. Southe/s^ which 
 I shall transcribe accordingly. 
 
 It was addressed to me in November^ 1823^ very 
 shortly after my return home from a long autumn sojourn 
 at Keswick ; Mr. Southey being then on liis way south- 
 ward^ accompanied by his eldest daughter and two other 
 ladies. 
 
 ** November 4, 1823. 
 
 '' We left home yesterday^ and are now at Kirkby Lonsdale 
 waiting for weather which may allow us to see the cave ; for, 
 from the time of our departure till this moment, it has not ceased 
 raining. The same ill fortune which persecuted you at Amble- 
 side, seems fated to attend us. The females, however, are com- 
 pany for each other ; they have taken out their work, and the 
 
VIU PREFACE. 
 
 opportunity is favourable for performing a part of mine^ which 
 is to ask you, whether one of those day-dreams to which you 
 have given birth (a very delightful one it is) shall come to pass ? 
 
 '' I have put up among my papers the memoranda which were 
 made many years ago, for a poem upon Robin Hood. They are 
 easily shaped into a regular plan, and, in my judgment, a pro- 
 mising one. Will you form an intellectual union with me, that 
 it may be executed ? We will keep our secret as well as Sir 
 Walter Scott has done. Murray shall publish it^ and not know 
 the whole of the mystery, that he may make the more of it. The 
 result will be means in abundance for a summer's residence at 
 Keswick, and an additional motive for it, that we may form 
 other schemes of the same nature. Am I dreaming, when I think 
 that we may derive from this much high enjoyment, and that 
 you may see in the prospect something that is worth living for ? 
 
 '^ The secret itself would be delightful while we thought 
 proper to keep it ; still more the spiritual union which death 
 cannot part. 
 
 "" Now, on your side, there must be no hesitation from diffi- 
 dence. You can write as easily and as well as I can plan. You 
 are as well acquainted with forest scenery, and with whatever 
 is required for the landscape part, as I am with the manners of 
 the time. You will comprehend the characters as distinctly as 
 I have conceived them, and when we meet, w^e wdll sort the 
 parts, so as each to take the most suitable, and I will add to 
 yours, and you shall add to mine, whatever may improve it. 
 
 " Beaumont and Fletcher composed plays together with such 
 
PREFACE. It 
 
 harmony of style^ thought^ and feeling, that no critic has ever 
 been able to determine what part was written by one, or what 
 by the other. Why should not Robert and Caroline succeed as 
 well in the joint execution of a poem ? 
 
 " As there can be no just cause or impediment why these two 
 persons should not thus be joined together, tell me that you con- 
 sent to the union, and I will send you the rude outline of the 
 story and of the characters. 
 
 "Direct to me, at Sir George Beaumont's, Bart., Coleorton 
 Hall, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, where I expect to arrive on Monday 
 next, and remain till Friday. 
 
 " Dear Friend^ God bless you ! 
 
 "ROBERT SOUTHEY." 
 
 I read tliis letter witli conflicting emotions. The 
 proposal was most tempting^ but a sense of incapacity 
 withheld the free and full assent to it with wliich I 
 should otherwise have responded. 
 
 I dared not say ^es^ and I could not find in my heart 
 to say no. So the memoranda arrived^ and the rough 
 sketch followed^ and in no long time came the writer. Full 
 of his project, full of kindness, of energy, of hope, he did 
 liis utmost to encourage and inspirit me, and liis hopeful 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 spirit was at least contagious for the time being, if not 
 altogether convincing. 
 
 We talked over Robin Hood by my qniet fireside, sug- 
 gesting, objecting, altering, disjoitting (as it was pleasant 
 to disjmte)^ and when we came to the question of versi- 
 fication, the metre of Thalaba (for wliich, in an evil 
 hour, I had declared my preference) was selected on that 
 account, despite my plea that to admire and to achieve 
 were two very different tlnngs, and that I was sure I 
 should never succeed in it. My protest against having 
 anything to do with battle scenes^ and such lihe^ was more 
 readily admitted, and ^Hhe women^ and children^ and 
 forest ^^ were assigned to my management. 
 
 So we parted, with a promise on my part to do my 
 best. 
 
 On Mr. Southe/s retm^n home he quickly wrote 
 thus : — ^^ I told you that before you received my letter I 
 should have returned to my old habit of witing verse 
 before breakfast (at wliich time nine-tenths of Thalaba, 
 Madoc, Kehama, and Eoderick were written). I began. 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 yesterday^ and have produced wliat you see I 
 
 have not patience to proceed further with the first canto^ 
 before I send you tliis. Now^ dear Caroline^ go you to 
 work with the same goodwill^ and we shall produce 
 something more dm'able,, if not more beautiful^ than the 
 best castle either of us ever built — great architects as we 
 
 have been in that wav/^ 
 
 (/ 
 
 ^' Goodwill ^^ on my part was not wanting^ but seK- 
 confidence entirely^ the more I thought over the plan 
 and the versification. To one of my objections to the 
 suhjecty this was the reply : — 
 
 ^^ The resemblance to Scott's Ivanhoe^ or^ rather^ the 
 resemblance there to a plan wliich had been dreamt of 
 ten years, at least, before Scott wrote any of his tales, 
 may easily be avoided. We may make the restoration of 
 his (Robin's) estates depend upon the Barons' war with 
 
 King Jolm. 
 
 '' I would also, as the poem begins with the infancy of 
 the chief personage, carry it on till liis death. You wiU 
 feel at once what may be made by describing the autumn 
 
XU PREFACE. 
 
 and winter of an irregular life^ even in its most unfavour- 
 able form. 
 
 ^^ Do yoib describe liow tlie boy^ Like a pet lamb that 
 had lost its mother^ was fondled and spoilt/^ 
 
 So^ and much, more in the same tone^ continued to 
 write '' the Master of the SpeU/^ with a few more verses 
 from time to time ; and at last^ with dissatisfaction^ that 
 was ahnost despair^ I sent — my failure ; for such I 
 esteemed it. But I had an indulgent critic^ and was 
 exhorted to take heart and persevere. 
 
 ^^ You must not be disheartened/^ he said^ ^^ because 
 you have failed to satisfy yourself in tliis your first lesson 
 in a new school of art. It is what would happen to you 
 in music or painting. That it is difficult to fall into this 
 mode of versification I believe^ because you find it so^ 
 and because one other person^ who^ though not^ hke your- 
 self^ a poet in heart and soul^ rhymes Math sufficient ease 
 and dexterity^ made an attempt and failed in it. But 
 that it is of aU modes the easiest^ when once acquired, I 
 am perfectly certain, and so you will find it. But rather 
 
PREFACE. xiii 
 
 than break the alliance we would change it into rhyme. 
 This wiU not be required/^ 
 
 ''Soon I shall send you more verses/' was the an- 
 nomicement, in a subsequent letter. ''You have not 
 proved yourseK ' a defcmlter! .... I have more plans 
 for you ; for you will not pretend to deny or doubt that 
 you can write dramatically .''^ 
 
 In truth I could have wished that that form of com- 
 position had been fixed on for our joint work. 
 
 The inequaUty of the partners would have been less 
 obvious and important ; and I should have gone to work 
 with a more free command of my own limited powers^ to 
 say notliing of being released from the shackles of that 
 beautiful^ but to me^ impracticable metre. 
 
 The promised contribution arrived ; and^ at our next 
 meeting, I produced a re-cast of my first attempt (with 
 some additional verses), wliich found favour beyond its 
 deserts ; and that poor fragment it is which wiU be found 
 appended to the longer one by my husband ; not, assur- 
 edly, in a spirit of self-complacency, but because it is a 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 mournful gratification to me to carry out^ even thus 
 imperfectly^ liis dearly-clierislied scheme. Some few per- 
 sons there are^ who will take a kindly interest in the 
 double fragment and its little story; and^ at any rate, 
 that story will serve ^^ to point a moral ^^ illustrative of the 
 vanity of human wishes and the futility of mortal projects. 
 
 Mr. Southe/s accumulating engagements, and other 
 hinderances (nay-fever inclusive), now interrupted the 
 progress of ^^ Eobin Hood/^ but he kept it ever in mind, 
 and enjoined me to do likewise. ^^You have a great 
 deal to do ; and I have a great deal to do,^^ he wrote, 
 ^^ wliicli will not be done without you. If I liave done 
 nothing of late, it is because I have not risen early enough 
 since I commenced invalid.''^ 
 
 ^^Wlien shall I send you more news from old Sher- 
 wood forest ?^^ was one of liis latest allusions to the 
 fated scheme ; — ^^ when the mornings are lengthened 
 enough to allow me Hglit for an hom^^s work before 
 breakfast. Alas ! the days are all too short for my occu- 
 pations now.^^ 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 The ^^ news from old Sherwood ^^ came not, but it was 
 still to come. Again and again we met, and the pledge 
 was required of me to keep in mind that the scheme was 
 only in abeyance, ^^ assuredly to be completed some day!^ 
 But the evil days drew near, when he, whose hopeful 
 elasticity of mind was, as I have observed, in some degree 
 contagious, so far succumbed beneath the weight of 
 affliction wliich it pleased God to lay upon him, as to 
 confess, in writing, to me, that ^^ sufficient unto the day 
 was the labour thereof/^ Tliis acknowledgment was 
 miichy from one whose self-appropriated device was ^^ In 
 labore quies/^ 
 
 The dark hour passed away — ^^ At eventime there was 
 light /^ and with returning cheerfulness, and reviving 
 hope, old pleasurable projects were remembered and 
 resumed, under our altered relative circumstances, with a 
 more confident expectation on hotli sides. 
 
 ^^ Eobin Hood ^^ was shortly to be taken in hand in 
 good earnest ; and in the meantime it was our design to 
 publish, in one volume, my still uncollected poems, with 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 some of my husband^s^ to be fimshed for that purpose 
 from the sketclies and begnmings in liis note-books and 
 among liis papers. The fragment of ^^ The Tln^ee Spa- 
 niards/^ wliich will be fomid in this volume, was one of 
 those so appropriated ; and the shorter one of ^^ March^^ 
 was to have formed one of a series entitled ^^ The Calen- 
 dar/^ of wliich we were to have written the months 
 alternately. 
 
 It was a pleasant dream, but a short one. Clouds were 
 gathering the while ; and before the time came that our 
 matured purpose should bear fruit, the fiat had gone 
 forth, and ^^ aU was in the dust.^^ 
 
 CAEOLINE SOUTHEY. 
 
 BUCKLAND^ 
 
 March 6th, 1847. 
 
 N.B. The legends of ^^ Archbishop Gerson,^^ and of 
 
 ^^ Abram and the Fire-worsliipper,^'' wliich wiU be found 
 among my miscellaneous poems, were wiitten for a work 
 
 to be entitled, '^ CoUoquies on the Church and Church 
 
PREFACE. XVll 
 
 Subjects/^ by the Rev. J. Wood Waiter^ Author of 
 ^^ The Teacliing of the Prayer-book/^ &c. &c. 
 
 I have Mr. Warter^'s permission to forestall his 
 publication of these poems^ by including them in this 
 collection. 
 
 as. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 ROBIN HOOD ......... 1 
 
 THE THREE SPANIARDS . . . . . . . 37 
 
 MARCH 42 
 
 THE EVENING WALK . . . . . . . . 44 
 
 THE MURDER GLEN ........ 66 
 
 WALTER AND WILLIAM . . . . . . . 93 
 
 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD . * , , . . .117 
 
 THE LEGEND OP THE LIDO . . . . . . . 135 
 
 THE WINTRY MAY — 1837 151 
 
 ONCE UPON A TIME . . . . . . . . 154 
 
 WILD FLOWERS . . 157 
 
 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT . . . . . . . 164 
 
 LAMENT FOR LILIAS ........ 171 
 
 TOO LATE . . . . , . . . . . 174 
 
 ON SEEING LAID THE FIRST STONE OF PENINGTON CHURCH . 177 
 TO A YOUNG SOUTH AMERICAN SPANIARD .... 180 
 
 THE WARNING . . . . * . . . . 182 
 
 ARCHBISHOP GERSON . . . . . . . 186 
 
 ABRAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER 190 
 
XX CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE THREE SISTERS 197 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE . . . . . . 203 
 
 TO A CENTAGENARIAN ON HER HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY . . 210 
 
 TO EMILY ......... 212 
 
 that's what we are ....... 214 
 
 'tis hard TO DIE IN SPRING . . . . . . 224 
 
 I WEEP, BUT NOT REBELLIOUS TEARS .... 227 
 
 PAST AND PRESENT ........ 229 
 
 TO A WIDOWED FRIEND ....... 232 
 
 SONNETS — 
 
 V 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE FLY LEAF OF MY FATHERS OLD COPY 
 
 OF izAAK Walton's complete angler . . . 237 
 
 ON HEARING FOR THE FIRST TIME THE BELLS FROM A 
 
 new church ........ 238 
 
 to the crown prince of hanover .... 239 
 
 to the mother of lucretia and margaret davidson 240 
 " oh, pleasant cloud-land ! many a structure fair " 241 
 "unthinking youth! how prodk^al thou art" . 242 
 " forgive, father ! the infirmity " ... 243 
 
 " on, on upon our mortal course we go " . . 244 
 " ^ patient i am, resigned and calm,' ye say " . . 245 
 to an old family portrait . , . . . 246 
 
 " WE CAME TOGETHER AT LIFe's EVENTIDE " . . . 247 
 ON MY husband's BIRTHDAY 248 
 
POEMS. 
 
 EOBIN HOOD. 
 
 The richest jewel in all the heavenly treasure, 
 That ever yet unto the earth was shown, 
 Is perfect concord, — the only perfect pleasure 
 That wretched earth-born men have ever known ; 
 For many hearts it doth confound in one, 
 That whatso one doth speak, or will, or do. 
 With one consent they all agree thereto." 
 
 Sir J. Davies. Orchestra. 
 
 PART I.— R.S. 
 I. 
 
 Happy^ the adage saitli^ that Bride 
 Upon whose nuptial day 
 The sun sliines fairly forth ; — 
 That Corpse upon whose bier 
 Tlie rains of heaven descend. 
 
 ! Einma ! fanest^ loveliest of thy sex ! 
 
 ! Lady ! — heavenly-minded as liigh born^ 
 
 B 
 
2 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 That faitli was shaken by thy fate 
 In Loxley's pleasant bowers^ 
 And throughont Sherwood^s groves and greenwood glades^ 
 And all along the winding banks of Trent. 
 
 II. 
 Por suie^ if ever on a marriage day 
 Approving angels smiled 
 Upon their happy charge^ 
 ^Twas when her willing hand 
 Was to Lord Wilham given. 
 The noble to the noble — blooming youth 
 To manhood in its comeliness and prime : 
 Beauty to manhness and worth to worth ; 
 The gentle to the brave — 
 The generous to the good. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet not a sunbeam that May morning pierced 
 The dense and heavy canopy of clouds 
 Wliich poured their drenching stores continuous down. 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Amid the tliickest shade 
 The deer sought shelter — not a vernal song 
 Rose from the cheerless groves. — 
 Loxle/s loud bells, which should have sent 
 Their sweet and merry music far and wide 
 Throughout all Sherwood on that joyful day, 
 riung with vain effort then their jubilant peal 
 To the deaf storm that scatter^ it. 
 The wind alone was heard. 
 And in its intervals, the heavy rain 
 Incessant pattering on the leafy woods. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas ! the Lady Emma^s passing bell 
 "Was heard when May returned ! 
 And when through Loxle/s gate 
 She on her bier was borne, 
 Tlie deer were sporting in the sunny glades ; 
 Birds warbled — streams were sparkling — ^new-born flowers 
 Diffused then- fragrance on the breath of Spring. 
 There was joy in the air, 
 
 B 2 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 There was joy in the woods^ 
 There was joy in the waters^ 
 Joy everyT\^here but in the heart of man. 
 
 Doubly was that vain adage thus disproved ; 
 
 Doubly to all who knew 
 The gentle lady^ happy in her lord 
 Even to the height of wedded blessedness : 
 
 And then so holy in her life^ 
 So meek of heart — so bountiful of hand^ 
 
 That oft it had been said^ 
 With sad presagefuL feeling all too true^ 
 Heaven would not leave that angel long 
 
 In tliis unworthy world. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A mournful day for Sherwood^ — ne^er till then 
 Had that old forest seen 
 A grief so general^ since the oaks 
 Prom immemorial time had shadowed it ; 
 A mournful day for Loxle/s pleasant bowers 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Now to be left forlorn ! 
 A mournful day for Lindsey and for Kyme^ 
 Por Huntingdon ; for all Pitzhood^s domains 
 A day of evil and abiding woe. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The cradle had been dressed ; 
 Alas ! the mother^s bier hath been required. — 
 The gossips who had there 
 Por happiest office met 
 With busy pride convened in joyful hour. — 
 The guests who had been bidden there 
 To glad festivity^ 
 Eepass in funeral train^ 
 (True mourners they) the melancholy gate ; 
 And for the pancakes which officious joy 
 Made ready, never doubting such event, 
 The arval bread is doled. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Woe for that hospitable hall ; 
 Woe for the vassals of Fitzhood's domains, 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 So envied late^ as in tlieii lord 
 
 Above all vassals blest^ — 
 Their lord^ the just^ the bountiful^ the good. 
 
 Is lost to them this day ! 
 Earl William, when the Lady Emma died. 
 Died to the world : — He buries in her grave 
 
 His earthly hopes and fears — 
 His eartlily cares and ties he casts away — 
 The honr which hath bereaved Eitzhood 
 
 Hath widowed many a wife. 
 And many a child doth it leave fatherless. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Eor when Earl William found 
 That prayers and vows availed not to arrest 
 
 Tlie inevitable hour ; 
 He with a virile effort, self-controlled. 
 Closed like a miser^s treasure, in liis heart. 
 
 That grief of griefs. — His tears. 
 As if their springs were dry, forbore to flow- 
 
 His countenance was changed : 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Its anguish and its agony intense 
 
 Had passed away ; nor these alone. — 
 The wonted radiance wliich enlightens it, 
 The sunshine of the soul^ 
 Tlie warm benevolence, 
 Dehghting to diffuse 
 Its o^vn redundant happiness 
 Which there for ever shone : — 
 All were departed thence ; and in their stead 
 A cold and fixed serenity like death 
 Had set its stamp severe. 
 
 X. 
 
 Earl William, when the rites are done, 
 Sets forth upon his journey to defend 
 The holy Sepulchre ! 
 Short was the notice wliich was sent abroad 
 Throughout the forest — ^^ follow him who Hst. 
 
 They who are ready, with their lord 
 WiU from the church begin their pilgrimage. 
 They who remain to set 
 
 ^y 
 
8 EOBIN HOOD. 
 
 Their house in order^ at the post 
 
 Will join liim with what speed they may. 
 
 XI. 
 
 With less alacrity 
 The summons of their dread Hege lord the king 
 Would there have been obeyed 
 Than that sad invitation was^ by Knight^ 
 And Squire^ and Serving-man^ 
 And simple Porester. 
 Oh ! call not men ungrateful^ if sometimes 
 A monster of ingratitude is found ! 
 The crime is monstrous — men and beasts 
 Bear witness it is so ; for not alone 
 Speaking humanity disowns the stain ; 
 Even the dumb world doth manifest 
 That uncontaminate nature hath no part 
 In the abhorred offence. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Tliis da/s example proved 
 That grateful love esteems 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 No sacrifice too painful — none too great. 
 With prompt^ Tinliesitating faith^ not then 
 Eepining^ nor hereafter to repent. 
 Wives in their youth were left, 
 And parents in their age. 
 And cliildren who required a father^s care : 
 Last blessings were received. 
 And last embraces given. 
 And last adieus were breathed from bleeding hearts. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Behold the strange procession move along, 
 A mix'^d and mournful train ! 
 Krst the cross-bearer comes. 
 Lifting the standard of our faith on high^— 
 Memorial of our Lord, in whose dear name. 
 In sure and certain hope. 
 The dead are laid to rest. 
 The white-robed choristers came next^ 
 Singing the funeral psahn. 
 
10 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 With solemn intonation sad and sweet. 
 
 How pale and dim a flame 
 
 The yellow wax emits^ 
 Wliere the tall tapers two and two are borne^ 
 
 Less by their light descried 
 
 Than by their transient smoke^ 
 Wliich^ fleeting as the breath of mortal life^ 
 Melts in the air^ and is for ever gone. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Then on the bier^ in serecloths swathed 
 And grave-clothes garmented, 
 Comes what was late the human tabernacle 
 Of that immortal sphit, whom perhaps 
 A sense of earthly love 
 Saddens in heaven that hour ; — 
 A poor forsaken tenement of clay, 
 Yet in its ruins to be reverenced still 
 With human feehngs and rehgious awe, 
 And natural piety. 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 11 
 
 XV. 
 
 A pitiable sights 
 Beliind the mother^s bier, 
 Weeping, as well she may, the nurse 
 Bears in liis chrysome robe the new-born babe : 
 Sweetly he sleeps the while, 
 Insensate as that mother^s lifeless clay. 
 On either hand, in funeral pomp. 
 The escutcheons of De Yere and Beauchamp spread 
 Their mournful blazonry ; 
 Beliind, for war displayed. 
 The banner of Fitzhood ! 
 That banner which when last 
 Earl William hung in Loxle/s hall on liigh, 
 His happy heart had breathed 
 A silent prayer to heaven 
 It might hang idly there, 
 TiU after many a year had filled 
 Its inoffensive course ; 
 Some duteous hand might then 
 Suspend it o^er his hearse. 
 
12 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ! 
 
 A pious hope — an honourable pride ! 
 For wheresoever in the field 
 Those bands engrailed were seen^ 
 Sure token had they given ; 
 That on that side the rightful cause was found — 
 
 Sure confidence that all 
 Which worth and knightly prowess might achieve^ 
 Would that day there be done. 
 Fair promise and success 
 Against all vantages ; 
 And if such vantage made all valour vain^ 
 Even then a never-failing pledge 
 Of honour and renown. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 So Trent had witnessed on that famous day^ 
 
 Wlien tln-o^ his liigh-swoln stream 
 The standard-bearer bore liis precious charge^ 
 Exulting in such office ; wliile liis steed 
 Breastmg \vith ample chest 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 13 
 
 The rapid waters, eyed the bank iii hope, 
 And with straightforward effort won 
 Aslant liis fearless way. 
 Quailed at that unexpected sight. 
 The embattled enemy 
 Eenewed then charge, lite men subdued in soul ; 
 And Lmcoln, from its rescued walls. 
 Beheld the brave Usurper beaten down. 
 
 XYIII. 
 
 So Test had witnessed in an hour. 
 When Fortune turned away her face unjust : 
 And Wilton, when again 
 To the right cause she gave the meed 
 Of Yictory well deserved : 
 Tor whensoever to fields of civil strife, 
 Gloucester the wise, the prudent, and the good, 
 Went forth, by fatal circumstance compelled, 
 There was that banner seen ; 
 
 A sure support in need, 
 Tlien Huntingdon was found ; 
 
14 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 In peace or war^ in weal or woe, 
 
 The noble Eobert^s trust 
 In that tried friend was placed : 
 Bretln^en in soul they were, whom kindred worth 
 Had heart to heart allied. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Alas ! that banner heretofore 
 Had gone forth cheerfully ; 
 Boldly displayed with hope it had gone forth 
 With willing hearts, and hands alert, 
 
 And glad fidehty ; 
 And thoughts of that dear happiness. 
 Which, when the fight was done, 
 Awaited its return. 
 In funeral silence now it passed the gate, 
 Wliere loud hurrahs, with joyful augury. 
 Were wont to usher it : 
 And for the clarion^s voice, wliicli should have breathed 
 Anticipant of victory. 
 Its spirit-stirring note. 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 15 
 
 The deep-toned dirge was lieard before — 
 Tlie liorsemeii"^s pace beliind — 
 With regular foot-fall slow ; 
 And from the woods around, 
 The descant bHthe of blackbird and of tlnush, 
 And woodlarFs louder, hveher, richer strain ; 
 An unpremeditated concert wild 
 Of joyous natural sounds ; 
 Which gave to human grief 
 A keener edge that hour. 
 
 XX. 
 
 PuQ six score spears hath Sherwood sent: 
 Tliirty have joined from Lindsey and from Kyme ; 
 The rest are on the way. 
 And with the men of Huntuigdon, 
 Will on the march fall in. 
 Young Ingelram is there, for whom 
 Lihas is left to mourn, 
 And deem her gentle heart 
 Unhappily bestowed 
 
16 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 On one who^ at the will of liis liege lord, 
 Hath left it now to break. 
 
 High-minded youth ! he bears that grief 
 As deeply rooted in his own ; 
 Nor will it cease to rankle there. 
 Till, yielding to the fatal force 
 
 Of fell disease, by Syrian suns induced. 
 He sinks, his strength subdued ; 
 And from liis dyhig lips 
 
 The name of that beloved maid is heard. 
 
 In his last aspirations, breathed to Heaven. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Not with less sacrifice 
 The good Sir Gilbert goes — 
 Better will he endm-e the hour, 
 Wlien, like a lion taken in the toils, 
 Tlie Saracens will close their victims in. 
 And from all sides against the Christian dog. 
 Sure of its stroke, the scimitar descends ; — 
 Better will he endure 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 19 
 
 That hour of brave despair, 
 Of faithful hope and death ; 
 Than when upon Idonea^s Kps tliis morn 
 He prest a parting kiss, 
 And o^er liis only Boy 
 (A tln-ee years^ darhng) breathed, 
 With anguish iU subdued, 
 His valediction in a last embrace. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Look now at Eegmald ! 
 There is no heaviness upon his brow ; 
 
 No sorrow in that reckless eye ; 
 No trouble in that sensual comitenance ; 
 No bodings in that hard and hoUow heart : 
 He, when he breaks away from natural ties. 
 Not more obstruction feels 
 Than what, upon a still autumnal day. 
 The stag perceives upon his antlered crest, 
 Prom tln-eads of gossamer. 
 That spread and float along the tangled sky ; 
 Even the parental tears that fell for him 
 
18 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Will presently be dried. 
 Eeginald leaves no loves ; 
 Bears with him no regret — 
 No fond remembrance/ and no sad presage — 
 Nor doth one generons hope^ 
 Nor one rehgious aspiration^ stir 
 Witliin liis wortliless breast : 
 Tor he mito liimself is all in all. 
 So he may find his fill 
 Of animal content^ 
 He cares not where or how. 
 As Httle it imports 
 How^ where^ or when the inevitable hour 
 May overtake liim^ nor if w^orms at home^ 
 
 Sea sharks^ or Syrian dogs^ 
 Jackalls and vnltnxes share then fitting prey. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And this too^ might of Ulpho have been said ; 
 
 And tliis too of liimself — 
 : Self -judged— did Ulpho deem. 
 
 Born with an iron frame^ 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 19 
 
 His heart liad^ in the mould 
 Of that obdurate age^ 
 Received its impress. War had seemed to him 
 
 Man^s proper element^ 
 The one sole busmess not to be disdained — 
 The only pastime worthy of pursuit. 
 Nor when^ beneath the Leeches hand he lay^ 
 And felt the smart of wine 
 Witliin his open wounds^ 
 And saw^ for so it seemed^ the face of deaths 
 Did that sharp discipline 
 Abate the fiery fever of liis mmd. 
 But cooler years had overtaken him^ 
 And imperceptibly 
 The example of Earl WUham^s lovely hfe 
 
 Had sunk into liis hearty 
 Like gentle rain upon an herb whose root 
 Eetains the sap of life^ — 
 Green when its leaves have withered with long drought ; 
 And when he willingly obeyed 
 Tliis day^s unhappy call^ 
 ''Twas with a hope that^ in the Holy War^ 
 
 c 2 
 
20 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 He might atone for deeds^ 
 Wliicli^ when they rose again 
 Witliin his secret soul^ 
 At every visitation wore 
 A bloodier^ blacker hue. — 
 There went not in Earl William^s company 
 A wiser^ nor a sadder man that day. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 With what a different mien 
 Did Hereward bestride liis stately steed ! 
 The cloud that overcast liis coimtenance 
 Is but a passing grief. 
 The livery of the hour. 
 Tears he hath shed upon liis sister^'s neck^ 
 Upon liis mother^s knees^ 
 WlieU;, kneeling^ he received 
 Her blessing, dutifally felt, 
 And from a soul wliicli fomid 
 Support in piety. 
 Devoutly, painfiiUy^ and firmly given. 
 Tears he hath shed when girding on 
 His honoured father^s sword, 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 21 
 
 A^Hiich on tlie wall had hiing, 
 A mouriifiil relic/ since Tesfs fatal day, 
 Wliereon liis father fell. 
 And when the old hearth-dog 
 
 Pawned round liis parting steps, 
 
 « 
 
 And lifted an imploring look of love. 
 Tears had burst forth and freely flown. 
 Yet in those eyes thus dimmed 
 Heroic hope was seen, 
 And youthful asph'ation ; for tliis day 
 Puliils liis hearths desire. 
 Soon shall he now behold 
 Strange countries, and the pomp of glorious war ; 
 Soon on the misbeUevers shall he prove 
 His spirit not degenerate : in the joy 
 Of faith shall kiss the Holy Sepulchre, 
 And offering there the accepted sacrifice 
 
 Of his accompHshed vow, 
 Return — so he anticipates — to hang 
 Once more upon the wall liis father^s sword. 
 Thrice-hallowed then, and over it the pahn 
 To Christian merits due and knightly worth. 
 
22 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 PAET IL— a S. 
 I. 
 
 Majestically slow 
 The smi goes down in glory — 
 The fall-orbed autumn sun ; 
 Prom battlement to basement^ 
 Prom flanking tower to flanking tower^ 
 The long-ranged windows of a noble hall 
 Pling back the flamy splendour. 
 Wave above wave below^ 
 Orange^ and green^ and gold^ 
 Eusset and crimson, 
 Like an embroidered zone, ancestral woods, 
 Close romid on all sides : 
 Those again begirt 
 In wavy undulations of all hues 
 To the horizon^'s verge by the deep forest. 
 
 II. 
 
 The holy stillness of the hour. 
 The hush of hmnan Hfe, 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 23 
 
 Lets tlie low voice be heard — 
 The low^ sweety solemn voice 
 Of the deep woods — 
 Its mystical murmuring 
 Now swelling mto choral harmony — 
 Rich^ full^ exultant ; 
 In tremulous wliispers next^ 
 Sinking away^ 
 A spiritual undertone^ 
 Till the cooing of the woodpigeon 
 
 Is heard alone ; 
 And the going in the tree-tops^ 
 Like the somid of the sea 
 And the tinkling of many streamlets. 
 
 III. 
 But hark ! what sonorous sound 
 "Wakens the woodland echoes ? 
 
 Again^ and yet again — 
 That long^ deep^ meUow tone 
 Slow swinging thro^ the motionless air.- 
 Prom yonder knoU it comes^ 
 
24 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Where the grey gables of an ancient pile 
 Between the forest waves 
 (More sombrous there) 
 Are just discernible. 
 Again ; — how sweetly solemn ! 
 How sootliing sweet the sound ! 
 And hark ! — a heavenlier still — a holy chaunt- 
 Ave Maria ! ^tis the vesper bell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 From the battlemented height 
 Of the baronial hall^ 
 Slowly retire the sunbeams : 
 And where they lingering lie 
 (As in love loth to depart) 
 On the fair terrace underneath^ 
 Longer and blacker fall the pointed shadows 
 Of the dwarfed yews^ pyramidally cKpt, 
 
 Each in its wrought-stone vase^ 
 Along the heavy spiral balusters 
 At regular distance set. 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 25 
 
 V. 
 
 Wliat a strange stillness reigns ! 
 No sound of life witliin^ 
 No stir of life without : 
 The very fountain in that trellis^l flower court 
 The terrace overlooks. 
 Sends up from the unfailing source 
 Its sparkling jet no longer — 
 The leaden Nereid, with her empty urn 
 Half-buried in fallen leaves, where she lies low 
 In her green, slhny basin. 
 
 VI. 
 
 What a strange stiUness reigns ! 
 Grass grows in the vast courts, 
 Where, if a loosened stone falls, 
 HoUow reverberations ring around. 
 Like the voices of Desolation. 
 No hurrying to and fro of gay retainers. 
 No jostling claimants at the Buttery-hatch 
 Hushed the great stable-yard ; 
 No hoof-stamp in the staU, 
 
26 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 No steed led fortli^ 
 No hawk in training. 
 Not a hound in leash ; 
 No jingling bridles and sharp sound of spur, 
 And gibe and jest — ^loud laugh and snatch of song. 
 And call and quick command 
 ^Mongst grooms and gallants there. 
 No sight nor sound 
 Of Hfe or living tiling ; 
 Only at intervals, a deep-mouthed bay, 
 And the clanking of chains, 
 Wlien, from liis separate watch. 
 One mastiff answers another : 
 Or a cat steals along in the shadow — 
 Or a handmaiden crosses — just seen, and gone ; 
 Or a grey-headed Servitor. 
 
 VII. 
 
 See ! to then lofty e^^ies 
 The Martens are coming home : 
 With a strange boldness, metliinks, 
 As in right of sole possession. 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 27 
 
 How they sweep round the silent walls ! 
 
 And over the terrace now 
 Are wheeling in mad gyrations. 
 
 And hark ! to that stir witliin — 
 ^Tis the ringing laugh of a Baby, 
 That sweetest of human sounds. 
 ^^ Wouldst thou follow the Martens, my sweet one ? 
 
 My bird ! wouldst thou fly away, 
 And leave tliine old Nurse all alone ?^^ cries a voice ; 
 And the sound of a kiss is heard, 
 And the murmur of infant fondness. 
 Like the crooning of a dove. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And see, where the terrace abuts 
 That northern flanking tower, 
 From a side entrance — 
 Wmdow and portal both — 
 "With musical laugh and scream. 
 And gibberings uninteUigibly sweet. 
 And pretty passion, scuffling the small feet, 
 A cliild comes tottering out. 
 
28 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Eagerly straining on its leading-strings, 
 Trom her upholding hand who follows close- 
 That old devoted woman. 
 And side by side, and step for step, sedate. 
 Serious as with that woman jomed in trust. 
 Paces a noble wolf-dog, — 
 His grave eye 
 Incessant glancing at the infant Heir. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The infant Heir ! — E^en so. 
 In those blue veins, with dehcate tracery 
 MarbHng the pearly fairness 
 Of that large open brow. 
 The blood of Beauchamp and Eitzhood 
 Elows mingled. 
 And tliis is Loxley — 
 His father^s hall ancestral. 
 His mother^'s bridal bower. 
 And as he stretches out liis Httle hands 
 Toward that butterfly. 
 Its airy flight. 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 29 
 
 As if ill mockery of tlie vain pursuit^ 
 Leads on liis eager eye 
 (All reckless lie^) 
 To where she slmnbers yonder, 
 In that grey pile, from whence the vesper beli 
 Eesonnded late. 
 Sleeping the dreamless sleep. 
 
 X. 
 
 Six months tlirice told 
 Have tanglit those tottering feet 
 The first imstable steps. 
 And with a double row of pearl complete 
 Have lined those rosy lips. 
 And tuned that tongue 
 To stammer ^^ Father V^ with its earhest prayer. 
 ^^ Of such httle ones,^^ God hath said, 
 By the mouth of liis dear Son, 
 That their Angels do always behold liim. 
 
 Li the day of battle, who knows 
 But the prayer of liis cliild may come 
 Between Earl WiUiam^s head 
 And the Moslem schnitar ! 
 
30 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 XI. 
 
 For in the Holy Land lie tarries yet — 
 
 The good Earl William : 
 Por the safe rearing of his infant Boy 
 Confiding under God — 
 
 (God over all) 
 Whose servant and whose soldier 
 
 Doubly signed, 
 He doth avouch liimself — 
 To the fond guardianship 
 Of liis dead Lady^s nurse. 
 
 Old faitliful Cecily, 
 And of liis venerable almoner. 
 
 Good Pather Hugh ; 
 The same who joined liis hand, 
 
 Tn holy marriage vow. 
 With the lost Emma; 
 Who, at the close of the short bridal year. 
 Pronounced beside her grave. 
 With tremulous voice. 
 The sentence on all living, 
 '' Dust to Dust : '' 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 31 
 
 And^ e^er the clangour of the closing vault 
 Through the long echoing arches 
 
 Died away, 
 Had dedicated to the Lord 
 The motherless innocent, 
 The infant Robert. 
 
 XII. 
 
 So in forsaken Loxle/s halls 
 Sole rulers they remamed ; — 
 Of the deserted child 
 Sole guardians; — 
 That grey-haired Man of God, 
 And faithful woman okl. 
 And with a deep devotedness of love. 
 And feudal fealty, 
 Emiobled by affection, 
 And sense of liigher duty, — as of those 
 Wlio to a greater than their eartlily liege-lord 
 Must one day give accomit, — 
 Did each discharge liis trust. 
 According to the measure of liis gifts. 
 
32 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 And as befitted each 
 In liis own proper station. 
 
 « XIII, 
 
 And much deHghted^ he^ 
 That good okl man^ 
 (Learned^ as good^ 
 And as the unlearned^ simple)^ 
 To share with Cicely her pious task 
 Of earhest teacliing. 
 And when the beautiful Babe^ 
 With hands devoutly folded palm to pahn^ 
 Held up witliin liis own. 
 Murmured the first short prayer ; 
 Or all i^ th^ midst, 
 With innocent nreverence broke off 
 Into contagious nmih ; 
 Or with grave mimickry 
 Shpping Ins fair curled head 
 Into the rosary at the Pather^s girdle. 
 Made show to tell the beads ; 
 Or to He liidden 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 33 
 
 Quite lost, forsooth ! 
 r th^ folds of his dark robe, 
 Tlien would the venerable man 
 
 Tall into visions oft, 
 Prefiguring to liimself 
 A time when on the tablets of that mind. 
 
 So unimpressible now, 
 He should write precious things ; 
 And with God^s blessing, of one noble scion 
 
 Make a ripe scholar. 
 Aye — a clerk — (who knows ?) 
 
 Learned as royal Beauclerc ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Good Father Hugh ! 
 ^Twas a right pleasant dream ; 
 But as the Uttle Eobert throve apace. 
 From baby-hood to boy-hood 
 Making fast progress. 
 And of excellent parts 
 Gave promise ; 
 Quick-witted sense and shrewdness- 
 
34 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 Noble nature — 
 Gentle and generous^ as brave and bold — 
 Loving withal^ and trutliful ; 
 Yet^ sooth to say^ — 
 And the good Father still 
 Would muse perplext upon that verity^ — 
 Small aptness shewed the boy^ 
 And likmg less 
 Por serious task ^soever : 
 Neither at sight of horn-book^ 
 Or lettered page so fair 
 Illuminated — ^beautiful to see — 
 
 With large red capitals^ 
 Sparkled liis dark blue eyes. 
 And evermore he failed 
 To count aright the niunerals^ all a-row 
 Eanged in fair order ; 
 Wliereas^ strange to tell. 
 And true as strange, 
 Let Hubert the old huntsman but fling down 
 (Humouring the clnld) 
 His arrows all a-heap, 
 
ROBIN HOOD. 35 
 
 And lo ! as at a glance the tale was told^ 
 True to a feather. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And at his pasthne in the Hall^ where now 
 Tor warlike trophy scarce a spear was left 
 Propping the dusty banners^ 
 Of every stag whose antlers branched around 
 He could tell every story^ 
 True, as taught 
 By that old Huntsman, 
 Missing not a tittle. 
 Wlierea^, of daintiest legend, 
 Treating of saint, or martyr holiest. 
 
 Or sage profound, 
 Por delectation and improvement both 
 Culled by the Father, and recomited oft 
 With persevering patience ; 
 No single circumstance. 
 Sentence or syllable, could he retain. 
 
 Not for an hour ! 
 
 Marvelled the good man much. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 '' This thing/^ thought he, '^ is hard to understand ; 
 But strong in faith and hope 
 He kept his even course, 
 Casting his bread upon the waters, 
 To find — God willing — 
 After many days, 
 
 -Yr ^ ^ ^ ¥: 
 
THE THREE SPANIARDS. 
 
 Hi s. 
 
 Hear in Homeric verse the fateful tale of a shipwreck, 
 
 Which, in the Mexican Gulf, the Licentiate Alonzo Zuazo 
 
 Suffered long ago. I found the story in Spanish, 
 
 Told in that noble tongue by old Oviedo of Valdez, 
 
 Who from Zuazo himself received the faithful relation. 
 
 Strange and sad the tale, but one to be fitly related ; 
 
 Por it is good for men to hear of bodily evils 
 
 Resolutely met ; and when power hath failed for resistance. 
 
 Meekly borne ; it is good to hear of moral endurance, 
 
 Hope in extremity held ; and when hope could be held 
 no longer, 
 
 Of resignation then, on fervent piety founded. 
 
 And by faith sustained, which, tho^ not without super- 
 stition. 
 
 Manifested here its strength, and its truth, and its virtue. 
 
38 THE THREE SPANIARDS. 
 
 Thus it befell Francesco de Garay, tlie Adelantado, 
 
 Who sought to share in the spoils of the golden Mexican 
 empire ; 
 
 Asked and obtained fi^om the court what then was eagerly 
 gi'anted 
 
 In those early days^ the command of the Province Panneo^ 
 
 To be by him subdued. Forthwith a gallant armada 
 
 Prom Jamaica thitherward bomid set sail ; but arriving 
 
 In a haven of Cuba^ he there heard news that already 
 
 Cortes^ whose grant was unknown^ had taken possession. 
 
 Evil news to liim, for he in tliis fleet had expended^ 
 
 Lavish in confident hope^ the fruits of liis former plmider. 
 
 Should he assert liis right in arms ? — Tlie issue was 
 doubtful^ 
 
 Certain the loss of lives^ ill spent for private ambition^ 
 
 And by the Emperor great would surely be deemed the 
 disservice 
 
 Done to him and the Cln:istian cause : best therefore he 
 thought it 
 
 That he should treat at once on terms of friendly accord- 
 ance, 
 
 Such as might profit each and save the shiful effusion 
 
 Of Spanish blood. Wliom now should he charge with 
 this critical errand ? 
 
THE THREE SPANIARDS. 39 
 
 Grave must the agent be^ and one whose habits were 
 rather 
 
 Those of the gown than the sword^ yet who with practical 
 knowledge 
 
 Both of the times and the ways of men^ could skilfuUy 
 temper 
 
 Legal and just demands^ so gaining liis end by persuasion. 
 
 Such a man was at hand — the Licentiate Alonzo Zuazo^ 
 
 Tlien unemployed^ liaving just resigned the rule of the 
 island : 
 
 One of liigh repute for his parts^ to the Adelantado 
 
 Well known^ and to Cortes lihnself an acceptable person. 
 
 He^ with Diego Velasquez^ the governor^ duly perpending 
 
 What good haply might here be done^ what evil averted^ 
 
 Not for selfish aim^ but for tliis sole consideration^ 
 
 Took on liimself tliis weighty charge^ as bound by his duty 
 
 To God and the Ejbig of Spain. It fortuned then in the 
 harbour 
 
 There w^as a caravel ready for sea^ too Httle of burden^ 
 
 Somewhat indeed^ too shght for the gulf it would have 
 to encounter ; 
 
 But of late repaired and refitted. Tliis vessel he freighted^ 
 
 Put himself on board with no small part of liis fortune^ 
 
40 THE THREE SPANIARDS. 
 
 And from the port of Zaqua took liis final departure^ 
 
 HimseK for the happy success of liis mission commending 
 
 Unto all Saints, but chiefly to Mary the mother of mercies. 
 
 Coasting along they went, till they came to Cape St. 
 Anton, 
 
 Of that long isle the westermost point, which leaving 
 beliind them. 
 
 Into the gulf they launched, and steered their course 
 eastward across it, — 
 
 Miserable men ! — ^Uttle deeming to what they were des- 
 tiaed. 
 
 Many days with contrary winds they there had contended, 
 
 When at length at the midnight hour a terrible tempest 
 
 Overtook their slender bark, which was now by the billows 
 
 Lifted high upon the swell ; — anon, with rapid impulsion, 
 
 Hurried precipitate down. Now o^er the mast they im- 
 pended. 
 
 Then o^er the reeling bark they broke with a thundering 
 downfall. 
 
 And the dark depths yawned beneath, as if to enguK 
 her; 
 
 Nothing availed the pilot's art, nor the skill of the hehns- 
 man, 
 
THE THREE SPANIARDS. 41 
 
 In that madness of sea and sky ; nor the sailors^ exertions^ 
 Nor Zuazo^s remorseful mind^ which, collected in danger. 
 Placing in Heaven his hope, otherwise hopeless, 
 Put in use aU human means "^ -x- -^ ^ ^ 
 ^ ^ ^- ^ ^ -^ '^ ^ ^ 
 
MARCH. 
 
 R. S. 
 
 •* 
 
 Rough is thine entrance^ March ! the Traveller^ 
 Seated at evening by his inn fireside^ 
 Harks to the hollow blast that heralds thee^ 
 And stirs the blazing fire^ and to the hearth 
 Draws nearer^ tliinkmg of to-morrow^s road. 
 Old Ocean labours with the incumbent storm^ 
 And heaves liis waves convulsed ; the mariner 
 Beholds their curling heads and sheeted slope^ 
 And when the wet blast and the heavy spray 
 Beat on liim^ weary^ stiff and sliivering^ 
 He tliinks in sorrow of the distant port. 
 Eough is tliine entrance^ March ! but welcome tliou^ 
 The harbinger of Spring. 
 
 The noontide walk 
 Not undehghtful now^ though tlu:o' the wood^ 
 
MARCH. 43 
 
 The greenwood lingering stilly no gentle gale 
 
 Around the fohage of overhanging boughs 
 
 Melodious moves : what though the vernal mead 
 
 No rich profusion spreads of golden flowers 
 
 That laugh luxuriant in the summer sun^ 
 
 Yet o^er the sober green the willing eye 
 
 Dwells with a tranquil joy : what though the grove 
 
 Lifts not its leafy honom^s now^ adorned 
 
 With mid-year freshness^ or the many hues 
 
 Of autumn ; pleasant is it to behold 
 
 The grey ash spreading wide its naked arms ; 
 
 The beech^ beneath whose red^ dry^ rustling leaves 
 
 Bursts the young bud secm^e^ or the broad ehn^ 
 
 Tliro^ all whose infinite branching the new sap 
 
 Plows first revived and brightens the brown bud. 
 
 Pleasant the earlier dawn^ the warmer ray 
 
 Of noon^ the evening twilight^s lengthening hom\ 
 
 Eougli is tliine entrance^ March ! yet welcome thou. 
 
 "We know the better season diaweth nigh^ 
 
 And welcome the rude winds that herald it. 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 ** Those who have laid the harp aside, 
 And turned to idler things, 
 From very restlessness have tried 
 The loose and dusty strings, 
 And catching back some favourite strain, 
 Run with it o'er the chords again." 
 
 W, S. Landor. 
 
 My lonely ramble yester-eve I took^ 
 
 Along that pleasant path that by the brook 
 
 (Skirting its flowery margin) winds away 
 
 Tlirough fields all fragrant now with new-moT^m hay. 
 
 I could not choose but linger as I went^ 
 
 A willing idler ; with a child^s content^ 
 
 Gathering the wild-flowers^ on that streamlet^s edge^ 
 
 Spared by the mower^s scythe ; a fringing ledge 
 
 Of spiky purple ; epilobium tall^ 
 
 Veronicas, and cuplike coronal 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 45 
 
 Of golden crowsfoot ; waving meadow-sweet, 
 And wilding rose, that dipt the stream to meet. 
 
 And that small brook, so shallow and so clear ! 
 
 The mother-ewe, without a mother^s fear. 
 
 Led her young lamb from off the shelving brink, 
 
 Firm in the midway stream to stand and drink. 
 
 ^Twas pleasant, as it dipped and gazed, to see 
 
 Its wonder at the waf ry mimicry ; 
 
 As here and there, the ripple glancing by. 
 
 Imaged an up-drawn foot — a round black eye. 
 
 Wide staring ; and a nose, to meet liis own 
 
 That seemM advancing from below. Anon, 
 
 Prom the dark hollow of a Kttle cove. 
 
 By an old oak-root, riclily groined above. 
 
 Where lay the gathered waters still and deep, 
 
 A vaulted well : e^en thence there seems to peep 
 
 A round wliite staring face, that starts away 
 
 As he liimself starts back in quick dismay. — 
 
 Again advancing, with a bolder stare, 
 
 He butts defiance. Lo ! it meets liim there. 
 
 And answers threat with tlneat. He stands at bay. 
 
46 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 Perplexed ; and ripe for warfare or for play. 
 Wlio liad not loiterM^ gazed^ and smiled like me^ 
 Pleased with the pretty wanton^s antic glee ? 
 And cried^ ^^ Nature V^ from a thankful hearty 
 ^^ How graceful^ and how beautiful thou art V^ 
 But all around me in that pleasant place^ 
 Was rife with beauty^ harmony^ and grace. 
 Tlie glow of sunset mantled earth and sky — 
 The evening breeze came softly shivering by^ 
 Laden with incense. ^Mongst the tedded hay^ 
 The fresh-discovered carpet^ emerald green^ 
 Outspread its velvet softness ; sight, I ween, 
 Tempting, to wistful gaze of lowing kine. 
 That in their stale, embrowned pastures pine. 
 Loathing and restless ; and impatient wait 
 The tardy opening of that barrier gate. 
 Tlie mower^s whetstone there abandoned tln'o^nj 
 Silent Ills wliistling scythe — liimseK was gone ; 
 But gamesome Echo, as he trudged away. 
 Caught up the burden of his rustic lay ; — 
 Tlien, as the doubled cadence died remote. 
 Prom an old thorn-bush near, came dropping out 
 
THE EVENING AVALK. 47 
 
 A sweeter strain ; so tremulously low 
 
 At firsts as if tlie very soul of wo 
 
 WaiFd in its music : but that dying close 
 
 Melted in air^ and^ on tlie fall, arose 
 
 A burst of rapture, swelling clear and strong. 
 
 In all the wild exuberance of song. — 
 
 Methought, as all unseen I liearkenM nigh, 
 
 The little minstrel sang exultmgiy, — 
 
 ^^ Man to his home is gone, and leaveth free 
 
 The weary world at last, to peace and me/^ 
 
 Peace ! peace ! but not all peace. — E^en there was heard 
 
 The voice of mourning : a bereaved bird 
 
 (Ah ! piteous contrast to that minstrel bhthe) 
 
 Hovered about the spot, where late the scythe 
 
 Wide sweeping, had to prying eyes reveaFd 
 
 Her lowly nest — so cunningly concealM. 
 
 There, by rude hands displaced and scatter^, lay 
 
 The downy cradle of her young ; and they. 
 
 The callow nurselings, they mth cliirpings slnill. 
 
 And quivering phiions, from her loaded hill 
 
 That late received their portions — where were they ? 
 
48 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 Gone — ^in close wiry cell to pine away, 
 IVTiere never parent bird^s returning strain 
 Shall wake them up to life and love again* 
 
 So — ^loitering — ^lingering — musing as I went, 
 Homeward at last my devious steps I bent, 
 (Leaving the meadows), by the forest road 
 That skirts the common. Many a neat abode. 
 Dwelling of rural industry, I passM, 
 And Kttle fields and gardens, from the waste 
 CribbM, long and narrow. Oh ! invidious eye. 
 That passeth not these poor encroachments by 
 With look averted J if it may not see 
 In strictness of judicial trust j or free 
 To gaze unharmful on the poor man^s toil 
 That blesseth not the increase of the soil. 
 
 Stirring with life was every cottage door. 
 The humble owner there (liis labour o^er) 
 Stood in the smiset, watching doAvn the west 
 Tlie round, red orb descending. To liis breast, 
 One huggM a little infant : one, with knife 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 49 
 
 Of clumsy fasliion^ for the neat good-wife 
 Wrought some rude implement ; or made repair, 
 In the old milking stool, or crazy chair. 
 One stood intently poring o^er the stye 
 Wliere munched liis pig ; with calculating eye 
 Measuring its growth, and counting o^er and o^er, 
 How much the profits of so many score. 
 And many a one still found some task to do 
 In liis small garden ; and perform^ it too 
 With cheerful heart, as if such toil were play. 
 After the heat and burden of the day. 
 And many a one, as close I passed liim by. 
 Bade me ^^ good night ^^ with rustic courtesy. 
 A homely salutation ! that to me 
 Endeareth evening : seemeth then to be 
 (So oft l\e thought) a kindlier sympathy 
 ^Twixt all God's creatures. Should I reason why, 
 Yain were the attempt. I only feel ^tis so — 
 Yet one perhaps of deeper search might show 
 The source whence those mysterious feelings flow. 
 
 Is it perchance^ as darkness draweth nigh, 
 
 E 
 
50 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 Type of the grave^ where soon we all shall he ; 
 And sleep^ the tj])e of death, comes steahng on, 
 Wlien, all our strength and aU our cunning gone, 
 The strongest smews and the wisest head 
 ShaU He aKke defenceless as the dead ? 
 Is it that t/ie?ty by some mysterious cause, 
 Man toward man in closer union draws ? 
 That then, perhaps, as in the dying hour. 
 Distinctions fade, of rank, and wealth, and power. 
 And human hearts instinctively confess 
 The mutual bond of mutual helplessness. 
 Mutual dependence — ay, of great and small — 
 On one — ^the God and Father of us aU. 
 
 Slowly the straggling cottagers I past^ 
 
 Still homeward wending, till I reached at last 
 
 (There was I ever wont to stand and gaze) 
 
 A lonely dwelling, that in bygone days. 
 
 But two years back, or httle more, had been 
 
 The neatest tenement on Rushbrook Green. 
 
 A better sort of cottage, it contain^ 
 
 Two upper rooms, whose wmdows, lattice-paned. 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 51 
 
 PeerM tlirougli tlie tliatcli^ and overhanging leaves 
 
 Of a young vine. On one side^ from the eaves 
 
 Sloped down — addition trim of later date — 
 
 A long, low penthouse ; oft with heart elate 
 
 Eyed by the builder. — ^^ There for sure/^ said he, 
 
 ^^ Wlien winter comes, how snug our cow wiU be.^^ 
 
 And the goodwife, like fashionable wives, 
 
 Had her own pin-money. Her straw-roof d liives, 
 
 Kanged all a-row against the southern wall. 
 
 Yielded in prosperous seasons, at the fall. 
 
 Such profits as she spread with honest pride 
 
 Before her well-pleased partner. Then, beside. 
 
 She had her private treasure, hoarded up 
 
 Tor Clnistmas hohday ; a sparkhng cup 
 
 Of rich brown mead, a neighbour's heart to cheer 
 
 On winter evenings ; and tln:oughout the year 
 
 For passing guest, a kindly-proffer' d treat 
 
 Of mild metheglin — mild, and pale, and sweet. 
 
 There was no garden kept like Isaac Rae's. 
 
 Soon after sunrise in the longest days. 
 
 And in the twilight — liis hard taskwork done — 
 
 E 2 
 
52 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 (His long da/s labours in the summer sun^) 
 There might you see liim^ toiling^ toiling on^ 
 Till every fading streak of day was gone. 
 ^Tis true^ no garden could with Isaac^s vie 
 Round all the common ; crammM so curiously^ 
 And yet so neat and fruitful. Then the wall — 
 For hedge it were almost a sin to call 
 The Hving rampart — that was Isaac^s pride ; 
 And there he chpt and clipt^ and spied and spied. 
 That from the quick-set line, so straight and true. 
 No vagrant twig should straggle into view, 
 
 Tliere were no children kept like Isaac Eae^s, 
 
 And he had seven. '^ Well, my Phoebe says,^^ 
 
 Himself once told me just three years agone. 
 
 Presenting proud his last-born little one — 
 
 ^^ She says — ^tlie Lord sends hungry mouths, ^tis true. 
 
 But then he sends the meat to fill them too, 
 
 Por we have never wanted, thanks to liim ! 
 
 Nor sha^n^'t, wliile Isaac Rae has life and limb 
 
 To labour for them ; nor it sha^n^t be said 
 
 His cliildren ever broke the parish bread ; 
 
THE EVENING WALK. S3 
 
 Not while tlie Lord is good to us, and still 
 Gives me the strength to labour, with the will/^ 
 
 The wiU continued, — but the strength, — alas ! 
 
 There came a painful accident to pass. 
 
 His master^s team, for many years the same 
 
 His voice had guided, every horse by name. 
 
 Like household dogs, accustomed to obey 
 
 Its tones familiar, one unlucky day 
 
 Startled to sudden madness, broke away 
 
 From aU command ; and struggling to restrain 
 
 Their headlong progress — struggUng all in vain — 
 
 His footing failed — he fell — and he was gone — 
 
 Eight o^er liis chest the wheel came crushing on. 
 
 And yet he lived and hved. Oh, lingering death ! 
 
 How terrible thou art, when every breath 
 
 Is drawn with painful gasp ; and some poor heart 
 
 Of mother, cliild, or wife, for every start 
 
 That shakes the sufferer, feels a deadlier throe — 
 
 Feels, as I Ve heard poor Phoebe say, as though 
 
 Each time a drop of blood were wrung from thence. 
 
 It was the wiU of AU-wise Providence 
 
54 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 That Isaac long should linger in his pain^ 
 
 Yet never known to mnrmur or complain^ 
 
 N — onor to wish the tedious time away, 
 
 "Was he, while helpless on his bed he lay, 
 
 Nor one hnpatient, fretful word to say. 
 
 Helpless and hopeless — yet, a httle space 
 
 Hope faintly dawiiM. Li the kind surgeon^s face, 
 
 (A man of kind and Cln^istian heart was he,) 
 
 The ever-watchful wife was quick to see 
 
 A changed expression, but she dared not say 
 
 ^^ Is there a hope ?^^ lest it should fade away. 
 
 That blessed gleam ! and leave her dark once more : 
 
 So she was mute, but followed to the door 
 
 With asking eyes. — He (kindly cautious) said — 
 
 ^^ There is a chance — but ^^ so unfinished 
 
 Leaving the sentence. "^Tis a cruel task 
 To look discouragement on eyes that ask 
 Only for leave to hope, — a hard one, too. 
 Having permitted hope, to keep in view, 
 Dasliing her timid joy, the spectre fear. 
 At length they wliisperM in the poor man^s ear 
 Tliat ke might live. He only shook liis head. 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 55 
 
 But when a low consulting readied his bed 
 
 About the county hospital — how there 
 
 Patients were treated with the kindest care — 
 
 How all that medicine^ all that skill could do 
 
 Was done for them — and how they were brought tlu'ough 
 
 The tedious time of slow recovery^ 
 
 Better than in their own poor homes could be ; 
 
 Then lifted he his feeble voice to say, 
 
 ^^ Send me not there — Oh ! send me not away 
 
 From my poor home — my true and tender wife, 
 
 And loving Kttle ones, to end my life 
 
 In a strange place, with all strange faces near : 
 
 My father and my mother both died here — 
 
 Here in tliis very room in peace they died. 
 
 And sleep in our own churchyard side by side ; 
 
 And I shall soon be with them where they He ; 
 
 Send me not hence in a strange place to die ! 
 
 I shall not Unger long — ^^twiU soon be past — 
 
 Oh ! let me see my cliildren to the last/^ 
 
 He had liis A\dsh — they sent liim not away ; 
 So there upon his own poor bed he lay 
 
56 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 Yet a few weeks^ awaiting his release ; 
 And there at last he closed his eyes in peace. 
 In CJmdian jpeace he yielded up his breathy 
 But oh ! for Imn there was a sting in death — 
 His wife ! liis little ones ! — and they were seven^ 
 All helpless infants. . . But for trust in heaven^ 
 Trust in His word who sayeth — ^^ Leave to me 
 Thy fatherless cliildren/^ great assuredly 
 The dying father^s parting pang had been. 
 I saw the widow ere the closing scene, 
 The funeral, was over. There she sate 
 (^Twas on Sabbath morning) calm, sedate. 
 Composed and neat, as she had ever been 
 On the Lord^s day, when I so oft had seen 
 Her and her husband, and their eldest three. 
 Hastening to church : and now prepared was she 
 And her seven orphans, all in decent show 
 Of humble mourning that same path to go, 
 Following the father^s cofiin. They were there. 
 The Httle creatures ! huddling round her chair. 
 Troubled and mute, with eyes upon her face 
 (Some tearful) fix'd, and aU as if to trace 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 57 
 
 Its meekly mournful meaning : all save lie^ 
 The yomigest Innocent : upon lier knee 
 He clambered up, and croVd witli baby glee, 
 And stroked her face, and HspM liis father's name. 
 Then might be seen, convulsive tlu'ough her frame, 
 A. universal shudder : nor alone 
 Struck to lier heart the caU : — a wailing moan 
 Among the elder orphans rose, and one 
 (The boy of whom liis father was so proud) 
 FeU on his mother^s neck, and wept aloud. 
 Her eyes were misty — but no tears she shed. 
 Kissing with quivering hps the bo/s fair head. 
 As on her breast (the face conceard) it lay. 
 And then, to aU around, who came to pay 
 (Neighbours and friends) to the respected dead 
 Their last sad tribute, some few words she said 
 Of thankfulness to each, and spoke of liim 
 Calmly : wliile many an eye with tears grew dim. 
 
 The fiuieral moved : — and through the humble door 
 He passed, who left it to retm^n no more. 
 Against the side part, as ^twas carried by. 
 They jarrM the coffin : — then a stifl.ed cry 
 
58 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 Escaped the widow^ and a sign^ as though 
 
 From that insensate form^ to ward the blow 
 
 She felt ujpon her heart : a moment all 
 
 In silence stopt^ while one arranged the paU ; 
 
 Then sounded slow the bearers^ heavy tread^ 
 
 As to his last long home they bore the dead. 
 
 The staff and stay of all the house was gone^ 
 
 And evil .days came darkly hurrying on ; 
 
 And yet with all the energy of love 
 
 (A widowed mother^s !) that lone woman strove 
 
 (The poor have little leisure for their grief) 
 
 To feed her Httle ones without rehef 
 
 Of parish pittance. — ^^ He would grieve/^ she thought^ 
 
 ^^ To know his wife and babes so low were brought, 
 
 Tlie hand is cold that toiled for us^ ^tis true ; 
 
 But I can stiU work hard ; and Jemmy too 
 
 Grows helpful^ and he ^U earn a trifle soon 
 
 Toward liis own keep. The cottage is our own, 
 
 And for the garden ... I can dig there now^ 
 
 Tho^ not Hive Inm indeed ; — and then one cow ^^ . . . 
 
 But then she stopt and sigh'd. Alas ! she knew 
 
 There was a heavy debt ; contracted^ too, 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 59 
 
 To a hard creditor^ of whom ^twas known 
 
 That he severely reckoned for his own. 
 
 '^ But then/^ thought she^ ^^ it may not all be true 
 
 Polks tell of liim ; and when I hmnbly sue 
 
 Only for patience — for a longer day. 
 
 He will not take my cliildren^s bread away/^ 
 
 Thou hadst to learn sad truth, poor simple one ! 
 
 How ten times harder than the hard flint stone 
 
 That human heart may be, whose god is gold. 
 
 The prayer was spurnM — the widow's cow was sold. 
 
 That stroke fell heavy; but it crush\l not quite 
 
 The noble spirit that still kept in sight 
 
 Its faithful purpose. ^^ All^s not gone/^ she said; 
 
 ^^ Tlieir father^s words upon liis dying bed 
 
 Were — ^ Phoebe ! keep them from the workhouse walls 
 
 Wliilst thou hast strength. There ^s not a sparrow falls 
 
 But Chie above takes note thereof; and He 
 
 Will not forsake thy Uttle ones and thee.'' ^^ 
 
 So she strove on. Yea ! morning, noon, and night ; 
 Por the late traveller oft observed a Hght, 
 
60 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 As o^er the moorland waste Tie lookM afar, 
 Prom Phoebe^s cottage, twinkling lilce a star 
 Athwart the darkness. And Tve heard one tell — 
 One in her prosperous days who knew her well. 
 An old wayfaring man, whose lonely road. 
 Oft after midnight, past her poor abode. 
 Led to the Yillage Inn — IVe heard him say. 
 How many a time when he has passed that way 
 At that dead hour, attracted by the ray 
 Of her small candle, he has looFd Avitliin, 
 And seen her, with a hand all pale and tliin. 
 Plying her needle. ^^ Ay, so t/d7i/^ said he, 
 ^^ As ^twas held up between the hght and me, 
 Tlu*ough it the flame with ruddy brightness shone — 
 And her poor face ! — so sharp with care ^twas grown. 
 The brow so wrinkled, one could scarce have known 
 ^Twas that same face so fair to look upon. 
 The pleasant comely face of Phoebe Eae. 
 Once,^^ he continued, ^^ when a deep snow lay 
 On all the country ; one cold A\dnter^s night, 
 I passM her cottage casement, whence the Hght 
 Shone forth, but with a dull and fitful flare ; 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 61 
 
 And when I look'd within, a dpng glare 
 
 Plamed from its long, bent wick ; but not a spark 
 
 Lived on the hearth, where all was cold and dark. 
 
 Yet there beside, in her accustomed place. 
 
 The widow sat ; upon her arms, her face 
 
 Pallen forward on the table, where had dropt 
 
 Her work, when the relaxing fingers stopt 
 
 BenumbM with cold. She slept the heavy sleep 
 
 Of one who desperately has striven to keep 
 
 Overwearied nature from her needful rest. 
 
 Then all at once gives way. I did my best 
 
 (Gently awaking) to revive, and cheer. 
 
 The drooping spirit ; but her pain lay lierel^ 
 
 (Striking liis breast.) ^^ Nor mine the power to give 
 
 A cordial that had made her hope and hve — 
 
 I could not say — ^ Poor soul ! — ^thy sorrows cease — 
 
 Thy children shall have bread — ^thy sick heart peace,^ — 
 
 But site lias peace at last — and they have bread; 
 
 The parish feeds them, and her weary head 
 
 Lies by her husband^s.'^e 
 
 Honest Adam Bell ! 
 
62 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 The old man loved those simple peasants well^ 
 Whose chronicler he was ; whose board had fed^ 
 Wliose humble roof had sheltered liis grey head^ ' 
 Whose hearth had warmed liim^ and whose babes liad clung 
 About liis neck, with fondly stammering tongue, 
 Lisping old Adam^s name. Too true he said, — 
 The cottage now is all untenanted. 
 The din of cliildish mirth resounds no more 
 (Heart-cheering music) from the humble door. 
 Closed is the door, and closed the casements all ; 
 There long mianswered may the traveller call. 
 Creaks the loose vine, doA^Ti straggling from the wall. 
 And tlu'ough the thatch, with vegetation green. 
 House leek and moss, are the rude rafters seen — 
 Loose on its hinge, the garden wicket sways ; 
 The forest colt witliin tli^ enclosure strays, 
 Wliere never yet, since Isaac fenced it round. 
 Was hoof-print seen. There idle weeds abound ; 
 Nettles, and docks, and couch grass, matting o^er 
 The walks and beds that useful produce bore — 
 And rambling bindweed, with its flowery rings. 
 Up the young apple-tree tenacious clings. 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 63 
 
 Strangling the long wild shoots, and thickly winds 
 Eound currant bush and gooseberry ; her vines 
 Knotting them fast, and dragging to the ground 
 Their matted heads, with barren verdure crown'd. 
 And lo ! poor Isaac^s pride, that prickly screen — 
 What spoiler^s hand relentless there hath been ? 
 Alas ! neglect, by slower means ^tis true. 
 But not less sure, the spoiler^s work will do — 
 Strong were the vernal shoots ; the shearer^s care 
 Specially needed, but — he was not there. 
 And wlnle succeeding summer stUl was young. 
 High in the stragghng sprays the tln'ostle sung. 
 And through the stems, unsightly bare beneath. 
 Pushed in the lawless stragglers of the heath. 
 
 Such now, so silent and so desolate. 
 
 Is Isaac^s cottage. At its crazy gate 
 
 I linger oft ; and yester-even I staid. 
 
 Till tender twiHght with her stealthy shade 
 
 YeiTd the red sunset. ^^ Here is peace ^^ — said I — 
 
 ^^ In man^s abode, in earth, in air and sky ; 
 
 But the heart shrinketh from tliis deathhl^ie rest.''^ 
 
64 THE EVENING WALK. 
 
 I thought upon the skylarFs ruined nest^ 
 Upon her prisonM young, their captive lay^ 
 And on the orphan babes of Isaac Rae. 
 Then from tlie cottage wall depended stilly 
 A broken hoop, that oft with emulous skill 
 I M seen the happy creatures urge along : 
 And in one corner lay a Httle prong, 
 Pashioned for childish hand ; a wooden toy. 
 The father^s shaping for his eldest boy. — 
 I said how the loose vine swung to and fro. 
 Its long stems creaking with a sound of wo ! 
 But round the little casement still remainM 
 A tall blush rose-tree, there by Phcebe trainM, 
 And loose depending o^er th'^ interior gloom. 
 One pale, dew-sprinkled flower, the first to bloom. 
 Hung down like weeping beauty o'er the tomb. 
 
 I lookM and Hsten^d. All witliin I knew 
 Was dark and tenantless ; yet thence stole tlu'ough 
 A sound of life and motion ; sometliing stirr^'d 
 Tlie Ught leaves of the rose, and a small bird 
 From the dusk chamber, tln-ough a broken pane. 
 
THE EVENING WALK. 65 
 
 Flew forth to lights and the fresh fields again. 
 '' Art thou/' thought I, '' sole tenant of the cot ? 
 Innocent creature ! Thou profanest not 
 Wliat once was the abode of mnocence 
 Scarcely less pure than tliine.^' 
 
 As if with sense 
 Of that whereon I mused^ the bud at hand 
 On an old mossy pear-tree took liis standi 
 And dropp'd liis wings^ and tuned liis httle throat. 
 To such a tender, soft, complaming note, 
 So sweet ! so sad ! so tremulous ! I said, 
 Surely he mourns the absent and the dead. 
 
 C. 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 This is a dreary spot as eye shall see ; 
 Yet a few moments linger here with me^ 
 And let us rest (the air is warm and still) 
 In the dry shelter of tliis heathery hill. 
 Though all about looks barren^ bleak^ and drear^ 
 Something of pleasantness metliinks is here — 
 This little patch of greensward at our feet ; 
 Tliis thymy bank our soft empurpled seat ; 
 This odorous air^ and the low humming sound 
 (An under-tone of life) that murmurs round — 
 Yes — this is pleasantness ; but all beyond 
 Seems smitten with a curse. — That sullen pond. 
 Black as its moory marge ; — that one scathed tree, 
 And the lone hovel, ruined, roofless, free 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 67 
 
 To every straggling foot and wandering wind^ 
 In the cold shadow of that liill behind^ 
 That shuts in mth its dark^ bare^ barren swell, 
 The deatlilike stilhiess of the gloomy dell ; 
 There see77is a curse upon the savage scene, 
 There is a curse metliinks where guilt hath been, 
 So deep, so deadly, as hath left the Tale 
 Connected with tliis wild sequestered vale. 
 Not always, as some theorists pretend, 
 Doth guilt in tliis life come to fitting end ; 
 Not often here is God^s unerring plan 
 Made plain to proud, presumptuous, purbhnd man ; 
 Enough for him, enough the word which saith 
 Sm^s path is Hellward, and her wages Death. 
 But now and then the thunderbolt descends. 
 And strikes e^en here, for wise and gracious ends ; 
 To rouse, to warn, to strike the scoffers dumb. 
 Who cry, ^^ Lo ! vengeance tarries — will it come ? ^^ 
 
 Some ten years back, whoever from hence had viewed. 
 
 As we do now, yon cheerless soHtude, 
 
 Had seen it then a drear, unlovely spot, 
 
 f2 
 
68 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 But not deserted. From the lonely cot 
 Curled a blue smoke-wreath in the morning au*^ 
 And signs and soimds of life were stirring there^ 
 Too oft of strife^ of violence^ and hate. 
 There dwelt a wretched man^ liis Avretched mate^ 
 And their one cliild^ a gibbering idiot boy^ 
 ^^ Fruit of th^ adultress ^^ — no fond parentis joy^ 
 Nor sad one^s comfort ; — sent as for a sign 
 And fearful foretaste of the wrath divine. 
 
 None knew from whence the unsocial strangers came 
 
 Tor a long season^ nor then' real name^ 
 
 But guessed them wedded^ for the boy was born 
 
 Just as they settled m that home forlorn. 
 
 Nor doctor^ nurse^ nor gossip to the bh^th 
 
 Was timely summoned ; but the man rushed forth 
 
 One day in m^gent haste (for peril pressed) 
 
 To seek assistance. Erom old Martha Best 
 
 IVe heard the story — (to her d)dng day 
 
 She told it shuddering) — in what fearful way 
 
 She found the woman hi her travail tlu'oes^ 
 
 Convulsed with spirit pangs more fierce than those^ 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 69 
 
 And how she groaned some name^ and to some deed 
 
 Wildly alluded^ that mth starthng speed 
 
 Brought her dark partner to the pillow near ; 
 
 And how he stooped^ and wliispered in her ear^ 
 
 Not words of love^ — but sometlihig that she heard 
 
 With a cold shudder ; wliispering famt a word 
 
 Sounding Kke ^^ Mercy ! ^^ — and the stern man^s brow 
 
 Grew sterner as he said — ^^ Remember now/^ 
 
 And as he lingered near the wretched bed, 
 
 How hard she clench'' d her teeth, and drew her head 
 
 Beneath the coverlet, lest pain should wring 
 
 From her parched hps the interdicted tiling. 
 
 ^^ ^ Old drivelhng fool ! ^ he called me/^ quoth the dame, 
 
 ^^ Wlien I just liinted at the parson^s name. 
 
 And talked of comfort to the troubled breast, 
 
 From prayer with liim, and evil deeds confest. 
 
 ^ Old drivelling fool ! ^ he called me, with a curse 
 
 Tliat made my flesh creep, and the look was worse 
 
 With wliich he spoke it. Well ! — the babe was born — 
 
 Jesu preserve us ! — ^^twas a lackless morn 
 
 That saw its birth : — a foul, misshapen tiling. 
 
 Scarce human : — round the blue swollen neck a ring. 
 
70 THE MURDER GLEN 
 
 Livid and black, and marks like finger prints 
 
 Murderously dented : Not before nor since 
 
 Such sight beheld I. When the mother saw^ 
 
 Christ ! what a face was hers ! — The lower jaw 
 
 Dropt as in death, and with a ghastly stare, 
 
 Pointing the tokens, she gasped out — ^ There ! there ! ^ 
 
 ^ Hell is against us ^ — ^with a savage shout 
 
 Yelled the dark, fearful man, and rushing out. 
 
 Was seen no more till midnight brought liim back. 
 
 Silent and sullen. There was neither lack 
 
 Of food nor cordials in the house that night. 
 
 And the red peat-fire gave a cheerful Hght, 
 
 And a large dip was burning ; yet for all 
 
 The very flesh upon my bones did crawl 
 
 With fearful thinking ; I could hardly brook 
 
 Upon that loatlily, helpless tiling to look 
 
 As on my lap it lay ; and in liis sleep, 
 
 Tln:ougli the tliin boards, I heard the father keep 
 
 A restless muttering : — The Kmg^s crown to gain, 
 
 I M not live over that long night again ! ^^ 
 
 Such was the midwife^ s story ; and strange tilings 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 71 
 
 Were guessed and rumoured^ till low wliisperings 
 Grew louder by degrees^ and busy folk 
 Of information and the Justice spoke. 
 But from tli^ accuser^s part all kept aloof — 
 They had no facts to rest on ; — ^not a proof 
 Of the foul deed suspected : — The strange pair 
 Gave no offence to any ; straight and fair 
 Were their few deahngs at the village shop ; 
 And though the man was never known to stop 
 A needless minute^ or look up the while^ 
 Or speak a needless word^ or seen to snnle^ 
 His pay was punctual^ if tli^ amount was small — 
 Time — ^if they waited — might unravel aU : 
 And so in part it did. There came a man 
 From a far distant town (an artisan)^ 
 To try for health liis native comitry air^ 
 In liis own village. Wliile sojourning tliere^ 
 He heard the talk of that mysterious pair^ 
 And as he listened^ with impatient tone^ 
 Striking the table^ said — ^^ Two years agone^ 
 I heard a trial in our county court 
 For a most cruel murder ; in such sort^ 
 
72 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 And by such hands alleged to have been done^ 
 
 As made the heart sick. An unnatural son 
 
 Sinfully mated with his father^s wife 
 
 (A youtliful stepdame)^ Against the husband^s life 
 
 Conspired with her — ^^twas so the indictment read— 
 
 And suddenly the old man in his bed 
 
 Was found a blackening corse ; — a livid mark 
 
 Circling his tln-oat about^ and^ P^^ly dark^ 
 
 Prints of a mm^d^rous hand. At next assize 
 
 They stood their trials as I said ; — all eyes 
 
 Looked loatliingly in court. I saw them there^ 
 
 Just such as you describe tliis stranger pair. 
 
 A tall dark man^ with close curled locks like jet^ 
 
 And overhanging brow^ and mouth hard set^ 
 
 And a down look withal. She slim and fair^ 
 
 Of a wliite fairness ; hght-blue eyes, and hair 
 
 Inchning to be red ; of middle size, 
 
 With something of a cast about her eyes, — 
 
 Or it might seem so, as she stood that day 
 
 With her wild look, that wandered every way 
 
 And never fixed. The crime was proven plain 
 
 To plain men^s judgments, but yom^ lawyers strain 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 7 
 
 The truth tliroiigh mill-stones, till it filters out 
 
 A puddle of perplexity and doubt. 
 
 They were acquitted^ but forsook the place. 
 
 Pursued by curses. — Could I see the face 
 
 Of one but for a moment, I should know, 
 
 Had I last seen it twenty years ago. 
 
 The features printed on my mind so strong 
 
 That fearful trial day.''^ — 
 
 '' 'Twill not be long,'' 
 The eager listeners cried, ^^ before Black Will 
 Comes with liis empty meal-bag to the mill. 
 Or to the shop for liis few errands there ; 
 The woman seldom comes, and now 'tis rare 
 To see her, since that changehng babe was born. 
 So far from her own door as that old thorn, 
 Wliere she would stand and pore as in a book 
 On the dark pool beneath, wii\\ fiixed look." 
 Not long the sojourner, with patient ^dll, 
 Haunted the shop, and watched about the miU : 
 Not long the curious rustics to their friend 
 Looked for the fateful word, all doubt to end, — 
 
 Q 
 
a 
 
 (< 
 
 74 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 Earlier than wont the dark-browed stranger came^ — 
 The watcher saw — and shuddering^ said — ^^ The same. 
 
 The tale ran round through all the country-side ; 
 Murder will out ^^ triumphant guessers cried : — 
 ^Twas not for nothing ^^ said old Martha Best^ 
 ^^ God^s finger on the babe those prints impressed ; 
 And on the father^s scowling brow so dark^ 
 As on Cain^s forehead^ set a fearful mark. 
 But who could have believed^ — so slight^ so fair^ — 
 That woman such an awful deed could dare ? 
 ^Tis true — she never looked one in the face ; 
 Bad sign ! — And not a creature in the place 
 Ever could draw her into social chat^ 
 Nor him to step into the Cricket Bat^ 
 And take liis part in cheerful glass or song — 
 Such strange reserve betokened sometJdng ivrong — 
 So with a nat^'al horror^ and a mind 
 More Immanly severe than Christian kind^ 
 Each cast liis stone^ and left the ^vretched pair 
 To perish in their sin and their despair. 
 It is a wholesome horror in the main 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 75 
 
 That slirinks impulsive from tlie wretch whose stain 
 
 Stamps liim accm^st in bloocVs own damning clye. 
 
 Out on the mawkish^ morbid sympathy 
 
 That wets wliite handkercliiefs with maudlin wo 
 
 When ^' giftecV^ murderers to the gallows go, 
 
 And ^' interesting ^^ felons to the cord 
 
 Bow their heroic necks, and meet the laVs award. — 
 
 But vulgar minds, with unenlarged view, 
 
 Hating the guilt, abhor the guilty too ; 
 
 And such '^ good haters ^^ scarce can comprehend 
 
 How He, the Sinless, is the sinner^s friend. 
 
 Ah ! had some faitliful servant of liis Lord, 
 
 Some pious pastor, with the saving word 
 
 Of gospel truth, those branded outcasts sought, 
 
 ^^10 knows what blessed change he might have wrought ? 
 
 ^^ Despak and die ! ^^ hath dragged do^vn many a soul 
 
 Clmst^'s blood was shed for, to eternal dole. 
 
 '' Repent and Hve '/^ the HeHward course hath staid 
 
 Of many a one for whom that price was paid. 
 
 Shepherds, who slumber on your watch, beware ! 
 
 Ye have account to render of your care ; 
 
 Nor will the plea avail ye in that day 
 
76 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 That wliile ye slept^ the wolf bore off liis prey ; 
 
 Nor that the case was hopeless — ^futile plea ! 
 
 ^^ Hope against hope ^^ your battle-cry should be — 
 
 Then — if aU fail at last — ^your souls from blood are free. 
 
 A wide^ wild district^ haK uncultured moor^ 
 
 Skirted by sea and forest^ thick with poor, 
 
 Is the vast parish, on whose utmost verge 
 
 Lies this lone vaUey. The deep booming surge 
 
 Full tln^ee miles off we hear, but Sabbath beU 
 
 Sounds famtly tinkhng in tliis dreary deU. 
 
 On stillest day, with favouring breeze to boot. 
 
 To this far border, gospel-shodden foot 
 
 Comes rarely, tidings of great joy to bring. 
 
 ^^ Who needs my ministry has but to ring,^^ 
 
 Cries the good rector, ^^ at the rectory door — 
 
 I always come when called for, and what more 
 
 Could fifty curates, if I kept them, do ? ^^ 
 
 Ah, reverend ]\iichael ! fitter far for you 
 
 The post you occupied so long and well 
 
 In your old college, ere tliis Hving fell. 
 
 No Sabbath to God^'s house those outcasts brought ; 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 77 
 
 Them^ in tlieir dreary dwellings no man sought, 
 
 Nor priest, nor layman, woman, man, nor cliild ; 
 
 And every eye that measured them, reviled. 
 
 Por household needs still drew them now and then 
 
 (Seldom as might be) to the homes of men — 
 
 Tlie oftenest he ; but once or twice a-year, 
 
 Por homely articles of female gear. 
 
 With her stern partner to the shop she came, 
 
 A slninking customer without a name. 
 
 Served in cold silence, that had insult been 
 
 Perchance, but for the man^s determined mien 
 
 Of dark defiance. Change of look and tone 
 
 Early informed liim of liis secret known ; 
 
 And from that moment, with a deadly hate. 
 
 He cursed liis kind, and dared its worst from Fate ; 
 
 Retm^nhig loatliing looks with dogged stare. 
 
 That said, ^' Ye know me now — ^^tis well — beware ! ^^ 
 
 And they who loathed, by those fierce glances cowed, 
 
 Shrinking aside, breathed cm^ses ^^ deep not loud/^ 
 
 And cmious cliildren, eager, yet afraid. 
 
 Hung on the murderer^s steps j — but if he made 
 
 A motion as to turn, quick scowered away. 
 
78 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 Like blossoms scattered in a gusty day. 
 Till once^ two braggart boys^ witli bullying boast^ 
 Dared one another wliicli should venture most ; 
 And wliile their awestruck mates in ambush lay^ 
 Fronted the Ogres in their homeward way ; 
 And one squeaked ^^ Murder ! ^^ in liis impish note- 
 And one made mouths^ and pointed to liis throaty 
 Then ran ; — but pounced on with a tiger bounds 
 Both at a blow were levelled with the ground. 
 Mothers ! who o^med those graceless ones^ for you 
 ^Twas well that woman was a mother too, 
 And hmig upon the arm upraised to give 
 A second blow that none might feel and hve. 
 
 A mother ! ay — how black soever in part. 
 The outcast creature^s was a mother^s heart 
 To the poor waihng object, that wliile nursed 
 At her sad breast, the father called ^' accm^st.'^^ 
 And now again, who looked might often see 
 Her croucliing form beneath that old scathed tree 
 By the dark water, to her bosom prest 
 The hapless babe, that still she lulled to rest 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 79 
 
 With rocking motion, as of one in pain, 
 
 With a low, crooning, melancholy strain. 
 
 Oh ! to conceive, as there she sat forlorn, 
 
 The thoughts of those long hom-s of loneness born ; 
 
 The yearning thoughts of happy childish days, 
 
 Her father^s cottage, and her pleasant plays 
 
 With little brothers and young sisters dear ; 
 
 And how they grew together many a year. 
 
 By pious parents trained in the Lord^s love and fear. 
 
 Then — the changed after-time ! the contrast dark ! 
 
 Passion^s fierce storm, and Yhtue^s found^rmg bark. 
 
 The step by step in Falsehood's bhnding lead, 
 
 From gTolty thought imcliecTcecl to guilty deed — 
 
 The trust abused — the violated vow — 
 
 The consummated crime — the hopeless now^ 
 
 And the dread future. Lost, unhappy soul ! 
 
 Daredst thou in fancy fix that fearful goal ? 
 
 No ; or Despair had into Madness burst ; 
 
 And coldly calm she seemed, like one who knows the worst. 
 
 '' The grief that 's shared is lightened half,^^ some say ; 
 
 Not in all cases — Can it take away 
 
80 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 A grain of bitterness from us to know 
 
 One dearer than ourselves partakes the wo ? 
 
 And when a load unblest the double share^ 
 
 Wretched commmiity of crime and care ; 
 
 Is either cheered beneath the crushing weight 
 
 By mutual suffering of liis groaning mate ? 
 
 And then a band of sin is one of straw — 
 
 Count not thereon^ contemners of God^s law ! 
 
 None but pm^e hearts^ love-linked^ in sorrow closer draw. 
 
 Cast out from feUowsliip of aU theh kind^ 
 
 Each other^s all — did their forlormiess bind 
 
 More fast the union of that guilty pair ? 
 
 Ay^ with \\\^ festering fastness of despair. 
 
 No loving Httle one^ with angel smile^ 
 
 Was sent to win them from themselves a wliile^ 
 
 In whose yomig eyes the eyes that could not brook 
 
 Each other^s furtive glance might fondly look. 
 
 No lispmg prattler was hi mercy given 
 
 To lift its Httle sinless hands to heaven. 
 
 And stammer out the prayer that pardon sought 
 
 Eor one who dared not utter what she taught. 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 81 
 
 Vye said^ their first — their only one was sent, 
 
 Not as a blessing, but a punislnnent. 
 
 No wliite-winged messenger, no silvery dove, 
 
 Dear welcome pledge of peace, and hope, and love. 
 
 But of fierce discord here, and fiercer wrath above. 
 
 ^^ ^Twould be a mercy if the Lord who gave 
 
 Soon took him back ^^ — the midwife muttered grave 
 
 ^^ God gave liim not,^^ the abhorring father cried ; 
 
 ^^ Would in the birth the hell-marked imp had died V^ 
 
 But to her heart the mother drew it near, 
 
 Wliispering — ^^ My wretched infant ! liide thee /lere.^^ 
 
 And year by year (the changehng lived and throve) 
 
 More doting fond became that only love 
 
 That ever in this woeful world it knew. 
 
 More doting for the father^s hate it grew. 
 
 And to the mother soon that hate extended too. 
 
 She had borne meekly many a cutting word. 
 
 And many a bitter taunt in silence heard. 
 
 Or only, when her sullen partner cried, 
 
 ^^ Would, ere I saw thy face, that thou hadst died,^^ 
 
 Bowing her head — ^^ Amen ! ^^ she softly sighed. 
 
 G 
 
82 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 But when the crawling idiot in its play 
 
 Stumbled unconscious in its father^s way^ 
 
 And the foot spurned liim^ and the savage cursM — 
 
 Then all the mother into fury bursty 
 
 And '^ Have a care ! ^^ she slnieked^ with gestures wild^ 
 
 ^^ I have been very patient — but my child ! 
 
 Harm not my cliild^ or dread what I may dare — 
 
 I may yet speal^ what Yillam ! have a care/"^ 
 
 Beneath her flasliing look the ruffian^s eye 
 
 Quailed^ as he muttered indistmct reply ; 
 
 ^^ And deadly wliite he turned/^ said wandering AYat 
 
 The Pedlar, who, to many a lonely spot 
 
 Hawkmg his wares, had found his plodding way 
 
 To the drear dwelling in the glen that day. 
 
 ^^ I^m an old man/^ said Walter — ^^far IVe been, 
 
 Much of mankind and of their ways I\e seen. 
 
 And oftentimes folk^s secrets in then looks 
 
 Can read, as plain as some read printed books. 
 
 So now and then, in my own quiet way, 
 
 1 make a lucky guess, and now should say, 
 
 Toucliing this woman — mind, ifs onlf/ guess — 
 
 Sinner she may be, but no mm-deress.^'' 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 83 
 
 So spake Sir Oracle^ in cosy cliat 
 
 On the oak settle at the Cricket Bat^ 
 
 The evening of liis visit to the glen — 
 
 And Walter^s sayings had their Aveight with men ; 
 
 And women Hstened with relenting hearty 
 
 Wondering — '' Could one who did a mother^s part 
 
 So fondly by her idiot cliild^ have done 
 
 (Helping the hand of that unnatural son) 
 
 A deed it cliilled the blood to tliink upon ? 
 
 He who his wretched babe could so abuse — 
 
 Would that in Jiim the gallows had its dues ! ^^ 
 
 Year followed year^ those dues were owmg stilly 
 Satan had work in hand yet for ^^ Black Will/^ 
 That he was active in liis master^s cause 
 None doubted^ though evading still the laws. 
 No longer from aU intercourse with men 
 He dwelt secluded m that moorland glen ; 
 Strange faces there were not unfrequent seen 
 Of men^ rough seafarers of reckless mien^ 
 And something wild and lawless in their look — 
 With those^ for days and weeks^ he now forsook 
 
 G 2 
 
84 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 His joyless home. The beach convenient lay, 
 
 And a snug creek, a little cunning bay, 
 
 Wliere boats and small craft might at anchor lie 
 
 For days unnoticed, if exciseman's eye. 
 
 Or hated officer's, with sharp survey. 
 
 Ranged not the coast. Unorganised that day 
 
 Tlie naval guard ; the civil watch I ween 
 
 Then kept, too civil to be over keen : 
 
 The local bearings (sea and forest near) 
 
 Favoured more trades than one ; the royal deer 
 
 Made not worse venison though the buck was slain 
 
 "Without a warrant ; and some folks were fain 
 
 To fancy tea and Hollands were, to choose. 
 
 Best flavoured, when they paid the King no dues. 
 
 Tlien customers who favoured the free trade. 
 
 No curious, inconsiderate questions made, 
 
 When goods that never had the Channel crost 
 
 Were offered at a reasonable cost, . 
 
 What if a smuggler now and then was hung 
 
 Por worse than smuggling — from their souls they flung 
 
 Accusing qualms, for ^^ how could they have thought 
 
 Unfairly come by, what they fahiy bought ? ^^ 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 83 
 
 Laws interdict^ and parsons preach in vain^ 
 WMe sucli (encouraging who might restrain) 
 Whet with their ready pay the tliirst for lawless gain. 
 
 Now sometimes^ with a timid consciousness 
 
 That if none favoured some abhorred her less 
 
 Left lonely and unaided^ from the deU. 
 
 The woman ventured forth^ when twilight fell 
 
 With friendly dimness on her flushing shame, 
 
 To seek the village shop ; and with her came 
 
 A heavy armful long, then, tottering slow, 
 
 A dragging weight, that cliild of sin and woe — 
 
 Poor fool, whom she her ^^ precious one ! ^^ would call — 
 
 Ay — for he loved her, and he was her all. 
 
 ^^ Mammam ! mammam ! ^^ the stammering creature^s cry. 
 
 If wandered from its face the only eye 
 
 Could read in liis, and fondly there detect 
 
 A loveKer light than that of intellect. 
 
 ^^ Mammam ! mammam ! ^^ — "'twas all resembhng speech 
 
 To common ears that stammering tongue could reach ; 
 
 ^^ But oh ! my CharHe, in his own dear way,^^ 
 
 Affirmed the mother, ^^ everything can say — 
 
86 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 And he has far more sense than some believe — 
 Could you but see him when he sees me grieve — 
 And when I^m sick^ he ^11 creep about the house, 
 Or sit beside me, quiet as a mouse — 
 And but a baby still, as one may say — 
 Just eight — and growing handier every day/^ 
 Oh ! mother^s love, of most mysterious kind ! 
 So strong ! so weak ! so piercing, and so blind ! 
 
 '^ 'Twas pitiful, whatever she might be,^^ 
 
 All said, ^^ that mother and her boy to see — 
 
 Hanging for 1dm would be an end too mild. 
 
 That parricide who hated liis own cliild ; 
 
 A poor afflicted tiling, but still his oivn!^ 
 
 And there were cruel doings, ^twas well known. 
 
 At that lone house, whence oftentimes arose 
 
 Wild sounds of sharp contention, oaths, and blows. 
 
 And the shriU treble of a cliildish cry. 
 
 Heart-piercing in its helpless agony ; 
 
 And more than once, thrust out into the night, 
 
 Mother and clnld had lam till morning light 
 
 Huddled together, the cold earth their bed. 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 87 
 
 The door-sill pillowing her houseless head — 
 Happy for them when signal from the bay 
 Summoned their tyrant from his home away^ 
 With his Avild mates to cruise^ perhaps for many a day. 
 But watcliful eyes at last were on the glen, 
 Notorious now the haunt of lawless men ; 
 Depot of contraband, and even, ^twas thought, 
 Of tilings worse come by, for concealment brought. 
 Twice with their warrant the suspected ground 
 And house men keenly searched, but nothing found ; 
 Wliile the dark owner carelessly stood by. 
 And sneering thanked them for their courtesy. 
 And bade them look again, and more minutely pry. 
 
 Thus baffled oft, suspicion never slept. 
 But quiet watch about the place was kept, 
 Wliere everytliing unusual that befell. 
 Comings and goings, aU were noted well. 
 There had been jovial doings overnight — 
 Late from the lattice flashed the ruddy Kght, 
 And midnight was at hand, when from the door 
 Staggered the parting guests with drunken roar — 
 
88 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 ^^At daybreak — ^mind ! ^^ — ^^ At daybreak^ there 1^11 be^^- 
 
 And the door closed the parting colloquy. 
 
 Then from within proceeded sounds more faint — 
 
 A low^ sad^ sobbing murmur of complaint^ 
 
 Not long unbroken by a harsher tone — 
 
 And then a curse — a scuffling — and a groan — 
 
 Something that sounded like a heavy fall ; 
 
 And then the Hsteners said — "'twas quiet all ; 
 
 And gladly from that dismal place they came — 
 
 Such broils were frequent in that house of shame. 
 
 They watched the skiff ^s departure from the bay — 
 
 ^^ Best lie in wait for her return ^^ — said they^ 
 
 ^^ Useless to watch about liis den to-day^ 
 
 No — nor to-morrow ^^ — but a shepherd told 
 
 On the tliird morn^ how^ fancying from liis fold 
 
 A straggler to the glen its way had founds 
 
 He followed in its track : and on the ground^ 
 
 By the pond-side said he^ saw sometliing He^ 
 
 A wliitish heap—'^ That ^s sure my lamb ! said I — 
 
 And dead enough if so : — but then I heard 
 
 As I came closer — (and methought it stirred) — 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 89 
 
 A feeble plaint — as from a dying lamb — 
 
 I stopt and hearkened — ^"twas — ' Manunam ! Mammam ! ' 
 
 Charlie ! said I — for lying all alone, 
 
 'Twas shnple Charlie made that piteous moan ; 
 
 Undressed, as if just taken from liis bed, 
 
 Cold as a stone, with open eyes like lead 
 
 Fixed on the dull black water — when at length 
 
 T stooped to lift him, with liis little strength 
 
 (Little enough — ^the creature was half dead) 
 
 He made resistance, turning still liis head 
 
 Toward the pond, and murmuring o^er and o^er, 
 
 ^ Mammam ! Mammam ! ^ as to the house I bore ; 
 
 And there he hes — not long alive to lie — 
 
 Come quickly if you\l help liim ere he die ; 
 
 The door I found ajar — witliin — without — 
 
 ^> 
 
 No living soul. Bad work has been I doubt. 
 
 Quickly they ran : but when they reached the place. 
 There lay the idiot with liis poor wan face 
 Close to the water^s edge ! — although in bed 
 The shepherd left lihn, motionless — he said — 
 And still he made the same distressful moan. 
 
90 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 Though faint and fainter every faltering tone ; — 
 And still his eyes were turned with dying ray 
 To the dark pond^ as on its brink he lay. 
 
 ^^ ^Tis not for notliing^ idiot though he be/^ 
 
 All said — ^^ he gazes there so earnestly — 
 
 And one stooped down^ and peering closely^ thought 
 
 He something saw : — and poles and hooks were brought^ 
 
 And grappled a dead weight — upfloated wliite 
 
 A woman^s dress — one heave — and dragged to sights 
 
 On a pale corse looked down the cheerful morning light. 
 
 ^^ Mannnam ! Manmiam ! ^^ — with one loud rapturous cry 
 (Lifers last) the dying idiot bounded liigli, 
 And falHng forward, sank to quiet rest, 
 Never to waken, on liis mother^s breast. 
 
 I Ve told my story — needs it still to tell 
 How that the double mm^d^rer in tliis dell, 
 And in tliis country, has no more been seen ? 
 That his dark act that woman^s end had been. 
 Proceedings at the inquest pointed clear — 
 
THE MURDER GLEN. 9\ 
 
 There was a bloody fracture by her ear^ 
 ritting a mallet, that with hah- and gore 
 Stuck on, was found upon the cottage floor — 
 His own apparel gone, and all of worth 
 The lonely house contamed. Upon tliis earth 
 If somewhere still the ruffian roams secure, 
 God knows ; — liereafter^ liis reward is sure. 
 
 One partmg look upon the still sad scene, 
 
 A^^iere so much misery, so much guilt has been. 
 
 And such a tragic act in the great i^lay. 
 
 Lifers melodrame. As calm, as still the day. 
 
 As bright the sun was sliining over head. 
 
 When by that water lay the ghastly dead — 
 
 And then perhaps some little bird as now 
 
 Perched on that old scathed hawthorn^s topmost bough. 
 
 Poured forth a strain as joyous and as clear 
 
 (Careless of human woes) as now we hear — 
 
 Unconscious bud ! no Hving tiling but thee 
 
 Stirs the deep stillness with a voice of glee — 
 
 The village cliildren, if they venture near. 
 
 Sink their loud gladness into wliispering fear — ■ 
 
92 THE MURDER GLEN. 
 
 No rustic lovers haunt the unblest ground — 
 No tenant for the hated house is found — 
 Our country people call it — '^ Black Will'^s den ^^- 
 And this unlovely spot — ^^ The Murder Glen/^ 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 ^^ ^TwiLL be a wild rough night upon the Moor : 
 And hark ! though tliree miles off^ the suUen roar 
 Of that deep-booming surge. God^s mercy keep 
 The wayfarer^ and wanderer on the deep. 
 The moon 's but young — she ^U give no help to night : 
 Look out^ my boys ! if Beacon-head burns bright ; 
 And^ lads ! take Carter Joe with ye^ and see 
 All snug about the place ; more ^specially 
 At the new Penfold — and dun Peggy^ too^ 
 Give her and her sick foal a passing view — 
 Old Mark away^ I Ve lost my right-hand man ; 
 You must replace liim.''^ — 
 
 Off the striplings ran^ 
 Proud happy boys ! forth rushing in their haste, 
 
94 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 Ere well the words their father^s lips had passM ; 
 The elder^s arm^ with loving roughness^ tlirown 
 Eound his young brother^s neck — the fair-hairM one. 
 ^^ God bless the lads ! and keep them ever so^ 
 Hand in hand brothers^ wheresoever they go/^ 
 Eyeing them tenderly^ the father said 
 As the door closed upon them : then liis head^ 
 Sigliing, let fall on his supporting palm^ 
 And^ like the pausmg tempest^ all was calm. 
 
 Pacing her husband^ sate a Matron fair^ 
 Plying her sempstress task. A shade of care 
 Darkened her soft blue eyes^ as to his face 
 (Drawn by that sigh) they wanderM^ quick to trace 
 The unseen^ by sympathy's unerring sight — 
 Eeading Im Jiearfs thoughts by her oicii hearts Hght. 
 
 Ten years t^dce told had passed since Helen Grseme 
 Por Walter Hay's exchanged her virgin name. 
 Of life^s vicissitudes the/d had their share^ 
 Smisliine and shade ; yet in liis eyes as fair^ 
 And dearer far than the yomig bloomhig Bride 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 95 
 
 Was she the long-tried partner ; who espied 
 
 No change in liim^ but such as gave a cast 
 
 More tender to the love would tune outlast. 
 
 They had rejoiced together at the birth 
 
 Of six fair infants : sorrowing to the earth 
 
 (With mutual sorrow^ but submissive heart) 
 
 Committed tln:ee. Hard trial ^twas to part 
 
 (Young parents !) with their first-born bud of bHss ; 
 
 And they who followed ! — with the last cold kiss 
 
 Their hearts seemM breaking, that on each they pressM. 
 
 But He so willM it ^^ who doth all tilings best/^ 
 
 Out of their sight they hid their early dead, 
 
 And wept together — and were comforted. 
 
 And of their loved ones, now a lovely tln^ee 
 
 Were left, that well a parentis boast might be. 
 
 Those two bold bhthesome boys of stature near, 
 
 (Their ages differing only by a year,) 
 
 Walter and Wilham named in reminiscence dear, 
 
 And a small sister, like a green-liill Pay, 
 
 Younger by six — a little Helen Hay^ 
 
 The household darling. To her father^s ear, 
 
 ""Twas ever music that sweet name to hear. 
 
96 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 And now she sate^ as still as still could be, 
 Her little stool drawn close beside liis knee : 
 Her paly ringlets so profusely slied. 
 In the warm hearth-glow gleaming golden red, 
 As o^er the book upon her lap she bent. 
 On Jack the Giant-killer^s feats intent. 
 
 Fit subject for some limner^s skill had been. 
 That quiet, tender-toned, heart-sootliing scene. 
 All in fine keeping ! the old spacious room. 
 Half hall, half kitchen, darkening into gloom. 
 As it receded from that cavern vast — 
 The open hearth whence blazing oak logs cast 
 Rich, ruddy beams on rafter, beam, and wall, 
 ^Twixt monstrous shadows that fantastic fall. 
 And all around, in picturesque array. 
 Hung rustic implements for use and play, 
 Por manly sport and boyish lioHday. 
 Basket, and net, and rifle, rod, and spear. 
 Coiled Unes, and weather-seasonM fisliing gear. 
 And bills and hedging gloves ; and, modelled neat, 
 A Httle schooner, (Will/s proudest feat,) 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 97 
 
 Matching a mimic plough^ with graver thought 
 
 ^^ On hrqoroved princijpleSy^ by Walter wrought — 
 
 Proud folk the parents of those works^ I wot ! 
 
 And tattered straw hats^ plaited once so wliite 
 
 And neat^ in leisurely long winter nighty 
 
 By the boy brothers^ while their father read 
 
 From one of those brown volumes overhead^ 
 
 (No mindless untaught churl was Walter Hay^) 
 
 Some pleasant theme^ instructive^ gTave^ or gay : 
 
 His listening household men^ and maids^ and all^ 
 
 Assembled round liim m liis rustic hall ; 
 
 Together closing the laborious day^ 
 
 As in the good old time^ the good old way. 
 
 There stood a spinning-wheel, whose humming sound 
 
 AccomjMniecl the reader^s voice, not drownM. 
 
 There hung a haK-done cabbage-net ; and there, 
 
 Nm^sing her kitten in the old stuff chair, 
 
 Purred a grave Tabby ; wliile a faitliful friend, 
 
 A worn-out Sheep-Dog, to liis long life's end 
 
 Past hastening, slumbered at liis master's feet. 
 
 It was a pleasant pictm^e ! — very sweet 
 
 To look upon, its beautiful repose — 
 
 One eartlily scene, undimm'd by human woes. 
 
98 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 Alas ! was ever spot on eartli so blessed^ 
 Where liuman hearts in perfect peace might rest ? 
 One bosom sorrow^ one corroding thonght, 
 (The dark tln:ead with liis woof of life enwroughtj 
 Helped on the work of time with Walter Hay^ 
 Stole half the brightness of liis smile away^ 
 And streaked in manhood^s prime liis dark cwcVd locks 
 
 with gray. 
 A hasty qnarrel^ an intemperate cup^ 
 A hard word spoken when the blood was np^ 
 A blow as madly dealt^ bnt not in hate^ 
 Repented soon and sorely^ bnt too late — 
 Too late ! — Ah ! simple words of solemn sense^ 
 Avenging disregarded Providence ! 
 
 Remembrance of these things^ and what ensued^ 
 It was^ that clonded oft liis sunniest mood^ 
 Casting a dark cold shadow o^er the life 
 Perhaps too prosperous else. His gentle wife 
 Wliose wife-like tenderness could scarce descry 
 A fault in liim she honoured^ oft would try 
 To pluck away the thorn he sternly pressed 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 99 
 
 (Severe in self-infliction) to his breast. 
 
 ^^ Not yours alone/^ she sootliingly would say^ 
 
 ^^ The blame of what befell that luckless day ; 
 
 You had borne much my husband ! well I know^ 
 
 Mucliy before anger overcame you so : 
 
 And both of you that night had made too free 
 
 (Alas ! that youth should so untlihiking be !) 
 
 With the good ale in careless company. 
 
 How could you bear such taunts before them all^, 
 
 As he — unjust and violent — let fall ? 
 
 Ke knew your hearty to him so warm and kind^ 
 
 That passion could but for a moment bhnd ; 
 
 Passion, that love as suddenly would check, 
 
 And cast you aJl-repentant on his neck : 
 
 But he was gone before a word could pass — 
 
 Gone in liis furious mood, before the glass 
 
 Ceased ringing, where he dasli'd it on the floor 
 
 With that rash oath — to see thy face no more ! '' 
 
 f^ g^t I — but I — that ever it should be 
 Betwixt us so !— had told liim bitterly 
 I never more desired liis face to see. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 I prosjoeroits — He, a disappointed man — 
 
 Quick tempered^ spirit vexM. Say what you can^ 
 
 Dear comforter ! you cannot take away 
 
 Tlie stinging mem'^ry of tliat fatal day/^ 
 
 Thus sootliingly, a thousand times before 
 
 The loving wife had uttered o^er and o^er 
 
 Mild consolation ; on liis heart that fell 
 
 Bahny^ though there no settled peace might dwell : 
 
 And thus again^ that night whereof I tell^ 
 
 They talked together ; on his long-drawn sigh 
 
 Following, theii' low-voiced, love-toned colloquy. 
 
 And all the while, intent upon her book. 
 
 The little maid sat still ; an upward look, 
 
 (As played her father^s hand with her soft hair,) 
 
 Now and then glancing at the parent pair. 
 
 Her hearf s contentment full, assured they both were there. 
 
 Loud burst the storm, that fitfully suppress^. 
 Had for a moment sobbed itseK to rest. 
 Creaked doors and casements, clattering came the rain, 
 And the old wallas stout timbers groaned again. 
 ^^ Would they were back— that I could hear their tread !' 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 101 
 
 Listening anxiously, the mother said : 
 
 ^^ God help, this fearful night, the houseless poor ! 
 
 One would not turn a dog out from one^s door/^ 
 
 ^^ No — not a dog. — And yet I had the heart, 
 To let liim homeless fi'om my home depart 
 On such another night. Full well I mind, 
 As the door opened, how the rain and wmd 
 Plashed in his face, and wellnigh beat liim back. 
 
 Then — had I stretched a hand out ! Wliat lone track, 
 
 Unfriended smce, hath he been doomed to tread ? 
 ^Tiere hath he found a shelter for liis head ? 
 [n tliis hard world, or with the happy dead?^^ 
 
 '' Nay, doubt it not, my husband V^ said the wife, 
 ^^ He hath been long at rest, where care and strife. 
 And pain and sorrow enter not. We know 
 That when he left us, nineteen years ago. 
 He went a-sliipboard straight, and crossed the seas 
 To that far fatal coast, where fell disease 
 Strikes down its thousands, — that he went ashore, 
 And up the comitry, and was seen no more. 
 
102 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 Had he not perished early, we had heard 
 
 Tidings ere long by letter or by word ; 
 
 Tor he too had a loving heart, that bore 
 
 No mahce when the angry fit was o'er. 
 
 Be comforted, dear husband ! he 's at rest, 
 
 And let us humbly hope, for Clirisfs sake — ^blessed/' 
 
 '' Hark, mother, hark! I'm sure they're coming back!" 
 Cried Kttle Helen — who with YaKant Jack 
 Had parted for the night—'' That's Willy's call 
 To Hector, as they turn the garden wall. 
 Lizzy ! come quick and help me let them in — 
 They must be wet, poor brothers, to the skin/' 
 The rosy maid, already at the door. 
 Lifted the latch ; and bounding on before, 
 (His rough coat scattering wide a plenteous shower,) 
 Hector sprang in, liis master close behind. 
 Half spent with buiFeting the rain and wind ; 
 Gasping for breath and words a moment's space. 
 His eager soul all glowing in liis face. 
 
 '' Where's Walter ?" cried the mother, pale as death — 
 ''What's happened?" ask'd both parents in a breath. 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 103 
 
 ^' Safe, Mother dear ! and sound — I tell you true — 
 
 But, Father ! we can^t manage without you ; 
 
 Walter and Joe are waiting there down-bye, 
 
 At the old cart-house by the granary. 
 
 As we came back that way^ a man we found 
 
 (Some shipwrecked seaman) stretched upon the ground 
 
 In that cold shelter. Yery worn and weak 
 
 He seemed, poor soul! at first could hardly speak; 
 
 And, as we held the lantern where he lay, 
 
 Moaned heavily, and turned liis face away. 
 
 But we spoke kindly — bade liim be of cheer. 
 
 And rise and come with us — our home was near, 
 
 Wlience our dear father never from liis door 
 
 Sent weary traveller — ^weary, sick, or poor. 
 
 He listened, turned, and lifting up liis head, 
 
 Looked in our faces Mdstfully, and said — 
 
 ^ Ye are but lads — (kind lads — God bless you both !) 
 
 And I, a friendless stranger, should be loth, 
 
 Unbidden by liimself, to make so free 
 
 As cross the rich man's tlneshold : this for me 
 
 Is shelter good enough; for worse I've known — 
 
 Wliat fitter bed than earth to die upon ?' 
 
104 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 He spoke so sad^ we almost wept ; and fain 
 Would have persuaded liim, but all in vain ; — 
 He will not move — T tliink he wants to die^ 
 And so he will, if there all night he lie/'' 
 
 " That shall he not/^ the hearty yeoman said. 
 Donning his rough great-coat ; ^^ a warmer bed 
 Shall pillow here to-night his weary head. 
 Off with us, Wniy ! our joint luck we ^11 try. 
 And bring him home, or know the reason why.^^ 
 
 Warm hearts make willing hands ; and Helen Hay 
 Bestirred her, wliile those dear ones were away. 
 Among her maidens, comforts to provide 
 ^Gainst their return : still bustUng by her side 
 Her Httle daughter, with officious care, 
 (Sweet mimicry !) and many a matron air 
 Of serious purpose, helping to spread forth 
 Warm hose and vestments by the glowing hearth. 
 Prom the old walnut press, with kindly thought. 
 Stout home-spmi Hnen, wliite and sweet, was brought 
 In a small decent chamber overhead. 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 105 
 
 To make what stiU was called '' The Stranger's bed/' 
 
 Por many a lone wayfarer^ old and poor. 
 
 Sick or sore wearied, on the dreary moor 
 
 Belated, at the hospitable door 
 
 Of the Old Parm ask'd shelter for the night. 
 
 Attracted by the far-seen, ruddy Hght 
 
 Of the piled hearth within. — '' A bit of bread 
 
 And a night's shelter," was the prayer oft said. 
 
 Seldom in vain ; — for Walter would repeat. 
 
 With lowly reverence, that assurance sweet — 
 
 ^^ How he the stranger's heart with food and rest 
 
 Who cheers, may entertain an angel guest ; " 
 
 Or, giving in Christ's name, for his dear sake be blessed. 
 
 Oft they look'd out into the murky night 
 Tempestuous, for the streaming lantern light ; 
 And hearkened (facing bold the driving sleet) 
 For sound of nearing voices — connng feet. 
 And there it gleams — and there they come at last — 
 Fitfully sinking, swelling on the blast ; 
 Till clustering forms from out the darkness grow. 
 Supporting one, with dragging steps and slow, 
 Feebly approaching. — 
 
106 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 ^^ Hold the lantern low — 
 Courage^ my friend ! we \e but a step to go/^ 
 The yeoman^s cheerful voice was heard to say. 
 ^^ Hillo ! good folks there — ^here^ my Helen Hay^ 
 Little and great — I Ve brought you home a guest 
 Tweeds your good tendings — most of all needs rest ; 
 Which he shall find tliis blessed nighty please God^ 
 On softer pallet than the cold bare sod/'' 
 
 As they the tln:*eshold passed^ the cheerful light 
 PlashM from witliin ; and shading quick his sights 
 (Pained by the sudden glare^) upon his brow 
 Tlie wayworn man liis ragged hat pulled low ; 
 Bowed down his head^ and sighed in such a tone 
 Deep drawn and heavy^ "'twas almost a groan. 
 They helped him on^ (for he could hardly stand,) 
 And Httle Helen drew liim by the hand^ 
 Wliispermg — ''Poor man!'' — At that^ a moment's 
 
 space 
 Halting, he fix'd liis eyes on the young face 
 Of her who spoke those pitpng words so mild, 
 And tremulously said — '' God bless thee, cliild ! " 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 107 
 
 The strong supporting arm — ^^twas Walter Ha/s — 
 Tight en\l its clasp^ and with a searcliing gaze 
 Quick turned^ he peered in those strange features ; — then 
 (For they were strange) drew back his head again. 
 Shaking it gently with a sorrowful smile. 
 The matron and her maids came round the wliile, 
 Toward the liigh-back\l Settlers warmest nook 
 To lead the weary man ; but with a look 
 Still downcast and aside, he sln:mik away, 
 Articulating faintly, ^^ Not to-day — 
 Not there to-night. Eest only ! only rest ! ^^ 
 So to the allotted room they brought their guest. 
 And laid hini kindly down on the good bed. 
 With a soft pillow for liis old grey head. 
 The long, tliin, straggling locks, that hung adown 
 His hollow cheeks, had scarce a tinge of brown 
 Streaking their wintry wliite ; and sorely marrM 
 Was all liis face : tliick seamed, and deeply scarred, 
 As if in many battles he had fought 
 Among the foremost. — 
 
 '^ Prom the first, I thought. 
 
 ^y 
 
108 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 Said tlie young Walter^ as he came below^ 
 ^^ Tlie fine old fellow had dealt many a blow 
 For England^s glory^ on her wooden walls/^ 
 The father smiled. ^^ Not every one who falls 
 In fight^ my son ! may fall in a good cause — 
 As fiercely in resistance to the laws 
 Men strive^ as in upholding them ^^ — 
 
 ^^ But here 
 I ^m sure we Ve a true sailor^ father dear ! 
 No lawless^ wicked man. When you were gone^ 
 Willy and I some little time sta/d on — 
 (Mother had sent us up with some warm drink, 
 Made comforting) — and then you cannot tliink 
 How pleasantly, though sadly, he looked up, 
 And ask^d our names as he gave back the cup ; 
 And when we told them, took a hand of each, 
 Wliile his Hps moved as if in prayer — not speech, 
 With eyes so fixed on us, and full of tears .''^ 
 ^^ Perhaps,^^ said William, '^ lads about our years 
 He might be tliinking of — far, far away. 
 Or dead ; — liis own dear children. Who can say ! ^ 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 109 
 
 ^^ Ay, who indeed can say, boys ? — who can tell 
 The deep, deep thoughts, in human hearts that dwell 
 Long buried, that some word of httle weight 
 WiU call up sudden from their slumberhig state. 
 So quickened into life, that past tilings seem 
 Present again — the present but a dream. 
 Boys ! in a book was lent me long agone, 
 I read what since I Ve often thought upon 
 With deepest awe. At the great Judgment-Day 
 Some learned scholars — wise and holy — say 
 That m a moment all our whole hfe past 
 Shall be spread out as in a picture vast — 
 Re-acted as it were, in open sight 
 Of God, and men, and angels 3 the strong hght. 
 Indwelling conscience — serving to illume 
 The changeful All, complete from birth to doom. 
 Metliinks — mtli humble reverence I speak — 
 I Ve been led sometimes to conception weak 
 Of that deep meaning, when a sudden ray 
 Has called, as ^twere from darkness into day, 
 Long past, forgotten things. — Oh ! children dear ! 
 Lay it to heart, and keep the record clear 
 That all unveiled, that day^ must certainly appear.^^ 
 
110 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 ThuS; as was oft liis wont^ religious truth 
 The pious father taught their tender youth^ 
 As apposite occasion led the way ; 
 No formal teacher stem. Nor only they^ 
 The fihal listeners^ fixed attention gave 
 To liis wise talk ; with earnest looks and grave 
 His rustic household^ at the supper board 
 Assembled all^ gave heed to everj word 
 Uttered instructive ; and when down he took 
 And opened reverently the blessed Book ; 
 With hearts prepared^ on its great message dwelt : 
 And when around^ in after prayer they knelt^ 
 Forgot not^ e^er they rose^ for him to pray 
 Master and Teacher, — Father, they might say, 
 Who led them like liis owq, the happy, heavenward way. 
 
 '' Did you take notice, wife ^^ — the husband said, 
 The busy well-spent day thus finished. 
 When all except themselves were gone to rest — 
 ^^ Did you take notice, when our stranger guest 
 Spoke those few words to Helen, of his tone ? 
 It thrilled my very heart through : so like one 
 These nineteen years unheard.''^ 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. Ill 
 
 '^ I scarce gave heed 
 To anything/^ she said^ ^^ but his great need 
 Of help^ poor soul ! so faint he seemed and low/^ 
 ^"^ Well^ well/^ rejoined her husband^ ^^ even now 
 I seem to hear it : — Tlien^ into my brairi^ 
 Wild thoughts came crowding ; quickly gone again^ 
 Wlien I looked hard^ but not a line could trace 
 "F amili ar in that weatherb eaten face. 
 That lost one, were he hving now^ would be 
 Younger a year and many months than me — 
 Than this time-stricken man^ by many a year^ 
 But^ oh ! these thoughts will haunt me^ Helen^ dear ! 
 These sudden fancies^ though so oft before 
 I Ve proved them vaia^ and felt all hope was o^er/^ 
 
 ^^Only for this worlds husband mine V^ she said^ 
 ^' They hve in Heaven^ whom here we count as dead^, 
 And there we all shall meet^ when all is finished/^ 
 
 ^^ God grant it ! ^^ fervently he said ; ^^ and so 
 To bed^ good wife ! I must be up^ you know^ 
 And off by daybreak^ on my townward way, 
 
112 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 Wliere^ business done^ be sure I shall not stay 
 A needless minute. Yet I guess ^twill be 
 Dark niglit before my own snug home I see. 
 Mind a low chair and cusliion in the cart 
 Be set for Mark. God bless his poor old heart ! 
 Though from the hospital they send him back 
 BHnd and incurable^ he shall not lack 
 Comfort or kindness here ; liis service done 
 Of sixty years wellnigh^ to sire and son. 
 I miss liim every wliere ; but most of all 
 Methinks at prayer-time^ the deep solemn fall^ 
 Trembhngly fervent^ of liis long ^ Amen !^ 
 ^T^vill glad my heart to hear that sound again/^ 
 
 The Supper-board was spread — the hearth piled liigh — 
 AU at the Farm looFd bright expectancy 
 Of him who ever seemed too long away^ 
 If absent from liis dear ones but a day : 
 Old Mark^ too^ coining home ! what joy to all ! — 
 Ye know not^ worldlings^ what glad festival 
 Pure hearts of simplest elements can make — 
 Ye^ whose paUed sense^ poor pleasure scarce can take 
 At feasts^ where Hps may smile^ but hearts so often ache. 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 113 
 
 There was a sudden rusli from the old hall^ 
 Children^ and men, and maids, and dogs, and all 
 Save her, who, with a deeper gladness, stayed 
 Quietly busied; and far back in shade 
 (Forgotten there awliile) the stranger guest. 
 But quiet though she seemeth, with the rest 
 Be sure her heart went forth those wheels to meet ; 
 And now they stop : and loving voices greet, 
 MingUng confusedly; yet every one 
 She hears distinct : as harmonist each tone 
 Of his full chord, — distinct as if alone. 
 
 And there he comes, (sight gladdening every eye,) 
 The darling young one in his arms tln-oned liigh. 
 Her warm cheek to liis cold one closely pressed. 
 And there those two blithe boys, and all the rest. 
 So crowd about old Mark with loving zeal. 
 The blind man weeps, and fondly tries to feet 
 Those fair young faces he no more must see. 
 ^^ Give us warm welcome. Dame ! ^^ cried cheerily 
 Her husband, as their greeting glances met ; 
 '^ We ^re cold enough, I warrant, and sharp set — 
 
114 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 But here ^s a sight would warm the dead to life^ 
 Clean hearth^ bright blaze^ heaped boards and smiling 
 wife!^^ 
 
 Lightly he spake^ — ^but with a loving look 
 Went to her hearty who aU its meaning took : 
 And briskly she bestirred herself about^ 
 And with her merry maids^ heaped smoking out 
 The savoury messes. With unneeded care 
 Set nearer stiU^ the goodman^s ready chair : 
 Then helped uncase liim from his rough great-coat^ 
 Then gave a glance that all was right to note : 
 Welcomed old Mark to his accustomed seat 
 With that heart-welcoming^ so silver sweet ; 
 And^ aU at last completed to her mind^ 
 CallM to the board with cheerful bidding kind ; 
 Wliere aU stood round in serious quietness^ 
 Till God^s good gifts the master^s voice should bless. 
 But^ with a sudden thought^ as glancing rounds 
 ^^ I thought/^ he said^ ^^ another to have found 
 Among us here to-night."'^ ^^ And he is here/^ 
 ExclaimVl the wife — ^^ forgotten though so near ! ^^ 
 
WALTER AND WILLIAM. 115 
 
 Then turning where the stranger sat far back^ 
 
 She said — ^^ Forgive us friend ! our seeming lack 
 
 Of Cln^istian courtesy : Draw near^ and share 
 
 With hearty welcome, of our wholesome fare/^ 
 
 Silent and slow, the basMul guest obeyed, 
 
 Still sln:mkingly, as to presume afraid ; 
 
 And when his host with kindly greeting pressed. 
 
 Bowed down liis head — deep down upon liis breast, 
 
 Answering in words so low you scarce could hear — 
 
 But the quick sense of blindness caught them clear ; 
 
 And in a tone which tlnillM through every heart, 
 
 Tlie sightless man, with a convulsive start. 
 
 Called out — ^^ As God^s m heaven, (His will be done,) 
 
 That was the voice of my dead master^s son ! ^^ 
 
 '' Mark ! Mark ! what say^st, old man ? ^^ cried sharply 
 out 
 His Master, as he rose and turned about 
 (Trembling exceedingly) liis guest to face ; 
 Wlio at that outcry, staggering back a pace, 
 (He also trembled, and look'd like to fall,) 
 Leant back— a heavy weight— against the wall. 
 
 I 2 
 
116 WALTER AND WILLIAM. 
 
 One might have heard a pin fall on the ground^ 
 There was such deep and sudden silence round : 
 Except that two or tln-ee breathed audibly, 
 (Those wondering boys, whose eager hearts beat high,) 
 And little Helen sobbed, she knew not why. 
 
 There fixed, foot to foot, and breast to breast. 
 And face to face, stood Walter and his Guest — 
 And neither stirred a limb, nor whik^d an eye, 
 (The stranger^s sought the ground still droopingly,) 
 Nor spoke, till many minutes had gone by ; 
 Then, as if life upon his utterance hung. 
 In low, deep accents, loosened first his tongue. 
 Upon the other^s shoulder as he laid 
 His right hand slowly, Walter softly said — 
 '^ Dear brother William I ^^ An electric start 
 Answered that touch, deep-tlu'iUing to the heart. 
 And that soft whispered word. Their meeting eyes, 
 Pull of fond yearnings, tender memories. 
 All in a moment told — explained — confessed — 
 Absolved. — And Walter fell on William^s breast. 
 
 C. 
 
THE YOUNG GEEY HEAD. 
 
 Grief hatli been known to turn the young head grey- 
 To silver over in a single day 
 The bright locks of the beautiful^ their prime 
 Scarcely overpast : as in the fearful time 
 Of Gallia^ s madness^ that discrowned head 
 Serene^ that on the accui^sed altar bled 
 Miscalled of Liberty, Oh ! martyred Queen ! 
 "What must the sufferings of that night have been — 
 That one — that sprinlded thy fair tresses o^er 
 With timers untimely snow ! But now no more 
 Lovely^ august^ unhappy one ! of thee — 
 I have to tell an humbler liistory ; 
 A village tale^ whose only charm^ in sooth^ 
 (If any) will be sad and simple truth. 
 
118 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 '' Mother/' quoth Ambrose to liis thrifty dame— 
 So oft our peasant's use his wife to name^ 
 ^' Father '' and '' Master '' to liimself apphed. 
 As life's grave duties matronise the bride — 
 ^^ Mother/' quoth Ambrose^ as he faced the norths 
 With hard-set teeth^ before he issued forth 
 To his day labour^ from the cottage door — 
 ^^ I 'm tliinking that^ to-night^ if not before^ 
 There '11 be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton"^ roar ? 
 It 's brewing up down westward ; and look there^ 
 One of those sea-gulls ! ay^ there goes a pair ; 
 And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on^ 
 As tlireats^ the waters will be out anon. 
 That path by th' ford's a nasty bit of way — 
 Best let the young ones bide from school to-day/ 
 
 
 ^' Do, mother, do !" the quick-ear'd urcliins cried; 
 Two little lasses to the father^ s side 
 Close cHnging, as they looked from him, to spy 
 The answering language of the motlier's eye. 
 
 * A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea called Chewton Bunny. 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 119 
 
 There was denial, and she shook her head : 
 
 ^^ Nay, nay — no harm will come to them/^ she said, 
 
 ^' The mistress lets them off these short dark days 
 
 An hour the earlier j and our Liz, she says. 
 
 May quite be trusted — and I know ^tis true — 
 
 To take care of herself and Jenny too. 
 
 And so she ought — she seven come first of May — ■ 
 
 Two years the oldest : and they give away 
 
 The Christmas bounty at the school to-day/^ 
 
 The mother^s will was law, (alas for her 
 That hapless day, poor soul !) 8he could not err, 
 Tliought Ambrose ; and liis httle fair-haired Jane 
 (Her namesake) to liis heart he hugged again. 
 When each had had her turn ; she cHnging so 
 As if that day she could not let liim go. 
 But Labour^s sons must snatch a hasty bliss 
 In nature^s tend^rest mood. One last fond kiss, 
 '' God bless my little maids V^ the father said. 
 And cheerly went his way to win then bread. 
 Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, 
 A¥hat looks demure the sister pair put on — 
 
120 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Not of the mother as afraid^ or shy^ 
 Or questioning the love that could deny ; 
 But simply^ as their simple training taught^ 
 In quiet^ plain straightforwardness of thought, 
 (Submissively resigned the hope of play,) 
 Towards the serious business of the day. 
 
 To me there ^s sometliing touching, I confess. 
 In the grave look of early thoughtfulness. 
 Seen often in some little cliildish face 
 Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace 
 (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race !) 
 The unnatural sufferings of the factory child. 
 But a staid quietness, reflective, mild. 
 Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes. 
 Sense of Hfe/s cares, without its miseries. 
 
 So to the mother^s charge, with thoughtful brow, 
 Tlie docile Lizzy stood attentive now ; 
 Proud of her years and of imputed sense. 
 And prudence justifying confidence — 
 And Httle Jenny, more demurely still. 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. . 121 
 
 Beside her waited the maternal will. 
 So standing hand in liand^ a loveHer twain 
 Gainsborough ne^er painted : no — nor he of Spaiii; 
 Glorious Murillo ! — and by contrast shown 
 More beautiful. The younger little one^ 
 With large blue eyes^ and silken ringlets fair^ 
 By nut-brown Lizzy^ with smooth parted hau^^ 
 Sable and glossy as the raven^s wing, 
 And lustrous eyes as dark. 
 
 ^^ Now, mind and bring 
 Jenny safe home/^ the mother said — ^' don^t stay 
 To pull a bough or berry by the way : 
 And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast 
 Your little sister^s hand, till you ^re quite past — 
 That plank^s so crazy, and so slippery 
 (If not overflowed) the stepping-stones will be. 
 But you ^re good cliildren — steady as old folk, 
 I M trust ye any where.'''^ Then Lizzy^s cloak, 
 (A good grey duffle,) lovingly she tied. 
 And amply little Jenny^'s lack suppHed 
 With her own warmest shawl. ^^ Be sure,^^ said she. 
 
122 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 ^^ To wrap it round and knot it carefully 
 (Like tliis) when you come home ; just leaving free 
 One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — 
 Good will to school, and then good right to play.^^ 
 
 Was there no sinking at the mother^s heart, 
 When all equipt, they turned them to depart ? 
 When down the lane, she watched them as they went 
 Till out of sight, was no forefeehng sent 
 Of coming ill ? In truth I cannot tell : 
 Such warnings have leen sent^ we know full well. 
 And must believe — beheving that they are — 
 In mercy then — to rouse — ^restrain — prepare. 
 
 And, now I mind me, something of the kind 
 Did surely haunt that day the mother^s mind. 
 Making it irksome to bide all alone 
 By her own quiet hearth. Tho^ never known 
 Tor idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, 
 Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay 
 At home with her own thoughts, but took her way 
 To her next neighbour's, half a loaf to borrow — 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 123 
 
 Yet miglit her store have lasted out the morrow. 
 
 — And with the loan obtained^ she lingered still — 
 
 Said she — ^^ My master^ if he ^d had liis A^dU^ 
 
 Would have kept back our little ones from school 
 
 This dreadful morning ; and I ^m such a fool^ 
 
 Since they Ve been gone^ IVe wished them back. But then 
 
 It won^t do in such tilings to humour men — 
 
 Our Anabrose specially. If let alone 
 
 He M spoil those wenches. But it ^s coining on^ 
 
 That storm he said was brewings sure enough — 
 
 Well ! what of that ?— To tlnnk what idle stuff 
 
 Will come into one^s head ! and here with you 
 
 I stop^ as if I ^d nothing else to do — 
 
 And they ^11 come home drowned rats. I must be gone 
 
 To get dry tilings^ and set the kettle on.''^ 
 
 His day^s work done^ tliree mortal nules and more 
 Lay between Ambrose and his cottage door. 
 A weary way^ God wot ! for weary wight ! 
 But yet far off, the curling smoke ^s in sight 
 Erom liis own chimney^ and liis heart feels hght. 
 How pleasantly the humble homestead stood. 
 
124 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Down the green lane by sheltering Shirley Wood ! 
 How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze 
 In spring-time^ from his two old cherry-trees 
 Sheeted with blossom ! And in hot July^ 
 From the brown moor-track^ shadowless and dry^ 
 How grateful the cool covert to regain 
 Of his own avenue — that shady lane^ 
 With the white cottage^ in a slanting glow 
 Of sunset glory^ gleaming bright below^ 
 And jasmine porch^ liis rustic portico ! 
 
 With what a thankful gladness in his face, 
 (Silent heart-homage — plant of special grace !) 
 At the lane^s entrance, slackening oft liis pace. 
 Would Ambrose send a loving look before ; 
 Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door. 
 The very blackbird, strained its httle tln-oat 
 In welcome, with a more rejoicing note ; 
 And honest Tinker ! dog of doubtful breed. 
 All bristle, back, and tail, but '' good at need, '' 
 Pleasant Us greeting to the accustomed ear ; 
 But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear. 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 125 
 
 The ringing voices^ like sweet silver bells^ 
 
 Of his two Httle ones. How fondly swells 
 
 The father^s hearty as^ dancing up the lane^ 
 
 Each clasps a hand in her small hand agahi ; 
 
 And each must teU her tale^ and ^^ say her say/'' 
 
 Impeding as she leads^ with sweet delay^ 
 
 (Childliood^s blest thoughtlessness !) liis ownward way. 
 
 And when the winter day closed in so fast,, 
 Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last ; 
 And in all weathers — driving sleet and snow — 
 Home by that bare^ bleak moor-track must he go^ 
 Darkling and lonely. Oh ! the blessed sight 
 (His pole-star) of that Httle twinkling Kght 
 Erom one small window^ tln'o^ the leafless trees, 
 Ghmmering so fitfully, no eye but his 
 Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, 
 Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, 
 Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour^ 
 Streaming to meet liim from the open door. 
 Then, tho^ the blackbird^s welcome was unheard — 
 Silenced by winter — note of summer bird 
 
126 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Still hailed liim ; — from no mortal fowl alive^ 
 But from tlie cuckoo-clock just striking five — 
 And Tinker^s ear and Tinker^s nose were keen — 
 Off started lie^ and then a form was seen 
 Darkening the doorway ; and a smaller sprite^ 
 And then another^ peered into the nighty 
 Ready to foUow free on Tinker^s tracks 
 But for the mother^s hand that held her back ; 
 And yet a moment — a few steps — and there^ 
 Pulled o^er the threshold by that eager pair^ 
 He sits by his own hearth^ in liis own chair ; 
 Tinker takes post beside^ with eyes that say^ 
 ^^ Master ! we \e done our business for the day."" 
 Tlie kettle sings^ the cat in chorus purs^ 
 The busy housewife with her tea-tliings stirs ; 
 The door ^s made fast^ the old stuff curtain drawn. 
 How the hail clatters ! Let it clatter on. 
 How the wind raves and rattles ! Wliat cares he ? 
 Safe housed, and warm beneath liis own roof-tree. 
 With a wee lassie prattling on each knee. 
 
 Such was the hour — hour sacred and apart — 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 127 
 
 Warmed in expectancy the poor man^s heart. 
 
 Sunnner and winter^ as liis toil he phed^ 
 
 To him and his the hteral doom appUed^ 
 
 Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet 
 
 So earned^ for such dear mouths. The weary feet 
 
 Hope-shod^ stept lightly on the homeward way. 
 
 So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray 
 
 That time I teU. of. He had worked aU day 
 
 At a great clearing : vigorous stroke on stroke 
 
 Striking^ till^ when he stopt^ his back seemed broke^ 
 
 And the strong arm dropt nerveless. ^Tiat of that ? 
 
 There was a treasure liidden in liis hat — 
 
 A playtliing for the young ones. He had found 
 
 A dormouse nest ; the hving ball coiled round 
 
 For its long winter sleep ; and aU his thought 
 
 As he trudged stoutly homeward^ was of nought 
 
 But the glad wonderment in Jenny^s eyes^ 
 
 And graver Lizzy^s quieter surprise^ 
 
 Wlien he should yields by guess^ and kiss^ and prayer^ 
 
 Hard won^ the frozen captive to their care. 
 
 ^Twas a wild evening — wild and rough. '^ I knew/' 
 
128 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Thought Ambrose, ^^ those unlucky gulls spoke true — 
 
 And Gaffer Chewton never growls for nought — 
 
 I should be mortal ^mazed now, if I thought 
 
 My little maids were not safe housed before 
 
 That blinding hail-storm — ay, this hour and more. — 
 
 Unless, by that old crazy bit of board, 
 
 They^ve not passed dry-foot over Shallow-ford, 
 
 That I ^11 be bound for — swollen as it must be . . . 
 
 Well ! if my mistress had been ruled by me . . . '^ 
 
 But, checking the half-thought as heresy. 
 
 He looked out for the Home-Star. Tliere it slione. 
 
 And with a gladdened heart he hastened on. 
 
 He ^s in the lane again — and tliere below. 
 Streams from the open doorway that red glow, 
 "Wliich warms liim but to look at. Por liis prize 
 Cautious he feels— all safe and snug it lies — 
 ^^ Down Tinker ! — down, old boy ! — not quite so free — 
 Tlie thing thou snifPest is no game for thee. — 
 But what ^s the meaning ? — no look-out to-night ! 
 No living soul astir ! — Pray God all ^s right ! 
 Who ^s flittering romid the peat-stack in such weather ? 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 129 
 
 Mother ! '' you might have felled liim with a feather 
 Wlien the short answer to liis loud — '' Hillo ! '' 
 And hurried question — ''Are they come ? ''—was— 
 ''No/' . . 
 
 To throw his tools down — ^hastily unhook 
 The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook^ 
 And while he Ht it, speak a cheermg word, 
 That almost choked liim, and was scarcely heard. 
 Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
 To where a fearful foresight led liim on. 
 Passmg a neighbour's cottage in liis way — 
 Mark Penton's — ^liim he took with short delay 
 To bear liim company — for who could say 
 What need might be ? They struck into the track 
 The cliildren should have taken coming back 
 From school that day ; and many a call and shout 
 Into the pitchy darkness they sent out. 
 And, by the lantern light, peer'd all about, 
 In every road-side tliicket, hole, and nook. 
 Till suddenly — as nearing now the brook — 
 Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark— 
 
130 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Unlieeded^ he had followM in the dark^ 
 
 Close at liis master^s heels, but, swift as light. 
 
 Darted before them now. '^ Be sure he ^s right — 
 
 He ^s on the track/^ cried Ambrose. ^^ Hold the light 
 
 Low down — he ^s making for the water. Hark ! 
 
 I know that wliine — the old dog ^s found them, Mark/^ 
 
 So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 
 
 Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone ! 
 
 And all his dull contracted light could show 
 
 Was the black void and dark swollen stream below, 
 
 ^^ Yet there ^s life somewhere — more than Tinker^s whine — 
 
 That ^s sure,^^ said Mark. ^^ So, let the lantern sliine 
 Down yonder. There ^s the dog — and, hark ! ^^ 
 
 '' Oh dear ! '' 
 And a low sob came faintly on the ear, 
 MockM by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, 
 Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught 
 East hold of something — a dark huddled heap — 
 Half in the water, where ^twas scarce knee-deep. 
 For a tall man j and half above it, proppM 
 By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt 
 Endways the broken plank, when it gave way 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 131 
 
 "With the two little ones tliat luckless day ! 
 
 ^^ My babes ! — my lambkins ! ^^ was the father^s cry. 
 
 One little voice made answer — ^^ Here am I ! ^^ 
 
 ^Twas Lizz/s. There she crouch' d^ with face as white. 
 
 More ghastly, by the flickering lantern-light, 
 
 Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue hps, drawn tight, 
 
 Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth. 
 
 And eyes on some dark object underneath. 
 
 Washed by the turbid water, fixed like stone — 
 
 One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown. 
 
 Grasping, as in the death-gripe — Jenny's frock. 
 
 There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock, 
 
 The doating father ? Where ^s the unriven rock 
 
 Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part 
 
 As that soft sentient tiling — the human heart ? 
 
 They lifted her from out her watery bed- 
 Its covering gone, the lovely Httle head 
 Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside. 
 
 And one small hand. The mother^s shawl was tied. 
 Leaving that free, about the cliikrs small form. 
 As was her last injunction — ^^fast and warm '^ — 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Too well obeyed — too fast ! A fatal hold 
 Affording to the scrag by a tliick fold 
 That caught and pinned her in the river^s bed, 
 While tlnrough the reckless water over head 
 Her life-breath bubbled up. 
 
 '^ She might have hved 
 Struggling like Lizzy/^ was the thought that rived 
 The wretched mother^s heart when she knew all. 
 ^^ But for my foohshness about that shawl — 
 And Master would have kept them back the day; 
 But I was wilful — driving them away 
 In such wild weather ! ^^ 
 
 Tims the tortured heart 
 Unnaturally against itseK takes part. 
 Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe 
 Too deep already. Tliey had raised her now. 
 And parting the wet rmglets from her brow. 
 To that, and the cold cheek, and hps as cold. 
 The father glued liis warm ones, ere they roUM 
 Once more the fatal shawl — her winding-sheet — 
 About the precious clay. One heart stiU beat, 
 WarmM by Ms hearfs blood. To his onli/ cJdld 
 
THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 133 
 
 He turnM liim^ but her piteous moaning mild 
 
 Pierced liim afresh — and now she knew liim not. — 
 
 ^^ Mother ! ^^ — she murmured — ^^who says I forgot? 
 
 Mother ! indeed^ indeed^ I kept fast hokl^ 
 
 And tied the shawl quite close — she can^t be cold — 
 
 But she won^t move — we slipt — I don^t know how — 
 
 But I held on — and I ^m so weary now — 
 
 And it ^s so dark and cold ! oh dear ! oh dear ! — 
 
 And she won^t move — if daddy was but here ! ^^ 
 
 ^ -^ -^ -^ ^ -^ 
 
 Poor lamb — she wandered in her mind^ ^twas clear — 
 But soon the piteous murmur died away^ 
 And quiet in her father^s arms she lay — 
 T/ieT/ their dead burthen had resign^^ to take 
 The living so near lost. Por her dear sake^ 
 And one at liome^ he armM liimself to bear 
 His misery like a man — with tender care^ 
 Doffing liis coat her sliivering form to fold — 
 (His neighbour bearing t/iat wliich felt no cold J 
 He claspM her close — and so^ with Httle said^ 
 Homeward they bore the living and the dead. 
 
134 THE YOUNG GREY HEAD. 
 
 Prom Ambrose Gra/s poor cottage^ all tliat nighty 
 
 Shone fitfully a little shifting light. 
 
 Above — ^below : — for all were watchers there. 
 
 Save one sound sleeper. — HeVy parental care. 
 
 Parental watchfuLiess, availM not now. 
 
 But in the young survivor^s tln-obbing brow. 
 
 And wandering eyes, delirious fever burnM ; 
 
 And all night long from side to side she turnM, 
 
 Piteously plaining like a wounded dove. 
 
 With now and then the murmur — ^^ She won'^t move ^^ — 
 
 And lo ! when morning, as in mockery, bright 
 
 Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight — 
 
 That yomig head^s raven hair was streaFd with wliite ! 
 
 No idle fiction tliis. Such tilings have been 
 
 We know. And oiow I tell ivhat I have seen. 
 
 Life struggled long mth death in that small frame. 
 But it was strong, and conquerM. All became 
 As it had been mth the poor family — 
 All — saving that which never more might be — 
 Tliere was an empty place — they were but tlu'ee. 
 
THE LEGEND OE THE LIDO, 
 
 I. 
 
 He stood before the Sigiiori 
 
 With a trutliful look and bold ; 
 A look of calm simplicity^ 
 
 That Ksherman poor and old : 
 Though every face^ with a gathering frown 
 And a searching glance^ looFd darkly down 
 
 Wliile liis wonderful tale he told : 
 
 II. 
 And, though a voice from — he knew not where- 
 
 (For none beside liim stood), 
 Breathed in liis very ear ^^ Beware V^ 
 
 In a tone might have fi'oze Ins blood ; 
 He but cross'd himself as he glanced aroimd, 
 But faltered neither for sight nor sound, 
 
 For he knew that his cause was good. 
 
136 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 III. 
 
 '' I teU the truth— I teU no lie/' 
 
 Old Giaii Battista said ; 
 ^^ But hear me out,, and patiently^ 
 
 Signori wise and dread ; 
 And^ if I fail sure proof to bring 
 How I came by this golden ring^ 
 (He held it high, that all might see)^ 
 There are the cells and the Piombi — 
 
 Or — off with tliis old grey head. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ^^ Ye know — all know — what fearful work 
 
 The winds and waves have driven 
 These tliree days past. That darkness murk 
 
 So sln'ouded earth and heaven, 
 We scarce could tell if sun or moon 
 
 LookM down on island or lagune. 
 Or if 'twere midnight or high noon ; 
 And yells and slnieks were in the air. 
 As if with spmts in despair 
 
 The very fiends had striven. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 137 
 
 V. 
 
 And busy^ sure enough^ were they, 
 
 As soon ye ^11 understand ; 
 Many believed tlie doomful day 
 
 Of Yenice was at hand : 
 For high o^er every level known^ 
 Tlie rising flood came crashing on, 
 Till not a sea-mark old was seen, 
 Nor of the striplet islets green 
 
 A speck of hard, dry sand. 
 
 VI. 
 
 ^^ ^ Well, Gian and his old boat,^ quoth I, 
 ^ Together must sink or swim. 
 
 TheyVe both seen service out wellnigh, 
 Half founderM, plank and limb ; 
 
 But good San Marco, if he will. 
 
 Can save his own fair city stil]. 
 I put my trust in him/ 
 
138 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ^^ So — for the night was closing o^er— 
 
 San Marco^s Eiva by_, 
 I thought my httle boat to moor^ 
 
 And lie down patiently 
 To sleep^ or watch^ as best I mighty 
 Telling my beads till morning light — 
 I scarce conld see to make all tight^ 
 
 Night fell so suddenly. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 C( - — 
 
 While I still fumbled (stooping low)^ 
 
 A voice hailed close at hand. 
 I started to my feet^ and lo ! 
 
 Hard by, upon the strand, 
 Stood one in close-cowPd garments wliite. 
 Who seemed by that uncertain light, 
 Methought, an holy Carmehte, 
 
 Slow beckoning with the hand. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 139 
 
 IX. 
 
 ^^ Before^ in answer to the call^ 
 I M cleared my husky tliroat^ 
 Down leapt that stately form and tall 
 
 Into my crazy boat — 
 A weight to crush it tlirough. But no^ 
 He came down light as featherM snow^ 
 As soundless ; and^ composedly 
 Taking liis seat^ ^ My son/ said he, 
 ^ Unmoor and get afloat/ 
 
 X. 
 
 cc " --■ — 
 
 *" Corpo di Bacco ! get afloat 
 
 In such a storm ! ^ quoth I, 
 ^ Just as I ^m mooring my old boat 
 
 Here snug all night to lie. 
 And, Padre, might I make so free. 
 What service would you have of me ?^ 
 ^ First to San Giorgio,^ answered he, 
 
 ^ Row swift and steadily j 
 
140 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 XI. 
 
 ^^ ^ And fear thou not ; for a strong arm 
 
 Will be with thee/ he said^ 
 ^ And not a hair shall come to harm^ 
 
 This nighty of thy grey head. 
 And guerdon great shall be thy meed^ 
 If faithful thou art found at need/ 
 ^ Well^ good San Marco be my guide^ 
 Quoth I^ and^ my old boat untied ; 
 
 ^ I Ve Httle cause for dread : 
 
 XII. 
 
 ^^ ^ Notliing to lose but my old life^— 
 
 So for San Giorgio ! — hey !^ — 
 l^ever again so mad a strife 
 
 Unto my dying day 
 Shall I e^er wage with wind and sea ; 
 And yet we danced on merrily : 
 Now cleaving deep the briny grave^ 
 Now breasting high the foamy wave^ 
 Like waterfowl at play. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 141 
 
 XIII. 
 
 How we spun on ! — ^^Tis true I plied 
 
 That night a lusty oar; 
 But such a wind^ and such a tide 
 
 Down full upon us bore ! 
 And yet — in marvellous Kttle space 
 We reach'^d San Giorgio^s landing-place. 
 ^ Well so far/ said my ghostly fare^ 
 And bidding me await liim there, 
 
 Eose up, and sprang ashore. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ^^ And in a moment he was gone, 
 
 Lost in the dark profound ; 
 Nor, as my oars I lay upon. 
 
 Heard I a footfall sound 
 Going or coming ; and yet twain 
 Stood there, when the voice hailM again. 
 
 And, starting, I lookM round. 
 
142 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO: 
 
 XV. 
 
 Down stept tliey both into the boat — 
 
 ^ And now^ my son V said he 
 "Whom first I took — ^ once more afloat — 
 
 E/OW fast and fearlessly. 
 And for San Nicolo make straight/ 
 ^ Nay^ nay/ quoth I — ^ ^tis tempting fate ^ — 
 But he overruled me^ as of late^ 
 
 And — splash ! — away went we. 
 
 XVI. 
 cc 
 
 Away^ away — tlno"" foam and flood ! — 
 
 ^Eare work tliis same V thought I^ 
 ^ Yet^ faitli^ right merrily we scud ! 
 
 A stouter oar I ply^ 
 Metliinks^ than tlnrty years ago. 
 The CarmeHte keeps faiths, I trow — 
 Hurra, then, for San Nicolo ! 
 
 We ^re a holy crew surely ! ^ 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 143 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ^^ Thus haK in jest^ half seriously^ 
 
 Unto myself I said^ 
 Looking askance at my company. 
 
 But our second trip was sped ; 
 And there, on the marge of the sea- washed strand, 
 Did another ghostly figure stand ; 
 And down into the boat stept he. — 
 I crossM myself right fervently. 
 
 With a sense of creeping dread. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 ^^ But the CarmeKte (I call him so, 
 
 As he seemed at first to me). 
 Said — ^ Now, my son ! for the Castles row. 
 
 Great tilings thou soon shalt see.^ 
 Without a word, at liis bidding now 
 For the Lido Strait I turn\l my prow. 
 And took to my oar with a thoughtful brow, 
 
 And puUM on silently. 
 
144 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ^^ When to the Lido pass we came, 
 
 Cospetto ! what a sight — 
 Air, sky, and sea seemed all on flame, 
 
 And by that lurid hght 
 I saw a sliip come sailing in 
 Like a ship of hell ; and a fiendish din 
 Prom the fiendish crew on her deck rose high. 
 And ^ Ho ! ho ! ho !^ was the cursed cry — 
 
 ^ Venice is doomM to-night !^ 
 
 XX. 
 
 (C 
 
 Then in my little boat, the tln^ee, 
 
 With each a stretcliM-out hand. 
 Stood up ; — and that sign, made silently, 
 
 Was one of high command, 
 For in a moment, over aU, 
 Tliick darkness dropt, as ^twere a pall ; 
 And the winds and waves sank down to sleep. 
 Though the muttering thunder, low and deep. 
 
 Ran round, from strand to strand. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 145 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ^^ As it died away^ the murky veil^ 
 Like a curtain^ aside was draAvn ; 
 
 And lo ! on tlie sea lay tlie moonlight pale^ 
 And the daemon-sliip was gone. 
 
 The moonhght lay on the glassy sea^ 
 
 And the bright stars twinkled merrily^ 
 Where the rippling tide rolFd on. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ^^ ^ Well done^ well done^ so far^ my son ! ^ 
 
 Said the first of the ghostly three. 
 ^ Tliy good night^s work is well nigh done^ 
 
 And the rich reward to be : 
 Put back — and^ as we homeward row^ 
 Land these my bretln^en dear ; whom know 
 For San Giorgio and San Nicolo — 
 Thou slialt afterwards know me.^ 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 '^ ' And doubtless/ to myself I said^ 
 ' Tor the greatest of the tln-ee : ^ 
 
146 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 But I spoke not ; only bow^d my head. 
 
 Obeying reverently : 
 And pulling back, with heart elate. 
 Landed as bidden my saintly freight, 
 — That ever, old boat, it should be thy fate. 
 
 To have held such company ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The voyage was done ; the Eiva won, 
 
 Prom whence we put to sea. 
 ^ And now, my son ! ^ said the mighty one, 
 
 ^ Once more attend to me ; 
 Present thee with the coming day 
 Before the Signori, and say. 
 That I, San Marco, sent thee there. 
 The great deHverance to declare, 
 
 Tliis night wrought gloriously. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 '' ' Wliat thou hast heard and seen tliis nia^ht. 
 
 With fearless speech mifold : 
 And thy good service to requite. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 147 
 
 I will, to tliee be told 
 Five hundred ducats ! ^ ^ Holy saint ! ' 
 I meekly ask^d, with due restraint ; 
 ^ Will they beheve what I shall say, 
 And count, on liis bare word, such pay 
 
 To the fisherman poor and old ? ^ 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 ^^ ^ Tliis token give to them,^ said he, — 
 
 And from his finger drew 
 The ring, most noble Signori, 
 
 I here present to you. 
 ^ Let search in my treasury be made, 
 ^Twill be found missing there,^ he said. 
 
 So — vanished from my view ! ^^ 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 There ran a wliisp^ring murmur round. 
 
 As Gian closed liis tale : 
 And some, still unbeheving, frownM, 
 
 And some Avith awe grew pale. 
 Tlien all, as with one voice, cried out, 
 
 l2 
 
148 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 ^^ Why sit we here in aimless doubt^ 
 The means^ and place of proof so nigh ? 
 One glance at the holy treasury 
 All words wall countervail/'' 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Led by the Doge Gradenigo^ 
 
 Set forth the solemn train^ 
 Tln'ough arch and column winding slow 
 
 Till the great chm'cli door they gain. 
 With them the fisherman was led^ 
 Guarded by two ; but liis old head 
 He held up liigli : — ^^ For sure/'' said he^ 
 ^^ San Marco will keep faith Avith me^ 
 
 And prove his own words plahi.^^ 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The Proveditore stept on first 
 
 With liigh authority ; 
 And at liis word^ wdde open bm-st 
 
 The saintly treasury ; 
 And holy monks, with signs devout. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 149 
 
 Held liigli the blessed relics out : 
 And gifts of emperors and kings 
 (Priceless^ inestimable tilings !) 
 Display^ d triumphantly. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 FamiUar as their beads to them 
 
 (So oft recounted o^er 
 Each history) was relic^ gem^ 
 
 And all the sacred store. 
 But now, ^^ What know ye of tliis tiling ? ^^ 
 The Doge said, holduig forth the ring, 
 
 '''' Have ye seen its like before ? ^^ 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Short scrutiny sufficed. ^^ Full well 
 That ring we know/^ said they. 
 
 ^^ But if taken hence by miracle, 
 Or how, we cannot say. 
 
 ^Tis the same tliis blessed image wore, 
 
 San Marco's seK.'' All doubt was o'er. 
 
 ^^ Viva San Marco evermore ! '' 
 Was the deafening roar that day. 
 
150 THE LEGEND OF THE LIDO. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 What throat than Giants louder strained 
 The exulting sound to swell ? 
 
 And when the ducats^ fairly gainM^ 
 Into liis cap they tell^ 
 
 With promise for San Marco^s sake 
 
 Like sum a yearly dole to make : 
 Yiva San Marco ! ^^ shouted he ; 
 Wlio would not row in such company 
 Against all the fiends in hell ? ^^ 
 
 €< 
 
 (( 
 
 c. 
 
THE WmTEY MAY— 1837. 
 
 When Summer faded last away 
 I sighed o^er every shortening day; 
 Comparing^ with its pale-hued flowers^ 
 My sicklied hopes and numbered hours, 
 And thinking — ^^ Shall I ever see 
 That Summer sun renewed for me ?^^ 
 
 When Autumn shed her foHage sere, 
 Methought I could have dropt a tear 
 With every shrivelled leaf that fell, 
 And frost-night blossom. ^' Who can teU 
 Wlien leaves again clothe sln:ub and tree/"" 
 Wliispered my heart — '' Where thou wilt be ? 
 
 )> 
 
152 THE WINTRY MAY. 
 
 But when Old Winter^s rule severe 
 Set in triumphant — -dark and drear — 
 Tho^ slmnlving from the bitter blasts 
 Methought — ^^ This worst once overpast^ 
 With bahny^ blessed Springs may be 
 A short revival yet for me/' 
 
 And this is May — but where^ Oh ! where 
 The balmy breathy the perfumed air 
 I pined for^ while my weary sprite 
 Languished away the long^ long nighty 
 Living on dreams of roving free 
 By primrose bank and cowshp lea. 
 
 Unkindly season ! cruel Spring ! 
 
 To the sick wretch no balm ye bring ; 
 
 No herald gleam of summer da^s^ 
 
 Eeviving, vivifjdng rays. 
 
 Seasons to come may brighter be^ 
 
 But Time- — Life — Hope — rmi short with me. 
 
THE WINTRY MAY. 153 
 
 Yet tlierefore faint not fearfnl heart ! 
 Look up and learn ^^ the better part/^ 
 That shall outlast Lifers httle day ; 
 Seek Peace^ wliich passeth not away. 
 Look to the land where God shall be 
 Life — light — yea all in all to thee. 
 
ONCE UPON A TBIE. 
 
 I MIND me of a pleasant time^ 
 
 A season long ago ; 
 The pleasantest I Ve ever known^ 
 
 Or ever now sliall know. 
 Bees^ birds^ and little tinl^ling rills^ 
 
 So merrily did chime ; 
 The year was in its sweet spring-tide^ 
 
 And I was in my prime. 
 
 I \e never heard such music since^ 
 jProm every bending spray ; 
 
 I Ve never plucked such primroses^ 
 Set tliick on banlv and brae. 
 
ONCE UPON A TIME. 155 
 
 I Ve never smelt such violets 
 
 As all that pleasant time 
 I found by every hawthorn-root — 
 
 When I was in my prime. 
 
 Yon moory down^ so black and bare^ 
 
 Was gorgeous then and gay 
 With golden gorse — bright blossoming — 
 
 As none blooms now-a-day. 
 The Blackbird sings but seldom now 
 
 Up there in the old Lime^ 
 Wliere hours and hom\s he used to sing — 
 
 When I was in my prime. 
 
 Such cutting winds came never then 
 
 To pierce one thro^ and tlno^ ; 
 More softly fell the silent shower^ 
 
 More balmily the dew. 
 The morning mist and evening haze^ 
 
 (Unlike tliis cold grey rime) 
 Seemed woven warm of golden air — 
 
 Wlien I was in my prime. 
 
156 ONCE UPON A TIME. 
 
 And Blackberries — so mawkish now — 
 
 Were jSnely flavoured tlien ; 
 And Nuts — sucli reddening clusters ripe 
 
 I ne^er shall pull again. 
 Nor Strawberries bluslnng bright — as rich 
 
 As fruits of sunniest clime ; 
 How all is altered for the worse 
 
 Since I was in my prime ! 
 
WILD PLOWERS. 
 
 Ye who courtly beauty prize 
 Cast not here your scornful eyes ; 
 Nature^ s lowly children we^ 
 Bred on bank — ^in brake — on leay 
 By the meadow runlet^ s brinks 
 In the tall chfl'^s craggy cliink^ 
 On the sea-shore^s arid sliingle^ 
 On bleak moor — in bosky dingle^ 
 On old tower and ruined wall^ 
 By the sparkling w^aterfaU. 
 
 Not a hue of gaudier glow, 
 Not a streak to art we owe ; 
 
158 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Never hand but Nature's own — 
 Nature's ^^ sweet and cunning one '' — 
 Hath imparted charm and grace 
 To our unaspiring race : 
 All her elements of mighty 
 Common air and common Kght^ 
 Shower and sunsliine^ mist and dew ; 
 And her labourers — bhthe ones too — 
 All unhhed^ for love she finds^ 
 Bees^ and bnds^ and wandering winds. 
 
 Courtly scorners ! not for ye 
 Bloom our tribes of low degree ; 
 Stately Aloe^ — Tuberose tall^ 
 Fitly grace baronial hall; 
 Plaunting in exotic pride^ 
 (Sculptm^ed Nympli or Yawn beside^) 
 From marble vase on terrace wide^ 
 Wliere jewelled robes sweep rustling by^ 
 And lordly idlers lomige and sigh ; — 
 There iritrude not such as we^ 
 Cormnoners of low degree. 
 
WILD FLOWERS. 159 
 
 Yet have we out lovers too^ 
 Hearts to holy Nature true^ 
 Such as find in all her ways 
 Objects for dehght and praise^ — 
 From the Cedar^ straight and tall. 
 To ^^ the Hyssop on the wall/^ 
 
 Flavoured mortals ! to your eyes^ 
 All unveiled^ an Eden hes^ 
 Hidden from the worldling^s view ; 
 Wells of water gush for you 
 Wliere his sealed sight doth spy 
 Nought but dull aridity : — 
 Hither come — to you we ^11 tell 
 Where our sweetest sisters dwell ; 
 Show you every secret cell 
 Wliere the coy take sanctuary^ 
 ^^ Pale maids that umnarried die ; ^^ 
 Primroses^ and paler yet 
 The unstained^ odorous violet. 
 Hither come^ and you shall see 
 Where the lovehest Hlies be : — 
 
160 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 They tlirongii forest vistas gleaming 
 (Azure clouds of lieaven'^s own seeming)/ 
 They their snowy heads that liide^ 
 Cowering by the coppice side^ — 
 They that stand in nodding ranks^ 
 All along the river^s banks 
 Golden daffodils ; and they 
 — Brightest of the bright array — 
 With a swan-lilvc grace that gHde^ 
 Anchored on the waveless tide^ — 
 These and flowery myriads more^ 
 All their charms — a countless store — 
 All their sweets shall yield to thee^ 
 Nature^s faitliful votary ! 
 
 Tho^ we grace not lordly halls^ 
 Yet^ on rustic festivals, 
 Wlio than we are fitlier seen 
 Mauntuig o^er the village green ? 
 Many a kercliief deck we there ; 
 Many a Maiden'' s nut-bro\\ai hair ; 
 Many a straw hat, plaited neat 
 
WILD FLOWERS. 161 
 
 By shepherd hoj^ we make complete 
 With cowsHp carFnet : — Then tb see 
 With what an air^ how jamitily 
 On liis curled pate ^tis stuck awry^ 
 To snare some cottage beauty's eye ! 
 
 Joyous cliildliood roving free^ 
 With our sweet bells greedily 
 Both liis chubby hands doth fill. 
 Welcome plunderer^ pluck at will ! 
 Natm-e^s darling ! dear to thee 
 More than garden tribes are we. 
 Pluck at will enough to deck^ 
 Boy^ thy favomite lambkin^s neck. 
 
 Pineth some pale wretch away 
 In prison cell^ where cheerful day 
 Only thio^ the deep-set bars 
 Beams obhcjuely^ and the stars 
 Scarce can glance a pit}dng eye 
 On the poor soul^s misery ; 
 Haply on some lodgment nigh^ 
 
 M 
 
162 WILD FLOWERS. 
 
 Mossy bastion^s mouldering edge^ 
 Loophole cliink:, or grating ledge^ 
 One of us (some fragrant tiling) 
 Taketh standi and thence doth fling 
 On the kind air soft perfume 
 Down to that dark prison room ; 
 Entering with the bahny gale^ 
 Thoughts of some dear native vale^ 
 Some sweet home by mountain stream^ 
 On the captive^s soul may gleam ; 
 Wafting him^ in fondest dream^ 
 To the grass-plat far away^ 
 Where Ins little cliildren play. 
 
 On the poor man^s grave we ^re founds 
 Honouring the unlionoured ground ; 
 To the grave — the grave^ for aye — 
 Reverential dues we pay, 
 Wlien all thought hath passed away 
 From all Uving, long ago. 
 Of the dust that sleeps below ; 
 From the sunken liiUock gone. 
 
WILD FLOWERS. 153 
 
 E'en the cold memorial stone, 
 Unforsaking, we alone 
 Year by year fresh tribute spread 
 O'er the long-forgotten Dead. 
 
 M 2 
 
THE GEEENWOOD SHRIET, 
 
 Outstretched beneatli the leafy sliade 
 Of Windsor forest'^s deepest glade 
 
 A dying woman lay ; 
 Three Httle cliildren round her stood^ 
 And there went up from the greenwood 
 
 A woeful wail that day. 
 
 ^^ Oh^ Mother ! ^^ was the mingled cry^ 
 '' Oh, Mother ! Mother ! do not die, 
 
 And leave us all alone/^ 
 '^ My blessed Babes ! ^' — she strove to say, 
 But the faint accents died away 
 
 In a low sobbing moan. 
 
THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 165 
 
 And then life struggled hard with deaths 
 And fast and strong she drew her breathy 
 
 And up she raised her head ; 
 And peering thro^ the deep wood maze^ 
 With a long^ sharp^ uneartlily gaze^ 
 
 '^ Will he not come ? ^^ she said. 
 
 Just then^ the parting boughs between^ 
 A Kttle maid^s light form was seen^ 
 
 All breatliless with her speed ; 
 And following close a man came on^ 
 A portly man to look upon^ 
 
 Wlio led a panting steed. 
 
 ^^ Mother ! ^^ the little maiden cried^ 
 Or e^er she reached the woman^s side. 
 
 Or kissed her clay- cold cheek, 
 ^' I have not idled in the town, 
 But long went wandering up and down 
 
 The Minister to seek. 
 
166 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 
 
 ^' They told me here, they told me there. 
 I thiiik they mocked me everywhere ; 
 
 And when I found his home, 
 And begged liim, on my bended knee, 
 To bring his book and come with me^ 
 
 Mother ! he would not come. 
 
 ^^ I told liim how you dying lay. 
 And could not go in peace away 
 
 Without the Minister : 
 I begged liim for dear Christ, liis sake,- 
 But oh ! — my heart was fit to break — 
 
 Mother ! he would not stir. 
 
 ^^ So — tho^ my tears were blinding me — 
 I ran back fast as fast could be. 
 
 To come again to you : 
 Wlien here, close by, tliis Squire I met. 
 Who asked so mild what made me fret ? 
 
 And when I told him true. 
 
THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 167 
 
 '^ ^ I will go with you, cliilcl/ he said, 
 ^ God sends me to tliis dying bed/ 
 
 Mother ! he ^s here — hard by/^ 
 While thus the little maiden spoke, 
 The man, his back against an oak. 
 
 Looked on with ghstening eye. 
 
 The bridle on his neck flung free. 
 
 With quivering flank, and trembling knee. 
 
 Pressed close liis bonny bay ; 
 A statelier man, a stateher steed 
 Paced never greensward glade, I rede. 
 
 Than those stood there the day. 
 
 So, wliile the little maiden spoke. 
 The man, his back against an oak. 
 
 Looked on with ghstening eye 
 And folded arms ] and in his look 
 Sometliing that, like a sermon book, 
 
 Said— ^^ All is vanity ! '' 
 
168 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 
 
 But when the clymg woman^s face 
 Turned tow^^d liim^ with a wistful gaze^ 
 
 He stept to where she lay ; 
 And^ kneeling down^ bent over her^ 
 Saying — ^^ I am a Minister ; — 
 
 My sister^ let us pray/^ 
 
 And well^ withouten book or stole^ 
 (God^s words were printed on his soul^) 
 
 Into the dying ear 
 He poured^ as ^twere an Angelas strain^ 
 The tilings that unto life pertain 
 
 And death^s dark shadows^ clear : — 
 
 He spoke of sinners^ lost estate 
 In Clnist renewed^ regenerate ; — 
 
 Of God^s most blest decree^ 
 That not a single soul shall die 
 Wlio turns repentant, with the cry, 
 
 ^^ Be merciful to me ! ''^ 
 
THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 169 
 
 Then^ as the spirit ebbed away^ 
 
 He raised liis hands and eyes to pray 
 
 That peaceful it might pass ; 
 
 And then the orphans^ wail alone 
 
 Was heard^ as they knelt^ every one^ 
 
 Close round on the green grass. 
 
 Such was the sight their wondering eyes 
 Beheld^ in heart-struck mute surprise^ 
 
 Wlio reined their coursers back^ 
 Just as they found the long astray^ 
 Wlio^ in the heat of chase^ that day 
 
 Had wandered from the track. 
 
 Back each man reined liis pawing steed^, 
 And lighted down^ as if agreed^ 
 
 In silence at his side ; 
 And there^ uncovered all^ they stood : 
 It was a wholesome sight and good^ 
 
 That day^ for mortal pride. 
 
170 THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT. 
 
 For of the noblest of the land 
 
 Was that deep-hushed^ bare-headed band ; 
 
 And^ central in the rmg, 
 By that dead Pauper on the ground^ 
 Her ragged orphans clinging rounds 
 
 Knelt their anointed King ! 
 
LAMENT FOR LILIAS. 
 
 Is there no power in Love ? Hath Love no chain 
 Of linked strength to hold the spirit here ? 
 
 Has earth no pleasant places to detain 
 
 One heavenly nature from its higher sphere ? 
 
 Love was about tliee^ Lihas ! from thy birth 
 Love^ Kke an atmosphere^ encircled thee ; 
 
 A flower^ almost too beautiful for earthy 
 That in our sight did dwell continually. 
 
 Our joy ! — our pride ! — our darling ! — our dehght ! 
 
 More precious in thy sheltering leaves deep set^ 
 That slirinking timidly from common sight, 
 
 Bloomed but for us, our own sweet violet. 
 
172 LAMENT FOR LILIAS. 
 
 But oh ! tlie fragrance that it shed abroad ; 
 
 The incense that to liighest heaven ascended 
 From those meek virtues a heart-searcliing God 
 
 Loves best^ with liis dear Son^s own meekness blended. 
 
 A Stranger came and coveted our flower ; 
 
 Yet not a Stranger Lilias^ heart who won^ 
 And pressed^ prevailed^ and bore her from her bower^ 
 
 To be of liis the hfe^ the hght^ the sun. 
 
 Meekly she moved^ with matron grace serene^ 
 
 In duty and in lovers enlarged sphere ; 
 And the heart blessed her — and the eye was seen 
 
 Warm glistening as her well-known step drew near. 
 
 And thus beloved and blessings was she blessed ? — 
 So bounteously^ that life could have in store 
 
 One only gift^ wliich^ crowning all the rest^ 
 Would make her cup of happiness rmi o^er. 
 
 ^Twas granted ; tidings came — '' a child was born : ^^ 
 Was there not gladness in the house that day ! 
 
LAMENT FOR LILIAS. 173 
 
 Down sank the sun^ uprose the merry morn^ — 
 Pale^ cold in deaths the new-made mother lay. 
 
 Oh ! what a ruin — what a wreck was there 
 Of goodliest structure ever reared below ! 
 
 Our Best ! — our Beautiful as Angels are ! — 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave us ? Wherefore wouldst thou 
 go? 
 
 Hadst thou no power^ oh Love^ the fleeting breath 
 
 The life of many Hves awliile to stay ? 
 Hast thou no power^ oh Love ! to fight with Deaths, 
 
 To fight — to overcome — to conquer ? Yea^ 
 
 Thou hast^ thou hast. The fight^ the victory 
 For us^ the lost regained^ is fought and won : 
 
 The grave can never hold whom Clnist sets free ; 
 We shall rejoin thee^ loved and lovely one ! 
 
TOO LATE. 
 
 Too late — the curse of life ! 
 Could we but read 
 In many a heart the thoughts that inly bleed^ 
 
 • How oft were founds 
 Engraven deep^ those words of saddest sound, 
 Curse of our mortal state, 
 Too late ! too late ! 
 
 Tears are there, acrid drops 
 
 That do not rise 
 Quick gusliing to the eyes, 
 Kindly reheving, as they gently flow. 
 The mitigable woe : 
 
TOO LATE. 175 
 
 But oozing inward^ silent^ dark^ and chilly 
 
 Like some cavernous rill^ 
 That falls congeaKng — turning into stone 
 
 Tlie thing it falls upon. 
 
 But now and then^ may be^ 
 The pent-up pain 
 Breaks out resistless in some passionate strain 
 Of simulated grief ; 
 
 Seeking rehef 
 In that fond idle way 
 From thoughts on life that prey. 
 
 ^^ How trutlifully conceived ! ^^ 
 
 With ghstening eyes, 
 
 Some Hstener cries ; 
 ^^ Fine art to feign so well ! ^^ 
 
 Ah ! none can tell 
 So trutlifully the deep things of the heart 
 Who have not felt the smart. 
 
 Too late — the curse of Kfe ! 
 
176 TOO LATE. 
 
 Take back the cup 
 So mockingly held up 
 To lips that may not drain. 
 Was it no pain 
 That long heart-thirst ? 
 That the life-giving draught is oflfered first 
 On that extremest shore 
 Who leaves^ shall tliirst no more. 
 
 Take back the cup ! — ^yet^ no ; 
 Wlio dares to say 
 ^Tis mockingly presented ? Let it stay. 
 If here too late^ 
 There is a better state^ 
 A cup that tliis may tjq^ify^ prepared 
 For those who Ve little of lifers sweetness shared^ 
 Nor many flowerets found 
 On earthly ground ; 
 Yet patiently liokl on^ awaiting meek 
 The call of Him they seek — 
 ^^ Come^ thou that weepest^ yet hast stood the test^- 
 Come to thy rest."'^ 
 
ON 
 
 SEEING LAID THE EIEST STONE OE 
 PENINGTON CHUECH— 1838. 
 
 On tliis da/s purpose^ Lord ! 
 
 Send down thy blessing ; 
 Hear tliou the suppliant hearts 
 Thy tln^one addressing : — 
 Let thy Hglit sliine on tliis appointed place ; 
 And perfect our imperfect work^ tlu'o^ grace. 
 
 Eull well^ Lord ! we know^ 
 
 That temples made with hands 
 Thou needest not^ whose power 
 Creation spans ; 
 Yet dwellest oft in sl^ines — not molten gold — 
 But some poor humble heart of human mould. 
 
 N 
 
178 PENINGTON CHURCH. 
 
 But tliou hast pledged thy word, 
 
 Wliere two or three 
 Are gathered in thy name, 
 Thyself will be. 
 Thus we behold, by Faith^s far-stretching eye, 
 Thy presence in the future Sanctuary. • 
 
 Therefore we lay tliis stone. 
 
 And humbly pray — 
 Be with us. Lord ! and bless 
 Our act this day. 
 Be with their hearts and counsels who direct, 
 And with the builder^s hand. Almighty Architect ! 
 
 But cliiefly be with those 
 
 Shall hither come, 
 Wlien, consecrated, stands 
 The finished dome. 
 On all, O Father ! let thy Spirit rest — 
 People and Priest — on all — in every breast. 
 
PENINGTON CHURCH. 179 
 
 On this da/s purpose, Lord ! 
 
 Send down thy blessing : 
 Hear thou the suppliant hearts 
 Thy throne addressing : — 
 Let thy light sliine on tliis appointed place ; 
 And perfect our imperfect work, thio^ grace. 
 
 N 2 
 
TO 
 
 A YOUNG SOUTH AlilERICAN SPANIARD. 
 
 Steangee^ from a land of siinsliine ! 
 
 What^ returning^ wilt thou tell 
 Of the sunless land thou leavest^ 
 
 With^ perhaps^ a last farewell ? 
 
 Wilt thou^ of thy young experience. 
 When the story shall be told, 
 
 Say that, like our dull cold cUmate, 
 Hearts and minds are dull and cold ? 
 
 No ; a less ungentle record 
 Of the past thou ''It bear away ; 
 
 ^^ Good and evil have I met with, 
 
 Strength and weakness,^^ thou wilt say. 
 
TO A YOUNG SOUTH AMERICAN SPANIARD. 181 
 
 Truth and error — coldness^ kindness — 
 
 All the good I bear in mind ; 
 All remembrance of the evil 
 
 Leave^ with England^s fogs^ beliind. 
 
THE WAENING. 
 
 There ^s bloom upon the lady's cheeky 
 There ^s brightness in her eye : 
 
 Who says the sentence is gone forth, 
 That that fair tiling must die ? 
 
 Must die before the flowering Lime, 
 Out yonder, sheds its leaf : 
 
 Can tliis thing be, human flower ! 
 Thy blossoming so brief ? 
 
 Nay, nay, ^tis but a passing cloud. 
 
 Thou dost but droop awhile ; 
 There ^s Hfe, (long years) and love, and joy 
 
 (Wliole ages) in that smile — 
 
THE WARNING. 183 
 
 In the gay call that to thy knee 
 Brings quick that loving child, 
 
 Who looks up in those laugliing eyes, 
 With his large eyes so mild. 
 
 Yet thou art doomed — art dying. All 
 
 The coming hour foresee ; 
 But, in lovers cowardice, withhold 
 
 The warning word from thee. 
 
 God help thee, and be merciful ! 
 
 His strength is with the weak ; 
 Thro^ babes and sucklings the Most High 
 
 Hath oft vouchsafed to speak j 
 
 And speaketh now — ^^ Oh Mother, dear ! ^^ 
 
 Whispers the Httle cliild, 
 — And there is trouble in liis eyes. 
 
 Those large blue eyes so mild — 
 
184 THE WARNING. 
 
 ^^ Oh Mother^ dear ! tliey say that soon^ 
 When here I seek for thee^ 
 
 I shall not find thee ; nor out there 
 Under the old oak tree^ 
 
 Nor upstairs in the INTursery^ 
 
 Nor anywhere^ they say : 
 Where wilt thou go to^ Mother^, dear ? 
 
 Oh^ do not go away ! ^^ 
 
 There was deep silence — a long hush — 
 And then, the cliild^s low sob : 
 
 Her quivering eyehds close ; one hand 
 Holds down the hearths quick ttoob. 
 
 And the lips move, tlio^ sound is none : 
 
 That inward voice is prayer ; 
 And hark ! — '' Thy will, Lord ! be done. 
 
 And tears are trickling there. 
 
THE WARNING. 185 
 
 Down that fair cheeky on that young head^ 
 
 And round her neck he cHngs ; 
 And child and mother murmur out 
 
 Unutterable things : 
 
 He half unconscious^ — she heart-struck 
 With sudden^ solemn truths 
 
 That numberM are her days on earthy 
 Her shroud prepared in youth ; 
 
 That all in life her heart holds dear 
 
 God calls her to resign : 
 She hears — feels — trembles — but looks up^, 
 
 And sighs — '' Thy mil be mine ! ^' 
 
AECHBISHOP GEESON. 
 
 A K. C. LEGEND. 
 
 A VOICE from the sinful city 
 
 Goes up to God on liigli — 
 ^^ Why tarries the righteous cloom^ 
 When the time of overflowing is come 
 Of the cup of iniquity ? ^^ 
 
 And the good Archbishop Gerson, 
 
 As he kneels in penance drear 
 On the cold hard flags so white^ 
 At the hour of dead midnight^ 
 That accusing voice doth hear. 
 
ARCHBISHOP GERSON. 187 
 
 And, groaning, he lifteth up 
 
 His eyes to the holy rood ; 
 When lo ! from the pierced side, 
 And the gaping nail-wounds wide, 
 
 Wells out as Hwere fresh-dra\^Ti blood. 
 
 The old man beats his breast. 
 
 At that awful sight, full sore ; 
 And he bends down his aged brow 
 — All beaded with sweat-drops now — 
 
 Till it toucheth the marble floor. 
 
 And he wrestles in earnest prayer ; 
 
 But the accusing voice still cries, 
 ^^ How long, O Lord ! how long 
 Wilt thou bear with tk^ people^s wrong, 
 
 With t/iis people^s iniquities ? ^^ 
 
 ^^ Haste hither, my bretliren dear ! 
 
 And humble yourselves with me. 
 My holy bretliren all ! ^^ 
 Is the Archbishop^s piercing call. 
 
 In the strength of his agony. 
 
188 ARCHBISHOP GERSON. 
 
 They come at tlie call with speedy 
 
 They kneel^ and weep^ and pray ; 
 But the voice of prayer is drowned 
 In that dread accusing sounds 
 ^^ Lord ! make no delay /^ 
 
 ^^ We are grievous offenders all — 
 
 AU leprous and defiled : 
 What hps shall be fomid tliis day 
 With prevailing prayer to pray^ 
 Save the lips of a Kttle cliild ? ^^ 
 
 ^^ Of such little ones liither bring/^ 
 Cries aloud the Archbishop then. 
 And they gather^ at liis command^ 
 Eound the altar^ a sinless band^ 
 Tlio^ the cliildi'en of sinful men. 
 
 And the pure yomig voices rise 
 
 On the incense of taintless breath : 
 And there reigneth o^er all the wliile^ 
 Tln*ougliout that majestic pile^ 
 A stilhiess as deep as death. 
 
ARCHBISHOP GERSON. 189 
 
 For crozier and cowl alike 
 
 In the dust lie prostrate there ; 
 Of those living men laid low 
 In the depth of abasement now, 
 
 Stnreth not hand or hair. 
 
 But the pleading voice goes up 
 
 Prom that infant choir the wliile ; 
 And behold, o^er the face divine 
 Playeth, like lightning- sliine. 
 
 The gleam of a gracious smile. 
 
 Then upriseth, Uke one entranced. 
 The Archbishop on liis feet : — 
 
 ^^ Give thanks for a day of grace ! 
 
 He crieth, with radiant face, — 
 ^^ Give thanks, as is most meet. 
 
 yy 
 
 ^^ Tlie Innocents^ prayer ascendeth 
 
 Above the Accuser^s cry ; 
 Their Angels are heard in heaven. 
 And a day of grace is given. 
 Glory to God most High ! '' 
 
ABEAM AND THE FIRE-WOESHIPPER. 
 
 A RABBINICAL LEGEND. 
 
 In Ins tent door, at eventide, 
 The Eatlier of the Eaitliful stands. 
 With upraised hands, 
 
 Shading his sight 
 Erom the low slanting hght, 
 As tliro^ the Pahns, on either side. 
 
 And over the red sands. 
 And tliro^ the burning haze, 
 He sends afar a wistful gaze. 
 Belated traveller haply to discern. 
 And make liim turn 
 Into the tent that night, 
 An honoured guest. 
 To comfort there liis heart with food and rest. 
 
ABRAM AND THE FIRE- WORSHIPPER. 191 
 
 And lo ! 
 As at the wish appears, 
 Bowed down with weight of years 
 More than of weariness, an aged man. 
 Wliite was liis beard as snow, 
 Peeble and slow 
 His tottering gait ; 
 And Abram doth not wait, 
 But while one ran 
 To bid prepare the bath^ makes haste to meet 
 
 The slow advancing feet : 
 And ^^ Turn in here, my Father, and eat bread, 
 And with thy servant rest to-night,^^ he said. 
 
 They have washed the desert sands 
 
 From the stranger^s burning feet ; 
 They have poured upon his hands 
 Pure water, cool and sweet. 
 And now they set on meat ; 
 And with sweet sense of rest 
 The way-worn guest 
 Prepares to eat. 
 
192 ABRAM AND THE FIRE- WORSHIPPER. 
 
 But — ^^ Hold ! ^^ — with lowering brow 
 Of dark surprise 
 The entertainer cries — 
 
 ^^ Man ! what art thou 
 That bowest not the head^ 
 Nor prayer hast said 
 To the Most High^ before thou breakest bread ? 
 
 Meekly the Man replies^ 
 Uplifting liis dim eyes^ 
 
 (Dim now mth tears 
 As with liis hundi'ed years^) 
 ^^ Oh ! let not my Lord^s ire 
 Wax hot against me now ; 
 Thy servant doth not bow 
 To Gods of wood or stone ; 
 I worship One alone 
 
 To whom all souls aspire — 
 The Everliving One, 
 
 The sacred fii'e/^ 
 
 ^^ Hence, Heathen, from my door ! 
 Pollute my place no more ! ^^ 
 
 j: 
 
ABRAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER. 193 
 
 In zeal for the true God^ cries Abram then ; 
 "^^ Nor there must thou be laid 
 Under that pahn tree^s shade; 
 ^Twould wither at the root^ 
 Nor evermore bear fruity 
 Accursed among men ! 
 Back to the howKng wilderness again ; 
 
 Go forth^ and see 
 If there thy God wiU seek and cherish thee/^ 
 
 Meekly the man obeys ; 
 He takes liis staflF, 
 (While from beliind is heard a mocking laugh,) 
 
 And foot-sore, and in pain, 
 And hungry and atlurst, goes forth again 
 Into the lonesome night : 
 Nor for that sight 
 Relenteth Abram ; in the tent he stays, 
 Sternly resolved, and says. 
 With self-complacency devout, 
 ^^ I have done well, — I have cast out 
 
194 ABRAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER. 
 
 The iinbelie\diig tiling abhorred ; 
 
 So be it ever with thy foes^ Lord ! ^^ 
 
 Then spake a Voice^ and said^ 
 ^^ Wliere^ Abram^ is thy gnest ? ^^ — 
 ^^ ThoiL knowest best 
 "Who knowest all tilings ! ^^ straight^ withouten dread^ 
 
 Abram replies : 
 ^^ Thou knowest well^ All-wise^ 
 That I am very jealous for thy name^ 
 And strong to put to shame 
 Tliine enemies ; 
 And even now^ 
 (His hmidred years of shi be on his head) 
 Have I not tlu'ust out one^ who unto thee 
 Never made vow^ 
 Nor bent the knee ? 
 AU-just ! for tliis good deed remember me/^ 
 
 ^^ ni^ Abram^ hast thou done/^ 
 The Voice made answer then^ — 
 ^^ Have I not set the smi 
 To sliine upon all men^ 
 
ABRAM AND THE FIRE- WORSHIPPER. 105 
 
 Mine — every one. — 
 And could^st not thou forbear 
 One liour with liim^ an hundred years my care ? 
 Wliom / have borne with^ tho^ he knew me not^ 
 He^ the untaught. — 
 Go^ bring thy brother back; 
 Nor let lihn lack 
 Lovers service ; per adventure so to win^ 
 From ignorant sin 
 Of foul idolatry, 
 A soul for me.''^ 
 
 The word was spoken. 
 
 The heart of pride was broken ; 
 
 Gone was the blindness — 
 
 Altered to loving-kindness 
 
 The zealot mood : 
 
 ^^ Lord ! thou alone art good, 
 
 And I am nought. 
 
 The ill that I have wrought 
 
 Forgive me now ; 
 
 Tliere is none good but Thou ! 
 
 2 
 
 ^} 
 
196 ABRAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER. 
 
 So Abram spake^ heart-cliastened ; 
 And fortli^ in anxious quest 
 
 Of the despised guest 
 — Despised no longer — hastened. 
 
 Nor long in vain 
 He^ with his Servants^ sought ; 
 Small progress had he made^ that Man forlorn^ 
 
 Aged^ and weak^ and worn : 
 And founds they bring him to the tent again 
 With tenderest care^ 
 To honom'able entertainment there^ 
 Soft rest and choicest fare : 
 And Abram waited on his guest that nighty 
 Self-humbled in liis sight. 
 
THE THREE SISTERS. 
 
 Loch Awe. — Three large Ash- trees by the road-side are known by 
 the name of the Three Sisters, from the persons who planted them ; and 
 this was all we heard. A more durable monument these Sisters, who- 
 ever they were, might have left, but not a more beautiful nor a more 
 affecting one, under whatever circumstances they may have planted 
 the trees which have already so long survived them, — whether in the 
 joyousness of childhood, with no fore- thought and fore-feeling to 
 disturb their enjoyment; or perhaps with too much of that feeling, 
 when they were about to be separated for the first time, or for ever. 
 
 Mr. Southey's Scotch Journal^ p. 247. 
 
 Stop^ Traveller ! rest and contemplate 
 
 A moment on thy way. 
 Those tliree fah^ spreading Ashen trees. 
 That gently in the noon-day breeze 
 
 Wave Kght their feathery spray. 
 
 Thou walkest on thy worldly way, 
 
 And seek^'st the crowded mart. 
 Yet pause — thou never wilt repent 
 (Stolen from the world) these moments spent 
 
 Li quietness of heart. 
 
198 THE THREE SISTERS. 
 
 ^^ The world is too mucli with us ^^ all — 
 
 It is a blessed tiling 
 To find a Httle resting-place^ 
 A secret nook — a charmed space^ 
 
 Safe from its entering. 
 
 Where hoarded thoughts^ pm'e^ spiritual^ 
 
 Imaginative^ holy^ 
 (Released awliile from cKnghig clay^) 
 May revel — innocently gay^ 
 
 Or mildly melancholy. 
 
 Where Memory's inward eye may dweU 
 
 On consecrated treasures^ 
 Too precious to be gazed upon 
 Where Lifer's cold common round runs on^ 
 
 Of heartless cares and pleasm^es. 
 
 Where Fancy may in Cloudland build^ 
 
 Or smallest eartlily space^ 
 As here — and so we come at last 
 To an old story of the past^ 
 
 Connected with tliis place — 
 
THE THREE SISTERS. 199 
 
 Yet not a story : — ^jiist a sketch — 
 
 A sliadowy outline rude ; 
 Such as, metliinks, Hwere pleasant play 
 To sit and fill this su miner day, 
 
 With apt simihtude. 
 
 These Ash trees — (mark their number well ; 
 
 Their equal growth you see, 
 Their equal ages : vigorous, green 
 As their first leafy prime was seen) — 
 
 Are caUed— ^^ The Sisters Thiee.'' 
 
 By whom — or after whom so called. 
 
 None living now can say ; 
 Nor planted how long since — nor more 
 Than that the name they bear, they bore 
 
 In a long distant day, 
 
 Memorial of a mortal tlu'ce 
 
 Who set them where they stand. 
 Their pensile branches still to wave 
 Wlien long long mouldered in the grave^ 
 
 Each planter Sister^s hand — 
 
200 THE THREE SISTERS. 
 
 Unsculptmed^ fragile moninnent ! 
 
 Who wiUs^ may read in thee 
 — Reading with thoughtful hearty and mind 
 To dreamy questioning inclined — 
 
 A toucliing mystery. 
 
 What were those Sisters ? — young or old ?■ 
 
 Of high or humble birth ? 
 Simple or wise — ^^dmired or scorned ? 
 Loved and lamented^ or unmourned 
 
 Passed they away from earth ? — 
 
 Came they in joyous cliildliood here^ 
 
 Prom sad fore-feeling free^ 
 To set — by hands parental led — 
 The Sapling trees that overhead 
 
 Inarch so loftily ? 
 
 Or liither, in short after-time^ 
 
 (Tears from their young eyes starting) 
 Came they with saddened mien sedate^ 
 And arms entwined^ to consecrate 
 
 The eve of a first parting ? 
 
THE THREE SISTERS. 201 
 
 Each calling by a Sister^s name 
 
 The youngling Ash then set ; 
 And blessings as she turned away^ 
 The frail memorial of a day 
 
 It stands recording yet. 
 
 Or was it, of the Sisters tln^ee 
 
 A/\^ien two were dead and gone, 
 That, all-absorbed in mournful thought, 
 This spot the sad survivor sought — 
 
 The last and lonely one ! — 
 
 This spot, in cliildish joyance oft 
 
 Wliere they had played together. 
 Merry as blossoms on the bough. 
 Or birds, their fairy sports I trow 
 
 Scarce startled from the heather. 
 
 Two soundly sleep in distant graves — 
 
 And one stands all alone, 
 Fading and failing fast — with her 
 To perish the last chronicler 
 
 Of those to dust gone down. — 
 
202 THE THREE SISTERS. 
 
 So thought she^ reasoning with herself^ 
 
 Perchance^ that tiling forlorn ; 
 And^ gazing sadly rounds sighed on — 
 ^^ Here all will look when we are gone 
 
 As we had ne'er been born ! ^^ 
 
 A natural thought ! most natural^ 
 
 The fond desire to leave 
 Some record (than elaborate tomb 
 More fitting here) of those for whom 
 
 None would be left to grieve. 
 
 And so perhaps she caused to plant 
 These trees that self-same day. — 
 
 Traveller ! I Ve dreamt my dream — Grudge not 
 
 Thy tarriance in tliis quiet spot — 
 Pass peaceful on thy way. 
 
THE LANDING OP THE PRIMEOSE. 
 
 AusTEALiA'^s strand was swarming 
 With myriads^ tier on tier ; 
 
 Like bees^ they clung and clustered 
 On wall and pile and pier. 
 
 The wanderer and the outcast- 
 Hope — Penitence — Despair- 
 
 The felon and the free-man^ 
 Were intermingling there. 
 
 There ran a restless murmur^ 
 A murmur deep not loud ; 
 
 Por every heart was tlirilHng 
 Tlu*o^ all that motley crowd : 
 
204 THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 And every eye was straining 
 To where a good sliip lay^ 
 
 With England^ s red-cross waving 
 Above her decks that day. 
 
 And comes she^ deeply freighted 
 With human gnilt and shame ? 
 
 And wait those crowds expectant^ 
 To greet with loud acclaim ? 
 
 Or^ comes she treasure-laden^ 
 And ache those anxious eyes 
 
 For sight of her rich cargo^ 
 Her goodly merchandise ? 
 
 See^ see ! they lower the long boat^ 
 And now they man the barge ; 
 
 Tricked out and maimed so bravely^ 
 Por no ignoble charge. 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 205 
 
 Gold gleams on breast and shoulder 
 
 Of England^s own true-blue ; 
 That sure must be the captain^ 
 
 Salutes liis gallant crew. 
 
 And that the captain^s lady 
 
 They ^re handing down the side ; 
 
 ^^ Steady^ my hearts^ now^ steady !^^ 
 Was that the coxswain cried. 
 
 ^^ Hold on/^ she ^s safely seated^ 
 ^^ In oars/^ — a sparkling splash ; 
 
 Hats off on deck — one cheer now — 
 ^^ Pull hearties V^ off they dash. 
 
 And now the lines long stretching 
 Of earnest gazers^ strain 
 
 (Convergmg to one centre) 
 The landing-place to gain. 
 
206 THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 cc 
 
 (C 
 
 A guards a guard V^ in haste tlien 
 
 The governor calls out ; 
 Protect the lad/s landing 
 
 Prom all that rabble rout/^ 
 
 Her foot is on the gunwale^ 
 Her eyes on that turmoil ; 
 
 A moment so she lingers^ 
 Then treads Australians soil. 
 
 With looks of humid wonder 
 
 She gazes all about ; 
 And oh ! her woman^s nature 
 
 Calls that no ^^ rahble rout!^ 
 
 Eor well she reads the feeHng 
 Each face expressive wears ; 
 
 And well she knows what wakes it 
 Tliat precious tiling she bears. 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 207 
 
 Tliat precious thing — oh wondrous ! 
 
 A spell of potent power 
 Prom English earth transported^ 
 
 A little lowly flower. 
 
 Be blessings on that lady^ 
 Be blessings on that hand ; 
 
 The first to plant the primrose 
 Upon the Exile^s land ! 
 
 The sound had gone before her^ 
 No eye had closed that night ; 
 
 So yearned they for the morrow^ 
 So longed they for the Hght. 
 
 She smiles wliile tears are droppings 
 She holds the treasure liigh ; 
 
 And land and sea resomiding^ 
 Eing out with one wild cry. 
 
208 THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE, 
 
 And sobs at its subsiding 
 
 Prom manly breasts are heard ; 
 
 Stern natures^ hearts guilt-hardened^ 
 To woman^s softness stirred. 
 
 One gazes all intentness^ 
 Tliat felon Boy — and lo ! 
 
 Tlie bold bright eyes are ghstening^ 
 Long^ long^ unmoistened so. 
 
 Tlie woman holds her cliild up : 
 ^^ Look^ little one ! ^^ cries she, 
 
 ^^ I pulled such when as blithesome 
 And innocent as tliee/^ 
 
 No word the old man utters,— 
 His earnest eyes grow dim ; 
 
 One spot beyond the salt sea 
 Is present now to liim. 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 209 
 
 There blooms tlie earliest primrose^ 
 
 His father^s grave hard by ; 
 There lieth all his kmdred, 
 
 There he shall never lie. 
 
 The living mass moves onward^ 
 The Lady and her train ; 
 
 They press upon her path stilly 
 To look and look again. 
 
 Yet on she moves securely^ 
 No guards are needed there ; 
 
 Of her they hem so closely 
 They would not harm a hair. 
 
 Be blessings on that Lady ! 
 
 Be blessings on that hand^ 
 The first to plant tlie primrose 
 
 Upon the Exile^s land. 
 
TO 
 
 A CENTAGENARIAN ON HER HUNDREDTH 
 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Aged handmaid of the Lord^ 
 Humbly waiting on his word ; 
 Peace be with thee ! — Peace and love 
 On Earth beneath — In Heaven above. 
 
 Thou between two worlds dost stand : 
 Long so near the better land^ 
 That from thence a wandering ray 
 Seems about thy brow to play ; 
 
 That^ on Lifers extremest sliore^ 
 Prom the rough road travelled o^er, 
 Calmly resting^ thou ma/st cry 
 ^^ Now is my salvation nigh/^ 
 
 Pilgrim of an hundred years ! 
 Loosened from lifers hopes and fears^ 
 
TO A CENTAGENARIAN. 211 
 
 Wliat liast thou to do but wait • 
 (Almost there) at Heaven's gate ? 
 
 All the little space between 
 Pleasant stilly and fresh and green ; 
 So the greeimess of the heart 
 Lives in thee, — ^youth's better part. 
 
 Types and tidings of good cheer 
 Comfort thee throughout the year ; 
 Prom thy Bible's countless store 
 To the spring-flowers at thy door. 
 
 Bursting from their wintry tomb, 
 There again those bright ones bloom ; 
 Pass a few short seasons o'er 
 Of life and death, to wake no more. 
 
 But when Earth gives up her trust 
 
 — Aye, every grain of human dust — 
 
 Par other wakening tliine shall be, 
 
 Death swallowed up in Victory. 
 
 p 2 
 
TO EMILY. 
 
 A Little bird has sung to me 
 That my small cousin Emily 
 
 Betrays a turn for rhyming : 
 Well pleased I heard that little bird^ 
 Eor in my day^ such rhyming play 
 
 I too have spent some time in^ 
 
 And found it pretty pastime too ; 
 And more than that I ^U say to you^ 
 
 Let who will differ widely : 
 ^^ An idle trade/^ by some ^tis said^ — 
 But so you see^ all trades may be^ 
 
 If followed iU^ or idly. 
 
TO EMILY. 213 
 
 Who giveth all^ gives all tilings good ; 
 So runs^ if rightly understood^ 
 
 The truth of tliis same story : 
 The gifts of song to Hhn belongs 
 And grateful love will best improve 
 
 The talent^ to His glory. 
 
THAT^S WHAT WE AEE. 
 
 Caeeful^ and troubled about many things^ 
 (Alas ! that it should be so with us stilly 
 As in the days of Martha) I went forth 
 Harassed and heartsick^ with hot^ aching brow^ 
 Thought-fevered — haply to escape myself. 
 
 Beauteous that bright May-morning — all about^ 
 Sweet influences of earthy and air^ and sky^ 
 Harmoniously accordant. — I alone 
 (The troubled spirit that had driven me forth) 
 In dissonance with that fair frame of tilings 
 So blissfully serene. God had not yet 
 Let fall the weight of chastening^ tliat makes dumb 
 The murmuring lip and stills the rebel hearty 
 Ending all eartlily interests ; and I called 
 (0 Heaven !) that incomplete experience — Grief. 
 It would not do. The momentary sense 
 
THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 215 
 
 Of soft refresliing coolness passed away^ 
 Back came the troublous thoughts, and all in vain 
 I strove with the tormentors : all in vain 
 Applied me with forced interest to peruse 
 Pair Nature^s outspread volume : all in vain 
 Looked up admiring at the dappled clouds 
 And depths cerulean. Even as I gazed, 
 The film — the eartlily fihn — obscured my vision, 
 And in a lower region, sore perplexed 
 Again I wandered, and again shook off. 
 With vext impatience, the besetting cares. 
 And set me straight to gather, as I walked, 
 A field-flower nosegay. Plentiful the choice ; 
 And in few moments, of all hues I held 
 A glowing handful. In few moments more 
 Where were they ? Dropping as I went along 
 Unheeded on my path ; and I was gone — 
 Wandering far off, in maze of thought perplext. 
 
 Despairingly I sought the social scene — 
 Sound — motion — action — interchange of wordSy 
 Scarcely of mind — ^rare privilege ! 
 
216 THAT\S WHAT WE ARE. 
 
 We talked — 
 Oh! how we talked — discussed and solved all questions/ 
 EeKgion^ morals^ manners^ politics^ 
 Physics and metaphysics^ books and authors^ 
 Pashion and dress^ our neighbours and ourselves ; 
 And ever as the senseless changes rang^ 
 And I helped ring tliem^ in my secret soul 
 Grew weariness^ disgust^ and self-contempt ; 
 And^ more disturbed in spirit^ I resumed^ 
 More cynically sad^ my homeward way. 
 
 It led me tlu'ough the Church-yard^ and methought 
 There entering^ as I let the iron gate 
 Smng to beliind me^ that the change was good — 
 The unquiet living for the quiet dead. 
 And at that moment^ from the old Church tower 
 A knell resounded — ^^ Man to liis long home 
 Drew near^^ — ''The mourners went about the streets; ^^ 
 And there^ few paces onward^ to the rights 
 Close by the pathway lay an open grave — 
 Not of the hmnbler sort^ shaped newly oiit^ 
 Narrow and deep in the dark mould ; when filled^ 
 
THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 217 
 
 To be roofed over by the living sod^ 
 And left for all adornment (and so best) 
 To Nature^s reverential hand. 
 
 The tomb 
 Made ready there for a new habitant 
 Was that of an old family : I knew it — 
 A very ancient altar tomb^ where Time 
 With liis rough fret- work mocked the Sculptor^ s art^ 
 Peebly elaborate — heraldic shield 
 And mortuary emblems half effaced ; 
 Deep sunken at one end^ of many names 
 Graven with suitable inscription^ each 
 Upon the shelving slab and sides^ scarce now 
 Might any but an antiquarian eye 
 Make out a letter. Five and fifty years 
 The door of that dark dwelling had shut in 
 The last admitted sleeper. She^ "'twas said^ 
 Died of a broken heart — a widowed mother 
 Following her only cliild^ by violent death 
 Cut off untimely : and the wliisper went^ 
 By his own hand. The tomb was ancient then^ 
 When they two were interred ; and they the first 
 
218 THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 
 
 For whom^ witliin the memory of man^ 
 
 It had been opened ; and their names filled up 
 
 (With sharp cut newness mocking the old stone) 
 
 The last remaining space. And so it seemed 
 
 The gathering was complete ; the appointed number 
 
 Laid in the sleeping chamber^ and sealed up 
 
 Inviolate, tiU the great reckoning day. 
 
 The few remaining of the name dispersed. 
 
 The family fortunes dwindled, till at last 
 
 They sank into decay, and out of sight. 
 
 And out of memory ; till an aged man. 
 
 Passed by some parish very far away. 
 
 To die in ours — his legal settlement — 
 
 Claimed kmdred with the long-forgotten race, 
 
 Its sole survivor ; and in right thereof— 
 
 Of that affinity — to moulder with them 
 
 In the old family grave. 
 
 ^^ A natural wdsh,^^ 
 Said the authorities ; and ^^ sure enough 
 He was of the old stock — the last descendant ; 
 And it would cost no more to bury liim 
 Under the old cracked tombstone, with its scutcheons. 
 
THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 219 
 
 Than in the common ground/^ So^ graciously^ 
 The boon was granted^ and he died content. 
 And now the Pauperis funeral had set forth^ 
 And the bell tolled (not many strokes nor long — 
 Pauperis allowance) — ^lie was coming home. 
 But wliile the train was yet a good way off — 
 The workhouse burial train — I stopt to look 
 Upon the scene before me ; and methought — 
 Oh that some gifted painter could behold 
 And give dm^ation to that living picture^ 
 So rich in moral and pictorial beauty^ 
 If seen arightly by the spiritual eye^ 
 As with the bodily organ ! 
 
 The old tomb^ 
 With its quaint tracery^ gilded here and there 
 With smihght glancing thro^ the o^erarchmg lime^ 
 Far flinging its cool shadow flickering light ; 
 Our gray-haired sexton^ with his hard gray face^ 
 (A living tombstone) resting on liis mattock 
 By the low portal ; and just over rights 
 His back against the lime-tree^ liis tliin hands 
 Locked in each otlier^ hanging down before liim 
 
220 THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 
 
 As with their own dead weighty a tall slim youth 
 
 With hollow hectic cheeky and pale parched Kp^ 
 
 And labouring breathy and eye upon the ground 
 
 Past rooted^ as if taking measurement 
 
 Betime for liis own grave. I stopt a moment^ 
 
 Contemplating those thinkers — Youth and Age 
 
 Marked for the sickle ; as it seemed^ the miripe 
 
 To be first gathered. Stepping forward then^ 
 
 Down to the house of Deaths with vague expectance 
 
 I sent a curious^ not mislninking gaze. 
 
 There lay the burning head and broken heart 
 
 Long^ long at rest ; and many a Tiling beside 
 
 That had been life — warm^ sentient^ busy life ! — 
 
 Had hungered — tliirsted — laughed — wept — hoped and 
 
 feared — 
 Hated and loved — enjoyed and agonised. 
 Wliere of all tliis was all I looked to see — 
 The mass of crumbling coffins^ some belike 
 Flattened and shapeless ? Even in this damp vaults 
 With more completeness could the old Destroyer 
 Have done liis darkling work ? Yet lo ! I looked 
 Into a small square chamber^ swept and clean^ 
 
THAT^S WHAT WE ARK 221 
 
 Except tliat on one side, against the wall, 
 Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood, 
 And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earth 
 Was piled up in a corner. 
 
 '' How is tliis ? '' 
 In stupid wonderment I asked myself. 
 And dull of apprehension. Tm^ning then 
 To the old Sexton— ^^ TeU me, friend,^' I said, 
 ^^ Here should he many coffins — where are they ? ^^ 
 
 He raised his eyes to mine with a strange look 
 And strangely meaning smile ; and I repeated 
 (Por not a word he spoke) my witless question. 
 
 Tlien with a deep distinctness he made answer — 
 Distinct and slow — ^looking to where I pointed, 
 Tlience full into my face, and what he said 
 TliriUed thro^ my very heart — ^^ That ^s what we are ! ^^ 
 
 So I was answered. Sermons upon Death 
 I had heard many : Lectures by the score 
 Upon Lifers vanities ; but neter words 
 
222 THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 
 
 Of mortal Preacher to my heart struck home 
 With such convicting sense and suddemiess^ 
 As the plain-spoken Homily^ so brief, 
 Of that unlettered man. 
 
 ^^ That ^s what we are/^ 
 Eepeating after him^ I murmured low^ 
 In meek acknowledgment^ and bowed the head 
 Profoundly reverential. A deep calm 
 Came over me^ and to the inward eye 
 Yivid perception. Set against each other 
 I saw weighed out the tilings of Time and Sense^ 
 And of Eternity ; and oh ! how light 
 Looked in that trutliful hour the eartlily scale ! 
 And oh ! what strength^ when from the penal doom 
 Nature recoiled^, in His remembered words — 
 ^^ I am the Eesurrection and the Life ! ^^ 
 
 And other words of that Divinest Speaker 
 (Words to all mourners of all time addressed) 
 Seemed spoken to me as T went along 
 In prayerful thought^ slow musing on my way — 
 ^^ Believe in me. Let not your hearts be troubled.^^ 
 
THAT'S WHAT WE ARE. 223 
 
 And sure I could have promised in that houi^ 
 
 But that I knew myself, how fallible^ 
 
 That never more should cross or care of life 
 
 Disquiet or distress me. So I came^ 
 
 Chastened in spirit^ to my home again^ 
 
 Composed and comforted ; and crossed the threshold 
 
 That day ^^ a wiser, not a sadder/^ woman. 
 
'TIS HAED TO DIE IN SPEING. 
 
 ^' A short time after this he was laid upon his sick-hed, ■when a 
 hright sun reminded him of his favourite time of year, and he said, 
 ' I shall never see the peach-hlossom, or the flowers of Spring : it is 
 hard to die in Spring.' 
 
 " ' God,' he said, ' had placed him in a Paradise, and he had every- 
 thing that could make a man happy.' 
 
 " Yet eminently calculated as he was to enjoy such hlessings, and 
 nervous as his constitution was, he met the approach of death with 
 composure, with gratitude and resignation to the will of Him whose 
 heneficence had given, and whose pleasure it was now to take aw^ay." 
 — Memoirs of Robert Surtees, Esq.^ by Geo. Taylor, Esq. 
 
 ^^ ^Tis hard to die in Spring/^ were tlie touching words 
 
 he said^ 
 As cheerfully the light stole in — the sunsliine round his 
 
 bed; — 
 ^^ ^Tis hard to die in Springs when the green earth looks 
 
 so gay ; 
 I shall not see the peach-blossom/^ — ^Twas thus they 
 
 heard him say. 
 
TIS HARD TO DIE IN SPRING. 225 
 
 ^Twas thus the gentle spirit — oh ! deem it not offence — 
 
 Departing^ fondly lingered among the things of sense; 
 
 Among the pleasant places where God his lot had cast^ 
 
 To walk in peace and honour^ blessed and blessing to the 
 last. 
 
 AVliile some^ tho^ heaven- ward wending^ go mourning all 
 their years^ 
 
 Their meat (so wisdom willeth) the bitter bread of tears ; 
 
 And some resisting proudly the soft persuasive word^ 
 
 Must feel — m mercy made to feel — the terrors of the 
 Lord. 
 
 There are whom he leads lovingly^ by safe and pleasant 
 ways^ 
 
 Wliose service^ yea^ whose very life^ is gratitude and 
 praise — 
 
 Diffusive, active, kindly ; enjoying to impart — 
 
 Eeceiving to distribute — the service of the heart. 
 
 For such tliis ruined Earth all through^ is not a vale of 
 tears^ 
 
 Some vestige of its primal form amid the wreck appears ; 
 
 Q 
 
226 'TIS HARD TO DIE IN SPRING. 
 
 And tho^ immortal longings oft in secret soar above^ 
 The heart awliile contented fills its lower sphere of love. 
 
 ^^ God placed me in a Paradise ! ^^ So spake his grate- 
 ful hearty 
 
 As grateful still from all he loved^ when smmnoned to 
 depart. 
 
 Thrice blessed he in life and deaths to whom^ so called^ 
 "'twas given 
 
 To pass^ before aught faded here^ from Paradise to 
 Heaven ! 
 
I WEEP, BUT NOT REBELLIOUS TEARS. 
 
 I WEEP, but not rebellious tears; 
 
 I mourn, but not in hopeless woe; 
 I droop, but not with doubtful fears ; 
 
 Eor whom I Ve trusted. Him I know : 
 ^^ Lord ! I believe, assuage my grief. 
 And help — O help mine unbelief ! ^^ 
 
 My days of youth and health are o^er. 
 My early friends are dead and gone ; 
 
 And there are times it tries me sore 
 To think I ^m left on earth alone. 
 
 But then faith wliispers — ^^ ^Tis not so. 
 
 He will not leave, nor let thee go.^^ 
 
 Blind eyes — fond heart — poor soul that sought 
 Enduring bliss in things of earth ! 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 I WEEP, BUT NOT REBELLIOUS TEARS. 
 
 Remembering but with transient tbougbt. 
 Thy heavenly home, thy second birth ; 
 Till God in mercy broke at last 
 The bonds that held thee down so fast. 
 
 As link by link was rent away. 
 
 My heart wept blood, so sharp the pain, 
 
 But I have lived to count tliis day 
 That temporal loss eternal gain ; 
 
 For all that once detained me here 
 
 Now draws me to a hoher sphere. 
 
 A hoher sphere, a happier place, 
 "Where I shall know as I am known. 
 
 And see my Saviour face to face 
 
 And meet, rejoicing round his throne. 
 
 The faitliful few,"^ made perfect there 
 
 Prom eartlily stain and mortal care. 
 
 * The word '' few '' is used here in no presumptuously exclusive sense 
 of the Author's, but simply as being the scriptural phrase — " Many 
 are called, but'few chosen." 
 
 The word having been altered lately, in two religious publications, 
 when the poem was inserted unknown to the Author, it is thought 
 proper to annex this note. 
 
PAST AND PEESENT. 
 
 I SAW a little merry maiden^ 
 
 With laughing eye and sunny hair, 
 
 And foot as free as mountain fairy, 
 And heart and spirit hght as air. 
 
 And hand and fancy active ever, 
 Devising, doing, striving still ; 
 
 Defeated oft, despairing never, 
 
 Up springing strong in heart and will. 
 
 I saw her bounding in her gladness 
 On a wild heath at dewy morn. 
 
 Weaving a ghstening wild-rose garland 
 With clusters from the scented thorn. 
 
230 PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 I saw her singing at her needle^ 
 
 And quick and well the work went on^ 
 
 Till song and fingers stopt together^ 
 Not for sad thought of fair days gone^ 
 
 But that of fairer stilly a vision 
 
 Eose to the happy creature^s sight ; 
 
 And to a fairy world of fancy 
 
 The mind was gone^ more swift than light, 
 
 I saw her smiling in her slumber^ 
 The happy day-dream not gone by ; 
 
 I saw her weep — but bosom smishine 
 Broke out before the tear was dry. 
 
 I saw her ^^ troops of friends ^^ encircling^ 
 Bead kind good will in many a face^ 
 
 With a bright glance^ that seemed exulting 
 happy world ! O pleasant place. 
 
PAST AND PRESENT. 231 
 
 I saw a drooping dark-browed woman 
 With sunken cheeky and silvered liair ; 
 
 The widoVs veil more deeply shading 
 A shaded brow^ the brow of care. 
 
 I saw her wandering in her loneness^ 
 Among the tombs at even-tide, 
 
 When Autumn winds with hollow murmur 
 Among funereal branches sighed. 
 
 I saw the sere leaves falling round her, 
 
 Where o^er the dead those dark boughs wave, 
 
 I heard a voice — I caught a murmur, 
 ^^ O weary world ! peaceful grave ! ^^ 
 
 I thought upon that merry maiden, 
 I looked upon that woman lone, 
 
 That form so buoyant, tliis so drooping 
 Time ! change ! — ^were one — my own, 
 
TO A WIDOWED FRIEND. 
 
 November, 1845. 
 
 The first young leaves were budding 
 When my dear one dying lay ; 
 
 The withered last are droppings 
 As thine has past away. 
 
 But they\e met in the land of summer^ 
 In the land where there ^s no decay^ 
 
 Where God is their portion for ever^ 
 And liis presence eternal day. 
 
 Would we draw them down from their glory^ 
 Would we call them back from their bhss^ 
 
 To sorrow again and suffer 
 In such a world as tliis ? 
 
TO A WIDOWED FRIEND. 233 
 
 Oh^ no ! — by the love we bore them — 
 
 By the love that can never die ; 
 That sprang up in Time to be ripened 
 
 In immortality. 
 
 Oh^ no ! — by our own high calling ; 
 
 Oh^ no ! — ^by the hope so sure, 
 If casting on Cln^ist om* burthen. 
 
 We faitlifully endure. 
 
 We have yet to do, and to suffer, 
 As om^ lonely paths we tread, 
 
 And the sinking heart of the mourner 
 WiU often die with the dead. 
 
 But not in the grave to linger 
 With dust and darkness there ; 
 
 For the stone hath been rolled away 
 Prom the door of the Sepulcln-e. 
 
234 TO A WIDOWED FRIEND. 
 
 ^^ Lift up the hands that hang down^ then ^^^ 
 ^^The hands and the feeble knees ;^^ 
 
 Let us go on our way rejoicings 
 As ^^ one who believing^ sees/' — 
 
 Sees Clirist^ over Death victorious^ 
 Returning in bright array^ 
 
 With his Saints in the faith departed^ 
 All — all in his train that day ! 
 
SONNETS. 
 
SONNETS. 237 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE FLY-LEAF OF MY FATHER'S OLD 
 COPY OF IZAAK WALTON'S COMPLETE ANGLER. 
 
 As fondly these discoloured leaves I turn^ 
 
 Outsteal, methinks^ sweet breathings of the May ; 
 Of flower-embroidered fields^ and new-mown hay^ 
 And sound of oaten pipe^ and ^^ trotting burn/^ 
 And lark and milkmaid^ s song. Among the fern 
 And blue bells once again I seem to Ke^ 
 A happy cliild ; my father angling nigh, 
 Intent, as ^twere our daily bread to earn, 
 On his mute pastime. In that quiet nook 
 
 NestUng, overshadowed by a pollard beach, 
 And poring dear old Izaak ! on thy book. 
 
 Lessons I learnt the schools can never teach, — 
 Lessons that time can ne^er efface, nor age 
 Nor worldly teacliings, from the hearts warm page. 
 
238 SONNETS. 
 
 ON 
 
 HEARING FOR THE FIRST TIME THE BELLS 
 FROM A NEW CHURCH 
 
 As on my chm^cliward path I walked to-day^ 
 Another church bell from the west first heard 
 (Sound ^^pleasanter than song of earhest bird^^) 
 With the soft air came mingling. On my way 
 I paused a moment^ for the Voice said — ^^ Stay^ 
 And Hstening^ lift thine heart in silent prayer^ 
 That I to many a long closed ear^ may bear 
 The call awakening : — Lift thine heart and pray 
 That many to their father^s house so brought^ 
 
 (Some careless, or but curious,) there may find 
 And taste the well with livmg waters fraught : 
 And going forth renewed in heart and mind, 
 May walk hereafter, ever faitliful found, 
 Like pilgrims to a better country bound.'' 
 
 4 
 
 1838. 
 
SONNETS. 239 
 
 TO 
 
 THE CROWN PRINCE OE HANOYER. 
 
 ''Whom the Lord loves he chastens/' Upon thee 
 Betimes, O Prince ! the loving hand severe 
 Was laid, to give the world assurance clear 
 
 How sweet the uses of adversity. 
 
 How perfect, more than outward sense, may be 
 The inward vision, pui-ged by heavenly truth, 
 Wliich gave thee to discern in blooming youth 
 
 Things that pertain to Heaven. So fixuig free 
 
 Thy faith immutable, that, all prepared, 
 On the unerring will thou dost await. 
 
 Whether to give thee back the sense impaired. 
 Or, dooming darkness for thy mortal state. 
 
 To open first thine eyes where they shall meet 
 
 The Saviour's, smiling from the mercy-seat. 
 
 1841. 
 
240 SONNETS. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 MOTHER OF LUCRETIA AND MARGARET 
 
 DAVIDSON. 
 
 LADY ! greatly favoured^ greatly tried — 
 Was ever glory^ ever grief like tliine^ 
 Since liers^ the Mother of the Man Divine^ 
 
 The Perfect One — The Crowned — The Crucified ? 
 
 Wonder and joy^ liigh hope and chastened pride 
 Tlirilled thee^ intently watching hour by hour 
 The fast unfolding of each human flower^ 
 In hues of more than mortal brilliance dyed. 
 
 And then the bhght — the fading — the first fear— 
 
 The sickening hope — the doom — the end of all- 
 Heart witlieriQg^ if indeed all ended here. — 
 
 But from the dust^ the coffin^ and the pall^ 
 Mother bereaved ! thy tearful eyes upraise — 
 Mother of Angels ! joiQ their songs of praise. 
 
SONNETS. 241 
 
 Oh; pleasant Cloud-land ! many a structure fair 
 In thy romantic region have I reared^, 
 Wlien life was new and countless paths appeared^ 
 Leading to happiness. Even early care 
 (For it came early) scarcely could impair 
 The serial masonry ; rebuilt as fast 
 As by unkind reahty down-cast. 
 But then the sprhigs of youth began to wear 
 Of Youth and Hope : the toppHng fabrics fell 
 
 Each after other crushed — the Builder last^ 
 Storm-beat to earth. But there I cannot dwell ; 
 Too hard the soil — too cold the bitter blast — 
 The soil too treacherous. — I must away 
 To the warm regions of the perfect day. 
 
 R 
 
242 SONNETS. 
 
 Unthinking youth ! how prodigal thou art^ 
 Lavish and reckless of thy priceless wealthy 
 Time^ talents^ energies^ occasion^ healthy 
 
 And large capacity of mind and heart 
 
 Tor knowledge — happiness. The spendthrift^s part 
 Thou playest^ and the wanton^s : all the wliile 
 Stealthily dodging thee with bony smile^. 
 
 Coldly derisive, and uplifted dart, 
 
 The fell Anatomy, — A wakening day. 
 
 Tardy and startling comes — ^^ I will arise ; 
 
 And gird my loins, and get me on my way 
 And overtake Time yet/^ the dreamer cries ; 
 
 But on he speeds who never yet would wait. 
 
 And that fell watcher whispers now — '' Too late V 
 
SONNETS. 243 
 
 Forgive^ Father ! the infirmity 
 
 Of thy poor child of dust ; that when I muse 
 
 On things to come^ my wildered thoughts refuse 
 To dwell upon the glorious imagery 
 That clothes thy promises : — Heaven^s hierarchy^ 
 
 '^ Thrones^ dominations/^ uncreated Lights 
 
 The Everlasting and the Infinite. 
 But oh ! the blessedness by faith to see 
 That pitying face divine of him who bore 
 
 Our mortal nature^ shedding human tears 
 For human sorrows : and with liim^ no more 
 
 To weep — to be the sport of hopes and fears^ 
 Our own — our best beloved — upon liis breast^ 
 TiU the time comes^ who take theh happy rest. 
 
244 SONNETS. 
 
 On^ on upon our mortal course we go^ 
 
 Striving and struggling^ pressing forward all 
 To the same goal — a grave ; and many fall 
 
 On all sides^ out of sight e^er well we know 
 
 Whither or how^ — ^the way still crowded so 
 With others in advance ; till here and there 
 (As when the woodman^s axe is laying bare 
 
 Old forest stems) appears a gap. — And lo ! 
 
 The foremost rank grows tliin — they drop away 
 Faster and faster on those steps we tread^ 
 
 Till scarce a straggler on our path doth stray; 
 And now the last is gone. The narrow bed 
 
 Eor us lies ready — our lifers tale is told 
 
 To the concluding leaf. — We are the old. 
 
SONNETS. 245 
 
 ^^ Patient I am^ resigned and calm/^ ye say ; 
 Yet there are seasons of strong agony^ 
 Unseen by all but the All-seeing Eye, 
 When Nature passionately breaks away. 
 Like a long pent-up torrent^ from all stay 
 Of reason and of grace, and I could cry — 
 ^^ Give me this tiling, Lord ! or let me die ; ^^ 
 But that a hand upon my lips doth lay 
 Its merciful restraint ; and then, like rain. 
 
 Streams gently down a heart-relieving shower ; 
 And self-rebuked, the soul prepares again. 
 
 Strengthened in weakness, to abide her hour 
 And the Lord^s leisure ; casting, as most meet. 
 Her all — her sins and sorrows — at His feet. 
 
246 SONNETS. 
 
 TO AN OLD FAMILY POETEAIT. 
 
 Oh, lovely Lady ! my fair Ancestress ! 
 Of all familiar faces I have known 
 From earliest recollection, thine alone 
 
 In my declining day of dark distress 
 
 Looks on me now with pitying gentleness. 
 All others far away. Those earnest eyes, 
 Meltmg, methinks, with living sympathies. 
 
 Meet mine, and to a heart in hea^aness 
 
 Discourse with eloquent utterance passing speech. 
 Thou hasf known sorrow in thy Httle day. 
 
 For thou wert human : thy sweet patience teach 
 (That thou wert patient those mild features say) 
 
 To thy sad daughter, in her strange estate 
 
 Sore tried — so mated, yet so desolate. 
 
SONNETS. 247 
 
 We came together at lifers eventide. 
 
 Past friends of twenty years ; cementing now 
 For brief duration here, with hoHest vow, 
 
 Our earthly union, sealed and sanctified 
 
 By an immortal hope. His mind would guide, 
 His strength support, methought, my feeble frame, 
 God strengthening both ; in liim the vital flame 
 
 Burnt up so brightly yet : — so side by side. 
 
 Mutually comforting, we might descend 
 
 The downward way slow darkening ; but than death 
 
 Worse darkness was at hand — more doleful end — 
 Not loorst — ^oi final, Wlien with lifers poor breath 
 
 All here is finished, gloriously restored. 
 
 Thee shall I meet^ beloved ! in likeness of thy Lord ! 
 
248 SONNETS. 
 
 ON MY HUSBANFS BIETHDAY. 
 
 Sixty and seven hast tliou fulfilled this day^ 
 My Husband^ of the appointed years of man ; 
 Now resting from thy labours a brief span 
 
 Before the final close. I dare not pray 
 
 That the mysterious veil be drawn away 
 
 Wliich parts thee from this world and all its woes : 
 So parted^ thou dost hold perhaps — God knows — 
 
 Higher commmiion^ for thy portion lay 
 
 In a fair heritage — ^^ an heavenly .^^ — Aye^ 
 
 When goodliest here^ toward that better land 
 
 Thy thoughts still tended^ and with all thy might 
 
 The Master^s work committed to thine hand 
 
 Thou didst — deep mindful of the coming night. 
 
 Lord ! in tliine own good time make thou his darkness 
 light ! 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRJARS. 
 
RniIND BY 
 
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 HIM 
 
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