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 The olden and modern times, with other po 
 
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THE OLDEN AND MODEEN TIMES, 
 
 WITH OTHER POEMS. 
 
 EEV. W. SMITH MERIOTT, M.A., 
 
 RECTOR OF HORSMONDEN, liENT. 
 
 LONDON : 
 lilVINGTONS, WATERLOO PLACE, PALL MALL. 
 
 JIAID STONE : 
 COOKE & Co., 83, BANK STREET. 
 
 1855. 
 
 t 
 
 <:6 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013521418 
 
TEINIZD BI COOKE AND CO., 83, BANK STEEET, MAIDSTONE. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SIKAY THOUGHTS ON THE OLDEN AND 
 
 MODEEir TIMES 7 
 
 Notes 25 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET 29 
 
 Notes 5S 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS— 
 
 " 1 do not call me back again" 00 
 
 " Again I gaze upon my brother's tomb" ... CI 
 
 On my 39th birthday 64 
 
 LaosConjngis C-t 
 
 On an in&nt smiling in his sleep 65 
 
 The Hooks of Bedruthan — A Cornish Souvenir 66 
 
 Nobility of Gold or Birth 70 
 
 The spirit of the Mountain, and the Nymph 
 
 of the Fountain 72 
 
 Fuck's Gambols 75 
 
 " The fair of the land of my youth" 77 
 
 " Was it a dream ?'• 80 
 
 Song — " Take, oh ! take me from the pomp of 
 
 pride" SI 
 
 A loyal song — " Oh when was the time of old 
 
 England's true glory" 83 
 
 Song — "I'll tell thee where I love thee best" ... 87 
 
 Song — "Oh; there are eyes" 8S 
 
(MISCELLANEOUS POEMS CONTINrED.) 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Robert Bruce and the Page 90 
 
 The Abbey 9* 
 
 The Craven Knight 96 
 
 Address from the Yeomen to the Landlords of 
 
 England" 98 
 
 " The Old English Nobleman" 102 
 
 " The Lord's Isle r 108 
 
 SONGS OP DORSET— 
 
 Song— The Clump of Old Firs 117 
 
 Song— The Downs 119 
 
 Song— The Holly 121 
 
 Song— The Haunted Hare 125 
 
 Song^The Fairy Ring 128 
 
 Song — " Oh ! do not cut those ancient trees" ... 181 
 
 Song— The Old Green Walk 133 
 
 SACRED PIECES— 
 
 " My soul doth magnify the Lord" 139 
 
 " The Lord, the Lord, sing blessings to the 
 
 Lord"., , 141 
 
 " Thy presence Lord ! is hallowed here" ... 14S 
 
 A Funeral Hymn — " Lord I let me know my 
 
 latter end" 145 
 
 Sacramental Hymn — " They all with one consent 
 
 began" , 147 
 
 " And why for raiment take ye thought ?" ... 149 
 
 " Who is thy neighbour ?" isi 
 
 " The widow's son" I53 
 
 " Feed, Feed, my Lambs" 155 
 
 " My house is call'd the house of prayer" ... 157 
 
 On leaving church 159 
 
anil JHakra €mB, 
 
STRAY THOUGHTS ON THE OLDEN 
 AND MODERN TIMES. 
 
 TITETHINKS our older cities seem 
 
 To meet the sight with holier gleam, 
 And greet with charms the Trav'ler's eye, 
 Which to the modern we deny ; 
 Because each ivy-mantled tower 
 Recals the bygone sacred hour, 
 When Piety deemed nothing lost 
 If pardon gained, at lucre's cost ; 
 Nor spared its substance to aflFord 
 Fit temples for its worship's Lord ! 
 What, if some superstition clings 
 To them who thought such guerdon brings 
 A pardon to their guilty spirit, 
 And set against the sin — the merit : 
 At least it shows a bounteous heart. 
 Which recks not from vile gold to part ; 
 And if we must withhold the praise, 
 'Tis rarely claimed in modern days. 
 
STKAY THOUGHTS ON THE 
 
 '^is true, our newer Cities vie ! 
 
 With pert tall columns to the sky, 
 
 As adjuncts to those temples —where 
 
 Stem mammon has its altars there ; 
 
 And lo ! how gushes forth the smoke, 
 
 Heaven's blessed healthful breeze to choke ; 
 
 Avouching many a sacrifice 
 
 To Mammon, made by avarice. 
 
 No Priests there Gospel precepts teU ; 
 
 It's History finds some parallel, 
 
 Nor is't a fiction which presents 
 
 The Slaughter of the Innocents ! l 
 
 Gold is the idol — this the lesson. 
 
 Its zealous votaries lay their stress on, 
 
 " Buy in the cheapest market — sell, 
 
 Sell in the dearest" — then farewell ; 
 
 This is thy duty — this thy labour — 
 
 Each is to self — a dearer neighbour ! 
 
 Is it for these old England must 
 Bid ancient honour lick the dust ? 
 Must Sainted abbeys prostrate lie. 
 Whilst Mammon's churches dare the sky ? 
 Shall o'ergrown fact'ries crowd the space 
 The vast cathedral erst did grace ? 
 Must chivalry, dishonour'd, rust, 
 'Neath cotton lords, and " devil's dust ?" 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 
 
 Disguise the truth as best you may, 
 Hear what an honest bard will say — 
 There is a contest now begun, 
 Which in its issue, lost or won, 
 Involves old England's future glory — 
 Or — shall she only live in story ! 
 Shall landlords and the land defer 
 To cotton lords and Manchester ? 
 
 " Live and let live" — was once the rule ; 
 Not now, in Manchester's pert school ; 
 "Live if you can," 'neath rampant trade. 
 If not " Vee victis !" soon is said. 
 But ah ! this truth th' historic page 
 Has chronicled from age to age, 
 " When trade increases — men decay" — 
 For Lucre eats their hearts away. 
 
 Our English knighthood ne'er had seen 
 Their silken banner quail — I ween. 
 Nor e'er " with doubt their spirits sag" 
 Before the vulgar cotton rag. 
 Had they but with their father's crest. 
 Been with their manhood also blest ! 
 Nor need we yet bid them adieu. 
 Would they but to themselves be true. 
 
 Had noble Bentinck sooner known 
 The Giant powers that were his own, 
 
10 STRAY THOUGHTS ON THE 
 
 Had he but sooner ta'en the wheel, 
 
 Assumed, but to betray, by Peel — 
 
 Or had it pleased High Heaven to spare 
 
 His life (we dare not cavil there !) 
 
 'Twas treason first dismayed our host, — 
 When Bentinck died — then all was lost. 
 
 Time was, when traitors bore that name. 
 
 But now — "they glory in their shame," ^ 
 
 And Mammon can their praise afford 
 
 On brazen columns to record; 
 
 For " justum nomen et tenax," 
 
 Expediency — with morals lax — 
 
 Expediency — the sacrifice 
 
 Of truth to falsehood — worth to vice — 
 
 Usurps a base pre-eminence 
 
 Which knaves receive, and fools dispense. 
 
 Give me the olden time — 'tis true 
 
 It had its faults — Worse has the new. 
 
 But can we modern claims reject 
 
 To wondrous " march of intellect !" 
 
 The " tree of knowledge" has two shoots 
 
 Whence flourish very diff'rent fruits^ 
 
 Nor is't with difficulty read, 
 
 Which has our modem wisdom fed ; 
 
 Not manna pure and innocent, 
 
 But luscious quails — for punishment ! 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 11 
 
 If knowledge bring more happiness, 
 Why is it that we now have less ? 
 
 Behold the Senate ! Olden time. 
 
 Ere mad reform deform'd the clime. 
 
 Saw proud St. Stephen's listening then 
 
 To few, but English, gentlemen. 
 
 But now, although some linger there 
 
 To show what once our fathers were. 
 
 Oh, mark the factious rabble rout. 
 
 Which makes a Commows-house, no doubt — 
 
 D' ye ask what place they represent ? 
 
 To Coventry most may be sent. 
 
 And yet, you'd not yourself condem , 
 
 " To march through Coventry" with them. 
 
 Pert Quakers, Democrats — and worse ! 
 
 Whose souls are only in their purse ; 
 
 Those mammon-men, bound hand in hand, 
 
 Like locusts, to devour the land ! 
 
 What matters it ? — if that which erst 
 
 Was held in heart, and conscience _/fr*<. 
 
 Is now the last; — when dark is Uffht, 
 
 And what's expedient must be riffht. 
 
 When clamour asks, and cowards give — 
 
 Then call themselves conservative ! 
 
 Where look we now proofs to select 
 
 Of modem march of intellect ? 
 b2 
 
12 STEAY THOUGHTS ON THE 
 
 The Drama view ! — " As in a glass," 
 The image of the time will pass. 
 On those same boards by Garrick paced. 
 And, then, by Kemble, Siddons, graced, 
 Where echo, even now, bemoans 
 Macready's sweet heart-thrilling tones ; 
 Where Hamlet's solemn ghost did tread, 
 A Zany walks upon his head ! 3 
 And foreign sing- song — ballet, folly. 
 Makes mem'ry sick with melancholy ! 
 
 But then for trav'ling ! — How reject 
 
 The wondrous march of intellect ! 
 
 I grant its speed — but where the view 
 
 Of lovely scenes you whistle through ? 
 
 Ghreen, red, and blue — their colours ope, 
 
 And mix, as in Kaleidoscope. 
 
 I grant its speed — for, scarce begim. 
 
 Your journey seems well nigh half done. 
 
 And ah ! too oft, life's journey too ! 
 
 You race the birds — and I 'cms flew ? 
 
 Now for the Church ! — to whom 'hexfoes 
 Must even grant what knowledge owes ! 
 Oh, Sir ! the march of intellect 
 Ignores the Church ; and ev'ry sect 
 Has quite as great a right as she. 
 To claim a strict equality. 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 13 
 
 Of all the statesmen, records show 
 
 None was so wise as Gallic — 
 
 And were he living, I aver 
 
 He would be now Prime Minister ! 
 
 What more, I ween, could Gallio do 
 
 Than make a mitred Prelate — who 
 
 Subscribes to give encouragement 
 
 To sectaries, and lauds dissent ? * 
 
 What more, I ask, could Gallio do 
 
 Than place upon the Bench some few. 
 
 Say nine — oh, shame ! a holy trust, 5 
 
 Should thus be trampled in the dust ! 
 
 To vote there is no longer need. 
 
 In Christian state, for Christian creed — 
 
 To say that unbelieving Jew 
 
 Should hold a power which Christian true, 
 
 And none but he, in Christian nation, — 
 
 To guide its sacred legislation ! 
 
 No wonder, when such men have rule, 
 The Church is severed from the School. 
 The Gallio Statesman is the man 
 To form an education plan ! 
 Th' historic page by him is read, 
 As telUng of some fools now dead — 
 Is as a glass, in which is eyed 
 His own vast merits magnified ! 
 Of far more wisdom to assure him, 
 
14 STRAY THOUGHTS OF THE 
 
 Than those who darkly went before him. 
 What need of creeds, the soul to bind ! 
 Free-thinkers should be unconfin'd. 
 What need of creeds ? Your Gallic brings 
 Relief, and " cares for no such things •" 
 With lib'ral spirit makes his boast 
 That each in turn may " rule the roast ;" 
 Perchance himself a Churchman, where 
 A Churchman is in fashion there ; 
 A Presbyterian, gaunt and gude. 
 When " Kail fra Aberdeen's" his food. 
 And when at Rome, he'd be at home, 
 And still do as they do at Rome ! 
 The lib'ral knows no test, no schism. 
 And nothing bans but — Catechism. 
 His model school abjures such fuss. 
 And is a patent omnibus. 
 
 There were — ^in former times — who knew 
 
 What blessings flow from teaching true : 
 
 They lov'd their Church, which gave them food : 
 
 Food for the soul — exceeding good ! 
 
 They wish'd the blessing might descend, 
 
 And schools endow'd for such an end, 
 
 In sacred trust — and base were he 
 
 Who would pervert the charity ! 
 
 Would these good souls have sunk to rest 
 
 In peace — if doubtful their behest 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 15 
 
 Coiild meet with less than high respect 
 From modern " march of intellect ?" 
 
 Quoth Gallio — " These were bigots, who 
 Had minds of most benighted hue ; 
 We'll stretch their crude contracted plan 
 To our more comprehensive span. 
 Their motives might be excellent, 
 But now they're not expedient : 
 What though it be a noodle's will, 
 Why I can add a codicil. 
 A will ! well I've one too — and so, 
 * Voluntas mea sit ratio .'' " 
 
 Commissioners are easy made, 
 Reform makes that a gainful trade ; 
 Some two or three are soon secured, 
 Who ancient scruples have abjured, — 
 Men who'd have deem'd no name so well 
 In Athens grac'd the exile's shell 
 As his to whom expedient, 
 Whate'er the gains, oft baseness meant. 
 Old Aristides now, as then. 
 Would be a bugbear to such men ! 
 But such most fitting for the task 
 A Gallio government would ask — e 
 To bend a sacred testament 
 To ends testators never meant, 
 
16 STRAY THOUGHTS ON THE 
 
 But woul4 with hand and voice defeat. 
 If living, to defy the cheat, 
 That godless schools should filch the purse 
 Devis'd for the exact reverse ! 
 
 They have commission ; and, of course, 
 They "use it in its utmost force;" 
 And if a surplus should remain. 
 Whilst they per centage full retain. 
 They pay it o'er, still showing cause 
 For their appropriation claws ! 
 
 The seamless coat has much been torn 
 Since first by its blest owner worn ; 
 Hurt by its friends, we must confess. 
 Than by its enemies, not less ; 
 Attack'd not more without by sin. 
 Than fretted by the moth within ! 
 What diiference ought the Church to know 
 Amongst her sons 'twixt high and low ? 
 Too high, you soar in clouds of doubt, 
 'Midst vapours darkly wave about, 
 And find no footing, till you toss 
 Yourself upon St. Peter's Cross ! 
 Too low, you quit the shelt'ring ark 
 Which safely rides o'er billows dark ; 
 Into Geneva's lake you roll, 
 Whose waters deep congeal the soul ; 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 17 
 
 Grim Calyin's spirit hovers o'er, 
 Forbidding rescue from the shore. 
 Had Faith and Works their union kept 
 For wounded Church we had not wept ! 
 
 Of yore, you had for magistrate 
 
 A gentleman at any rate ; 
 
 But now, when shopman leaves his trade, 
 
 Forthwith " your worship" is he made ! 
 
 The scales to him are nothing new. 
 
 Why not the scales of Justice too ! 
 
 Of all the humbugs, which an age 
 Renowned for them, will fill the page 
 Of future annals, none will be 
 Like that dubbed " Peace Society." 
 Peace to maintain, we kept our tar, 
 And soldier too, so fear'd not war ; i 
 But now Peace-mongers would disband 
 Both these, the safeguards of the land ; 
 If trade but rise, 'tis all in all — 
 Land, lords, and Sovereign too, may fall. 
 For peace at foreign thrones they'll bend. 
 And crouch and cringe to gain their end ; 
 Then give — not hands, but sympathies. 
 Those thrones to revolutionize. 
 Peace in their mouths, by them, for gold. 
 Will arms to England's foes be sold. 
 
IS STEAY THOUGHTS ON THE 
 
 Their praise a Kossuth may adorn, 
 They honour Wellington with scorn ! 
 Avaunt ! to manhood a disgrace ! 
 Old England spurns the hastard race ! 
 
 The poor ! Have they good reason to respect 
 The modern march of intellect ? 
 Methinks few lines suffice to show 
 How much they to progression owe : 
 Look at the modest almshouse, where 
 Meek poverty a home found there ! 
 The union workhouse shows the time 
 When poverty is deem'd a crime ! 
 
 Thus far our thoughts have thankless range, 
 Turn we to where they find no change ! 
 Thank Heaven ! our English fair we see 
 Just as they were, and still will be ! 
 Devoted, kind, and good and true ! 
 Such as our old forefathers knew ! 
 Are they then faultless ? faultless ! no ! 
 They were not women were they so ; 
 And angels would be out of place 
 In such a world as women grace. 
 I speak not of the outward show 
 Of graces beauty may bestow. 
 Though these in British fair we find ; 
 But 'tis the beauty of the mind .' — 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 19 
 
 To bless the cottage, grace the throne. 
 And England here will stand alone. 
 God bless our women ! who shall dare 
 To talk of competition there ? 
 Though other changes we condemn, 
 "Reform, has never alter'd them. 
 
 The olden days ! they had defect ; 
 
 But pleasant 'tis to recollect 
 
 Those glorious things, which modern time 
 
 Brooks not to hear of, hut in rhyme ! 
 
 When Athens spent her time in view 
 
 " To teU or hear of something new," 
 
 She saw no warning of her fall, 
 
 No spectre "Jfewe," on the wall. 
 
 When good " old paths " are left, the road ° 
 
 To ruin leads, though it be broad. 
 
 I'd not despair, could we but see 
 
 Of mammon less idolatry : — 
 
 This is corruption, foul as sin, 
 
 " Infects unseen, and mines within." 
 
 That charity hides sins,— we're told 
 
 A thousand ! — say, Ten thousand — Gold ! 
 
 By whom then is its claim withstood 
 
 To honours due to noble blood ? 
 
 Or noble deeds ? Gild over stone, ^ 
 
 It looki as pure as gold alone ! 
 
20 STRAY THOUGHTS ON THE 
 
 Place coronets upon the brow 
 Of rampant trade, — what matter now ? 
 'Tis not because he's good or hrave, 
 But 'tis for what the man may have ! 
 Hence can the state derive no health 
 From aristocrac)- of wealth ! 
 
 Your man of " March of Intellect," 
 Affects to hold in slight respect 
 The ancient Barons ; — spurns their halls, — 
 Their old retainers " serfs " he calls : 
 Whilst scarce he heeds a mother's fame, 
 Could he but make a spurious claim 
 To hold affinity with those, 
 Whom yet he treats as bitter foes. 
 Are cotton lords without alloy ? 
 Ask the poor wretches they employ : 
 Those living engines whom they crave 
 To make their gold ! — Poor Fact'ry slave ! 
 Vain Manchester will never know 
 Such worth as our old nobles show, — 
 Such as a Portland, giving grace 
 More than receiving from high place ; 
 Such as a Stanhope, — Oh, rare praise ! 
 Consistent in these Peelile days I 
 
 If some fantastic feats once won 
 High chivalry in ages gone, 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 21 
 
 'Twould cause our fathers great surprise 
 To see " Sir Joseph" now " arise." 
 Whilst knighthood's spurs some fiery steed, 
 Would hardly brook, though made to heed ! 
 Some modern knights would find, alas ! 
 They'd scarce need spurs to sit an ass ! 
 
 But few resist the love of change, 
 So universal is its range ! 
 Perchance sovor future fast Lord John, 
 Less steady than his type then gone. 
 May deem he sees "the reason why," 
 The Bible with reform to try. 
 Maggots even now with cank'ring maw 
 Have at the Prayer-book dar'd to gnaw ; 
 So true it is that "fools" are said 
 " To rush, where angels fear to tread !" 
 
 Ye carping meddlers ! be content ; 
 Ye have no hindrance to dissent ; 
 Oh ! leave our Holy Church alone — 
 Dare not approach its corner-stone. 
 Leave us our Universities ! 
 (Though honest patience much it tries 
 To see one Alma Maler own i" 
 A recreant Jesuit, wily son. 
 She did an abler turncoat treat 
 With scorn, for traitors ever meet). 
 
22 STRAY THOTIGHTS ON THE 
 
 Let these, our citadels, be true ; 
 We'll guard them 'gainst such foes as yo)i 
 We grudge not yours — contented be 
 With your own pet " Stinhomalee .'" 
 
 'Twere vain to look in magic glass 
 For visions that may come to pass : 
 Nor can we to the past retrace 
 Our steps which onward fleetly pace. 
 But oh ! parental hearts will yearn 
 For dear ones, who may sadly learn, 
 That e'en their fathers' days had shone 
 With brighter sun than gilds their own. 
 
 By me, alas ! 'tis not denied, 
 Our barque's on Revolution's tide ; 
 Though many in the motley crew u 
 Be traitors, yet a faithful few, 
 With one fix'd heart to govern them 
 May yet succeed the tide to stem ! 
 Shall it be said, that to oppose, 
 Would raise the fury of our foes ; — 
 That mutiny, which slumbers still. 
 Would wake to pillage and to kill ? 
 Well, let the struggle come ; the shock 
 May dash at once upon the rock. 
 Better, than help ourselves to guide 
 The vessel o'er a whirlpool tide. 
 
OLDEN AND MODERN TIMES. 23 
 
 The ruin may not come so fast ; 
 
 But come, it surely will, at last. 
 
 " By fearing to attempt," we " lose 12 
 
 The good" our coward hearts would choose ; 
 
 And heaven deserts those recreant elves, 
 
 Who first are traitors to themselves. 
 
 O for a small, a patriot band. 
 
 Resolved to save dear native land ! 
 
 Resolved ! with " quarrel just," and where 
 
 Is that which manhood may not dare ? 
 
 'Twill dare with firmness to withstand 
 
 "The people's madness;" to command 
 
 With voice that will respected be : — 
 
 " Thus far ! dark revolution's sea ! 
 
 Thus far ! but here thy rage is laid 
 
 And here shall thy proud waves be stayed." 
 
NOTES, 
 
 Note 1, p. 8. 
 The Slaughter of the Innocents. 
 How many thousand hapless children hare been sacrificed to 
 Mammon by the cupidity of the Cotton Lords, and yet Exeter 
 Hall echoes not witli the eloquent recital of their wrongs — nor 
 will it pay " the Times " to give its columns to redress them. 
 They find an nnfeed friend in Oastler's hnmble "Homef so 
 true it is that " Charity begins (and generally ends) at home." 
 
 Note 2, r. XO. 
 
 But now they glory in their shame. 
 
 Sir James Graham's unblushing defence of his tergiversation 
 
 will not be forgotten, neither will his insulting mention of her 
 
 M^esty's name to the Badicals of Carlisle — and yet this man 
 
 is retained in a high office in her M^esty's service ! 
 
 Note 3, p. U. 
 A Zany walks upon his head. 
 Dniry-lane Theatre. National Drama, 1853. 
 
 Note 4, p. 13. 
 
 Subscribes to give encouragment 
 To sectaries, and lauds dissent. 
 It spirit-rapping be not " a dream " beyond " our philosophy," 
 if " spirits will come from the vasty deep when we do call," let 
 that of the venerable Van Mildart be summoned, and asked 
 what he thinks of the fantastic tricks of Lord John Kussell's 
 liberal correspondent, his successor in the Palatinate Episcopacy 
 of Durham. 
 
Note 6, p. 13. 
 Say nine ! oh shame ! a sacred trust 
 Should thus be trampled in the dust! 
 Nine Christian Bishops voted for the admission of Jews into 
 a Christian legislature. Will these Kight Ecverend Fathers 
 look to our liturgy, and compare one of the Collects for Good 
 Friday with the prayer for Parliament, and tell us whether, in 
 the event (which God forbid !) of this atrocious measure being 
 hereafter carried, the latter would not be a solemn force ? It is 
 a comfort to an old Tory, to reflect that all these Bishops were 
 appointed by fVMg influence. 
 
 Note 6, p. 15. 
 To bend a sacred testament, 
 To ends testator never meant. 
 Such is the new Commission proposed to inquire into chari- 
 table trusts. Certes the Aberdeen " Conservative Progressive"' 
 stand-still, go-on administration, here goes bade to the worst 
 parts of the olden time with a vengeance. 
 
 " For why, because the good old nUe 
 Sufficeth them, the simple plan. 
 That they should take who have the power. 
 And they should keep who can ! " 
 
 Note 7, p. 17. 
 
 But now peace-mongers would disband 
 
 Both these, the safeguards of the land. 
 
 These gentry are solicitous for the disbanding of the army 
 
 and navy, and the old Tory knows " the reason why " — because 
 
 they have ulterior designs, and the army and navy are loyal. 
 
 Just so some persons are very clamorous for the abolition of 
 
 the punishment of death (however heinous the offence may be, 
 
 and with Uttle respect to God's Word), because they are not 
 
 unlikely to do something to merit its infliction. 
 
 Note 8, r. 19. 
 
 When " good old paths " are left, the road. 
 
 ' >iiind ye in the ways, and ?ee. and ask for the old paths ; 
 
 where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest 
 
 for your souls. But they said, We will not walk therein,"'— 
 
 Jeremiah vi. 10. 
 
Note 9, p. 19. 
 
 Gild over stone. 
 It looks as pare as gold alone. 
 What claims have some of the new promotions to the peerage 
 but enormous wealth? 
 
 Note 10, p. 21. 
 To seo one Alma Mater own, &c., 
 
 Gladstone ,— Peel. 
 
 Far nobile fratrum. 
 
 Note 11, p. 22. 
 
 Though many in the motley crew 
 
 Be traitors. 
 In the vessel of the state are some well-disposed persons, who 
 may be called Conservatives, who know they are surrounded by 
 a mutinous brawling set, picked up at Manchester, who cars 
 little for the vessel, and to whom any flag would be as welcome 
 as that of their native country. In fact, they owe no allegiance 
 to her, and are CosmopoUtans. The former are fearful of pro- 
 voking the open war of the latter, and so grant one demand 
 after another — 
 
 " Till all is lost." 
 And such is ever the reward of Eicpediency . 
 
 Note 12, p. 23. 
 
 By fearing to attempt, we lose 
 
 The good oar coward hearts would choose. 
 
 " Our donbts are traitors, 
 And make us often lose the good we'd have, 
 By fearing to attempt." — Shakespeare. 
 
 C2 
 
1 €xM\t to Mmstt 
 
31 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 To thee, fair Dorset ! in thy praise, 
 I fain would dedicate some lays. 
 
 Oh ! many, many happy hours 
 I've passed among thy fir-clad bowers. 
 And 'midst those fir-clad bowers yet. 
 May still some happy hours be met ! 
 
 How bounds my heart ! when first I see 
 I've reached thy ancient boundary, 
 'Tis like that pleasure, when we trace 
 A much loved, well-remembered face. 
 Which after absence long we meet, 
 And much it joys again to greet. 
 
82 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 Sweet are thy dcwns -whose balmy air 
 Blows unconfined and boundless there, 
 In course so free and wild, it brings 
 Fresh health and spirits on its wings. 
 Look at the shepherd -boy who tends 
 Upon the downs his fleecy friends. 
 He never sees a costly meal, 
 No fancied wants 'tis his to feel ; 
 A crust is all he has to eat. 
 With hunger's sauce to make it sweet. 
 Ah ! when the rich who daily see 
 Their table spread so sumptuously. 
 And e'en 'midst plenty's self, regret 
 That something more is wanted yet, — 
 When they his healthy features trace. 
 May envy him his rosy face. 
 No downy piUow rests his head. 
 But on an humble pallet bed 
 'Tis his no watchful hours to keep 
 For scarce laid down he's fast asleep. 
 The grateful sleep, the healthy glow. 
 Are gifts the balmy downs bestow. 
 
 If, flying London's crowded halls, 
 'Midst routs, assemblages, and balls, 
 
A TEIBOTI TO DORSET. 38 
 
 In the soft spring of life, the fair 
 Would taste the mom-refreshiivg air. 
 Just at the time, too, when she tries 
 To doze off last night's revelries. 
 When the lark o'er the downs is soaring 
 His matin song to Heaven's gate pouring. 
 How soon to heauty's hue 'twould add 
 Th' unborrowed lovely tint she had ; 
 From art she'd need no foreign grace 
 For Nature's paint would deck her face. 
 
 Nor must thf streams, fair Dorset ! be 
 
 Forgotten in my poesy. 
 
 Which in their current dashing o'er 
 
 The pebbly bed with mimic roar. 
 
 And glittering in the noonday beam 
 
 More bright than brightest diamonds gleam. 
 
 And thine are hills, whose mountain form 
 Might hurl defiance to the storm. 
 And ere the threat'ning clouds be gone 
 Might bid their fury still rage on. 
 I love the hills where busy tread 
 Of human feet not oft is led, 
 
34 A TKIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 Where, raised above the haunts of men. 
 And far away from vulgar ken. 
 With other thoughts you may dispense 
 Than those which tell of nature — thence 
 Be drawn with wondrous awe to see 
 The power of nature's Deity. 
 
 And Hod and Hamilton ! I fain 
 
 In praise of ye would tune a strain, 
 
 But one that's worthy would require 
 
 Than mine a far more tuneful lyre,— 
 
 Beneath their foot in woody dell 
 
 From blast of wind protected well, 
 
 Where winds the Stour and adds its aid 
 
 To beautify that pleasing glade, 
 
 Lies Handford's soft romantic vale. 
 
 Which well might deck the Minstrel's tale . 
 
 A model for a country seat, 
 
 A snug and quiet calm retreat, 
 
 A well adapted resting place 
 
 For MANLY Worth, and female Gbace. 
 
 How oft has boyhood's fancy been 
 
 Half pleased, half awed, when it has seen. 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 35 
 
 On Cerne's high hill distbctly traced, 
 By rude and rustic sculpture graced, 
 The figure of the giant ! who 
 (If strange old chronicles be true) 
 His ogre tricks atoned at last, 
 And from that lofty hill was cast ; 
 But vengeful even in his fall 
 To ruins crushed the abbey wall. 
 
 Nor Sydling ! can I thee forget ! 
 Dear is that old remembrance yet. 
 When o'er thy steep green hills I strayed. 
 In childhood's careless frolics played, 
 Not knowing — feeling ought to rue. 
 Enjoyed the moments as they flew. 
 Oh ! let our manhood's fortune be 
 Whate'er it may, be't ours to see 
 The pleasures of domestic love — 
 — A matchless bliss — save that above; 
 Or should no fond endearing tie 
 Be ours to bind life's harmony, 
 Whate'er our fate, where'er we roam 
 To mem'ry dear is early home ; 
 And childhood's hours in joy or pain 
 Man scarce would fear to try again. 
 
36 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 Wide is the view which from the heights 
 
 Of Dorset, either -way delights ; 
 
 Here hill 'bove hill, there heathy plain. 
 
 But bounded by the hills again ; 
 
 Brooks pure from mud or noxious weed 
 
 Here fertilize the grassy mead ; 
 
 And there the towers of distant towns 
 
 With pleasing change the prospect crowns. 
 
 Extended even to the sea 
 
 The pleased beholder's eye may be, 
 
 And yet beyond, to sight displayed 
 
 E'en white cliffed islands lend their aid. 
 
 With glade and down and forests green 
 
 Is viewed the variegated scene. 
 
 And if to antiquarian lore 
 
 You Dorset's claims would fain explore. 
 
 Enough to interest the eye 
 
 Appears in ancient tumuli. 
 
 Those lasting monuments which tell 
 
 That here the brave once fought and fell. 
 
 Nor are there wanting vestiges 
 
 To shew that the Durotriges ' 
 
 Were such as to invasion's power 
 
 Not like a coward race would lower ; 
 
A TKIBUTE 10 DORSET. 37 
 
 But when, thougli wild in bravery, 
 And bom detesting slavery, 
 To cohorts train'd in battle field 
 Those tribes at length were forced to yield. 
 Thus much they gained by Koman tast«. 
 Their town was beautified and graced. 
 And mildly by their victors led 
 Were civilized the vanquished. 
 
 Then were they taught to love the shows 
 The amphitheatre bestows. 
 And useful atts, by slow degrees, 
 Began to humanize and please. 
 And there are marks distinct and broad 
 To show the line of Roman road, 
 Where 'erst their eagles led them on 
 To glory, now for ever gone ; 
 How Maiden Castle, Badb'ry Ring, * 
 Rome's exploits to remembrance bring ! 
 Nor speak inglorious for the race 
 Who thought submission a disgrace. 
 
 Nor, Wimbome Minster ! dost thou claim 
 A right unrecognised by fame, 
 
8 A TEIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 Beneath thy walls, now grey with age, 
 And chronicled in history's page, 
 The Saxon Monarch Ethelred 
 Amidst the mean and noble dead, 
 In undistinguished ashes lies, 
 'Till the dread summons to arise. 
 Both mean and noble dead must hear 
 And 'fore the King of Kings appear. 
 Ah ! then will praise be paid to worth 
 Which had perhaps no praise on earth. 
 And humble merit find a name 
 More lasting than the Hero's fame. 
 
 And proudly on its eminence — 
 
 By art and nature for defence 
 
 Well placed — Corfe Castle seems to frown 
 
 In anger o'er its past renown, 
 
 Oh ! had those time-worn walls a tongue^ 
 
 How many tales by bard unsung. 
 
 In mirth would please, in dulness cheer. 
 
 Or claim the sympathetic tear ! 
 
 Perchance 'twould deck the festive scene 
 
 In halls which now with grass are green ; 
 
 Anon, with story of true love. 
 
 Might apathy's chill bosom move, 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 39 
 
 Or else with tilt and tourney gay 
 Of chiyaby might be the lay, 
 Then Knights and Nobles would arise 
 From Lady fair to gain the prize. 
 Due to the strong and trusty spear 
 Of most successful Cavalier, 
 Spurred on by smiles from beauty's eye 
 To do his devoir gallantly, 
 And daring in his hope to claim 
 The hand that decks a Hero's fame. 
 Alas ! beneath the vaulted stone 
 Might faintly sound the captives' groan. 
 Condemned to pine in hopeless grief 
 'Till death alone affords relief. 
 
 'Twas here — as British annals tell 
 
 The Saxon Prince by murder fell. 
 
 By such a murder as would claim 
 
 Were there but one — a harsher name. 
 
 By kindred and by female blow 
 
 Was laid the princely Saxon low. 
 
 By Judas' kiss, and friendly draught 
 
 Deceived, and stabbed e'en while he quaffed. 
 
 Oh ! Elfrith ! to the latest age. 
 
 Thy horrid act shall stain the page. 
 
40 A TBIBUTE TO DOKSET. 
 
 Not laid in peace, thy dust shall lie 
 In infamous celebrity. 
 'Twas here, — the gloomy John retained 
 The crown he had unjustly gained ; * 
 Though not in peace on tyrant's head 
 To rest, by Barons limited. 
 Or threat'ned by the Pope with woe 
 Than rebel Lords a dreader foe. 
 'Twas here — the second Edward knew 
 How bitterly the King must rue 
 The hour when first he gives his ear 
 The voice of flattery to hear ; 
 When scorning duties of the throne 
 He seeks its lttxvbies alone. 
 And gives to some vain favour'd few 
 The smiles to all the loyal due ; 
 'Twas here, that he, whose princely care 
 Had been the Castle to repair, * 
 Within its dungeon, sadly groaned 
 O'er errors fearfully atoned. 
 
 But chief for this Corfe Castle calls 
 For honour on its ivied walls. 
 That 'twas the last compelled to quit 
 The Royal banner — to submit. 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DORSET.^ 41 
 
 To Roundhead rebels, tearing down 
 
 Poor England's trust — her church and crown ; 
 
 In favour of its rightful King, 
 
 To all the force their bands could bring 
 
 It yielded not, — 'till shameful art. 
 
 Well worthy of a traitor's heart 
 
 Prevail'd at last ; — by recreant aid 
 
 The loyal castle was betrayed ; 
 
 It fell — and those who scrupled not 
 
 Their names with treason's stain to blot 
 
 Would little care that thai weeck to see 
 
 Who snuled at •wreck of monarchy. 
 
 How placidly in Weymouth bay 
 The waves scarce more than ripples play, 
 And dazzling is the sun-beam's hue 
 As glides it o'er the waters blue. 
 Sweet contrast to the boist'rous sea 
 Which roars and breaks tremendously. 
 And threats each ship in " Portland reach" 
 With wreck upon the "pebble beach." 
 
 'Erst upon Weymouth's loyal strand 
 The best and noblest of the land, 
 'Midst gentry, peasants, sailors pressed 
 To view the Monarch whom they blessed. 
 
42 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 How gay was then the scene displayed, 
 When George, upon the Esplanade, 
 Walked in a nation's safeguard sure 
 And in his people's love secure ! 
 
 Let restless greybeards then— inflamed 
 With wine, by sycophants proclaimed 
 More -wise than in sobriety, 
 They'll e'en allow themselves to be, 
 Call him a " bloody Monarch" — who 
 To judgment and to conscience true. 
 Ne'er sanctioned acts he could not feel 
 Intended for his country's weal. 
 Whilst with a gen'rous burst, the nation 
 Would spurn the driveller's oration. 
 Whilst if a British prayer be heard 
 The memory of George the Third 
 To latest ages will descend 
 As of a parent and a friend. 
 
 'Twas there, with buoyant heart and pace, 
 
 That distanced soon the slower grace 
 
 Of courtly dames unused above 
 
 A slow and mincing step to move, — 
 
 'Twas there — the youthful Princess gained 
 
 The hearts o'er which she would have reigned, 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 43 
 
 But Heaven willed it not, and man 
 Must not presume that will to scan. 
 She laid an earthly sceptre down 
 To gain, we hope, an heav'niy crown 
 — 'Tis this consoles a nation's pain. 
 For England's loss — ^is Charlotte's gain. 
 
 If Dorset ! humbly I profess 
 Thy praise in poesy to dress, 
 Thy Gentry's Seats a lay demand 
 From my, although unworthy, hand. 
 Some owe to nature more than art, 
 To some does taste their charm impart, 
 And more than one has been the seat 
 Where Royalty has found retreat. 
 
 Who when he sees fair Critchell's halls 
 
 But to remembrance it recalls, 
 
 The time when horn and hound and chace 
 
 Once borrowed there a princely grace ? 
 
 There in the days of youth and mirth 
 
 Dwelt the " first gentleman" on earth, * 
 
 The*gallant prince whose splendid reign 
 
 In after-ages will attain, 
 
 (When Wellington's unequalled glory 
 
 From envy pure shall live in story), 
 d2 
 
44 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 That praise which to its laurels now 
 Malignant tongues will not allow. 
 Though royal honors now give place, 
 Yet Critchill owns a. fairer grace, 
 And bloom within its stately bowers 
 Its native and majestic flowers. 
 
 And LuUworth ! whose strange fate so well 
 
 Life's quick varieties may tell, 
 
 Might in itself inspire a lay 
 
 And well the Poet's pains repay. 
 
 Were there nought else in hist'ry's page 
 
 To point the moral of the Sage, 
 
 " Life's future vista none can know, 
 
 " And nought is certain here below," 
 
 The life of Lullworth's owner might 
 
 On this true saying throw some light. 
 
 Behold a country gentleman 
 
 Within no long extended span, 
 
 A Priest — a Bishop — then become 
 
 A Cardinal — or — Pope of Rome ! 
 
 How various have the tenants been 
 
 Which Lullworth's sea-girt walls have seen ! 
 
A TKIBUTE TO DORSET. 45 
 
 There Princes, Ministers, and Squires 
 
 By turns have trimmed their evening fires, 
 
 By turns have made the pheasants rue 
 
 Their prowess in the stored battue. 
 
 A silk-worm, when his task is spun 
 
 May gaUy in the summer sun 
 
 A butterfly become — his day 
 
 In gaudy colours sport away, 
 
 So may a cotxon spinnee too 
 
 Soar up aloft in nobler hue. 
 
 Though not so bright, become more great 
 
 And be a Ministek of State. 
 
 E'en such an one in LuUworth's seat 
 
 From cares of office sought retreat. 
 
 Though Whigs may spurn a wish like this 
 
 " Would cares of office now were his !" 
 
 His be the hand the ship to guide 
 
 Stand by the helm and stem the tide, 
 
 And Peel, as Pilot Pitt before, 
 
 May brave the storm and gain the shore ! ' 
 
 There lately found a resting place 
 A foreign and a royal race. 
 Bom by their own unhappy chance 
 To rule o'er vain nd fickle France ; 
 
46 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 O'er those whose humour takes the shape 
 By turns of tiger or of ape, 
 And strcH, the foes to Britain's state. 
 Would wish to see us imitate. 
 
 And Kingston Lacy's ancient walls 
 Gain now new honour to their halls, 
 By Bankes's classic taste and hand 
 Adorn'd as by magician's wand. 
 
 And MQton Abbey's fair domain 
 
 Will 'mongst thy seats first rank maintain ; 
 
 And Sherborne's lordly park — I ween. 
 
 For Cotton Lord no fitting scene, 
 
 But for a noble race, the sphere 
 
 Well worthy of a British Peer ; 
 
 Where Raleigh walk'd, form'd lofty schemes. 
 
 The Statesman's and the Patriot's dreams ; 
 
 Here Pope would tune his silv'ry rhyme 
 
 If friendly conf'rence spar'd the time ; 
 
 In Sherborne's Church his hallowed lays 
 
 Speak well his grief and Digby's praise. 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 47 
 
 And Eastbury — where Thompson's name, 
 Gave to thy Downs a tuneful fame. 
 Where are the Bowers once so sweet 
 For Druid Bard — a lov'd retreat ! 
 Dismantled now, without a trope you see 
 " Gone to the Dogs" — in stern reality. * 
 
 Few counties can with Dorset vie 
 
 In ancient aristocracy. 
 
 Her yeomen are an honest race ; 
 
 Oh ! may they ever know their place ! 
 
 Ne'er strive to ape their betters, — who 
 
 Despise their claims whene'er they do. 
 
 Ye Yeomen ! if ye would be wise 
 
 Seek not for foreign luxuries, 
 
 Stick to your double Dorset beer, 
 
 And all the world ye need not fear. 
 
 Ah ! would the humble peasant could 
 
 'Ere taste a bev'rage half as good ; 
 
 I mean not in that low resort 
 
 Where legally some stuff is bought. 
 
 But little is there in the shop 
 
 Which savours of , the ualt and hop ; 
 
 Where — ev'ry week the vile " Dispatch" 
 
 More souls for Satan strives to catch. 
 
48 A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 
 
 And growling " Chronicles" to teach, 
 Of ancient social rights — the breach. 
 But would ! to cheer the peasant's cot 
 Some wholesome bev'rage could be got 
 Not meant alone to gratify 
 His taste, and cheat his family ; 
 But to assist in giving birth 
 To pleasure round his humble hearth, 
 To teach him not abroad to roam 
 For comforts he should find at home. 
 'Midst Children and a faithful Wife 
 To share the little gifts of life. 
 
 Ye Yeomen ! in your Landlords see 
 The best friends of their tenantry ; 
 Ne'er ^heed a Radical or Rogue 
 With HTTMBTJG now so much in vogue. 
 Who'd tell ye, that ye are opprest 
 By those who know your interest, 
 And seek it truly as their own. 
 Because in fact they're only one. 
 Who'd urge unhappy dupes to do 
 Deeds they'd hereafter sadly rue, 
 Whilst he contrives his worthless neck 
 To save amidst his victims' wreck. 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DORSET. 49 
 
 Who has perchance a traitor proved 
 
 In every cause he e'er has moved — 
 
 Wo'd tell you that no county can 
 
 Provide within itself a man 
 
 Fit hy constituents to be sent 
 
 To plead their cause in Parliament ; 
 
 But if some demagogue should pass, 
 
 Though "WANTING GOLD, not WANTING BRASS ; 
 Or GREAT ARITHMETICIAN — who 
 
 Brings the sum total rarely true ; 
 But still— before his task is done 
 Takes care at least of ntjmbee one ; 
 Or agitator — vile enough 
 To wring from peasants quantum suef, 
 And call the gain, ill-got ill-spent, 
 A spoil to laugh at — not lament. 
 Or agent — with the cuckoo's guUt 
 To seize the seat his patron built. 
 If such present themselves — oh ! then 
 No doubt they are the proper men. 
 We do not read that Gladiatok 
 In Kome became " Conscriptus Pater," 
 But BoxEK here may sparring come 
 To Parliament— or Drawing-room 
 And though he may not reason well 
 
 A KNOCK-DOWN ARGUMENT wiU tell. 
 
50 A TKIBHTE TO DORSET. 
 
 But Dorset Freeholders will show 
 That better things than these they know, 
 That county men and men of name 
 WiU ever find with them a claim ; 
 Will ever be the fittest choice 
 To speak in Parliament their voice. * 
 
 And well a classic pen might trace 
 "What claims has Dorset to the chace — ■ 
 — Such Pen, as with a wizard's might 
 Would bid the hunt e'en live to sight. 
 As made with horn, halloo, and hound 
 Loch Katrine's distant banks rebound ; 
 And such a pen in Blackmore vale 
 Might find a subject for its tale ;'" 
 The chace of roebuck, fox, or hare 
 Or fallow-deer it might declare 
 O'er hUl and dale, o'er down and dell. 
 Might lead the pleased attention well. 
 
 And lovely Charity wiU raise 
 A tribute due to Dorset's praise. 
 This is the fairest fruit from Heaven 
 On that blest tree by Jesus given ; 
 
A TRIBUTE TO DOBSET. 51 
 
 This founds the Almshouse ; at her call 
 Is rais'd the County Hospital ; 
 This never bars the niggard door 
 When poverty's faint cries implore ; 
 This seeks the suffering and opprest, 
 And is in blessing others — Ablest. 
 Though New Philosophy may scorn 
 And WoKDLT Wisdom coldly warn — 
 Still, Charity ! thy hand be free 
 As was " The Woed" that hallowed thee ! 
 Still— when vain Foreigners demand 
 What Palace decks the Eritish Land ? 
 Point to those noble buildings — where 
 By voluntary funds, the care 
 Of Galen's wisest sons assures 
 All that the art of med'cine cures ; 
 And gives kind solace, which in vain 
 The sufferer could himself attain — 
 And England has — we proudly say 
 Hee PaiiACes — as well as they ! 
 
 And now remains but little space 
 For those that would a volume grace. 
 The Dorset Fair ! whose charms could I 
 In more than one well specify ; 
 
52 A XKIBDTE TO DORSET. 
 
 But others full as lovely might 
 With equal reason, equal right, 
 Assert a claim to beauty's zone, 
 Did I attempt to single one. 
 
 Thus far in praise — some wiser head 
 Than mine might probably be led 
 To point severer satire, where 
 But little cause for blame is there. 
 I, conscious that my claims are weak. 
 Would not provoke a tongue to speak 
 Against the unpresuming lays 
 That tremble at the public gaze. 
 
 And there are those, whom well I know, 
 A double charm o'er Dorset throw, 
 That make her beauties lovelier still 
 And hide whate'er she has of ill. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 Ah ! long in peace dear Dorset shine ! 
 Well might a sweeter lay than mine 
 From some more favour'd bard proceed 
 More worthy of the minstrel's meed ; 
 Yet — till some nobler Bard aspire 
 In Dorset's praise to tune the lyre — 
 Although the tribute humble be — 
 Accept a qbatefui, minstrelsy. 
 
NOTES 
 
 Note l, p. 36. 
 To show that the Durotriges. 
 The ancient name of the people of this County. 
 
 Note 2, p. 37. 
 How Maiden Castle, Badb'ry Ring. 
 Amongst many other remains of Encampments. 
 
 Note 3, p. 40. 
 
 'Twas here the gloomy John retained 
 The crown he had unjustly gained. 
 
 King John here kept the Begalia of the Kingdom. 
 
 Note 4, p. 40. 
 
 'Twas here that he, whose princely care 
 
 Had been the castle to repair. 
 Edward the Second repaired Corfe Castle and was afterwards 
 confined there previous to his removal to Berkeley Castle, where 
 he was barbarously murdered. 
 
 Note 6, p. 48. 
 There in the days of youth and mirth 
 Dwelt the " first gentleman" on earth. 
 I am not blind to the failings of George the Fourth ; but let 
 it be remembered that those who are loudest in assailing his 
 memory are the successors of those Whigs who were the part- 
 ners of his excesses, and first taught him the diffmjied and dutiful 
 task of placing himself in open opposition to his good and 
 venerable parent. 
 
Note 6, p. 45. 
 
 And Peel and Pilot Pitt before. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! how lias the prophecy been falsified by the event ! 
 Sir Robert Peel's banner proved to be cotton and not silk, and 
 that of those who trusted in him has indeed been ivorsted ! 
 
 Note 7, p. 46. 
 To rule o'er yain and fickle France. 
 
 This was written some years ago, and what changes have 
 taken place since ! The fall of the Citizen King. The brief 
 interlude of the pattern Eepublic — the Presidentship — and lo ! 
 Harlequin waves his wand again — the President becomes an 
 Emperor; and most strange of all, we are at peace and in 
 aUiance — shall we dare to say, firm, with Imperial France — to 
 overthrow which needed a Nelson and a Wellington, and at 
 what expense of blood and treasure, who shall say ? 
 " Oh ! world I thy slippery turns I" 
 
 Note 8. p. 47. 
 " Gone to the dogs" in stern reality. 
 It will hardly be necessary to inform the Dorset reader, that 
 Eastbury is now chiefly noted as the Kennel of Mr. Farquhar- 
 son*6 celebrated Fox Hounds. 
 
 Note 9, p. 60. 
 To speak in Parliament their voice. 
 "Misery makes men acquainted with strange bedfellows," 
 and so in scnrie instances does Reform with strarige M. P's. 
 
 Note 10, p. 50. 
 
 And such a pen in Blackmore Vale 
 
 Might find a subject for its tale. 
 The name of " Harry Fan* Yeatman" will here at once strike 
 the ear of the sporting Dorset reader with a " view holla." But 
 sporting eminence is the least claim to respect of this capital 
 iHyrset Worthy. An acute magistrate — a good landlord — a 
 classical scholar, and a conscientious friend to NaMve Industry, 
 he has steered his course through a long life, guided "by ^prindple^ 
 and unseduced by expediency : and he will leave a name 
 honourable to his native county, and the most enduring monu- 
 ment to himself. 
 
Mt0rellaiitnu0 l^nms. 
 
JinitsceUaneous ^oms . 
 
 LINES 
 
 SnOQESTED ON BEING TOLD THE LAST WOKDS UTTEKED 
 BY A. DEAK FRIEND BEFORE HEE DEATH — " WhT 
 DID TOD CALL MB BACK AGAIN ? I WAS SO HAPFT.'' 
 
 Oh ! do not call me back again, 
 
 I was so happy — was in bliss ; 
 Oh ! do not call me back to pain, 
 
 From realms of joy to one like this ! 
 
 Thus, when around the Christian's bed, 
 Kind friends would fain death's hand delay ; 
 
 She. wanting none, serenely said. 
 For angels beckon'd her away. 
 
 Ah ! scarcely mortal words were those, 
 
 But from the land of spirits came ! 
 
 To bid her back to earthly woes, 
 
 Call'd forth one gentle sigh of blame. 
 E 2 
 
60 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Pain did we wish she had not known, 
 One long sad year with grief o'ercast ; 
 
 But not, if gain'd hy grief alone, 
 Such heavenly visions at the last. 
 
 Then she was happy ! oh, 'tis true. 
 That joy may waft the fleeting breath ! 
 
 That Christ can soothe the last adieu. 
 And comfort in the hour of death. 
 
 Not e'en a doating husband's voice. 
 
 Who best could know, and felt her worth, 
 
 Though 'twere in truth a tempting choice. 
 Would call her spirit back to earth. 
 
 Nor parents, though 'tis sad to close — 
 Unwelcome task — dear children's eyes, 
 
 Would call her back ; faith brightly shows, 
 She is not lost who only dies. 
 
 To friends, whose circle oft she blest. 
 No anguish should their loss afford, 
 
 Nor should they envy her the rest 
 She gains from dying in the Lord ! 
 
 Oh ! she would bid us all forbear, 
 Not one regretful sigh be giv'n ; 
 
 But this, the hope, the wish, the pray'r. 
 That we may meet her blest in heaven. 
 
61 
 
 LINES 
 
 WMTTEN OH VISITING THE TOMB OF A DBAE BROTHER 
 IN STDLINQ CHUBCH. 
 
 Again I gaze upon my brother's tomb, 
 And read the tablet that records his worth, 
 And selfish grief would deprecate the doom 
 That plucked a blooming rose too soon from earth. 
 
 'Tis pluck'd from us, and human nature grieves, 
 But thus religion would coinplaint allay, 
 'Tis everlasting now — its changeless leaves 
 Transplanted ne'er again shall know decay. 
 
 And art thou gone ? and does thy body rest 
 Amidst the hills, o'er which thou lovd'st to roam ? 
 Ah ! where thine infancy thy parents blest 
 Again thou find'st a refuge and a home. 
 
 Thou sleep'st beneath the spot where first they 
 
 taught 
 Thy youthful lips to seek thy God in pray'r, 
 I foUow'd 'mongst the mournful train who brought 
 Thy sacred relics to be guarded there. 
 
62 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 To me there's something soothing in the thought 
 By which the feeling heart is gently moved, 
 When to the fane of worship we resort, 
 We pray amongst the tombs of those we lov'd. 
 
 Is it presumptuous to conceive that they, 
 Though absent from the body, yet may know, 
 How those with whom they sympathised one day 
 Are now concern'd in earthly cares below ? 
 
 If such the case — dear brother, from thy spirit 
 Fain would I hide whate'er might give thee 
 
 pain, 
 Nought should'at thou know in friends but what 
 
 might merit, 
 Through Christ, the hope of meeting thee again. 
 
 Again upon my brother's tomb I gaze, 
 Scarce can I credit all I lov'd so well 
 Is but the theme of a departed praise — 
 Is but a tale we love, yet mourn to tell. 
 
 But will remembrance of thy virtues cease, 
 Dear brother! those who love thee here to 
 
 cherish ? 
 Ah, no ! 'till they themselves are laid in peace, 
 Fond memory of thee will never perish. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 63 
 
 If man with God's decree might interfere 
 In thought, for thee such license might be given : 
 Thou had'st an angel's face and sweetness here, 
 And now thou join'st the angelic blest in heaven ! 
 
 We can't forget thy worth endear'd thee much. 
 And sad regret would even scan God's will, 
 When we reflect that heaven belongs to such 
 'Tis ours to bid the throbbing heart be still. 
 
 Thou'dst bid us dry then that regretful tear, 
 Which fain would call thee back to earth's brief 
 
 love, 
 Thou'rt happy now~oh, may thy mourners here 
 At last know ceaseless bliss with thee above ! 
 
 dS^iSa 
 
64 
 
 ON MY 39th birthday. 
 
 When childhood's hours were mine,to me it seem'd 
 
 Years thirty-nine must near old age be deem'd. 
 
 Now I am thirty-nine, it still appears 
 
 I'd fain be youthful — looking back on years. 
 
 And if I measure time by wisdom gain'd, 
 
 I'fn stiU a child, for little is attain'd. 
 
 LAUS CONJUGIS. 
 
 XJxores orbem per totam quaere venustas, 
 Inter eas omnes, tunc mea prima manet. 
 
G5 
 
 ON AN INFANT SMILING IN HIS SLEEP. 
 
 What were thy thoughts, thou lovely boy. 
 Thou smil'dst as calmly thou didst sleep, 
 
 Earth scarce could give those dreams of joy ; 
 Her visions rather bid us weep. 
 
 Unless thy mother's beaming face 
 Were mildly shadow' d o'er thy mind. 
 
 There, even thine infant sense can trace 
 All that is gentle, all that's kind. 
 
 On her soft breast, thou happy boy ! 
 
 Can'st feel no ill and dread no care ; 
 Ah ! must cold after years destroy 
 
 The innocence that warm'd thee there ? 
 
 Thy guardian angel prompts that smile. 
 
 And sheds a halo o'er thy rest. 
 And leads thy spirit for awhile 
 
 Where seraphs sing around the blest. 
 
 Wake not the little slumberer yet, 
 
 Although the fancy but beguiles ; 
 E'en dreams too soon we may regret. 
 
 Which dress'd the face with peaceful smiles. 
 
GG 
 
 THE ROCKS OF BEDRUTHAN; 
 
 A CORNISH SOUVENIR, DEDICATED TO A VEET DEAK 
 FEIEND. 
 
 These rocks, on the bold and magnificent Cornish shore, with 
 the towering waves of the wide Atlantic dashing in amongst 
 them, as we beheld them when on a visit at the fine and 
 hospitable old mansion of Frideaux Place, are indeed u noble 
 and sublime spectacle. 
 
 To the rocks of Bedruthan I'd tune a wild strain ; 
 Once I saw ttem, and fain would I see them 
 
 again ! 
 I went with good company — beauty and worth ; 
 With woman, dear woman ! best comrade on 
 
 earth ! 
 Oh, dull were the eyes which could heedlessly see 
 Those works which proclaim that a God there 
 
 must be ; 
 If boasters would vaunt of man's pow'r let them 
 
 hush, 
 And look on the rocks of Bedruthan and — blush 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 67 
 
 How joyous were we on the sand as we 
 
 pac'd, 
 And with young Cornish brides I was little dis- 
 
 grac'd 
 When I carried my spouse through the pools, 
 
 and they learn'd 
 To what use a good husband might often be 
 
 turn'd. 
 In a cavernous grot the sparr'd rocks were our 
 
 seat. 
 Till the tide, which waits no one, compeU'd a 
 
 retreat ; 
 And the Syrens might there have been tranc'd 
 
 with a lay 
 Quite as sweet as their own, and not meant to 
 
 betray. 
 
 The rocks of Bedruthan ! how varied their 
 
 forms ! 
 Fantastic, yet grand — to defy the wild storms ! 
 Vast tablet, on which is engrav'd God's decree, 
 " Thus far shalt thou come, but no farther, proud 
 
 Sea." 
 What giant of one mountain cliff 'ere could 
 
 trace 
 A statue colossal in figure and face? 
 
68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 But here, eold and hard as the stern Virgia 
 
 Queen, 
 In the rock of her greatness, Queen Bess may be 
 
 seen.* 
 
 The rocks of Bedruthan ! I'd fain have a sight 
 Of the revels ye know, in some midsummer 
 
 night, 
 When mermen and nymphs of the sea dance 
 
 around. 
 And conchsliells through cavern and grotto 
 
 resound ; 
 The chough and the gull from their nests soar 
 
 away. 
 And mingle on wing with the elfish array ; 
 But if mortal footsteps should venture too near 
 To the sea, on a seal's back they madly career. 
 
 But the rocks of Bedruthan ! oh, sad is the tale, 
 Which your caverns may tell of a dark wintry 
 gale! 
 
 * One of these rooks forms a gigantic figure of Queen 
 Elijabetli. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 69 
 
 When the waves dash aloft o'er the cliffs moun- 
 tain high ! 
 
 And their foam in their wrath meets the drift of 
 the sky. 
 
 May Heaven have grace on the doom-stricken ship 
 
 Fell wreckers will seize what the storm-fiend may 
 slip; 
 
 But joy to the mariner now when he knows 
 
 There's a kind warning light ftom the eye of 
 Trevose.* 
 
 To the rocks of Bedruthan I've tuned a wild 
 stredn; 
 
 Once I saw them, and fain would I see them again ! 
 
 ' There is a new light-house now built on the cliff called 
 Trevose Head. 
 
70 
 
 NOBILITY OF GOLD OR BIRTH. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 'Twas Sunday morn : the Sabbath bell 
 
 Re-echoed over vale and hill ; 
 No sound on sacred silence fell, 
 
 And even busy man was still. 
 I foUowed with the pensive throng 
 
 Which to the church I saw repair ; 
 Age, youth, and childhood walked along, 
 
 And rank and beauty too were there. 
 
 I mark'd two ladies, young and fair. 
 
 But ah ! how diiferent their array ! 
 One had^a stiff and haughty air 
 
 But ill-assorting with the day. 
 She dashed along in blazon'd coach, 
 
 And deck'd andjewell'd too was she, 
 Poor worshippers might not encroach, 
 
 Upon her gilded company. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 71 
 
 The other walk'd in muslin dress, 
 
 Pure emblem of her native worth, 
 Though unadorn'd, yet not the less, 
 
 Men saw at once her noble birth. 
 The step of tottering age she'd raise, 
 
 Nor scorn the rustic's awkward bow, 
 And village children lov'd to praise, 
 
 The smile upon her open brow. 
 
 One from a cotton lord had sprung, 
 
 In modern wealth-adoring days. 
 The other's ducal line bards sung 
 
 Long since, when generous birth had praise. 
 Now, tell me ! ye whose hearts beat high. 
 
 With throbs for true old English worth; 
 Say, would ye confidently try, 
 
 Nobility oi gold, or Bieth ! 
 
72 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN, AND 
 THE NYMPH OF THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A DUET SET TO AN AIE OF WEBEr's. 
 SPIEIT. 
 
 I'm the spirit that dwells in the mountain, 
 In the wreath of the mist I take flight ; 
 
 And I love yon light sylph of the fountain, 
 Flitting over the waters so bright. 
 
 SYLPH. 
 
 If thou lov'st me, dark elf of the mountain, 
 Thou'lt leave thy black veil of the night ; 
 
 For the mist overhanging the fountain 
 Will sully its waters so bright. 
 
 TOGETHEK. 
 
 Then leave the dun mist on the mountain, 
 
 That lowers as darkly as night ; 
 The Sylph that presides at the fountain 
 
 Loves the waters that sparkle in light. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POliMS. 7:1 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 'Tis sweet thro' the mist and the shower, 
 On the hill-tops to glide with the blast. 
 
 But sweeter, by yon dewy bower, 
 
 With thee would swift moments be passed. 
 
 SYLPH. 
 
 The fountain I love has its pleasure, 
 And I see my bright eye iti its glass, 
 
 And its grots with their glittering treasure, 
 The breeze of the hills far surpass. 
 
 TOGETHER. 
 
 Then leave the dun mist on the mountain. 
 
 That lowers as darkly as night ; 
 The Sylph that presides at the fountain. 
 
 Loves the waters that sparkle in light. 
 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Be not frigid, sweet Nymph, as thy wells are, 
 O'er which 'tis thy province to move, 
 
 But deep as thy cavernous cells are. 
 Be thy love, if 'ti« me thou wilt love ! 
 
 SYLPH. 
 
 A blush in the stream will reveal it, 
 If by love should thy love be repaid ; 
 
 Or the mist must in pity conceal it, 
 If perchance the confession is made. 
 
74 MISCELLANEOUS POEM*. 
 
 TOGETHEH. 
 
 Then together o'er dale, and o'er mountain, 
 On the pinions of pleasure and love. 
 
 Will the elves of the hills and the fountain, 
 Through realms of bright radiance move. 
 
75 
 
 PUCK'S GAMBOLS. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 Sleep not yet. Fairy Queen, till thou'st laughed 
 
 at the feat 
 Of Puck and thine Elves, then thy slumhers be 
 
 sweet. 
 Last night on a moonbeam we slid through the 
 
 trees. 
 And saw an old miser bent down on his knees ; 
 But not at his prayers was the lean pantaloon, 
 Who deem'd that none saw him, no eye but the 
 
 moon. 
 
 And she would avail him, ere garish day's birth 
 
 To bury his treasures deep, deep, in the earth ! 
 
 Sleep not yet, Fairy Queen ! 
 
 Sleep not yet, Fairy Queen ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep not yet. Fairy Queen ! 
 
 I jump'd on a bat's wing, and flapped in his eyes. 
 And whilst he was roaring, your elves seized the 
 
 prize, 
 
 r 2 
 
76 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And under a pillow which propped the fair head 
 Of a portionless beauty, the treasure was spread. 
 Sir Priest on the morrow shall bless a kind vow. 
 Which two constant hearts might not dream of 
 
 till now ; 
 But little I ween they attribute their luck, 
 Or old Miser his loss, to the gambols of Puck. 
 
 Now sleep. Fairy Queen ! 
 
 Now sleep, Fairy Queen ! 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. Fairy Queen ! 
 
THE FAIR OF THE LAND OF MY YOUTH, 
 
 DEDICATED TO MISS F. K. 
 
 To the land of my childhood I've tun'd a wild 
 strain, 
 To the home, where in joy and in youth I 
 have played ; 
 And oh ! I'd refuse not in boyhood again 
 
 To roam o'er its hills, where so gaUy I've 
 strayed. 
 I'd sing of the parents, whose kind voice oft 
 bless' d 
 And carol with brothers and sisters in glee. 
 And dance with fair playmates then coyly 
 caress'd 
 The promising buds of the beauty to be ! 
 Then here's to the fair of the land of my youth, 
 For none can surpass them in beauty or truth. 
 
78 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Those days are departed, the world's troubled 
 care 
 Has turn'd boyhood's fancy to manhood's 
 hard truth, 
 But still 'mongst the pleasures we yet have to 
 share, 
 Is the oft looking back on the days of our 
 youth. 
 Oh, yes ! these are pleasures, there still may 
 remain, 
 Dear early companions through life to wend 
 on. 
 And a warmer caress may yet soothe us again 
 From the fair little playmate of days that are 
 gone. 
 
 The downs of my country are balmy and free. 
 O'er its wide-spread expanse, roams the health 
 giving air. 
 But chiefly for this, is it precious to me. 
 
 That the bloom of good humour it gives to 
 the fair. 
 'Tis renown'd for wild flowers which Nature's 
 own hand 
 Has planted, and peeds not the false aid of 
 art; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 79 
 
 And this is the bouquet, the Fair of that land, 
 Most wear in their bosom, and prize in their 
 heart. 
 
 Then here's to the fair of the land of my youth, 
 For none can surpass them in beauty or truth ! 
 
 (SSfea 
 
80 
 
 "WAS IT A DRKAiVl?" 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 Was it a vision r was it true ? 
 
 Oh ! did that rapture only seem ! 
 Shall waking life that bliss renew : 
 
 Was it, oh ! was it, but a dream ? 
 
 So Tnany are dark hours — so few 
 
 The bright which o'er earth's winter gleam, 
 That when a sunbeam pierces through, 
 
 We ask, when vanish' d, did we dream ! 
 
 Ah ! late it is, and well if ever, 
 
 Life's bitter lesson we esteem. 
 That here a cloudless sky is never. 
 
 We sleep and find, 'twas but a dream ! 
 
 But there's a better shore than this, 
 Where joy has no receding stream, 
 
 Where deathless youth exults in bliss, 
 And needs not ask I Ah, do I dream ! 
 
SONG, 
 
 IN UUMBLK IJIITATION OF SHAKSPEAKE. 
 
 Take, oh ! take me from the pomp of pride, 
 The purple city's glare — the venal tide ; 
 Sweet truth is poison' d there — she pines and dies : 
 The heart will never speak in mysteries. 
 I cannot love thee there. 
 
 Take, oh ! take me to some verdant shade, 
 Which kindly Nature, not vain Man has made ; 
 And in some cool and ivy-mantled grot, 
 Where busy hum of human voice is not ; 
 And I will love thee there. 
 
 Take, oh ! take me where the moon of May, 
 Through forest branches scarce can dart a ray ; 
 Where sweet Titania, with her Oberon, 
 And Puck, and Kobin Goodfellow play on ; 
 And I will love thee there. 
 
82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Or take me to some stern and rocky shore, 
 Where mermaids glide amid the burly roar ; 
 Or when a mightier hand the calm commands, 
 I'll dance with thee upon the yellow sands ; 
 And I will love thee there. 
 
 (jrrftns) 
 
S3 
 
 'OH! WHEN WAS THE TIME Of OLD 
 ENGLAND'S TRUE GLORY?" 
 
 A LOYAh SONG. 
 
 Oh ! when was the time of old England's true 
 glory, 
 And when did her sons prove the birth that 
 they claim'd ! 
 What page will be brightest in chronicled story. 
 What annals by envy herself undefamed ? 
 
 Say, was it, when Alfred the good and the great, 
 
 Shone forth like a meteor that dazzles at night ! 
 
 Who hallowed fair peace by wise laws for the 
 
 state, 
 
 And chased out the Danes from his land in 
 
 the figlit ? 
 
84 MISCELLANEOUS PUEilS. 
 
 Or was it when Peter the Hermit to horse 
 Called the brave, and the rich, and the zealot 
 away ; 
 When lion-heart Richard himself took the cross. 
 And the child of the desert saw England's 
 array ! 
 
 Or does not the finger of memory point, 
 To the time when brave Harry bore helmet 
 and lance 
 O'er Agincourt's plains, and bade Frenchmen 
 anoint 
 His son to reign over the realms of fair 
 France. 
 
 But these are the trophies of blood and of 
 war, 
 Peace looks to the laurels her triumphs have 
 made, 
 And bids us record how Elizabeth's star 
 To a Shakespeare gave glory which never 
 can fade. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 85 ■ 
 
 Fair ladies may sigh for past chivalry's age, 
 When women were worshipp'd by knights 
 ever true, 
 Fanatics and Eadicals gloat o'er the page. 
 
 When Noll stole the crown of the Martyr he 
 slew. 
 
 Not these are the times when old England was 
 blest, 
 Not these are the exploits most cherish'd when 
 heard; 
 But the tear scarce is dry which we've shed for 
 the best 
 Time-honor'd of monarchs, our own George 
 the Third. 
 
 Will Nelson and Wellington deck not his 
 story? 
 Will the Church that he sav'd not re-echo his 
 praise ? 
 Alas ! must we mourn o'er old England's dead 
 glory ? 
 And when ask'd for her best, must we tell of 
 past days. 
 
86 MISCKLLAHEOUS POEMS. 
 
 " No ! no," cries each Briton who merits the 
 name, 
 The child of that monarch inherits his crown, 
 May Heav'n guard the Throne and the Altar, 
 and shame 
 Those recreant traitors who'd tear them both 
 down. 
 
8? 
 
 " I'LL TELL THEE WHERE I LOVE 
 THEE BEST." 
 
 I'll tell thee where I love thee best, 
 
 Is't in the city's dazzling throng ; 
 Where all thy beauties richly drest, 
 
 Demand indeed the poet's song — 
 It is not there I love thee bfest : 
 
 Pale dissipation oft disarms 
 The nativie candour of the breast, 
 
 And Art supplies lost Nature's charms. 
 
 I'll tell thee where I love thee best ; 
 Is't when thou far away dost roam. 
 
 To seek in foreign climes thy rest. 
 No, no, I love thee best at home. 
 
 There when in duty's path I know. 
 Whilst blessing others, thou art blest. 
 
 And Heaven's free wind gives healthful glow- 
 There is the place I love thee best. 
 
88 
 
 ' OH ! THERE ARE EYES. 
 
 Oh ! there are eyes, which I have read, 
 Have told me more than books could do, 
 
 And those which more than tongue have said, 
 Because their speaking glance was true. 
 
 If flatterer's tongue, with honied word, 
 But bitter heart to lure should try, 
 
 I'd not believe the sound I heard, 
 But learn its meaning from the eye. 
 
 To tell its simple wants or thoughts. 
 The tiny infant's tongue is weak ; 
 
 But stiU its love, by art untaught, 
 Its little eyes ev'n then will speak. 
 
 "Whence comes the light which can inspire, 
 The eye such fervour to impart — 
 
 'Tis kindled from the sacred fire 
 Which burns so truly in the heart. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 89 
 
 Ev'n those that love us best to tell, 
 
 How much they love, perchance are shy ; 
 
 No matter — if we know as well, 
 From truth that flashes in the eye. 
 
•)0 
 
 "ROBERT BRUCE AND THE PAGE." 
 
 " Thy bow, thy bow, my little Page ! 
 
 And is that arrow true ? 
 To give thee freedom, I'd engage, 
 
 Could'st thou, but find me two." 
 " Why should the Bruce more arrows crave ? 
 
 For danger none is near ; 
 See ! Donald and his sons so brave, 
 
 Are now approaching here." 
 
 ''Ah ! bonny Page ! thou little know'st 
 How oft a fair outside, 
 
 That loves of loyal faith to boast, 
 A traitor's heart may hide : 
 
 Thou'st seen the April sunshine bright, 
 And flatt'ring in its ray ; 
 
 Anon as black, and dark as night- 
 It smiles but to betray." 
 
MtSCELLANKOUS POJiMS. 91 
 
 " False Donald !" thus the Bruce did cry, 
 
 Keep back, thy King commands, 
 If nearer thou should'st dare — then die — 
 
 Aye, die — by Bruce' s hands." 
 Then forth the trusty bow, he drew, 
 
 And swiftly as the light ' 
 The arrow whistled as it flew, 
 
 Unerring in its flight. 
 
 Through Donald's eye with madd'ning pain, 
 
 It dashed the flesh aside. 
 And quivering pierced ev'n to the brain, 
 
 He tottered — groaned — and died. 
 
 " Revenge, revenge," his sons exclaim'd, 
 
 " We still are two to one. 
 With vengeance are our hearts inflamed, 
 
 The fray is but begun." 
 " One heart that's true is worth a score 
 
 Of traitors in the fight ; 
 Come on, I'd meet that number more ; 
 
 For Heaven will aid the right." 
 
 Thus cried the Bruce. Their fierce attacks 
 
 Blanch'd not his cheek with fear t 
 
 One son was armed with battle-ax3 
 
 The other fought with spear. 
 G 2 
 
92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Now shunn'd the King a heavy blow ; 
 
 And ere his foe could gain 
 His guard, the Bruce had laid him low, 
 
 And dead upon the plain. 
 
 " Oh !" cried the Page, " would I could fight, 
 
 The spearman presses hard ! 
 His fierceness fills me with afiright. 
 
 My King ! be on thy guard !" 
 "Nay, never fear," said Bruce, " the foe. 
 
 We've odds, thou see'st me laugh !" 
 He wav'd his sword, and dashed a blow, 
 
 And cut the spear in half. 
 
 To stab, then little did he reck, 
 
 The baffled traitor through, 
 And bade him, treading on his neck. 
 
 Confess himself untrue. 
 " I do," he groaned, " with fainting breath. 
 
 And hell before my eye. 
 For gold we doomed our King to death, 
 
 He lives — the traitors die." 
 
 Before the sun at early day. 
 Three vig'rous swordsmen stood ; 
 
 Ere noon had pass'd, they lifeless lay, 
 And welt'ring in their blood. 
 
MISCELLAKEOtJS POEMS. 93 
 
 " And now," cried Bruce, " my little Page ! 
 
 For aid we'll hie away, 
 Nor must we longer keep our rage, 
 
 When over is the fray. 
 In holy ground shall be their bed. 
 
 The mournful beU shall toU, 
 And prayers and masses shall be said. 
 
 For mercy on their soul." 
 
 (7f?fW 
 
fM 
 
 "THE ABBEY.' 
 
 Who when he treads within the holy Abbey's 
 
 walls, 
 But on his spirit stealing solemnly there falls 
 A sacred awe — a sense that now by him is trod 
 The temple of the Deity, the house of God ? 
 And when the pealing organ's tuneful sounds 
 
 ascend 
 Up to the vaulted roof, and bid all ears attend — 
 Entranced he stands : each note divine Cecilia 
 
 tries, 
 Exalts or sinks to more than human ecstacies ; 
 Now throbs his contrite soul with sin, and fear, 
 
 and shame. 
 And now with joy, the choir repeat the Saviour's 
 
 name; 
 Whilst, like a mighty wind, the organ wafts the 
 
 song, 
 And Hallelujahs pour the vaulted aisles along 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 95 
 
 Now sweetly, softly flows a liquid melting strain. 
 And all the soul is mournful tenderness again ; 
 It breathes a requiem for the dead, whose earthly 
 
 tale 
 Briefly the monumental walls around reveal — 
 For such is human vanity, though Death's deep 
 
 gloom 
 It cannot conquer, yet it reaches to the tomb. 
 Those notes ! those notes ! they tell of bliss we 
 
 once have met. 
 Though partly painful, soft remembrance pleases 
 
 yet. 
 And hark ! again, they swell in bursts of praise 
 
 on high, 
 Whilst angels catch and join the choral harmony. 
 If man can bow, and cringe, and humble feeling 
 
 bring 
 Within the lordly palace of an earthly King, 
 How great the lowliness the pious heart afibrds 
 Before the throne of King of Kings, and Lord 
 
 of Lords. 
 Long may our spiry Abbeys high cathedrals 
 
 stand. 
 The Arks of God — the sacred bulwarks of the 
 
 land! 
 
96 
 
 "THE CRAVEN KNIGHI." 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 List Lady ! oli ! list to a Troubadour's lay ! 
 Who sings not of Palestine chimes far away ! 
 Not of valourous Knights o'er the ocean blue, 
 To home, and their lady loves bidding adieu ! 
 But of one who for love has sacrificed fame. 
 And dares to call glory itself but a name ; 
 Ev'n glory which monarchs prize best as a gem, 
 The brightest and richest in their diadem ! 
 
 " Thou Craven, I know thee," the lady exclaimed, 
 " Thou'st fled the red cross, when in battle it 
 
 flamed ; 
 Shall recreant Knights dare that favour to crave 
 Which ladies will only bestow on the brave ; 
 Reversed be thy arms, and if shame thou could'st 
 
 feel, 
 I'd tear, aye, myself, the gold spur from thyheel. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 97 
 
 A wandering Minstrel, of deeds, tell in song. 
 To others more brave, not to thee, which belong." 
 
 The Knight, for 'twas he, heard no more, but he 
 
 turned 
 With anger, with shame, and with sorrow he 
 
 burned ; 
 Nor paused he till gladly his eager eyes met. 
 The glance of the Crescent from bright minaret. 
 " Now," cried he, " the red cross, shall lead me 
 
 to glory. 
 Yet, yet, I'll be heard of in Chivalry's story." 
 The trumpet shrill sounded, he fell 'mongst the 
 
 dead. 
 But the host of the Paynim was scattered and 
 
 fled. 
 
98 
 
 ADDRESS FROM THE YEOMEN TO THE 
 LANDLORDS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Ye Landlords of England ! be true to your name, 
 Ye well know your post, it should be in the 
 van, 
 Your Tenants, the Yeomen, are proud of your 
 fame. 
 And if ye are true to it, staunch to a man. 
 
 Ye are Lords of the land, we are Sons of the same, 
 "The mettle our pasture" produc'd was well 
 known 
 
 On Agincourt's plains, and our annals proclain\ 
 The spirit our fathers had, still is our own. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 9if 
 
 The traitor ye trusted was basely disann'd, 
 By " unadorned'^ blarney with truth not alloy' d ; 
 
 Thus the serpent crept into the garden, and 
 charm'd 
 The ears of its keepers, and Eden destroyed. 
 
 But we are all true, and but little dismayed 
 
 With stones, and with mud, by our foes us'd 
 for reason, — 
 The former their hardness of heart has betray'd, — 
 The latter has shown but the dirt of their 
 treason. 
 
 Some scribbler exults that the " Times is against 
 us, 
 The globe's wide enough, and we need not be 
 vext. 
 There's corn grown in Egypt," — then kindly 
 presents us 
 The choice of a home, through this world, or 
 the next. 
 
 The old native oak ! What climate can nourish. 
 When torn from the ground, where so long it 
 has grown? 
 
100 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And we, if uprooted, oh ! where shall we flourish, 
 What country can suit us so well as our own ? 
 
 We love the old farmstead our wives made so 
 pleasant, 
 The towers which your forefathers' banners 
 display' d ; 
 The corn-fields and meadows, the cot of the 
 peasant, 
 And the green, sunny banks where our children 
 have stray'd. 
 
 We love the old Church, where our fathers have 
 proffer' d 
 The tribute of worship and praise to their 
 God, 
 They rest round her walls, and a prayer we have 
 offer' d 
 To find a last home 'neath the same sacred 
 sod. 
 
 " To live and let live," is the motto we cherish, — 
 But Manchester stops up with cotton the ears 
 
 Of those who should help us. What reck if we 
 ])erish, 
 So long as base mammon for self has no fears ? 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 101 
 
 Ye Landlords of England ! be true to your fame ! 
 
 Our hearts, and our hands are to guard, not 
 pull down, 
 Free Trade is no more than a plausible name, 
 
 Andmeans-^confiscation to land and the Crown. 
 
102 
 
 'THE OLD ENGLISH NOBLEMAN." 
 
 A PARODY ON "THE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEJLAN, AND 
 TT.LTJSTKATED BY A LIVINft EXAMPLE. 
 
 I'll sing you a good new song, to a tune of 
 
 ancient fame, 
 Of a good Old English Nobleman, who merits 
 
 well the name, 
 Who has a fine estate, and disposes well the same 
 For other's good, as for his own, which does the 
 
 worth proclaim 
 Of a fine Old English Nobleman, one of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 The poor have got a friend in him, and when 
 
 Reform found out 
 Our Ancestors knew nought at all of what they 
 
 were about, 
 
HHSCELLANEOUS POEMS. 103 
 
 And made it law that joovcr/y should beconsider'd 
 
 crime. 
 This good old Lord declar'd ihat latv with 
 
 Gospel ne'er would rhyme, 
 Like a good Old English Nobleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 His hall is hung about with arms, all ready for a 
 
 blow, 
 In sure defence of native hearths, against a 
 
 foreign foe. 
 And there his Lordship, though he drinks cold 
 
 water, ne'er will throw 
 Cold water on his welcome guests, of high degree 
 
 or low. 
 Like a fine Old English Nobleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 His custom is, when troubles come, to bid his 
 
 friends repair 
 To meetings where their grievances they fully 
 
 mav declare. 
 
104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And in their sad distresses he, most anxiously 
 
 doth share. 
 And speaks his mind so freely, that the courtiers 
 
 coldly stare 
 At this fine Old English Nobleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 He loves his country and he thinks 'tis honest 
 
 at the core 
 Though there is something rotten in't, which 
 
 makes him very sore, 
 The peel is very bad indeed, so bad that o'er and 
 ' o'er, 
 
 He says when off, he wishes ne'er to hear it 
 
 mention'd more, 
 Like a fine Old English Nobleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 And now when there is such a very foolish 
 
 predilection 
 For foreign things, and foreign food, a very bad 
 
 selection ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 105 
 
 He says that he has made, and he will stand to 
 
 his election, 
 That English hands, and English hearts, should 
 
 always have Pkotection ! 
 Like a fine Old English Nohleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 But he, like every mortal born, alas ! one day 
 
 must die. 
 Though not his name, his name will live — yes 
 
 live eternally ! 
 The widows' and the orphans' tears, will wet his 
 
 cold grave's side. 
 And where's the scutcheon that can show so 
 
 much the worth and pride 
 Of a fine Old English Nobleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 But times and seasons, though they change, and 
 
 customs pass away. 
 Yet Cotton-lords shall never have — o'er British 
 
 Nobles sway ; 
 
106 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And when the hughear calFd Free-trade is where 
 
 it should he blown, 
 Say — Stanhope was among the first who made 
 
 the monster groan ; 
 Like a fine Old English Nobleman, all of the 
 
 olden time ! 
 
 This song was sung at the *' Stanhope Festival," at the 
 Com Exchange, Maidstone, June 25, 1850, when nearly 500 
 Protectionists assembled to render a due tribute to that honest 
 consistent, patriotic nobleman, Eari Stanhope, and a memorial 
 of those virtues, eminently possessed by his lordship, was 
 presented to him. The author of these little poems was to 
 have enjoyed the honour of presiding on the occasion, but was 
 prevented by a domestic affliction. He had, however, the 
 pleasure of indicting the memorial, which was signed by several 
 hundred noblemen, gentlemen, and yeomen of England. It 
 was as follows : — 
 " To THE Right Hon. Philip Henrt Eari. Stanhope. 
 
 " We whose names are here appended beg leave to express 
 the deep sense we entertain of your lordship's energetic and 
 unwearied exertions to promote the good and patriotic cause of 
 NATIVE INDUSTRY. 
 
 " In your lordship's place in Parliament, and in many a less 
 exalted sphere, you have strenuously, and with firm con- 
 sistency, fulfilled the duties of a British nobleman, with 
 British eloquence, prompted by a British heart, supporting 
 the rights of British labour. 
 
 " It were an easy task in these days of political tergiversation, 
 and of the great success of that art which Trmkes the worse 
 appear the better cause, to contrast your lordship's character with 
 THAT of alas I of many another Statesmen — but we forbear. 
 
107 
 
 " We are called upon, however, without the use of foreibm 
 aid, now so much in vogue, without forfeiting one particle of 
 THKTH, the genuine fhiit of English growth, to assert, without 
 fear of contradiction, even from those who may conscientiously 
 differ from some of your lordship's opinions, that in times 
 unhappily notorious for the idolatry of mammon, and the 
 worship of expediency, your lordship has stood firm, and 
 unmoved on the native rock of 
 
 PRINCIPLE ! 
 " We may also be permitted to notice the courtesy and affa- 
 bility, which add a grace to the elevated station so worthily 
 held by your lordship, not the less elevated from the family 
 connection, as well as from the maintenance of those principles 
 which associate your lordship's name in our minds with that 
 of " The Pilot who once weather'd the storm," and in whose 
 hands, if now nerv'd with life, the vessel of the state might yet 
 in safety reach the haven of 
 
 PEOTECTION ! 
 " That your lordship may be spared many years by a merciful 
 Providence, and that you may live to see the Restoration of 
 PEOTECTION TO NATIVE INDUSTRY, 
 
 in the promotion of which good worlt we have been happy 
 humbly to associate ourselves with your lordship, is our most 
 earnest prayer ! 
 
 " And may we long be enabled to say of Philip Earl Stanhope, 
 in the words of our own immortal native Bard — 
 
 " ' May he continue 
 Long in bis country's service, and do justice 
 For truth's sake, and his conscience, that his bones 
 When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings. 
 May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept over him !' " 
 
 H 2 
 
108 
 
 THE LORD'S ISLE! 
 A RECOLLECTION OF KESWICK. 
 
 DEDICATED TO MY BELLOW TRAVELLER. 
 
 Oh ! had I, what alas I have not ! 
 The pen, the muse of Walter Scott ; 
 I then might hope to give 
 An ode about the lord's sweet isle, 
 Which should not merely raise a smile. 
 But in remembrance live. 
 
 Thou lovely, lonely isle ! the lord 
 Who did to thee thy name afford. 
 Lives but in annals past ; 
 And like his sad and fatal tale. 
 Moans mournfully o'er thee — the gale, 
 Or shrieks the mountain blast. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 109 
 
 (Ah me ! though sweet, the pure white rose ! 
 Full many a ruin'd house now knows, — 
 Death in its leaves did hide. 
 But who severely shall condemn 
 The loyal memory of them 
 Who in its honour died ?) 
 
 Of thee, one of that kindred took 
 A sad, yet, not unpleasing look, — 
 I joy with her to roam ! 
 Press'd pensively her foot the stone. 
 Where erst full many a happy one 
 Had reach'd the island home. 
 
 Perchance, till then, none of that blood 
 On that remember'd spot had stood, 
 Since fled poor Ratcliflf's wife : 
 And tried what ruth the mountain hath, 
 Rather than Hanover's fell wrath, 
 To spare a woman's life. 
 
 Another owns that fair domain ; 
 Another race ! They cannot gain 
 The prestige of the last, 
 
no MISCELLANEOUS POEIMS. 
 
 Nor can base lucre ever make, 
 Sweet Derwentwater's depths forsake 
 The mem'ry of the past ^\ 
 
 Nor will old Keswick's simple race, 
 Point out with pride rich Marshall's place,- 
 Their tale is of the dead ; 
 They'll guide you to the lord's lone isle, — 
 They'll paint the lady's sweet sad smile, 
 The last before she fled f . 
 
 They'll bid you reverently search, 
 The relics of their ancient church, 
 And point to Ratcliff's tomb : 
 
 * The property of the unfortunate Earl of Derwentwater, 
 when he was beheaded, was settled on Greenmch Hospital. 
 It has recently been sold, and purchased by Mr. Marshall, a 
 rich clothier of Leeds. It has been reported, though it is 
 scarcely credible, that an attempt was made to procure the 
 title of Derwentwater for this gentleman, although the elder 
 branch of the family of Eadclyffe, from which the unfortunate 
 Earl sprung, is represented by Radclyffe, of Foxdenton, 
 Lancashire, a lineal descendant and claimant of the Earldom 
 of Sussex. If this be true, what becomes of the old proverb, 
 that " you should cut your coat according to your cloth" — and 
 certes — a clothier of Leeds would scarcely become the peerage. 
 
 t The wife of Lord Derwentwater is supposed to have 
 effected her escape through a tremendous pass in the mountain, 
 which is now known by the appellation of the " Lady's Leap." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ill 
 
 Where though the pray'r now useless be, 
 You're bid to pray in piety, 
 For mercy in his doom * 
 
 With artless inbred taste they turn, 
 
 From trim canal to rocky burn, 
 
 Or cat'ract in the fell ; 
 
 So in their thoughts they'll ne'er resign. 
 
 To parvenu wealth the ancient line ; 
 
 'Tis on the past they dwell. 
 
 Great Skiddaw still smiles o'er the scene, 
 
 But with a sadder shade, I ween, 
 
 From bygone memory ; 
 
 Whilst stern Scaw fell frowns down the vale. 
 
 And sighs the breeze through Borrowdale, 
 
 On that which now must be. 
 
 * In the Church is a fine monnment of the Ratcliff family, 
 with figures of brass Inlaid, and inscribed as follows : — " Of 
 your charity pray for the soul of Sir John Eatoliff, and for the 
 soul of Dame Alice, his wife ; which Sir John died the 2nd day 
 of January, AJ>. 1527, on whose soul Jesus hare mercy." A 
 copy of this inscription and the brass figures was taken off by 
 the clerk, and presented with much courtesy and interest to her 
 to whom this little poem is addressed — having learned that she 
 belonged to the pame family. 
 
112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I do not quarrel with the taste 
 
 Which leaves that lonely island waste, 
 
 Nor will the motive scan ; 
 
 'Twere better thus, than see it neat, 
 
 Trim, stiff, adapted for the seat 
 
 Of rich Leeds merchant man. 
 
 'Twas well, when there, we met no sound. 
 
 Save caw of faithful rook around, 
 
 Or splash of distant oar, — 
 
 Or gentle voice of guide, who shows ' 
 
 Where once the lordly castle rose, 
 
 And fell — to rise no more ; — 
 
 Unless that title forfeited. 
 
 When ruthless power claimed the head 
 
 Of Derwentwater's Earl, 
 
 His kindred blood may yet attain. 
 
 And the lord's island once again 
 
 His banner shall unfurl f . 
 
 ' The guide who conducted the writer to the top of Skiddaw, 
 and rowed us to The Lord's Isle, was a remarkably intelligent 
 one, of the name of Graves. His father and grandfather had 
 been guides before liim. His voice was peculiai'ly sweet. 
 
 t All the forfeited titles have been restored, excepting that 
 of the Earldom of Derwentwater. The crest of the Ratcliff' 
 family is a black bull's head. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS FOEMS. 113 
 
 Now seldom bounds along the stag : 
 The eagle now has fled the crag ; 
 Where echo heard her scream, 
 The engine shrieks through mountain pass, 
 And nature's charms must yield, alas ! 
 To all-subduing steam *. 
 
 But 'till great Skiddaw age has felt,- 
 'Till everlasting rock shall melt, — 
 No change can e'er defile 
 The native beauty of the lake : 
 Or from that lonely spot can take, 
 The name of " The Lord's Isle." 
 
 * No eagles have been seen in these mountainous districts, so 
 well adapted for their habitation, for some yeai's. Steam has 
 already invaded Windermere. It is to be hoped, with regard 
 to Derwentwater, the idea here expressed may long be but 
 a poetical license. 
 
)niig0 of Mimti. 
 
^ong» of Dorset. 
 
 ALL SET TO HT^IC. 
 
 "THE CLUMP OF OLD FIRS." 
 
 Shall the oak, and the elm, and the beech have 
 
 a song ! 
 And none to the hardy green fir-tree belong ! 
 If bards of refinement refuse it their lays, 
 I'll be the rude minstrel to sing in its praise ; 
 Then here's to the clump of old firs on the hill. 
 In calm, or in tempest, may they flourish still. 
 
 They're a type of .true friendship, for though 
 
 winter frown, 
 Yet green is the clump of old firs on the down ; 
 
118 SON'GS OF DORSET. 
 
 No leaves from their sturdy hale branches are 
 
 cast, 
 Like a troop of false friends, when the sunshine 
 
 is past ; 
 Then here's to the clump of old firs on the hill, 
 In calm, or in tempest, may they flourish still. 
 
 I lov'd them in childhood when under their shade, 
 Kind parents beholding, I carelessly play'd, 
 I love them in manhood, and though far away. 
 My thoughts tc the firs on the down often stray ; 
 Then here's to the clump of old firs on the hill. 
 In calm, or in tempest, may they flourish still. 
 
 Away then, good woodman, thou must not come 
 
 here. 
 Though some of the branches are now growing 
 
 sear. 
 No axe but the stern one of time shall invade, 
 Th-e clump of old firs to the down that gives 
 
 shade ; 
 Then here's to the clump of old firs on the hill, 
 In calm, or in tempest, may they flourish still. 
 
119 
 
 THE DOWNS. 
 
 Oh ! dear to my heart is the balmy fresh down, 
 
 And its waste e'en has pleasures for me, 
 When hasting away from the close busy town. 
 
 The air roams so merrily free. 
 It, aye, has its breeze over hUl, through the 
 plain, 
 
 And ev'n when the winds fiercely blow. 
 Fresh vigour and health you may cheerily gain. 
 
 From the rough, though inspiriting glow. 
 
 I love it at dawn, when through furze, brake, and 
 broom. 
 
 The flocks some new pasturage try ; 
 It's air gives the shepherd boy's features a bloom. 
 
 Which the belle of the court cannot buy. 
 I love it at noon, when the sunshine so bright, 
 
 Tempts the bee from her garden of sweets ; 
 To seek the wild thyme, which repays her long 
 flight, 
 
 When its scent in her voyage she meets. 
 
120 SONGS OF DORSET. 
 
 I love it at even, when o'er the wide west, 
 
 The sun's glowing radiance lies, 
 And smiling gives token, 'ere yielding to rest, 
 
 That hope though it sinks, never dies. 
 I love it at night, when the moon beaming soft. 
 
 Lights the gambols of elfin and fay ; 
 And many a mystical ring tells how oft, 
 
 When mortals are sleeping, they play. 
 
 On horseback I leap, and the generous steed. 
 
 Feels the spirit that mounts in my breast ; 
 We fly — for the earth you seem scarcely to need, 
 
 So lightly by hoof is it pressed. 
 The mountains, the forests, the valleys in truth, 
 
 Each> charms to the traveller give ; 
 But give me the downs, for I lov'd them in 
 youth, 
 
 And I'll love them, as long as I live. 
 
121 
 
 "THE HOLLY.'' 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAKOt. 
 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly. 
 
 I'll sing for the close of the year ; 
 Its leaves, crisp and strong, prick away melan- 
 choly, 
 
 Its berries are types of good cheer. 
 I know of a holly by forefathers seen, 
 
 In ages long past, who have died ; 
 But the honest old holly is stUl evergreen, 
 
 And erect in its holiday pride. 
 
 (OHOBUS.) 
 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly, 
 I'll sing for the close of the year ; 
 
 Its leaves, crisp and strong, prick away 
 melancholy. 
 Its berries are types of good cheer. 
 
122 SONGS OF DORSET. 
 
 Full many a Christmas its boughs have been 
 torn. 
 
 The Baron's rich banquet to grace, 
 And many an urchin would cull to adorn, 
 
 "With its treasures a lowlier place ; 
 Whilst the pasty of princes— the knightly sirloin — 
 
 The holly surmounts as a crest, 
 Oh ! at least once a year, may the rich and poor 
 join. 
 
 And under the holly be blest ! 
 
 (chorus.) 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly, 
 
 I'll sing for the close of the year ; 
 It's leaves, crisp and strong, prick away 
 melancholy. 
 Its berries are types of good cheer. 
 
 Oh ! many's the change which the lapse of time 
 brings, 
 
 And many have been for the worse. 
 And many a tale which the minstrel now sings. 
 
 Is alas ! but remember'd in verse ; 
 But Christmas without the old holly, oh, ne'er, 
 
 Nor the mistletoe too, shall come on, 
 
SONGS OF DORSET. V2ii 
 
 Nor the glee, nor the kiss that are privileged 
 there, 
 Be entomb'd with the days that <ire gone. 
 
 4 (CHOEUS.) 
 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly, 
 I'll sing for the close of the year ; 
 
 Its leaves, crisp and strong, prick away 
 melancholy, 
 Its berries are types of good cheer. 
 
 How oft would yon holly, the pride of the brake, 
 
 On the downs some fine winterly morn. 
 Hear echo's wild notes in the clear air awake. 
 
 To the sound of the hunter's shrill horn ; 
 And long may it hear them ! though many glad 
 cries. 
 
 Which awoke sleeping echo now sleep ; 
 From father to son, oh, the spirit ne'er dies. 
 
 Which the holly's old pastimes would keep. 
 
 (OflOBTJS.) 
 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly, 
 
 I'll sing for the close of the year ; 
 
 Its leaves, crisp and strong, prick away 
 
 melancholy, 
 
 Its berries are types of good cheer. 
 I 2 
 
124 SONGS OF DORSET. 
 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly, 
 
 I'U sing for the close of the year, 
 And though of the past, yet it still shall be jolly, 
 
 For the days that are gone should be dear ! 
 And blest will they be, if like that old holly, 
 
 We give from our provident store. 
 And bid Christmas welcome, without melancholy, 
 
 Not alone for the rich, but the poor ! 
 
 (chorus.) 
 A stave for the holly, the honest old holly, 
 
 I'll sing for the close of the year ; 
 Its leaves, crisp and strong, prick away 
 melancholy. 
 Its berries are tjrpes of good cheer. 
 
125 
 
 THE HAUNTED HARE. 
 
 There is a legend in Dorset, that an old witch in the shape 
 of a hare haunts the downs and bills at night, and plays all 
 kind's of " Meg's diversions," and '* miching malicho," and that 
 nothing will take effect against her but a silver bnllet, which 
 he must, indeed, be a '* stalwart man and true," who would 
 have courage to use, especially as it is only in the dead of the 
 night she can be seen. 
 
 Hie away, hie away ! come give me my gun, 
 
 Each barrel is charg'd with a silver ballet, 
 This night a fell deed shall be fearfully done, 
 
 Each trigger is oil'd and I'll cheerily pull it; 
 FuU many a time have I shot at that hare, 
 
 And quiver'd my flesh, whenever I've met her, 
 And just as I've shot would a blear'd eye stare. 
 
 And a hag's voice shriek to me — " Keeper ! 
 shoot better !" 
 
126 SONGS OF DORSET. 
 
 Then sallied the keeper across the wild down, 
 Whilst fitfully only the moon gleam'd by 
 snatches, 
 And reach'd he the fir-trees, the summit which 
 crown, 
 Though fast beat his heart, yet he manfully 
 watches. 
 A fox he scarce heeded, which skulking sneak'd 
 
 by, 
 
 Nor e'en could the fierce marten-cat make him 
 
 alter. 
 Nor the owl's mournful whoop, nor the night 
 
 hawk's shrill ery, 
 Could cause the bold keeper one moment to 
 
 falter. 
 
 At length o'er his bones did his flesh 'gin to 
 creep, 
 As the moon darting forth from a cloud show'd 
 THE Hake, 
 And the same haggard voice, o'er the wind 
 seem'd to sweep, 
 " Now, keeper ! shoot better ! shoot away, but 
 — beware !" 
 
SONGS OF DORSET. 127 
 
 Both barrels went off, that moment a cry. 
 And a horrible sulphurous smell rose around. 
 
 But neither the hare, nor the witch could he spy. 
 When gladly, yet firmly, he strode from the 
 groimd. 
 
 (SS'CSSSJ 
 
128 
 
 THE FAIRY RING. 
 
 From tlie old and well-known legend, which is commonly 
 supposed to be true in the West of England, that " a wish 
 formed previoua to the ceremony of dancing three times round 
 a Fairy King is likely to be fulfilled within the year." 
 
 Ob ! prythee come and dance with me, 
 
 Around the ring where fay 
 And elfish sprites in revelry, 
 
 Their nightly gambols play. 
 And there, when round the circlet thrice. 
 
 The magic dance we ply; 
 Just breathe the wishful fond device, 
 
 For which thy heart may sigh. 
 
SONGS OF DORSET. 129 
 
 (CHORUS.) 
 
 Oh ! prythee come and dance with me, 
 
 Around the ring where fay 
 And elfish sprites in rcveh-y, 
 
 Their nightly gambols play. 
 
 Then if thy wish be such an one 
 
 As virtue may express, 
 Titania and her Oberon 
 
 Thy hopes perchance may bless. 
 But if in darkness thou wouldst hide 
 
 The thing thou wouldst demand, 
 Be sure that mischief will befall 
 
 Thee from an elfin hand. 
 
 (CHOBUS.) 
 
 Oh ! prythee come and dance with me, 
 Around the ring where fay 
 
 And elfish sprites in revelry. 
 Their nightly gambols play. 
 
 For Puck, in shape of nightly hag. 
 Will break upon thy rest, 
 
130 SONGS or DORSET. 
 
 In vain, in vain, thou'dst move or wag, 
 
 Whilst he is on thy chest. 
 Or if benighted, many a mile 
 
 From home thou'st lost thy way. 
 Like Will-o'-the-wisp, he will betray, 
 
 And lead thee more astray. 
 
 (chorus.) 
 
 OL ! prythee come and dance with me 
 Around the ring where fay 
 
 And elfish sprites in revelry, 
 Their nightly gambols play. 
 
 Then when upon the down with thee, 
 
 The magic ring I dance. 
 See that thy wish a good one be. 
 
 Or mischief will bechance. 
 With laugh and beck, and merry jest, 
 
 Approach the haunted spot — 
 The sullen brow — the gloomy breast, 
 
 Titania favours not. 
 
SONGS OF DORSET. 131 
 
 (OHOBUS.) 
 
 Oh ! prythee come and dance with me, 
 
 Around the ring where fay 
 And elfish sprites in revelry, 
 
 Their nightly gambols play. 
 
132 
 
 OH! DO NOT CUT THOSE A.NCIENT 
 TREES. 
 
 Oh ! do not cut those ancient trees, 
 
 In childhood's hours we lov'd so well, 
 With ruthless hand — oh, do not seize 
 
 The axe, those time-lov'd boughs to fell. 
 Each stroke the stalwart woodman gave 
 
 Would fall so heavy on my heart ; 
 Each cut the cruel hatchet clave. 
 
 Kind sympathy would feel the smart. 
 
 Oh ! tell me not of purchas'd taste. 
 Sweet Nature spurns the rules of art. 
 
 The scene for her is little grac'd. 
 
 Whose beauties do not touch the heart. 
 
SONGS OF DORSET. 183 
 
 She loves the haunts our father's lov'd, 
 
 Each has its little history ; 
 Nor would she have one tree remov'd, 
 
 Which tells of by-gone memory. 
 
 " Those trees obstruct the view," we hear, 
 
 " And press upon the house too rude" — 
 Old friends can never be too near, 
 
 They never, never can intrude. 
 In summer's heat, their leafy screen. 
 
 Has oft reviv'd us faint and warm : 
 In winter — their tough boughs have been 
 
 A shelter 'gainst the driving storm. 
 
 There, oft the caw of rooks has rung, 
 
 'Ere in their daily flight they roam, 
 And there the robin oft has sung. 
 
 His autumn hymn of " Home sweet home.' 
 Oh ! do not cut those ancient trees, 
 
 Some dear ones gone have lov'd so Well, 
 To me when sighing in the breeze, 
 
 Of blessed memories they tell. 
 
134 
 
 THE OLD GREEN WALK. 
 
 The old green walk ! how many a thought 
 With thrilling memory is fraught ; 
 
 When we its arch'd aisles tread ! 
 Its aisles — for ah ! 'tis sacred ground. 
 The spirit seems to hear around 
 
 The voices of the dead ! 
 We hear them in the wintry blast. 
 Which brings too late — for ah ! 'tis past — 
 
 The iU we did to mind ! 
 We hear them through the old firs sigh, 
 In summer's breeze waft gently by, 
 
 And tell of all that's kind. 
 
 The old green walk ! aye, always green. 
 E'en when all other glades have been. 
 Long cloth'd in wintry hue. 
 
SONGS OF DORSET. 135 
 
 Nor can sweet spring, nor summer gay, 
 With all their soft and bright array, 
 
 The old green walk renew ! 
 And thus, when wandering there I fain 
 Would deem my childhood come again. 
 
 And led by hands so dear — 
 Or else, the visions of the day, 
 When all was love, with brightest ray. 
 
 In their first fire appear ! 
 
 And so 'twill be when we are gone ! 
 The evening sun will play upon 
 
 The shadows we have cast ! 
 And there are those as we have been, 
 Will wander thro' that walk still green, 
 
 And think upon the past ! 
 The old green walk ! oh ! may it be, 
 A type of that we hope to see, 
 
 A grove for ever green ! 
 Though old in time, yet ever new. 
 Where dear ones whom we fondly knew 
 
 Will be as they have been ! 
 
'Utuii l^nm. 
 
139 
 
 S»a£K& ^fetjs. 
 
 "MY SOUL DOTH MAGNIFY THE LORD.' 
 
 " My soul doth magnify the Lord," 
 My soul ! for what to us is given 
 
 That can, though still too scant, afford 
 Such praise to mercy's God in Heav'n ? 
 
 Shall man of wealth and glory boast 
 Of shadows proud, he dearly buys ? 
 
 Shall woman in her beauty trust 
 Vain of a flow'r that opes and dies ? 
 
 Can grandeur comfort in the tomb ? 
 
 Can riches save us from its bourn 
 
 Can youth, can beauty, change the doom, 
 
 That " dust shall unto dust return ?" 
 K 2 
 
140 SACRED PIECES. 
 
 These, by the Lord, to us are lent, 
 His servants' zeal and faith, to try ; 
 
 "We are hut stewards, and only meant 
 Till judgment come, "to occupy." 
 
 Proud man ! then use thy treasure so, 
 That thou may'st heav'nly riches share ; 
 
 Vain woman ! let thy beauty glow, 
 
 When grace illumes thine eyes in pray'r. 
 
 The founts that spring from earth below. 
 Awhile may slake the thirsty's pain ; 
 
 The founts above that boundless flow, 
 Will cause them ne'er to thirst again. 
 
 Oh ! let the " meek and humble" never 
 Deem God regardless of their cries, 
 
 Since prayer from contrite hearts is ever 
 T}ie Lord's accepted sacrifice. 
 
141 
 
 THE LORD, THE LORD, SING BLESS- 
 INGS TO THE LORD. 
 
 ADAPTED TO THE TUNE OF THE BHINE 80N0. 
 
 The Lord, the Lord, sing blessings to the Lord ; 
 
 To heaven's eternal God, loud Hallelujahs 
 sing; 
 Sweet songs of praise each bosom should afford 
 
 To God, the Son, the Spirit, and creative King. 
 
 EVn from the mouth of babes and sucklings 
 small, 
 He kindly has declar'd he will acknowledge 
 praise ; 
 In life's young morn be it ours to hear his call. 
 And calm will sink the sunset of our evening 
 days. 
 
142 SACEED PIECES. 
 
 Deluded scribes refus'd adoring hands, 
 
 When Christ midst shouts of joy to Salem's 
 temple came ; 
 
 The triune God, loud hymns of faith demands 
 In christian temples, dedicated to his name. 
 
 The Lord, the Lord, sing blessings to the Lord ; 
 
 To heaven's eternal God, loud Hallelujahs 
 sing; 
 Sweet songs of praise each bosom should afford 
 
 To God, the Son, the Spirit, and creative King. 
 
 (S^^ 
 
143 
 
 THY PRESENCE LORD! IS HALLOWED 
 HERE. 
 
 SET TO mrsia 
 
 Thy presence Lord ! is hallowed here, 
 Where thou hast said thine honour dwells, 
 When men before thy throne appear. 
 With awe each lowly bosom swells, 
 But when we know thy blessed Son 
 Will teach us how — to bless — to pray, 
 How heaVnly favour may be won, 
 Love chases servile fear away. 
 
 Thy presence may the pilgrim meet 
 " In deserts where no men abide ;" 
 And in the crowded city's street 
 From thee his works man cannot hide j 
 
144 
 
 SACRED PIECES. 
 
 Thou speak' st when ocean's waves resound, 
 Thy word can calm their fiercest din. 
 Thou speak'st when thund' rings roar around. 
 And with the still small voice within. 
 
 Ah, whither then shall coward guilt. 
 Far from thine awful presence fly ? 
 Where can the secret cell he built 
 Too dark for thine all-piercing eye ? 
 But lowly piety will love 
 That truth thy word has taught, to know 
 That thou whom angels serve above 
 Wilt mark man's homage paid below. 
 
145 
 
 LORD! LET ME KNOW MY LATTER END. 
 
 A FUNERAL HYMN. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 Lord ! let me know my latter end, 
 
 The number of my days ; 
 Lord ! let me feel I have a friend 
 
 When earthly hope decays. 
 Thou Lord from age to age hast been, 
 
 'Ere worlds beheld the day, 
 And thou wilt rule th' eternal scene 
 
 When worlds are passed away. 
 
 Oh, what is life ! a shadow past ! 
 
 A journey, not a home ! 
 One year flies quicker than the last 
 
 And nearer brings the tomb. 
 
146 SACRED PIECES. 
 
 The tomb ! that bourn where sorrows sleep 
 
 Where trouble sinks to rest, 
 But which cannot the Spirit keep 
 
 Escaping to the blest. 
 
 Though earth this mortal part must hide ; 
 
 The soul knows no decay ; 
 But will with body glorified 
 
 The last dread trump obey. 
 For them then, calm the anguish'd sigh, 
 
 Who in the Lord have past ; 
 But live their life, that thou may'st die 
 
 Like them in peace at last. 
 
147 
 
 THEY ALL WITH ONE CONSENT BEGAN. 
 
 FOR THE SACRAMENT. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 " They all with one consent began 
 To make excuse," and ev'ry man 
 
 Kesolv'd to keep away ; 
 And now when on the sacred board 
 Is spread the supper of the Lord, 
 
 How few there are that stay. 
 
 '* Come unto me" Christ kindly said 
 " And I will give to you the bread 
 
 Which does true health afford ; 
 And ye shall drink the living wine." 
 Then why — oh why should men decline 
 
 Communion with their Lord ? 
 
148 SACRED PIECES. 
 
 Oh ! have they never read, that they 
 Who Christ confess helow, one day 
 
 Will be confess'd on high ? 
 Whilst those who do deny their Lord 
 On earth, and just is the award 
 
 He wUI in Heav'n deny. 
 
 Ho ! all that thirst — come to the well 
 In which salvation's waters swell. 
 
 By Jesus freely giv'n ; 
 Eat of that bread which makes us one 
 With Christ — a union here begun 
 
 And made complete in Heav'n. 
 
149 
 
 AND WHY FOR RAIMENT TAKE YE 
 THOUGHT ? 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 " And why for raiment take ye thought ? 
 All that your art, or wealth e'er bought 
 
 To nature's charms must yield : 
 Be ye array'd with all your care 
 Ye are not even half so fair 
 
 As lilies of the field. 
 
 Ev'n Solomon upon his throne 
 In all his glory could not own 
 
 A beauty like the flowers. 
 They owe to God their form, their grace, 
 And we like them have little space 
 
 To boast of what is ours. 
 
150 SACRED PIECES. 
 
 They blow to-day — to-morrow ev'n 
 They fade as though they ne'er had been, 
 
 So is the body frail. 
 To ornament your souls prepare 
 With works of faith and earnest pray'r 
 
 For they will never fail. 
 
 Then take no over anxious thought 
 For things which may be duly sought, 
 
 Buc strive for Heav'nly food ; 
 And all you really want below 
 The God of Heaven wiU bestow 
 
 For your eterntd good. 
 
151 
 
 " WHO IS THY NEIGHBOUR ?'' 
 
 SET TO MUSIC. 
 
 " Who is thy neighbour ?" dost thou ask ? 
 The Gospel will declare the task. 
 
 For others thou must do ; 
 Not only those, whom kindred ties, 
 Or friendship make ye firm allies. 
 
 Demand respect from you. 
 
 If naked at thy guarded door, 
 
 A stranger knocks, and from thy store 
 
 One morsel dares to pray. 
 Canst thou behold thy plenteous board, 
 And beg the blessings of the Lord, 
 
 And send him faint away ? 
 
152 SACKED PIECES. 
 
 Whoever, if they have no more 
 For Christ, give water to the poor, 
 
 They shall not lose reward : 
 Then like the good Samaritan, 
 To those who need, give all you can. 
 
 Because 'twill please the Lord. 
 
 «3S5&5S5 
 
153 
 
 THE WIDOW'S SON. 
 
 The mournful train winds slowly forth, 
 Another tribute claims the earth. 
 
 It is the widow's son ; 
 No other hope for her remain' d, 
 
 Burst was the link below that chain'd, 
 
 She'd lost her only one ! 
 
 Ah ! sad bereavement ! none who view'd 
 That scene, but pity's drops bedew'd 
 
 Their cheeks — they could no more ; 
 But there was one, who whilst He shed 
 A tear — could also raise the dead— 
 
 The fleeting soul restore. 
 
 " Young man," He cried, " I say arise !" 
 He that was dead upraised his eyes. 
 His mother's heart to bless : 
 
134 SACEED PIECES. 
 
 And Christ though now He reigns above, 
 Still hears the widow's pray'r with love, 
 Still soothes the fatherless. 
 
 He does not check th' unbidden tear, 
 He deigns the mourner's sob to hear 
 
 But thus he calms the pain, 
 They are not dead but take their rest 
 Who fall asleep amongst the blest. 
 
 And ye shall meet again. 
 
155 
 
 "FEED, FEED MY LAMBS." 
 
 " Feed, feed my lambs" — was the behest 
 Of Him, Who was the Shepherd blest 
 
 O'er the first Christian fold, 
 This was His charge — His last command, 
 'Ere to a delegated hand, 
 
 He gave the stafi' to hold. 
 
 " Feed, feed my lambs" is yet the wiU 
 Of Him who is chief Shepherd stiU, 
 
 And bids each Pastor win 
 Home to the flock whene'er his eye 
 A truant wandering— shall descry 
 
 In wilderness of sin. 
 
 " Feed, feed my lambs," let them be led 
 By firm, yet gentle hand — to tread 
 The path Christ trod before ; 
 
156 SACRED^PIECES. 
 
 Then shall the sheep green pastures find, 
 And though at first to err inclin'd 
 Shall never wander more. 
 
 " Feed, feed my lambs" — ^for ever dear ! 
 When the Chief Shepherd shall appear, 
 
 Not vain will be your care. 
 Then all by water cleans' d — by bread 
 Which Christ has given, nourished, 
 
 Eternal life shall share. 
 
157 
 
 "MY HOUSE IS CALL'D THE HOUSE 
 OF PRAYER." 
 
 " My house is call'd the house of pray'r," 
 
 The blessed Jesus cried, 
 " But ye have made my house a lair, 
 
 Where thieves may safely hide." 
 
 They bought and sold while others pray'd, 
 Perchance they lov'd to scoff; 
 
 In holy anger Jesus made 
 A scourge to drive them off. 
 
 So must we chase each sordid thought 
 
 Of earthly loss or gain. 
 When to the temple we resort. 
 
 Unless we'd pray in vain. 
 
158 SACRED PIECES. 
 
 To bend the knee before His throne, 
 Small honour does impart 
 
 To God, Who will regard alone 
 The worship of the heart. 
 
159 
 
 HYMN ON LEAVING CHURCH. 
 
 Lord ! let not what we now have heard 
 Be banish'd from the heart ! 
 
 Nor let us scorn Thy Holy Word 
 When we from hence depart. 
 
 Let not Thy truths in empty sound 
 
 For us be idly told, 
 But like good seed on goodly ground 
 
 Bear fruit an hundred fold.