Class. 
 
 Book— 
 
 -' 2-. 
 
 SMITHSONIAN DE 
 
 JPOSFT. 
 
/ 
 
 4*77 
 7?x 
 
 THE BIRTH-DAY; 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTVNE AND CO., FAUL'S WORK. 
 
T H K 
 
 BIRTH-DAY; 
 
 * 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 IN THREE PARTS: 
 
 TO WHICH AKE ADDED, 
 
 OCCASIONAL VERSES. 
 
 CAROLINE BOWLES, ^e^^d- 
 
 AUTHOR OF ELLEN FITZARTHUR, THE WIDOW S TALE, 
 
 SOLITARY HOURS, CHAPTERS ON CHURCHYARDS, 
 
 TALES OF THE FACTORY, ETC. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH; 
 
 AND THOMAS CADELL, LONDON. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVI. 
 
 v-o-m^v *2L * 
 
>v 
 
 «%*& 
 
 Gift. 
 
 W. L. Shoemaker 
 7 S f 06 
 
MEMORY OF THE DEAD 
 I CONSECRATE 
 
 THESE 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS; 
 
 TO THE 
 
 INDULGENCE OF THE LIVING 
 I COMMEND THEM. 
 
 C. B. 
 
 Buck land, 24th May, 1836. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Birth-Day. 
 
 Part the First, 
 
 Part the Second, . * . 
 
 Part the Third, 
 
 Notes to Part the Third, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 49 
 107 
 171 
 
 Occasional Verses. 
 The Churchyard, 
 The Death of the Flowers, 
 The Spell of Music, 
 To Death, .... 
 When shall we meet again ? 
 To the Memory of Isabel Southey, 
 " Aura Veni," 
 
 The Dying Mother to her Infant, 
 To the Sweet-scented Cyclamen, 
 The Treaty, 
 The Last Journey, 
 Once upon a Time, 
 Little Leonard's " Good-night,'* 
 Departure, .... 
 " How Swift is a Glance of the Mind ! 
 The Pauper's Death bed, 
 
 175 
 
 178 
 180 
 182 
 184 
 187 
 190 
 193 
 19£ 
 205 
 208 
 213 
 218 
 221 
 224 
 227 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To My Old Canary, .... 
 
 229 
 
 To Little Mary, 
 
 238 
 
 The Hedgehog, ..... 
 
 242 
 
 To My Little Cousin, with her first bonnet, 
 
 247 
 
 On the Removal of some Family Portraits, 
 
 251 
 
 Our Old House Clock, 
 
 257 
 
 The Child's Unbelief, .... 
 
 272 
 
 The Legend of Santarem, 
 
 276 
 
 The River, ...... 
 
 284 
 
 To the Lady-bird, .... 
 
 286 
 
THE BIRTHDAY. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Sixth of December. — The Family Circle. — The Old Nurse. 
 — The First Sorrow. — Education — Drawing, — The Landscape. 
 — Parental Hopes. — Cutting Out. — Dolls. — Needlework. — 
 Fairy Sports. — The First Writing Lesson. — Solitary Childhood. 
 — The Garden. — Spring. 
 
PART THE FIRST. 
 
 Dark gloomy day of Winter's darkest month ! 
 
 Scarce through the lowering sky your dawning light 
 
 In one pale wat'ry streak breaks feebly forth. 
 
 No sunbeam through that congregated mass 
 
 Of heavy rolling clouds will pierce to-day. 
 
 Beams of the cheering Sun I I court ye not : — 
 
 Best with the sadden'd temper of my soul 
 
 Accords the pensive stillness Nature wears ; 
 
 For Mem'ry, with a serious reckoning, now 
 
 Is busy with the past — with other years, 
 
 When the return of this, my natal day, 
 
 Brought gladness to warm hearts that loved me well. 
 
4 THE SIXTH OF DECEMBER. 
 
 As way-worn Pilgrim on the last hill top 
 Lingers awhile, and, leaning on his staff, 
 Looks back upon the pleasant plain o'erpast, 
 Retracing far with retrospective eye 
 The course of every little glancing stream, 
 And winding valley path, late hurried o'er 
 Perchance, with careless unobservant eye, 
 Fix'd on some distant point, of fairer promise — 
 As with long pause the highest summit gained, 
 (Dividing, like the Tyrolean ridge, 
 Summer from Winter) that wayfaring Man 
 Leans on his staff, and looks a long farewell 
 To all the lovely land : So linger I 
 (Life's lonely Pilgrim !) on the last hilUop, 
 With thoughtful, tender, retrospective gaze, 
 
 Ere turning, down the deep descent I go, 
 
 Of the cold shadowy side. 
 
 Fair sunbright scene ! — 
 
 (Not sunny all— ah ! no)— I love to dwell, 
 
 Seeking repose and rest, on that green track, 
 
THE SIXTH OF DECEMBER. a 
 
 Your farthest verge, along* whose primrose path 
 Danced happy Childhood, hand in hand with Joy, 
 And dove-eyed Innocence, — (unwaken'd yet 
 Their younger sister Hope) — while flowers sprang up 
 Printing the fairy footsteps as they pass'd. 
 Return, ye golden hours ! old times ! return : 
 Even ye, ye simple pleasures, I invoke, 
 With rose hues tinting life's delightful dawn ! 
 Yes — I invoke ye, dear departed days ! 
 I call ye from the land of shadows back 
 (Mellow'd by softening Time, but not obscured;) 
 Distinct in twilight beauty, such as steals 
 (Like grey robed Vestal in some pageant's train) 
 With slow advance on sunset's crimson wake. 
 
 Come in your mellow'd hues, long vanish'd years ! 
 Come in your soften'd outline, passing slow 
 O'er the charm'd mirror, as I gaze entranced- — 
 There first I see, when struggling into life, 
 Dawn'd the first ray of infant consciousness ; 
 
6 THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 There first I see, a tender, watchful group, 
 Hailing delightfully that token faint. 
 Two Parents then (inestimable wealth !) 
 Two Parents me, their onlj darling, bless'd : 
 And one — the good, the gentle, the beloved ! — 
 My Mother's Mother. Still methinks I see 
 Her gracious countenance : The unruffled brow, 
 The soft blue eye, the still carnation'd cheek 
 Unwrinkled yet, though sixty passing years 
 Of light and shade — (Ah ! deeply shaded some)— 
 Had streak'd with silvery grey her tresses fair. 
 Even now methinks that placid smile I see, 
 That kindly beam'd on all, — but chief on me, 
 Her age's darling ! Nor of hers alone : 
 One yet surviving in a green old age, 
 Her Mother lived ; and when I saw the light, 
 Rejoicing hail'd her daughter's daughter's child. 
 
 Nor from that kindred, patriarchal group 
 Be thou excluded, long tried, humble friend ! 
 
THE OLD NURSE. 
 
 Old faithful Servant ! Sole survivor now 
 Of those beloved, for whom thine aged hands 
 The last sad service tremblingly perform'd, 
 That closed their eyes, and for the long, long sleep, 
 Array 'd them in the vestments of the grave. 
 Yes — thou survivest still to tend and watch 
 Me, the sad orphan of thy Master's house ! 
 My cradle hast thou rock'd ; with patient love 
 (Love all enduring, all indulgent) borne 
 My childhood's wayward fancies, that from thee 
 Never rebuke or frown encounter'd cold. 
 ****** 
 Come nearer.- — Let me rest my cheek even now 
 On thy dear shoulder, printed with a mark 
 Indelible, of suffering borne for me : 
 Fruit of contagious contact long endured, 
 When on that pillow lay my infant head 
 For days and nights, a helpless dying weight, 
 So thought by all ; as almost all but thee 
 Shrank from the little victim of a scourge 
 
THE OLD NURSE. 
 
 Yet uncontroll'd by Jenner's heaven taught hand. 
 And with my growth has grown the debt of love ; 
 For many a day beside my restless bed, 
 In later years, thy station hast thou kept, 
 Watching my slumbers ; or with fondest wiles 
 Soothing the fretful, fev'rish hour of pain : 
 And when at last, with languid frame I rose, 
 Feeble as infancy, what hand like thine, 
 With such a skilful gentleness, perform'd 
 The handmaid's office ? — tenderly, as when 
 A helpless babe, thou oft had'st robed me thus. 
 Oh ! the vast debt. — Yet to my grateful heart 
 Not burdensome, not irksome to repay : 
 For small requital dost thou claim, dear Nurse ! 
 Only to know thy fondly lavish'd cares 
 Have sometimes power to cheer and comfort me : 
 Then in thy face reflected, beams the light, 
 The unwonted gladness, that irradiates mine. 
 Long mayst thou sit as now, invited oft, 
 Beside my winter fire, with busy hands 
 
THE OLD NURSE. 
 
 And polished needles, knitting the warm wool ; 
 Or resting" with meek reverence from thy work, 
 When from that Book, that blessed Book ! I read 
 The words of Truth and Life, — thy hope and mine, 
 
 There shalt thou oft (Time's faithful chronicler !) 
 
 Tell o'er to my unwearied ear old tales 
 
 Of days and things that were — and are no more. 
 
 Yes — thou shalt tell, with what a noble air, 
 
 On wedding, or on christ'ning festival, 
 
 The portly form of my Granduncle moved ; 
 
 In what fair waving folds, the snowy lawn, 
 
 Border'd w r ith costly point, redundant flow'd, 
 
 Beneath his goodly amplitude of chin ; 
 
 And how magnificent in rich brocade, 
 
 And broider'd rose-buds, and rough woven gold, 
 
 Half down his thigh the long flapp'd waistcoat fell. 
 
 A comely raiment ! that might put to shame 
 
 The shrunken garb of these degenerate days. 
 
 Then shall I hear enumeration proud 
 
10 THE OLD NURSE. 
 
 Of female glories : silks that " stood on end !" 
 Tabbies and damasks, and rich Paduasoys, 
 And flowing- sacks, and full trimm'd negligees, 
 And petticoats whose gorgeous panoply 
 (Stiffen'd with whalebone ribs the circuit vast) 
 With independent grandeur stood sublime. 
 
 Describe again, while I attend well pleased, 
 
 That ancient manor of my Norman race, 
 
 In all its feudal greatness : In thy time, 
 
 Of simple girlhood, to thy wondering mind, 
 
 Still most magnificent ; nor yet forsaken 
 
 By the " old family." The ancient gateway 
 
 Surmounted by heraldic sculpture proud ; 
 
 The round tower dovecote with its thousand holes 
 
 (Seignorial right, with jealous care maintain'd), 
 
 And my Great Grandam with her stately presence 
 
 (I mind it well) among her Maidens throned 
 
 At the eternal tapestry. I smile ; — 
 
 But more, good sooth ! in sadness than in mirth. 
 
THE FIRST SORROW. 11 
 
 I've seen the ancient gateway where it stands 
 
 An isolated arch. The noble trees 
 
 (A triple avenue), its proud approach, 
 
 Gone as they ne'er had been ; the dovecote tower 
 
 A desecrated ruin ; the old house 
 
 Dear Nurse ! full fain am I to weep with thee 
 The faded glories of " the good old time." 
 
 Return digressive Fancy ! Maiden mild 
 Of the dark dreamy eye, pale Memory I 
 Uphold again the glass, reflecting late 
 My happy self in happy childhood's dawn, 
 By that dear guardian group encircled close. 
 
 Already changed ! — Already clouded o'er 
 
 With the Death shadow that fair morning sky — 
 
 The kindred band is broken. One goes hence, 
 
 The very aged. Follows soon, too soon, 
 
 Another most endeared, the next in age. 
 
 Then fell from childhood's eyes the earliest tears 
 
12 THE FIRST SORROW. 
 
 Shed for Man's penal doom. Unconscious half, 
 Incomprehensive of the awful truth ; 
 But flowing- faster, when I look'd around 
 And saw that others wept ; and faster still, 
 When clinging round my Nurse's neck, with face 
 Half buried there, to hide the bursting grief, 
 I heard her tell how in the churchyard cold, 
 In the dark pit, the form I loved was laid. 
 
 Bitter exceedingly the passionate grief 
 That wrings to agony the infant heart ; 
 The first sharp sorrow : — Ay — the breaking up 
 Of that deep fountain, never to be sealed, 
 Till we with Time close up the great account. 
 But that first outbreak, by its own excess 
 Exhausted soon ; exhausting the young powers : 
 The quiv'ring lip relaxes into smiles, 
 As soothing slumber, softly stealing on ; 
 Less and less frequent comes the swelling sob, 
 Till like a summer breeze it dies away ; 
 
EDUCATION. 13 
 
 While on the silken eyelash, and the cheek 
 
 Flush'd into crimson, hang the large round drops — 
 
 Well I remember, from that storm of grief 
 
 Diverted soon, with what sensations new 
 
 Of female vanity — (inherent sin !) 
 
 I saw myself array 'd in mourning frock, 
 
 And long crape sash Oh ! many a riper grief 
 
 Forgets itself as soon, before a glass 
 Reflecting the becomingness of weeds. 
 
 Soon came the days when fond parental care 
 
 'Gan mingle easy tasks with childish play. 
 
 Right welcome lessons ! conn'd with willing mind ; 
 
 For it was told me, by such labour won, 
 
 And exercise of patience, I should gain 
 
 Access to countless treasures hid in books. 
 
 " What ! shall I read myself, and when I will, 
 
 All those fine stories Jane can tell sometimes 
 
 When she's good natured ? — but not half so well — 
 
 — Oh ! no — not half, as Cousin Marianne. 
 
14 EDUCATION. 
 
 What ! shall I read about the sea of glass 
 The lady walk'd on to the ivory hill ? 
 And all about those children at the well 
 That met the fairy, and the toads, and frogs, 
 And diamonds ; and about the talking bird, 
 And dancing water, and the singing bough, 
 And Princess Fairstar ? Shall I read all that, 
 And more, and when I willy in printed books ? 
 Oh ! let me learn."— And never student's brain 
 Fagging for college prize, or straining hard 
 (In prospect of tremendous little go) 
 To fetch up Time's leeway in idlesse lost, 
 Applied with such intensity as mine. 
 
 And soon attained, and sweet the fruit I reap'd. 
 Oh ! never ending, ever new delight ! 
 Stream swelling still to meet the eager lip ! 
 Receiving as it flows fresh gushing rills 
 From hidden sources, purer, more profound. 
 
EDUCATION, 15 
 
 Parents ! dear Parents ! if the latent powers 
 
 Call'd into action by your early cares 
 
 (God's blessing on them !) had attained no more 
 
 Than that acquaintance with His written will, 
 
 Your first most pious purpose to instil, 
 
 How could I e'er acquit me of a debt 
 
 Might bankrupt Gratitude ? If scant my stores 
 
 Of human learning ; — to my mother-tongues 
 
 (A twofold heritage) wellnigh confined 
 
 My skill in languages ; — if adverse Fate — 
 
 (Heathenish phrase !) — if Providence has fixed 
 
 Barriers impassable 'cross many a path 
 
 Anticipation with her Hope-wing'd feet, 
 
 Youthfully buoyant, all undoubting trod ; — ' 
 
 If in the mind's infirmity, erewhile, 
 
 Thoughts that are almost murmurs whisper low 
 
 Stinging comparisons, suggestions sad, 
 
 Of what I am, and what I might have been — 
 
 This Earth, so wide and glorious ! I fast bound 
 
 (A human lichen !) to one narrow spot — 
 
16 POETIC ASPIRATIONS. 
 
 A sickly, worthless weed! Such bra\e bright spirits, 
 
 Starring this nether sphere, and I— lone wretch ! 
 
 Cut off from oral intercourse with all — 
 
 " The day far spent," and oh ! how little known ;— 
 
 The night at hand— alas ! and nothing done ;— 
 
 And neither " word, nor knowledge, nor device, 
 
 Nor wisdom, in the grave whereto I go." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 When thoughts like these arise ; permitted tests 
 
 Proving my frailty— and thy mercy, Lord ! 
 
 Let but thy ministering angel draw mine eyes 
 
 To yonder Book; and lo ! this troublous world 
 
 Fades from before me like a morning mist ; 
 
 And in a spirit, not mine own, I cry 
 
 " Perish all knowledge, but what leads to thee!" 
 
 And, was it chance, or thy prevailing taste, 
 Beloved instructress ! that selected first 
 (Part of my daily task) a portion short, 
 
POETIC ASPIRATIONS. 17 
 
 Culled from thy " Seasons," Thomson? — Happy choice, 
 
 Howe'er directed, happy choice for me ; 
 
 For as I read, new thoughts, new images 
 
 Thrill'd through my heart, with undefined delight, 
 
 Awakening so th' incipient elements 
 
 Of tastes and sympathies, that with my life 
 
 Have grown and strengthened ; often on its course, 
 
 Yea — on its darkest moments, shedding soft 
 
 That rich, warm glow they only can impart ; 
 
 A sensibility to Nature's charms 
 
 That seems its living spirit to infuse 
 
 (A breathing soul) in things inanimate ; 
 
 To hold communion with the stirring air, 
 
 The breath of flowers, the ever shifting clouds, 
 
 The rustling leaves, the music of the stream, 
 
 To people Solitude with airy shapes, 
 
 And the dark hour, when Night and Silence reign s s 
 
 With immaterial forms of other worlds : 
 
 But best and noblest privilege ! to feel 
 
 B 
 
18 DRAWING. 
 
 Pervading Nature's all-harmonious whole, 
 The Great Creator's presence, in his works. 
 
 Those happy evenings ! when on seat high raised 
 
 By pond'rous folio, placed on cushioned chair 
 
 Close to the table drawn ; with candles snuffed. 
 
 And outspread paper, and long pencil, shaved 
 
 To finest point (to my unpractised hand 
 
 Not trusted yet the sharply dangerous knife, 
 
 Like all forbidden things most coveted) ; 
 
 —Oh, blessful hour ! when thus installed on high 
 
 In fulness of enjoyment, shapes uncouth, 
 
 Chaotic groups I traced.— The first attempt 
 
 Two crooked strokes, that nodding inward, prop 
 
 A fellow pair— a transverse parallel. 
 
 The House thus roofed; behold from either end 
 
 Tall chimneys twain sprout up like asses' ears, 
 
 From which, as from a fiery forge beneath 
 
 Ascend huge volumed smoke-wreaths to the sky. 
 
 Next, in the stately front, strokes— one— two— three ; 
 
THE LANDSCAPE. 19 
 
 There gaps the door, as wide as half the house, 
 And thick on either hand, come cross-barred squares 
 'Hight windows, that for number would tire out 
 The patience of that keenly prying wight 
 The tax collector : while from one, be sure, 
 Looks out some favourite form of absent friend, 
 Whose house that goodly fabric represents. 
 Close on each side, two poles surmounted high 
 By full round wigs, assume the name of trees ; 
 And up the road (that widens farthest oif, 
 In brave contempt of stiff perspective rule) 
 Comes coach and six, containing — who but me 
 And all my friends, to visit that fine house ! 
 Then follows man and horse — a gallant steed ! 
 With legs, and mane, and tail, and all complete ; 
 The rider so secure upon his back, 
 He need but stretch his legs, and touch the ground — 
 Thick flies the dust ! — out flies the brandished whip ! 
 On, on they go — and if they reach the house, 
 That horseman tall may take it on his palm, 
 
20 PARENTAL HOPES. 
 
 As erst Glumdalclitch handled Gulliver — 
 
 And now a five-barred gate, and sundry pales, 
 
 And up aloft a flight of birds, so huge 
 
 They must be cranes at least, migrating hence : 
 
 Some cocks and hens before the door convened- 
 
 A dog and cat, and pig with curly tail, 
 
 And lo ! the Landscape in all parts complete, 
 
 And never artist of the olden time, 
 Renowned Lorraine, or wonder-working Cuyp ? 
 Or he, the mighty genius of the storm, 
 Sublime Salvator, on his masterpiece 
 Such looks of sweet complacency bestowed 
 As I on mine. And other eyes beheld, 
 As pleased, as partial ; and parental hearts 
 From the bewildered and incongruous maze 
 Sweet inference drew of future excellence ; 
 Saw combination in the motley whole, 
 Conceptions picturesque in crooked strokes, 
 And taste and genius manifest throughout. 
 
PARENTAL HOPES. 21 
 
 Discernment keen ! that with excursive eye 
 Pierces the dark dropped curtain (wisely dropped ! ) 
 That shrouds futurity. As he of old, 
 The fated Goth, in that Toledan cave 
 Saw shadowed out, " as in a glass revealed," 
 Things uncreated yet, that were to be — 
 But he beheld the downfall of his hopes ; 
 His line extinct, his empire overthrown. 
 Appalling vision ! type of woes foredoomed — 
 Far fairer that, less faithfully fulfilled, 
 The pageant that in long perspective view 
 Reveals (undoubted) to a parent's eye 
 The future glories of his infant race — 
 He, while the fairy people round his chair 
 Holds its gay revel, from the mimic sport 
 Auspicious omen draws, and sage portent. 
 
 That fair, bold boy, with high undaunted brow, 
 And broad white chest and shoulders, who bestrides 
 His father's cane — a gallant war-horse feigned, 
 
22 PARENTAL HOPES. 
 
 Himself the warlike rider ; and with shout, 
 
 And brandished arm, and voice of proud command, 
 
 Marshals his legions ; chairs and cushions ranged 
 
 In rank and rile : and prances round the room 
 
 The valiant leader of that well-trained host ;— 
 
 Is not the future hero manifest, 
 
 The laurelled victor, in that noble boy ? 
 
 And he, with curly pate, and bright black eyes, 
 
 And dimpled mouth, of arch significance ; 
 
 He ever ready with his "quips and cranks," 
 
 And shifts, and windings, and keen subterfuge, 
 
 Detected misdemeanour to excuse, 
 
 Averting dextrous the suspended rod — 
 
 Already fancy hears that prating tongue, 
 
 Subtle, ingenious, disputatious, bold ! 
 
 The organ of a future barrister ; 
 
 Or round that chubby face, with prouder hope, 
 
 Adjusts an awful majesty of wig. 
 
 Lo ! on that cushion, where he sits sublime, 
 
 (His woolsack now) the future Chancellor— 
 
PARENTAL HOPES. 23 
 
 That gentle child, with pale transparent cheek, 
 
 And large mild eyes, by silken fringes veiled 
 
 (Clouds darkly shading their celestial blue), 
 
 That melt in dewy sadness, if he hears 
 
 Some moving tale ; how " once two hapless babes 
 
 Were left alone to perish in a wood, 
 
 And there in one another's arms they died, 
 
 And Robin Redbreast covered them with leaves" — 
 
 That gentle child must be a man of peace — 
 
 He cannot brave the buffets of the world. 
 
 And yet — with all his meekness — who can tell ? — 
 
 The boy may live to be a bishop yet. 
 
 And little Annie — what will Annie be ? 
 
 The fair-haired prattler ! she, with matron airs, 
 
 Who gravely lectures her rebellious doll — 
 
 " Annie will be papa's own darling child, 
 
 Dear papa's blessing." Ah ! she tells thee truth : 
 
 The pretty mockbird with his borrowed notes, 
 
 Tells thee sweet truth. Already, is she not 
 
 Thy darling child ? Thy blessing she will prove — 
 
24 PARENTAL HOPES. 
 
 The duteous prop of thy declining- years. 
 Thy sons will rove, as various fortune leads, 
 Haply successful in their several paths, 
 And, like thyself, in course of years, become 
 The careful fathers of a hopeful race ; 
 Then will ambitious thoughts, and worldly cares 
 Engross their hearts, and haply steal from thee 
 A portion of thy former influence then — 
 But she will never change. That tender heart, 
 Though wedded love, and infant claimants dear, 
 May waken there new interests — new and sweet ; 
 Thine in that loving heart will ne'er decrease — 
 'Tis rich in kind affections, and can give, 
 Ay, largely give, without despoiling thee — 
 Thou wilt partake her ever watchful cares — 
 Her husband, for her sake, will cherish thee ; 
 Her children will be taught to honour thee ; 
 And while they fondly swarm about thy chair, 
 Or climb thy knees, th' endearing witchery 
 Will half renew again her infant days— 
 
CUTTING OUT. 25 
 
 It is not love that steals the heart from love ; 
 'Tis the hard world, and its perplexing cares ; 
 Its petrifying selfishness, its pride, 
 Its low ambition, and its paltry aims. 
 
 Those happy evenings ! ay, 'twas there I left — 
 
 The landscape finished, young invention sought 
 
 (Not often baffled) springs of fresh delight, 
 
 And found them frequent, Goldsmith, in thy work 
 
 " Of Animated Nature " — precious book ! 
 
 Illustrated with pictures, that to me 
 
 Rivalled at least the subjects they adorned — 
 
 Then with sharp scissors armed (a jealous loan 
 
 With many a solemn charge conceded slow), 
 
 And fair unwrinkled paper, soon began 
 
 The imitative labour : and anon 
 
 Wide o'er the table ranged a motley herd, 
 
 A heterogeneous multitude, before 
 
 Never assembled thus, since that old time 
 
 When Noah to the finished ark called in 
 
26 CUTTING OUT. 
 
 Of every species the allotted pair. 
 
 There first the unwieldy elephant advanced, 
 
 Majestic beast ! on whose stupendous bulk 
 
 Rajah or Sultan might have sat sublime; 
 
 Next in the line of march (ill-mated pair !) 
 
 With branching antlers, and slight fiexile limbs, 
 
 Comes on the graceful dweller of the north ; 
 
 He whose winged swiftness, like an arrow's flight, 
 
 Wafts the rude sledge, that bears o'er Lapland snows 
 
 The stinted native of those cheerless plains. 
 
 The Arab's faithful servant follows next, 
 
 The patient camel, useful to the last — 
 
 Who, when he sinks upon the burning sand 
 
 Beneath his burthen, slakes his master's thirst 
 
 (Slain for its sake) with the long-hoarded draught. 
 
 Then came the warrior bison, strong ally 
 
 Of his rude lord, grim guardian of his herds, 
 
 And sharer of his cabin comforts few. 
 
 Thus had I learnt of each brief history 
 
CUTTING OUT. 
 
 From those illumined pages, to relate 
 
 (Too oft I fear to undelighted ears), 
 
 When with triumphant pleasure I displayed 
 
 The wonders of that paper menagerie — 
 
 But not as then, will I enumerate now, 
 
 From the grim lion to the timorous hare, 
 
 Each by his several title, name, and style— 
 
 Or notice, but with glancing mention brief, 
 
 Those higher aims of art, creating shapes 
 
 (Not likenesses of aught in Heaven or earth) ? 
 
 That with self-gratulating pride I called 
 
 Orlando and Rogero — names renowned ! 
 
 And Bradamant, and fair Angelica — 
 
 For I had read with eager interest, 
 
 Half comprehending, that romantic tale. 
 
 And thine immortal Epic, sightless Bard ! 
 
 In Pope's smooth verse revealed to ears unlearned? 
 
 Supplied a subject, that recalled, e'en now 
 
 Provokes me to a smile ; so strange the choice ; 
 
28 CUTTING OUT. 
 
 That novel illustration so uncouth. 
 
 'Twas when forth issuing from the Cyclop's cave 
 
 The wily Ithacan Ulysses came, 
 
 Locked in the shaggy fleeces of the ram, 
 
 Behind his Centaur flock. Incongruous pairs ! 
 
 Biped and quadruped together linked. 
 
 Ulysses never bound his trembling crew 
 
 More carefully beneath the guardian's fleece 
 
 Than I secured their paper effigies 
 
 To sheep, for height and bulk (proportions huge ! ) 
 
 Worthy, indeed, to be a giant's flock. 
 
 How vivid still, how deep the hues, th' imprint 
 Left by those childish pastimes ! Later joys, 
 Less puerile? more exciting have I known 
 (Ah! purer none; from earth's alloy so free), 
 But Memory hoards no picture so distinct, 
 In freshness as of yesterday, as those 
 Life's first impressions, exquisite and strong — 
 
DOLLS, 29 
 
 Their stamp, compared to that of later days, 
 Like a proof print from the engraver's plate 
 The first struck off — most forcibly imprest. 
 Lo ! what a train like Bluebeard's wives appear, 
 So many headless ! half dismembered some, 
 With battered faces — eyeless — noseless — grim 
 With cracked enamel, and unsightly scars — 
 Some with bald pates, or hempen wigs unfrizzed, 
 And ghastly stumps, like Greenwich pensioners ; 
 Others mere Torsos — arms, legs, heads, all gone ! 
 But precious all. And chief that veteran doll, 
 She, from whose venerable face is worn 
 All prominence of feature ; shining brown 
 (Like chestnut from its prickly coating freed) 
 W T ith equal polish as the wigless skull — 
 Well I remember, with what bribery won 
 Of a fair rival — one of waxen mould 
 (Long coveted possession!) I was brought 
 The mulilated fav'rite to resign. 
 The blue-eyed fair one came — perfection's self! 
 
30 NEEDLE-WORKc 
 
 With eager joy I clasped her waxen charms ; 
 
 But then — the stipulated sacrifice ! 
 
 " And must we part ? " my piteous looks expressed — 
 
 (Mute eloquence !) " And must we part, dear 
 
 Stump!" 
 " Oh ! might I keep ye both ! " — and both I kept. 
 
 Unwelcome hour I ween, that tied me down 
 
 Restless, reluctant, to the sempstress' task ! 
 
 Sight horrible to me, th' allotted seam 
 
 Of stubborn irish, or more hateful length 
 
 Of handkerchief, with folded edge tacked down, 
 
 All to be hemmed ; ay, selvidge sides and all. 
 
 And so they were in tedious course of time, 
 
 With stitches long and short, " cat's teeth " y'clept ; 
 
 Or jumbled thick and thin, oblique, transverse, 
 
 At last, in sable line imprinted grim. 
 
 But less distasteful was the sampler's task ; 
 
 There green and scarlet vied ; and fancy claimed 
 
 Her privilege to crowd the canvass field 
 
NEEDLE-WORK. 31 
 
 With hearts and zigzags, strawberries and leaves, 
 And many a quaint device ; some moral verse, 
 Or Scripture text, enwrought ; and, last of all, 
 Last, though not least, the self-pleased artist's name. 
 
 And yet, with more alacrity of will, 
 
 I fashioned various raiment ; caps, cloaks, gowns ; 
 
 Gay garments for the family of dolls ; 
 
 No matter how they fitted — they were made ; 
 
 Ay, and applauded, and rewarded too 
 
 With silver thimble. Precious gift ! bestowed 
 
 By a kind aunt ; one ever kind and good, 
 
 Mine early benefactress ! Since approved 
 
 By time and trial mine unchanging friend ; 
 
 Yet most endeared by the affecting bond 
 
 Of mutual sorrows, mutual sympathies. 
 
 Yet was that implement (the first possessed), 
 Proudly possessed indeed, but seldom worn. 
 Easier to me, and pleasanter, to poke, 
 
32 FAIRY SPORTS. 
 
 As one should poke a skewer, the needle through 
 
 With thumb and finger, than in silver thrall 
 
 T" imprison the small tip, too tiny still 
 
 For smallest thimble ever made to fit. 
 
 Dear aunt ! you should have sought in wizard lore 
 
 The name of some artificer, empowered 
 
 By royal patent of the Elfin Court 
 
 To make Mab's thimble — if the sprightly Queen 
 
 Ever indeed vouchsafes in regal sport, 
 
 With needle, from the eyelash of a fly, 
 
 Plucked sharp and shining, and fine cobweb -thread, 
 
 T' embroider her light scarf of gossamer. 
 
 Not oft I doubt ; she better loves to rove 
 
 Where trembling harebells on the green hill side 
 
 Wave in their azure beauty ; or to slide 
 
 On a slant sunbeam down the fragrant tube 
 
 Of honeysuckle or sweet columbine, 
 
 And sip luxurious the ambrosial feast 
 
 Stored there for nature's alchymist, the bee, 
 
 Then satiate, and at rest, to sleep secure, 
 
FAIRY SPORTS. 33 
 
 Ev'n in that perfumed chamber, till the sun 
 
 Has ploughed with flaming- wheels the Atlantic wave, 
 
 And the dark beetle, her mailed sentinel, 
 
 Winds his shrill signal to invite her forth. 
 
 Not on her waking hour such pomp attends, 
 
 As when on Ohio's banks magnolias tall 
 
 Embalm the dews of night, and living sparks 
 
 Glance through the leaves, and star the deep serene. 
 
 But even here, in our romantic isle, 
 
 The pearl of ocean, girdled with its foam ! 
 
 Land of the rainbow ! even here she loves 
 
 The dewy freshness of the silent hour, 
 
 Whose gentle waftings have their incense too, 
 
 To scatter in her paths ; the faint perfume 
 
 Of dog-rose pale, or aromatic breath 
 
 Of purple wild thyme, clouding the green sward; 
 
 And though in air no sparkling myriads dart 
 
 Their glancing fires to light the Fairy Queen, 
 
 Earth hath her stars, a living emerald each ! 
 
34 FAIRY SPORTS. 
 
 And by the lustre of those dewy gems 
 She trips it deftly with her merry train 
 In mossy dells, around the time-scarred trunk 
 Of giant oak ; or 'neath the witch-elm's shade, 
 Beside some deep dark pool, where one bright star 
 Trembles reflected ; or in velvet meads, 
 Where, though the limpid blade of tender grass 
 Bends not beneath the " many-twinkling " feet, 
 Dark circles on the paler sward denned 
 Reveal at morning where the dance has been ; 
 Oft thickly studded with a mushroom belt, 
 The fungus growth of one short summer's night, 
 The ring so geometrically drawn, 
 As if the gnomes with scientific skill 
 (Forming the fairy sports) had mimicked there 
 The circling rampart of a Celtic camp, 
 Or with more apt similitude designed 
 The Druid's holy ring of pale grey stones. 
 There oft the milkmaid, when with shining pail 
 She seeks the glistening pasture, finds dispersed 
 
FAIRY SPORTS. 35 
 
 The relics of the banquet ; leaves and flowers, 
 
 From golden kingcups cropped, and poplars white, 
 
 The cups and trenchers of the midnight feast. 
 
 Ah, lucky lass ! when stirring w r ith the lark, 
 
 On dairy charge intent, she thither hies 
 
 And finds her task forestalled— The cool tiled floor 
 
 Flooded, fresh sluiced; stool, shelf, and slab bright 
 
 rubbed ; 
 Scalded and sweet the glazy milk -pans all ; 
 And scowered to silver sheen the ready pail ; 
 And brighter still, within its circle left, 
 The glittering sixpence — industry's reward. 
 
 Me more delighted, in the fairy's haunts 
 To sport, like them an airy gleesome sprite, 
 Than, prisoner of an hour — e'en that too long, 
 The needle's task monotonous to ply. 
 But I have lived to prize the humble art, 
 To number with the happiest of my life 
 Those quiet evenings, when with busy hands 
 
36 THE FIRST WRITING LESSON. 
 
 I plied the needle, listening as I wrought 
 (By that mechanical employ, more fixed 
 Attention apt to rove) to that dear voice 
 Which from some fav'rite author read aloud. 
 The voice is silent, and the task laid by — 
 Distasteful now, when silence, with a tongue 
 More audibly intelligent than speech, 
 For ever whispers round me, " She is gone." 
 
 A day to be remembered well was that, 
 When, by my father taught, I first essayed 
 The early rudiments of penmanship. 
 Long wished for lesson ! by prudential love 
 (Wisely considerate of my infant years) 
 Withheld, till granted slow in fair exchange 
 For some relinquished pleasure ; 'twas received 
 A twofold grant — a boon and a reward. 
 So I began — long rig'rously confined 
 To rows of sloping strokes. Not sloping all ; 
 At first in straggling piles they jostled rude, 
 
THE FIRST WRITING LESSON. 37 
 
 Like raw recruits, till into order drilled, 
 Maintaining- equal distance, on their march 
 Even and close they ranged like vet'ran troops, 
 In ranks symmetrical ; and then at last 
 My long restrained ambition was indulged 
 In higher flights ; with nicer art to shape 
 The involutions of the alphabet. 
 Unsteady and perplexed the first attempts — 
 Great A's, that with collossal strides encroached 
 On twice the space they should have occupied, 
 And I's like T's, and R's whose lower limbs 
 Beyond the upper bulged unseemly out ; 
 And sprawling W's, and V's, and Y's, 
 Gaping prodigiously, like butter-boats. 
 But soon succeeded to those shapeless scrawls 
 Fair capitals, and neat round characters, 
 Erelong in words and sentences combined : 
 At first restrained between two guiding lines ; 
 Then ranged on one — that one continued long, 
 Spite of ambitious daring, that would fain 
 
38 THE FIRST WRITING LESSON. 
 
 Have strayed, from limit and restriction free ; 
 For ardently I longed to scrawl at will 
 The teeming fancies of a busy brain ; 
 Not half content, not satisfied, albeit 
 My father, with a kind and ready pen, 
 Vouchsafed assistance to the infant muse. 
 # «■ * * # * 
 
 Smile, gentle Reader ! (if so be, in sooth, 
 Reader shall e'er these simple records scan), 
 But not in mockery of supposed conceit 
 Proud of precocious genius. I too smile 
 In sad humility, experience -taught, 
 At thought of the young daring, by fond hearts 
 Built on exultingly. Alas ! dear friends, 
 No heaven-born genius, as ye simply deemed, 
 Stirred in my childish heart the love of song ; 
 Twas feeling, finely organized perhaps 
 To keen perceptions of the beautiful, 
 The great in art or nature, sight or sound, 
 The working of a restless spirit, long 
 
SOLITARY CHILDHOOD. 39 
 
 For every pastime cast upon itself — 
 (I was an only child, and never knew 
 The social pleasures of a schoolgirl's life). 
 All these, with other circumstance combined, 
 As those first lessons from the books I named, 
 And rural occupations, tuned my soul 
 Aye (every trembling chord) to poesie. 
 Books were my playfellows, and trees and flowers, 
 And murmuring rivulets, and merry birds, 
 And painted insects, all were books to me, 
 And breathed a language, from the dawn of sense 
 Familiar to my heart : what marvel then 
 If, like an echo, wakened by the tone 
 Of Nature's music, faint response I made ? 
 And so I stood beside my father's knee, 
 Dictating, while he wrote, wild rhapsodies 
 Of " vales and hills enamelled o'er with flowers, 
 Like those of Eden, white with fleecy flocks : " 
 Of " silver streams, by spring's warm breath un- 
 • bound, 
 
40 SOLITARY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 And winter past and gone." 
 
 Most simple themes, 
 Set to a few low notes monotonous, 
 Like the first chirping* of a nestling bird, 
 Quavering uncertain I But parental hearts 
 Hailed them as heavenly music — to their ear 
 Prelusive of rich volumed harmonies. 
 Fond hopes ! illusive as the march-fire's light ; 
 Yet — not like that, in utter darkness quenched. 
 Nature in me hath still her worshipper, 
 And in my soul her mighty spirit still 
 Awakes sweet music, tones and symphonies 
 Struck by the master-hand from every chord. 
 But prodigal of feeling, she withholds 
 The glorious power to pour its fulness out ; 
 And in mid-song I falter, faint at heart 
 With consciousness that every feeble note 
 But yields to the awakening harmony 
 A weak response — a trembling echo still. 
 
 
THE GARDEN. 41 
 
 Revive, dear healthful pastimes ! active sports 
 
 Of childhood's enterprising age revive ! 
 
 Elastic aye ! untiring, unsubdued 
 
 By labour, disappointment, or fatigue. 
 
 Thy toil enjoyment ; — thy defeated hope 
 
 The spur to fresh exertion — thy fatigue 
 
 The healthful anodyne that medicines thee 
 
 To renovating slumbers light and sweet. 
 
 Full oft I pause with reminiscent eye 
 
 Upon the little spot of border-ground 
 
 Once called " my garden.'' Proud accession that 
 
 To territorial right and power supreme ! 
 
 To right possessive, the exclusive mine 
 
 So soon asserted, e'en by infant tongue. 
 
 Methinks the thick-sown parallels I see 
 
 Of thriving mustard, herb of rapid growth ! 
 
 The only one whose magical increase 
 
 Keeps pace with young impatience, that expects 
 
 Ripe pulse to-morrow from seed sown to-day. 
 
 To-morrow and to-morrow passes on. 
 
42 THE GARDEN. 
 
 And still no vestige of th' incipient plant ; 
 
 No longer to be borne, the third day's sun 
 
 Beholds the little fingers delving deep 
 
 T unearth the buried seed ; and up it comes 
 
 Just swelling into vegetable life ; 
 
 Of which assured, into the mould again 
 
 'Tis stuck, a little nearer to the top. 
 
 Such was the process horticultural 
 
 I boldly practised in my new domain : 
 
 As little chance of rest, as little chance 
 
 To live and thrive had slip or cutting there ; 
 
 Which failing in three days to sprout amain, 
 
 Was twitched impatient up, with curious eye 
 
 Examined ; and if fibrous threads appeared, 
 
 With renovated hope replanted soon. 
 
 But thriving plants were there, tho' not of price. 
 No puny children of a foreign soil, 
 But hardy natives of our own dear earth, 
 From many a field and bank, and streamlet side 
 
THE GARDEN. 43 
 
 Transplanted careful, with the adhering- mould. 
 
 The primrose, with her large indented leaves 
 
 And many blossoms pale, expanded there ; 
 
 With wild anemone, and hyacinth, 
 
 And languid cowslip, lady of the mead, 
 
 And violets mingled hues of every sort, 
 
 Blue, white, and purple. The more fragrant white 
 
 Ev'n from that very root, in many a patch 
 
 Extended wide, still scents the garden round. 
 
 Maternal love received the childish gift, 
 
 A welcome offering-, and the lowly flower 
 
 (A rustic stranger) bloomed with cultured sweets ; 
 
 And still it shares their bed, encroaching oft 
 
 (So ignorance presumes) on worthier claims. 
 
 She spared it, in the tenderness of love, 
 
 Her child's first gift ; and I, for her dear sake, 
 
 Who prized the pale intruder, spare it now. 
 
 Loved occupations ! blameless, calm delights ! 
 Your relish has not palled upon my sense ; 
 
44 THE GARDEN. 
 
 I taste ye with as keen enjoyment still 
 
 As in my childish days ; with zeal as warm, 
 
 More temperate, less impatient, still I tend 
 
 My flow'ry charge ; with interest unimpair'd 
 
 Watching the tender germ and swelling bud ; 
 
 Pruning the weak or too luxuriant shoot, 
 
 And timely propping with assiduous care 
 
 The slender stalks with heavy blossoms bowed. 
 
 1 will not tell how lately and how oft 
 
 In dreams I've wandered 'mongst the blooming tribes, 
 
 Continuing thus in sleep the pleasing task, 
 
 My summer evening's toil ; I will not tell 
 
 How lately, stealing forth on moonless night, 
 
 I've sought by lantern light the dewy buds 
 
 Of peeping larkspur, searching 'mong the leaves 
 
 For nightly spoilers, from the soft light earth 
 
 That issue forth to feed on the young plant, 
 
 Their fav'rite dainty. No— I will not tell, 
 
 Lest wisdom laugh to scorn such puerile cares 
 
 In age mature, how lately they've been mine. 
 
SPRING. 45 
 
 The gladness ! the unspeakable deep joy ! 
 When Nature, putting off her russet stole 
 Of wintry sadness, decks herself afresh 
 In bloom and beauty, like a virgin bride. 
 With lovely coyness, shrinkingly she comes, 
 For oft in clouds, and mist, and arrowy sleet, 
 The sun, her bridegroom, veils his glorious face, 
 And on his setting hour too often hangs 
 The breath of ling'ring frosts, repelling long 
 All but the hardiest children of the spring. 
 Of these, the earliest pursuivants, appear 
 (Studding the brown earth with their golden stars) 
 The clust 'ring aconites, a pigmy race, 
 Fearless of wintry blast, whose fiercest rage 
 Passes innocuous o'er their lowly bed. 
 But soon through every border the moist earth 
 Breaks up its even surface, every clod 
 Expands and heaves with vegetable life ; 
 And tender cones of palest green appear, 
 The future hyacinths, and arrowy points 
 
46 SPRING. 
 
 Of bolder crocus ; and the bashful heads 
 Of snowdrops, trembling on their slender stalks ; 
 And next, of many hues, hepaticas, 
 The red, the milk-white, and the lovelier blue 
 (A vegetable amethyst !) come forth, 
 TV impatient blossoms bursting into sight 
 Before the tardier leaves ; but those at length 
 Expand their outward circle, fencing round 
 With its broad fringe the tufted bloom within. 
 But Winter oft, tenacious of his sway, 
 Enviously lingers on the skirts of Spring, 
 Binds up in frozen chains the stubborn soil, 
 Nips the young leaf, and checks the tender germ. 
 In such ungenial seasons oft I've watch'd 
 Week after week, and shiver'd at the sight, 
 Beneath some shelving bank or garden wall 
 Long wreaths of snow that on the border mould 
 In drifted thickness heap'd, continuous lie. 
 Elsewhere divested of that livery pale 
 The cold Earth reassumes her natural hues, 
 
SPRING. 47 
 
 And slow returning verdure : But in vain 
 To the stiff surface heave the tender heads 
 Of budding" flowers ; or if they struggle through, 
 Deep in their shelt'ring leaves conceal'd they lie. 
 
 At length succeeds a thaw — a rapid thaw ? 
 
 And from the Heavens a dazzling Sun looks down, 
 
 Arousing Nature from her torpid thrall. 
 
 Yielding and moist becomes the dark'ning mould, 
 
 And from that snow-heap'd border melts away 
 
 The drifted wreath ; — it shrinks and disappears, 
 
 And lo ! as by enchantment, in its place 
 
 A rainbow streaks the ground — a flow'ry prism 
 
 Of crocus tribes innum'rous, to the Sun 
 
 Expanding wide their gold and purple stars. 
 
 A Christian moral (to the pious mind 
 All things present one) may be found e'en here. 
 Adversity, like that pale wreath of snow, 
 Falls on the youthful heart, a seeming load 
 
48 SPRING. 
 
 Of deadly pressure, crushing its young hopes ; 
 
 But seeming such, for after certain space 
 
 Continuing- there, and if it finds the soil 
 
 Not wholly sterile, to the frozen mass 
 
 Of its own latent virtues it imparts 
 
 A fertilizing- warmth, that penetrates 
 The surface of obdurate worldliness. 
 Then from the barren waste (no longer such) 
 Upspring a thousand amaranthine flowers 
 " Whose fragrance smells to Heaven/' Desires chas- 
 tised, 
 Enlarged affections, tender charities, 
 Long sufTring mercy, and the snowdrop buds 
 Of heavenly meekness — These, and thousands more 
 As beautiful, as kindly, are call'd forth, 
 Adversity ! beneath thy fost'ring shade. 
 
PART THE SECOND. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Willow-tree— The Swing — The Old Parrot.— The Toad. 
 — The Mechanic. — My Spaniel. — Juba. — Birds and Beasts. 
 — Humanity. — Sensibility. — Sportsmen. — My Hare. — Old 
 Ephraim. — Travelled Puppies.-— Sympathy. — Conoscenti. 
 

PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Hard by that flourishing domain, that strip 
 
 Of border ground, my garden, late described, 
 
 On a grass plot by the house door there stood 
 
 An aged willow, whose long flexile boughs 
 
 With their light shadows chequered the green turf; 
 
 Beneath the sheltering arms of that old tree 
 
 Pastime (to me delightful) oft I found 
 
 On balanced seat, upborne by a strong limb 
 
 Selected for the trust with cautious care, 
 
 Anxious as his, who for an arctic voyage 
 
 Of unknown peril, far discovery, 
 
 Selects the timbers for some strong-ribbed bark : 
 
 Ev'n with like caution did my father choose 
 
52 THE SWING. 
 
 The transverse bough to which his hands made fast 
 With firmness doubly sure the swinging cords ; 
 Committing to their strength a freight to him 
 More precious, than to Solomon of old 
 The yearly lading of his treasure ships 
 From Tarshish and from Ophir— Ay, than those 
 To the great Hebrew— than the wealth of worlds- 
 Far, far more precious to my father's heart 
 That bending bough's light weight— his only child. 
 
 Right pleasant pastime ! the clear cutting air 
 To cleave with rapid motion, self-impelled— 
 (For I was dext'rous at the sport)— to sway 
 With pendulous slow motion, dying off 
 To scarce perceptible, until at last 
 Settling to perfect stillness : which, howe'er, 
 A breath, a finger's motion would disturb. 
 So 'twas my luxury to sit and dream, 
 Building in cloud-land many a castle fair, 
 Albeit no genii of the ring or lamp 
 
THE SWING. 53 
 
 Came at my bidding ; in those dreamy moods 
 I conjured up as gorgeous palaces — 
 Gardens as dazzling bright with jewelled fruit 
 As e'er Aladdin's wondering eyes beheld, 
 And peopled them with living forms, to me 
 (Deep read in magic lore) familiar all. 
 Then the Commander of the Faithful strayed, 
 And dark Mesrour, and that devoted slave 
 GiarTer, the pearl of ministers, whose head 
 So lightly on his patient shoulders sat, 
 Ready to leave them headless, at a nod 
 From his most gracious master. Stately walked 
 Beside her mighty lord his jealous spouse, 
 Scornful Zobeide, their attendant slaves 
 Close following ; the fair Noushatoul ; and he 
 The Caliph's fav'rite, jester of the court, 
 Facetious Abon Hassan. Hunchback too, 
 And that loquacious Barber, and his train 
 Of luckless brethren, came at my command. 
 Then, with King Saladin and Queen Gulnare, 
 
54 THE SWING. 
 
 A car of pearl and coral bore me off 
 Through sub-marine dominions — overarched 
 With liquid chrysolite the billowy vault ; 
 Or with the exiled brethren far I strayed, 
 Amgrad and Assad, or that happier prince 
 Who found the hall of statues, found and won 
 That ninth, so far surpassing all the rest. 
 
 Anon 1 ventured on a darker realm, 
 Peopled with awful shapes — magicians dire, 
 Happak and Ulin, and their hideous crew, 
 The Sultan Misnar's leagued inveterate foes, 
 How my heart beat, as in the dead of night 
 With him and his suspected slave I trod 
 Those rocky passages, hewn roughly out 
 In the earth's entrails ! How I held my breath 
 (Expecting the result) when through the ring 
 The severed rope slid rapidly away ! 
 How my young feelings sympathized with hers, 
 The duteous Una's, when on Tigris' banks 
 
THE SWING. 55 
 
 (A weeping- orphan) she was left forlorn ; 
 And when in urgent peril — hapless maid ! 
 In that dark forest from her side she missed 
 The guardian peppercorns ! But oh ! the joy 
 When in the shaggy monarch of the woods, 
 A brave protector — brave and kind she found — . 
 I saw her by his side — in his thick mane 
 I saw her small white fingers fondly twined ; 
 Majestically gentle, at her feet 
 I saw the royal brute lie fawning down ; 
 / saw all this — and murmured half aloud, 
 " Oh how I wish I had a lion too ! " 
 
 Fantastic shadows ! fearful ! gay ! grotesque ! 
 Still with a child's delight I reperuse 
 The pages where ye live ; recall ye still — 
 Ay — all your marv'llous annals — with as keen 
 And undiminished interest as of yore 
 When I convened ye at my sov reign will 
 In that green bower beneath the willow-tree, 
 
56 THE OLD PARROT. 
 
 Where moments flew uncounted as I sat 
 
 With eyes half-closed, excluding- outward things ; 
 
 And as the spell within worked languidly, 
 
 Or kindled into action, truth, and life, 
 
 Slower or faster swung my airy car 
 
 (Not quite at rest, for that had broke the charm), 
 
 Unconscious I so tranced in waking dreams, 
 
 That mine own impulse checked or urged it on. 
 
 But I was not sole tenant of the tree, 
 
 Not then companionless : above my head 
 
 Among the thicker branches (there secure 
 
 From the swing's reach) our old grey parrot hung- 
 
 Poor Poll ! we were in truth well-sorted mates. 
 
 Wert thou my prototype ? or I in sooth 
 
 The shadow of thy graces and thy wit ? 
 
 As Jacko in the fable proveth plain 
 
 That man (the servile copyist !) apes his. 
 
 Associates though we were in that green bower, 
 
 Yet little kindness, Poll ! betwixt us grew ; 
 
THE OLD PARROT. 57 
 
 For many an ancient grudge in either heart 
 
 Kept us asunder, and the hag Mistrust 
 
 Widened the unhealed wounds of former feuds, 
 
 Thou wert in truth th* aggressor in those feuds, 
 
 For, Poll ! it ill became thy reverend years, 
 
 With spiteful vengeance of that hard sharp beak 
 
 The unsuspecting freedom to repulse 
 
 Of baby fondness, first encouraged too 
 
 By coaxing treach'ry — " Scratch poor Polly's head." 
 
 And when thy victim, smarting with the pain 
 
 Of that unkind reception, wept aloud, 
 
 'Twas most ungenerous, Poll ! to flout and jeer, 
 
 And mock with imitative whine, and cry, 
 
 And peevish whimper, and convulsive sob, 
 
 Concluding all with boist'rous ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Then comments indiscreet of mutual friends 
 (Such oftenest the result) but served t' increase 
 And whet the growing animosity. 
 The frowning hearer, when I gabbled o'er 
 
58 THE PARROT. 
 
 Some tedious lesson, not a word whereof 
 
 Informed my far-off senses ; bade me note 
 
 How Poll as glibly ran her lesson o'er 
 
 Of words by her as little understood. 
 
 The mincing nursemaid, sedulous t' improve 
 
 The graces of her charge, reproached me oft 
 
 With turned-in toes—" for all the world like Poll." 
 
 And when my heart with rage rebellious swelled— 
 
 Alas! 'twas a rebellious little heart — 
 
 And angrily I stamped the tiny foot, 
 
 And screamed aloud, the bird screamed louder still ; 
 
 And I was told to mark how even Poll 
 
 Despised and laughed to shame the naughty girl. 
 
 As babyhood's first lisping years wore on, 
 'Monitions such as these their influence lost, 
 And to the noisy mimic's flout and jeer 
 A careless, callous listener I became ; 
 But distance due was still between us kept 
 With strict punctilio— an armed, neutral peace, 
 
THE TOAD. 59 
 
 Never infringed by familiarity. 
 So there tog-ether in the willow-tree 
 Our several pastimes Poll and I pursued ; 
 Some, much resembling- still, for to and fro, 
 Exalted in her wiry globe, she swung, 
 As if to mimic there my sport below. 
 
 Thou wert the only creature, bird or beast, 
 Excluded from my lavish fondness, Poll ! 
 Fowls of the air, and beasts, and creeping things, 
 Ay, reptiles — slimy creatures — all that breathed 
 The breath of life, found favour in my sight ; 
 And strange disgust I've seen (I thought it strange) 
 Wrinkle their features who beheld me touch, 
 Handle, caress the creatures they abhorred ; 
 Enchase my finger with the palmer-worm 
 Or caterpillar's green, cold, clammy ring, 
 Or touch the rough back of the spotted toad. 
 One of that species, for long after years, 
 Ev'n till of late, became my pensioner — 
 
60 THE TOAD. 
 
 A monstrous creature ! — It was wont to sit 
 
 Amoug the roots of an old scraggy shrub, 
 
 A^huge Gum-Cystus : All the summer long 
 
 " Princess Hemjunah " (titled so by me 
 
 In honour of that royal spell-bound fair 
 
 So long compell'd in reptile state to crawl), 
 
 " Princess Hemjunah " there, from morn to eve, 
 
 Made her pavilion of the spicy shrub ; 
 
 And they who look'd beneath it, scarce discern'd 
 
 That living clod from the surrounding mould 
 
 But by the lustre of two living gems 
 
 That from the reptile's forehead upward beam'd 
 
 Intelligent, with ever-wakeful gaze. 
 
 There daily on some fresh green leaf I spread 
 
 A luscious banquet for that uncouth guest — 
 
 Milk, cream, and sugar, — to the creature's taste 
 
 Right welcome offering, unrejected still. 
 
 When Autumn winds 'gan strew the crisped 
 leaves 
 
 
THE TOAD. 61 
 
 Round that old Cystus, to some lonelier haunt, 
 
 Some dark retreat the hermit Reptile crawl'd : 
 
 Belike some grotto, 'neath the hollow roots 
 
 Of ancient laurel or thick juniper, 
 
 Whose everlasting- foliage darkly gleam'd 
 
 Through the bare branches of deciduous trees. 
 
 There, self-immured, the livelong winter through 
 
 Brooded unseen the solitary thing : 
 
 E'en when young Spring with violet-printed steps 
 
 Brush'd the white hoar-frost from her morning path, 
 
 The creature stirr'd not from its secret cell : 
 
 But on some balmy morn of rip'ning June, 
 
 Some morn of perfect summer, waken'd up 
 
 With choirs of music pour'd from every bush, 
 
 Dews dropping incense from th' unfolding leaves 
 
 Of half-blown roses, and the gentle South 
 
 Exhaling, blending, and diffusing sweets — 
 
 Then was I sure on some such morn to find 
 
 My Princess crouch'd in her accustomed form 
 
62 THE TOAD. 
 
 Beneath the Cystus. 
 
 So for many years 
 _Ay— as I said, till late, she came and went, 
 And came again when summer suns return'd — 
 All knew and spared the creature for my sake, 
 Not without comment on the strange caprice 
 Protecting such deform'd, detested thing. 
 But in a luckless hour— an autumn morn, 
 About the time when my poor Toad withdrew 
 (Annually punctual) to her winter house ; 
 The axe and pruning-knife were set at work— 
 _( Ah ! uncle Philip ! with unsparing zeal 
 You urged them on) to lop the straggling boughs 
 Whose rank luxuriance from the parent stem 
 Drain'd for their useless growth too large supply ; 
 Branch after branch condemn'd fell thickly round, 
 Till, moderate reform intended first, 
 (Nice task to fix the boundary !) edged on, 
 Encroaching still to radical ; and soon 
 
THE TOAD. 63 
 
 Uncheck'd the devastating fury raged, 
 
 And shoots, and boughs, and limbs bestrew'd the 
 
 ground, 
 And all denuded and exposed — sad sight ! 
 The mangled trees held out their ghastly stumps. 
 
 Spring reappear'd, and trees and shrubs put forth 
 Their budding leaves, and e'en those mangled 
 
 trunks 
 (Though later) felt the vegetable life 
 Mount in their swelling sap, and all around 
 The recently dismember'd parts, peep'd out — 
 Pink tender shoots disparting into green, 
 And bursting forth at last, with rapid growth, 
 In full redundance — healthful, vig'rous, thick ; 
 And June return'd with all her breathing sweets, 
 Her op'ning roses and soft southern gales ; 
 And music pour'd from ev'ry bending spray ; 
 E'en the old mangled Cystus bloom'd once more, 
 But my poor Princess never came again. 
 
64 THE TOAD. 
 
 More beauteous graceful pensioners were those 
 (But not more harmless) on the gravel walk 
 Before our parlour-window, from my hand 
 That peck'd their daily dole of scatter'd crumbs. 
 Welcome and safe was each confiding guest, 
 Though favour with a partial hand strew'd thick 
 The crumbled shower in Robin Redbreast's way ; 
 But all were welcome, — Blackbirds, Thrushes, Wrens, 
 Finches, and chirping Sparrows. 
 
 How I hate 
 Those London Sparrows ! Vile, pert, noisy things ! 
 Whose ceaseless clamour at the window-sill 
 (The back-room window, op'ning on some mews) 
 Reminds one of the country just so far 
 As to bemock its wild and blithesome sounds, 
 And press upon the heart our pent-up state 
 In the great Babylon ; — oppress'd, engulf 'd 
 By crowds, and smoke, and vapour : Where one sees, 
 For laughing vales fair winding in the Sun, 
 And hill-tops gleaming in his golden light, 
 
THE TOAD. 65 
 
 The dingy red of roofs and chimneys tall 
 On which a leaden Orb looks dimly down ! 
 For limpid rills, the kennel's stream impure ; 
 For primrose banks, the rifled scentless things 
 Tied up for sale, held out by venal hands ; 
 For lowing herds and bleating flocks, the cries 
 Of noisy venders threading every key, 
 From base to treble, of discordant sound ; 
 For trees, unnatural stinted mockeries 
 At windows, and on balconies stuck up 
 Fir-trees in vases ! picturesque conceit ! 
 Whereon, to represent the woodland choir, 
 Perch those sweet songsters of the sooty wing. 
 ****** 
 Yet as I write, the light and flippant mood 
 Changes to one of serious sadden'd thought, 
 And my heart smites me for the sorry jest, 
 Calling to mind a sight that filTd me once 
 With tend'rest sympathy. 
 
 E 
 
66 THE MECHANIC. 
 
 In a great city, 
 Blacken'd and deaf ning with the smoke and din 
 Of forge and engine, Traffic's thriving mart, 
 Charter'd by Mammon ; underneath a range 
 Of gorgeous show-rooms, where all precious metals, 
 In forms innumerous, exquisitely wrought, 
 Dazzled the gazer's eye, I visited 
 The secret places of the " Prison House" — 
 From den to den of a long file I passed 
 Of dingy workshops — each affording space 
 But for the sallow inmate and his tools : 
 His table, the broad, timeworn, blackened slab 
 Of a deep sunken window, whose dim panes 
 Tinged with a sickly hue the blessed beams 
 Of the bright noonday sun. I tarried long 
 In one of those sad cells, conversing fi 
 With its pale occupant, a dark-browed man 
 Of hard repellant aspect — hard and stern. 
 But having watched awhile the curious sleight 
 Of his fine handicraft, when I expressed 
 
THE MECHANIC. 67 
 
 Pleased admiration, in few words, but frank, 
 And toned by kindly feeling — for my heart 
 Yearned with deep sympathy — the moody man 
 Looked up into my face, and in that look 
 Flashed out an intellectual soul-fraught gleam 
 Of pleased surprise, that changed to mild and good 
 The harsh expression of that care-marred face. 
 There lay beside him on the window slab 
 A dirty ragged book turned downwards open 
 Where he had last been reading, from his toil 
 Snatching a hurried moment. Anxiously 
 I glanced towards it, but forbore to question, 
 Restrained by scrupulous feeling, shunning most 
 Shadow of disrespect to low estate — 
 But from the book my wandering gaze past on 
 To whert, ond it, close to the dim panes, 
 A broken flowerpot, with a string secured, 
 Contained a living treasure — a green clump 
 (Just bursting into bloom) of the field orchis. 
 " You care for flowers/' I said, " and that fair thing. 
 
68 THE MECHANIC. 
 
 The beautiful orchis, seems to flourish well 
 With little light and air." 
 
 " It won't for long," 
 The man made answer, with a mournful smile 
 Eying the plant — " I took it up, poor thing! 
 But Sunday evening last from the rich meadow 
 Where thousands bloom so gay, and brought it 
 
 here 
 To smell of the green fields for a few days 
 Till Sunday comes again — and rest mine eyes on, 
 When I look up fatigued from these dead gems 
 And yellow glittering gold." 
 
 With patient courtesy, 
 Well spoken, clear (no ignorant churl was he) 
 That poor artificer explained the process 
 Of his ingenious art — I looked and listened, 
 But with an aching heart that loathed the sight 
 Of those bright pebbles and that glittering ore ; 
 And when I turned to go — not unexpressed 
 My feelings of good will and thankfulness— 
 
MY SPANIEL. 69 
 
 He put into my hand a small square packet 
 Containing powder, that would quite restore 
 (He told me) to dull gems and clouded pearls 
 Their pristine lustre. I received, well pleased, 
 Proffering payment ; but he shook his head, 
 Motioning back my hand ; and stooping down 
 Resumed his task, in a low deep toned voice 
 Saying, " You're kindly welcome," 
 
 Gems and pearls 
 Abound not in my treasury ; but there 
 I hoard with precious things the poor man's gift. 
 
 4 
 
 But what have I to do (distasteful theme ! ) 
 With towns and cities ? thither unawares 
 Wild fancy wandered, but recalled as soon, 
 Wings back her way, and lights at home once more ; 
 Lights down amid the furred and feathered court 
 That own'd my sov'reign sway — a motley train ! 
 Rabbits and birds, and dormice, cats, and kittens, 
 And dogs of many a race — from ancient Di, 
 
70 MY SPANIEL. 
 
 My father's faithful setter, to black Mungo 
 And mine own fav'rite spaniel — most mine own. 
 
 My poor old Chloe ! gentle playfellow ! 
 
 Most patient, most enduring was thy love ; 
 
 To restless childhood's teasing fondness proof, 
 
 And its tormenting ingenuity. 
 
 Methinks I see thee in some corner stuck 
 
 In most unnatural posture, bolt upright, 
 
 With rueful looks and drooping ears forlorn, 
 
 Thy two forepaws, to hold my fathers cane 
 
 (Converted to a musket), cramped across. 
 
 Then wert thou posted like a sentinel 
 
 Till numbers ten were slowly counted o'er — 
 
 That welcome tenth ! The signal sound to thee 
 
 Of penance done and liberty regained — 
 
 Down went the cane, and from thy corner forth, 
 
 With uproar wild and madly frolic joy 
 
 Bounding aloft, and wheeling round and round 
 
 With mirth-inviting antics, didst thou spring. 
 
MY SPANIEL, 71 
 
 And the grave teacher (grave no longer) shared 
 
 The boist'rous pupil's loud unbridled gleQ ; — 
 
 Then were there dismal outcries — shrill complaints — 
 
 From angry Jane, of frocks and petticoats 
 
 All grim with muddy stains and ghastly rents ; — 
 
 " 'Twas all in vain," the indignant damsel vowed, 
 
 " 'Twas all in vain to toil for such a child — 
 
 For such a Tom-boy ! Climbing up great trees — 
 
 Scrambling through brake and bush, and hedge and 
 
 ditch, 
 For paltry wild -flowers. Always without gloves 
 Grubbing the earth up like a little pig 
 With her own nails, and (just as bad as he) 
 Racing and romping with that dirty beast." 
 Then followed serious, — " But the time will come 
 You'll be ashamed, Miss, of such vulgar ways : 
 You a young lady ! — Not much like one now." 
 Too oft unmoved by the pathetic zeal 
 Of such remonstrance, pertly I replied, 
 " No, mistress Jane ! that time will never come— 
 
72 JUBA. 
 
 When I'm grown up I'll romp with Chloe still, 
 As I do now ; and climb and scramble too 
 After sweet wild-flowers just as much as now ; 
 And ' grub the earth/ and i never put on gloves.' 
 Then if I dirt my hands and tear my frock, 
 You'll not dare scold when I'm a woman grown — 
 For who would mind your scolding, Mistress Jane ?' 
 
 Alas, poor maid ! an arduous task was thine ; 
 A hopeless labour, recommencing still — 
 Like theirs, the unhappy sisters, doomed to pour 
 Eternal streams in jars that never fill. 
 
 Next in degree to the old faithful dog — 
 Next in my favouring fondness, Juba ranked. 
 Sprung of a race renowned, in Juba's veins 
 The mettled blood of noble coursers ran : 
 Foaled on my father's land, his sprightly youth 
 Sported, like mine, those pleasant meads among, 
 And when I saw him first, a new-born thing, 
 
JUBA. 73 
 
 Tottering and trembling" by the old mare's side 
 On his long slender limbs, I called him then, 
 And thenceforth he was called, " My little horse." 
 And soon those slender, flexile limbs were braced 
 With sinewy strength ; and soon that feeble frame 
 Expanded into vig'rous, noble bulk — 
 From his broad swelling chest arched proudly up, 
 With graceful curve, the yet unbridled neck ; 
 Free to the winds the flowing main and tail, 
 In their wild beauty, streamed exuberant out, 
 Or lashed the glossy chestnut of his sides 
 With dark dishevelled flakes ; and his small ears 
 With flexile beauty oft inverting quick 
 
 Their black-fringed edges ; and those large bright 
 
 eyes 
 Flashing with all the fire of youth, and joy, 
 And freedom uncontrolled ! I see him now, 
 My gallant Juba, racing round the field 
 Fleet as the whirlwind ; — with down arching neck, 
 Yet stately in its bend ; and clattering hoofs ; 
 
74 JUBA. 
 
 And long back streaming tail. In mid career, 
 
 Self-checked and suddenly, he stops abrupt, 
 
 Back on his haunches, gathering proudly up 
 
 His bulk majestic ; and with head flung back 
 
 Disdainfully aside, and eyes of flame, 
 
 And nostrils wide distended, firmly forth 
 
 He straightens one black, sinewy, slender limb, 
 
 The other gathered inward, touches scarce 
 
 The ground with its bent hoof. Then loud and clear 
 
 Echoes o'er hill and dale his long shrill neigh, 
 
 And e'er the sound expires, with snort and stamp 
 
 Away he starts, and scours the field again. — 
 
 But oft at sight of me — (full well he knew 
 
 His fairy mistress !) — oft at sight of me, 
 
 With whinnying welcome, and familiar eye, 
 
 Yet shyly curious, he came trotting up 
 
 Expectant, the accustomed feast to claim 
 
 (Apple or crust) that I was wont to bring. 
 
 I have not specified the creatures half, 
 
BIRDS AND BEASTS. 75 
 
 My sometime favourites. Should I notice each, 
 
 Paper would fail, and patience be worn out 
 
 Of most indulgent reader. Such a throng ! 
 
 Jackdaws and magpies — turtle doves and owls — 
 
 And squirrels, playful in captivity, 
 
 But still untamed. Most barb'rous to immure 
 
 The pretty sylvan in a small close cage ; 
 
 Painful to watch the everlasting round 
 
 The restless prisoner circles all day long 
 
 Monotonous (sad mockery of mirth ! ) 
 
 Within his narrow limits. Wretched change 
 
 From the wild haunts, where erst, from tree to tree 
 
 He leaped and gambolled all the summer long, 
 
 The very life of liberty and joy. 
 
 Mine was an old maimed creature — maimed for life 
 
 By the vile treacherous snare ; and happier since 
 
 (So I concluded) in its captive state 
 
 Of plenteous ease, than helplessly at large 
 
 Among its hardier fellows of the woods. 
 
 A very hospital, in truth, I kept 
 
76 HUMANITY. 
 
 For such dumb patients, maimed, diseased, and old. 
 The squirrel just described (a veteran then) 
 Had just precedence ; next in age and rank 
 Hopped an old bulfinch, of one leg bereft — 
 By what untoward accident, the bird 
 Brought no certificate. A sportsman once 
 (None o' th' keenest) brought me bleeding home 
 A wounded leveret — not quite hurt to death, 
 But sorely mangled. From its mother's side 
 Scarce could the little creature yet have strayed, 
 When all too well that fatal shot was aimed. 
 Perhaps that luckless morning was the first 
 Among the dewy herbs and tender grass 
 That the poor mother led her young one forth 
 To taste the sweets of life, — that sacred gift 
 Of its Almighty Maker ! Was the boon 
 Bestowed to be abused in cruel sport 
 By Man, into whose nostrils the same power 
 Breathed with creating will the breath of life ? 
 I know for Man s convenience and support, 
 
HUMANITY. 77 
 
 Nay, for his luxuries, the inferior kinds 
 
 Must toil and bleed. But God, who gave so far 
 
 Dominion over them, extended not 
 
 The royal grant to torture or abuse : 
 
 And he who overtasks them, or inflicts 
 
 Protracted or unnecessary pain, 
 
 By far outstrips his warrant, and heaps up 
 
 On his own head for the great reck'ning day 
 
 Such measure as he metes withal to them, 
 
 Of tender mercy. 
 
 I would not devote 
 My person, as the pious Hindoo doth, 
 To banquet noxious vermin ; nor engage 
 The patient carcass of some needy wretch 
 To make them pasture ; nor abstain, like him, 
 From food of every kind that has contained 
 The living essence.— I despise and loathe 
 The affected whine of canting sentiment, 
 That loves to expatiate on its own fine frame 
 
78 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 Of exquisite perception — nerve all o'er — 
 
 Too tremblingly alive for the mind's peace 
 
 To every shade of delicate distress. 
 
 Such sensitives there are, whose melting souls 
 
 Dissolve in tender pity, or flame out 
 
 With gen'rous indignation, if they see 
 
 A dog chastised, or noxious reptile crushed : — 
 
 Does a fly tease you, and with impulse quick 
 
 Your dext'rous hand destroys the buzzing pest — 
 
 Prepare ye for an eloquent appeal 
 
 On the sweet duties of humanity, 
 
 And all the tender charities we owe 
 
 To the poor, pretty, little, helpless things 
 
 " That float in aether." Then some hackneyed verse 
 
 (Your sensitive must doat on poetry) 
 
 She quotes to illustrate the touching theme — 
 
 How " the poor beetle that we tread upon, 
 
 In corp'ral sufferance feels a pang as great 
 
 As when a giant dies." 'Tis odious thus 
 
 To hear the thing one venerates profaned 
 
SENSIBILITY. 79 
 
 By sickly affectation : to my ear 
 Doubly distasteful, for I heard the words 
 First from her lips whose heart was pity's throne. 
 That voice maternal taught my infant tongue 
 To speak the sentence, and my youthful heart 
 To feel and cherish, while its pulses beat, 
 Mercy and kindness for all living things. 
 
 Go where you will, the sensitive finds out 
 
 Whereon t ? expatiate largely ; to pour forth 
 
 The flood of her pathetic eloquence : — 
 
 A plodding clown to market drives along 
 
 His swine obstreperous : right and left they run 
 
 In sheer perversity : so right and left 
 
 Resounds the whip, but scarcely reaches them, 
 
 Whate'er their horrid dissonance implies ; 
 
 No matter — feeling's champion cannot hear 
 
 Unmoved the cry of innocence oppressed ; 
 
 So forth she steps, and speaks, with hand on heart, 
 
 Tender remonstrance to the boor, who stands 
 
80 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 Scratching* his bushy pate — with hat pushed up, 
 And eyes and mouth distended with surprise, 
 Vented at last when the oration ends 
 In one expressive expletive — " Anan ! * 
 
 A cart comes by — ah ! painful sight indeed, 
 For it conveys, bound fast with cruel cords, 
 To the red slaughter-house a bleating load 
 Of fleecy victims. Now th' impassioned soul 
 Of sensibility finds ample scope 
 T' excruciate its own feelings, and their hearts 
 Condemned to hear, while she minutely dwells 
 On things revolting — " how the murd'rous knife 
 Shall stop those bleating throats, and dye with gore 
 Those milk-white fleeces." 
 
 Thus expatiates she, 
 While feeling turns aside, and hurries on. 
 
 But vulgar sufferings, 'mongst the vulgar part 
 Of our own species, often fail to excite 
 
SENSIBILITY. 81 
 
 Those tender feelings that evap'rate half 
 O'er flies and earwigs, and expend themselves 
 In picturesque affliction. 
 
 " Ah ! " cries one, 
 " How happy is the simple peasant's lot, 
 Exempt from polished life's heart-riving woes, 
 And elegant distresses ! " 
 
 Bid them turn 
 (Those sentimental chymics, who extract 
 The essence of imaginary griefs 
 From overwrought refinement), bid them turn 
 To some poor cottage — not a bower of sweets 
 Where woodbines cluster o'er the neat warm thatch, 
 And mad Marias sing fantastic ditties, 
 But to some wretched hut, whose crazy walls, 
 Crumbling with age and dripping damps, scarce prop 
 The rotten roof, all verdant with decay ; 
 Unlatch the door, those starting planks that ill 
 Keep out the wind and rain, and bid them look 
 
 F 
 
82 SENSIBILITY. 
 
 At the home-comforts of the scene within. 
 
 There on the hearth a few fresh-gathered sticks, 
 
 Or smouldering- sods, diffuse a feeble warmth, 
 
 Fann'd by that kneeling woman's lab'ring breath 
 
 Jnto a transient flame, o'erhanging which 
 
 Cowers close, with outspread palms, a haggard form, 
 
 But yesterday raised up from the sick-bed 
 
 Of wasting fever, yet to-night returned 
 
 From the resumption of his daily toil. 
 
 " Too hastily resumed — imprudent man ! " 
 
 Ay, but his famish'd infants cried for bread ; 
 
 So he went forth and strove, till nature failed, 
 
 And the faint dews of weakness gathered thick 
 
 In the dark hollows of his sallow cheek, 
 
 And round his white-parched lips. Then home he 
 
 crawled 
 To the cold comforts of that cheerless hearth, 
 And of a meal whose dainties are set out 
 Invitingly — a cup of coarse black tea, 
 With milk unmingled, and a crust of bread. 
 
SENSIBILITY. 83 
 
 No infant voices welcome his return 
 With joyous clamour, but the piteous wail, 
 " Father ! I'm hungry — Father ! give me bread ! " 
 Salutes him from the little -huddled group 
 Beside that smoky flame, where one poor babe, 
 Shaking with ague-chills, creeps shuddering in 
 Between its mother's knees- — that most forlorn, 
 Most wretched mother, with sad lullaby 
 Hushing the sickly infant at her breast, 
 Whose scanty nourishment yet drains her life. 
 
 Martyrs of sensibility ! look there ! 
 Relieve in acts of charity to those 
 Th' exuberance of your feelings. 
 
 " Ay, but t-hose 
 Are horrid objects — squalid, filthy, low 
 Disgusting creatures — sentiment turns sick 
 In such an atmosphere at such a sight. 
 True cottage children are delightful things, 
 With rosy dimpled cheeks, and clustering curls ; 
 
84 SPORTSMEN. 
 
 It were an interesting task to dress 
 
 Such pretty creatures in straw cottage-bonnets 
 
 And green stuff gowns, with little bibs and aprons 
 
 So neat and nice ! and every now and then 
 
 (When visitors attend the Sunday school) 
 
 To hear them say their catechism and creed. 
 
 But those ! — Oh heaven ! what feelings could endure 
 
 Approach or contact with those dirty things ? 
 
 True — they seem starving ; but 'tis also true 
 
 The parish sees to all those vulgar wants ; 
 
 And when it does not, doubtless there must be 
 
 (Alas ! too common in this wicked world) 
 
 Some artful imposition in the case/' 
 
 Martyrs of sensibility ! farewell ! 
 I leave ye to your earwigs and your flies. 
 But, gentle sportsman ! yet a word with you 
 Ere to the starting-point I come again 
 From this long ramble unpremeditate. 
 Your silvan sports you call most innocent, 
 
SPORTSMEN. 85 
 
 Manly, and healthful. Are they always such ? 
 Healthful I grant — for while the sons of sloth 
 Doze half their sleepy lives in morning dreams, 
 Ye are awake and stirring with the lark ; 
 And like the lark ye meet on breezy hill, 
 In dewy forest glade, on perfumed heath 
 The breath of morning and her roseate smile. 
 Most healthful practice — and so far most pure. 
 But is it innocent, for murderous sport, 
 To scare sweet peace from her beloved haunts ? 
 To sadden and deface with death, the scene 
 Where all breathes life, and love, and harmony ? 
 And is it manly, with assembled rout 
 Of horses, dogs, and men, to hunt to death 
 A poor defenceless, harmless, fearful wretch, 
 The panting hare ? For life — for life she flies, 
 And turns, and winds, and doubles in her course 
 With art instinctive — unavailing all. 
 Now the wild heath, the open plain she tries ; 
 Now scuds for refuge to the pleasant brake, 
 
86 SPORTSMEN. 
 
 Where many a morning- she was wont to sit 
 
 In her old form, all spangled round with dew ; 
 
 No rest — no respite — danger presses near — 
 
 'Tis at her heels. They burst the thicket now, 
 
 Yet still she moves not — for she cannot move ; 
 
 Stiffened with terror, motionless she sits 
 
 With eyes wide staring, whence (I've heard some 
 
 say) 
 Large tears roll down, and on her panting sides 
 The soft fur wet with dews of agony. 
 Finish the picture ye who list — I turn 
 Disgusted from the task. But can I pass 
 Regardless the more lingering, torturing death 
 Too oft inflicted ? We behold indeed 
 The furred and feather'd trophies of his skill, 
 Disgorged from that fell gulf, the sportsman's bag ; 
 Not pleasing to all hearts, I trow, the sight 
 Of even that lifeless spoil. But could we see — 
 Ah ! could we follow to their sad retreats 
 Those more unhappy that escape with life, 
 
MY HARE. 87 
 
 But maimed and bleeding-. To the forest depths 
 They crawl or flutter ; there with dabbled plumes 
 (All stiff with clotted gore their burnished gold) 
 The graceful pheasant cowers beneath some tree, 
 Whose pleasant branches he shall mount no more. 
 Down droops the shattered wing, and crimson drops 
 Mark where the shot has entered in his breast. 
 There are no surgeons 'mongst the woodland tribes 
 To set such fractures — no purveyors there 
 To cater for the wounded, helpless bird ; 
 Nay, his own species, with unnatural hate 
 (As if, like some of humankind, they feared 
 Contagion from approach to misery), 
 Drive the poor sufferer from their gay resorts ; 
 So to some lonely nook he creeps away 
 To starve and die — abandoned and unseen. 
 
 Such wretched fate my little hare's had been, 
 But he, whose erring shot performed but half 
 Its deadly mission, brought it gently home 
 
88 MY HARE. 
 
 To be my guest and plaything, if it lived ; 
 And to my loving care its life was given. 
 I nursed it fondly, every want and wish 
 Promptly contenting. So I won at last 
 Its grateful confidence ; but not like those, 
 Beloved of Cowper, did my hare abide 
 Long after years in pleased captivity. 
 Nature prevailed ; and when the prickly furze 
 Girdled our meadow with its golden belt 
 Of od'rous blossoms ; to that tempting brake, 
 Where harboured some of his own kind, my hare 
 Cast many a wistful look, as by my side 
 He leapt and frolicked in the garden near ; 
 Yet long the powerful instinct he withstood 
 Prompting to liberty. Compunctious thought 
 Perhaps it was of gratitude to me 
 That kept him still a prisoner on parole. 
 
 How oft in human hearts such strife springs up 
 'Twixt inclination and the scrup'lous doubts 
 
MY HARE. 89 
 
 Of rigid conscience ! Bold at first, we cry, 
 
 " Satan, avaunt ! " to the seducing* fiend, 
 
 And he retires ; but seldom in despair. 
 
 Wise by experience, close at hand lurks he, 
 
 Watching the time through some unguarded chink 
 
 To slip into the " swept and garnished " hold 
 
 Of his old citadel. Perchance disguised 
 
 Like whispering Prudence — or in Feeling's mask — 
 
 Or Reason's pompous robe, he enters in. 
 
 Then Hesitation, with her shaking hand 
 
 And ever-shifting balance, weighs the cause ; 
 
 And if a mote— a hair — a dust prepond 
 
 (No matter how it came there, or why left) 
 
 On Inclination's side, down drops the scale. 
 
 A cause less trivial fixed at last the fate 
 Of my poor Puss. One morning by my side 
 In that same garden well content she sat 
 Nibbling some fresh-picked dainty, when, behold ! 
 With horrid bark, in bursts a stranger dog 
 
90 OLD EPHRAIM. 
 
 (One who had never learnt respect for hares) 
 And scents the victim ; but in vain, for they 
 Who follow close restrain his savage speed, 
 And Puss escapes, o'erleaps the shallow fence, 
 And scuds across the mead, and safely gains 
 That prickly covert, which beheld from far, 
 Had filled her heart with wand' ring wishes long. 
 
 From that day forth the hare (no longer mine) 
 Made her abode in that same hollow bank 
 Thick set with bushes, whence I saw her oft 
 Come forth at morn and even to sport and feed ; 
 And oft the truant slave, the wild maroon, 
 With bold assurance leapt the garden fence 
 For purposes of plunder. Base return 
 For kind protection to her helpless state 
 So long accorded ! nay, extended still 
 To shield her from the penalty of guilt ; 
 For direful wrath in Ephraim's bosom rose 
 (The dragon he, whose guardianship had rule 
 
OLD EPHRAIM. 91 
 
 Within the garden), when he found at morn 
 Traces yet recent of the plunderer's work. 
 His early lettuces all nibbled round, 
 And ranks of tender peas (his fondest pride !) 
 Laid down in patches, where th' audacious thief, 
 Squatting composedly, had munched her fill. 
 Dire was the wrath of Ephraim ! much raved he 
 Of traps, and guns, and vengeance — whence re- 
 strained 
 By interdiction of the higher powers, 
 He muttered 'twixt his teeth reflections keen 
 About the blind indulgence of some folk 
 For children's whimsies — " Who could keep, for- 
 sooth, 
 A garden as it should be kept — not he — 
 If noxious varmint was encouraged there ? 
 What was the use of hares but for the spit ? 
 He wished w r ith all his heart that the whole race 
 Was killed and spitted. Every thing he did 
 Was crossed and thwarted — mischief was at work 
 
92 OLD EPHRAIM. 
 
 In every corner. If he could but ketch 
 Them folk that meddled when his back was turned 
 Among* his mouse-traps ! 'Twas a thing- unknown 
 That mouse-traps should be set from day to day 
 With toasted cheese, and never catch a mouse." 
 
 Ah friend ! " there are more things in heaven and 
 
 earth" 
 Than were dreamt of in thy philosophy. 
 Yet Ephraim had his shrewd suspicions too, 
 Though darkly hinted. There was meaning couched, 
 Tho' little terror in his threatenings vague ; 
 For he too loved me well — the kind old man ! 
 And would have torn from his own reverend head 
 The few white locks ere hurt a hair of mine. 
 Who but old Ephraim treasured up for me 
 The earliest strawberry, cunningly matured 
 On the red plane of sun-reflecting* tile ? 
 Who laid aside for me the longest string 
 Of clear white currants ? With inviting smile, 
 
OLD EPHRAIM. 93 
 
 Who dangled temptingly above my head 
 
 Twin cherries ? — luscious prize ! soon caught and 
 
 won — 
 Who but old Ephraim, for his " little Queen," 
 Picked out (his favourite emblem of herself) 
 The smallest pippin with the pinkest cheek ? 
 It pleased him that I took delight to watch 
 His rural labours — that I asked the names 
 Of seeds and plants, and when to sow and set, 
 And their fixed season to bear flower and fruit. 
 With patient seriousness he made reply 
 To questions multiplying faster still 
 Than he could answer. But it puzzled oft 
 His honest head (no learned Pundit he) 
 To solve the curious questions I proposed, 
 Why such and such things were ; to which most 
 
 part 
 One answer served — incontrovertible, 
 Oracular — " they were, because they were," 
 
94 OLD EPHRAIM. 
 
 Oh ! what a deal of mischief were unmade 
 
 If Ign'rance always on perplexing points 
 
 Replied as prudently — if folks at least 
 
 Pretended to teach only what they know. 
 
 Young ladies ! how especially for you 
 
 'Twould simplify the training ! No she-Crichtons, 
 
 No petticoat professors would engage 
 
 To teach all 'ologies and 'ographies, 
 
 And every thing in all the world (of course 
 
 Accomplishments included), all complete 
 
 In all their branches. What a load of rubbish, 
 
 Now cramm'd, poor dears ! into your hapless brains, 
 
 Would leave the much abused organ room 
 
 T' expand, and take in healthful nutriment. 
 
 Wise — honest Ephraim ! Shall I leave unsung 
 Thy skill in fashioning small wooden toys, 
 Small tools, adapted to my pigmy grasp ? 
 His hand is eagerly stretch'd out on whom 
 Fortune bestows a sceptre ; his no less 
 
OLD EPHRAIM. 95 
 
 To whom she gives the baton of command, 
 
 The marshal's truncheon ; and she smiles herself 
 
 At his more solemn transport, from beneath 
 
 The penthouse of enormous wig", who eyes 
 
 The seals of office dangling in his reach. 
 
 And bearded infants — babies six feet high, 
 
 Scramble for glitt'ring baubles ; ribbons, stars, 
 
 And garters, that she jingles on a pole 
 
 For prizes to the foremost in the race, 
 
 Or who leaps highest, or with supplest joints 
 
 Who twists, and turns, and creeps, and wriggles best. 
 
 But none with greater eagerness than I 
 
 From Ephraim's hand received the finish'd spade 
 
 Whose small dimension might have served at need 
 
 Some kitchen damsel for a tasting spoon, 
 
 Albeit proportion'd aptly for my use ; 
 
 And other tools he fashioned, rakes and hoes, 
 
 And oh ! sublime perfection of his craft, 
 
 Most precious specimen ! his genius last 
 
 Shaped out a wheelbarrow, and I attain'd 
 
96 OLD EPHRAIM. 
 
 (Possess'd of that long coveted machine) 
 
 The climax of my wishes. What delight 
 
 To cram it with such offsets, plants, and bulbs 
 
 As Ephraim from his own neat borders cast ; 
 
 Then to wheel off the load (no matter what) 
 
 To my own garden. Nought came then amiss 
 
 Or out of season. Scions of tall trees, 
 
 And bushy shrubs, that, had they taken root 
 
 And flourish'd, would have filPd the small domain ; 
 
 And ragged pinks, with huge old scraggy roots, 
 
 Past hope of e'er producing flower or bud, 
 
 And plants full blown, that nothing lacked — but roots. 
 
 But not unfrequently the wheelbarrow 
 
 Was freighted with a living, yelping load — 
 
 Old Chloe's puppies : She the while, poor fool ! 
 
 Trotting beside with anxious look and whine 
 
 Much eloquent of wonder and dismay 
 
 And half displeased remonstrance, at th' enforced 
 
 And early travels of her progeny. 
 
TRAVELLED PUPPIES. 97 
 
 Many there are among- Creation's Lords 
 Whom Fashion wheels abroad (a listless load !) 
 As blind and senseless as those noisy whelps, — 
 As blind to all the wonders in their way 
 Of Art and Nature : with as senseless noise 
 Chatt'ring among themselves their mother-tongue 
 In foreign lands, disdaining to acquire 
 The useless knowledge (spiritless pursuit !) 
 Of a strange people's customs, arts, and speech ; 
 And who return with minds as unenlarged, 
 And skulls as empty, to their native land, 
 As to their kennel Chloe's brood return'd. 
 But they, poor innocents ! were safe restored 
 With simple unsophisticated minds ; 
 While two-legg'd puppies bring a cargo home 
 Of affectation, pedantry, and vice. 
 
 It is not all who having eyes can see, 
 
 Or having ears can hear : That truth we learn 
 
 G 
 
98 SYMPATHY. 
 
 From everyday experience. How it frets 
 One's soul to be associated with those 
 Deaf hearers, blind beholders ! Frets one more, 
 That all the outward organs they possess, 
 As it appears, unblemish'd. So we're led 
 To utter freely what we warmly feel ; 
 And then it proves that all the wires and pipes 
 That should communicate 'twixt eyes and ears 
 And the indwelling Soul, to empty cells 
 Lead only, sending back response nor sound- 
 Say with a friend we contemplate some scene 
 Of nat'ral loveliness, from which the heart 
 Drinks in its fill of deep admiring joy ; 
 Some landscape scene, all glorious with the glow 
 Of summer evening, when the recent shower 
 (Transient and sudden) all the dry white road 
 Has moisten d to red firmness ; every leaf 
 (Wash'd from the dust) restored to glossy green ;- 
 In such an evening oft the setting Sun, 
 
SYMPATHY. 99 
 
 Flaming in gold and purple clouds, comes forth 
 
 To take his farewell of our hemisphere ; 
 
 Sudden the face of Nature brightens o'er 
 
 With such effulgence, as no painter's art 
 
 May imitate with faint similitude. 
 
 The rain-drops dripping fast from every spray 
 
 Are liquid topazes ; bright emeralds those 
 
 Set on the green foil of the glist'ning leaves, 
 
 And every little hollow, concave stone, 
 
 And pebbly wheel-track, holds its sparkling pool 
 
 Brimming with molten ambers Of those drops 
 
 The Blackbird lights to drink ; then scatt 'ring thick 
 
 A diamond shower among his dusty plumes, 
 
 Flies up rejoicing to some neighb'ring elm, 
 
 And pours forth such a strain as wakens up 
 
 The music of unnumber'd choristers. 
 
 Thus Nature to her great Creator hymns 
 
 An hallelujah of ecstatic praise. 
 
 And are our voices mute ? Oh ! no, we turn 
 
 (Perhaps with glist'ning eyes), and our full heart 
 
 LOFC, 
 
100 SYMPATHY. 
 
 Pour out in rapt'rous accents, broken words, 
 
 Such as require no answer, but by speech 
 
 As little measured, or that best reply, 
 
 Feeling's true eloquence, a speaking- look. 
 
 But other answer waits us ; for the friend — 
 
 (Oh I heaven! that there are such) with a calm smile 
 
 Of sweet no-meaning gently answers — " Yes, 
 
 Indeed its very pretty— Don't you think 
 
 It's getting late though — time to go to tea?" 
 
 Some folks will tell you, of all things on earth 
 
 They most like reading ; poetry with them 
 
 Is quite a passion ; but somehow it is, 
 
 They never find a moment's leisure time 
 
 For things they dote on. What a life is theirs ! 
 
 There's the new poem — they would give the world 
 
 To skim it over, but it cannot be ; 
 
 That trimming must be finish'd for the ball. 
 
 If you indeed, who read aloud so well, 
 
 With so much feeling, would but take the book— 
 
SYMPATHY. 101 
 
 ' Twould be so nice to listen ! such a treat ! 
 And all the while the trimming might go on. 
 You cannot have the heart to disappoint 
 Wishes express'd so sweetly. Down you sit 
 But unreluctant to the task, which soon 
 Absorbs your every feeling. 'Tis perhaps 
 Of Roderick, that immortal Goth, you read— 
 (Immortalized in verse that cannot die 
 Till Poesy is dead, and every heart 
 Warm'd with her sacred fire a senseless clod). 
 
 The first few pages smoothly on you go, 
 
 Yourself delighted, and delighting much 
 
 (So simply you believe) your hearers too. 
 
 At length a whisper, audibly aside, 
 
 Or cross the table, grates upon your ear, 
 
 And brings you from the region of romance — 
 
 " Dear ! how provoking ! have you seen my thread ? 
 
 — No — here it is — Oh ! pray don't stop — go on 
 
 With that delightful story." 
 
102 SYMPATHY. 
 
 On you go ; 
 
 But scarce recover from that first rude shock, 
 When lo ! a second. Deep debate ensues, 
 Grave, solemn, nice, elaborate, profound, 
 About the shade of some embroider'd leaf, 
 Whether too dark— or not quite dark enough — 
 Or whether pea green were not after all 
 Fitter than apple green. And there you sit 
 Devoutly banning in your secret soul 
 Balls, trimmings, and your own too easy faith 
 In sympathy from hearers so engross'd. 
 " Better leave off," you say, and close the book, 
 " Till some more leisure morning." — But at once 
 All voices clamour at the barb'rous thought 
 Of such adjournment : — And you recommence, 
 Loath and disheartened ; but a lull succeeds 
 Of seeming deep attention, and once more 
 The noble song absorbs you, heart and soul. 
 That part you reach, where the old Dog who lies 
 Beside Rusilla, and, unnoticed, long 
 
SYMPATHY. 103 
 
 Has eyed the dark-cowPd Stranger ; all at once 
 (Confirm'd by Love's strong instinct) crawls along 
 And crouches at his royal Master's feet, 
 And licks his hand, and gazes in his face 
 " With eyes of human meaning." 
 
 Then — just then, 
 When trembling like a harp-string to the touch 
 Of some impassioned harmonist, your voice 
 Falters with strong emotion — 
 
 " Oh!" cries she, 
 The passion of whose soul is poesy, 
 " That dear sweet dog! — it just reminds me though 
 That poor Tonton was wash'd two hours ago, 
 And I must go and comb him, pretty love ! 
 So for this morning (though it breaks my heart) 
 From that dear book I tear myself away." 
 Ah ! luckless reader ! wilt thou e'er again 
 On such as these expend thy precious breath ? 
 
 Some travell'd exquisites profess a taste 
 
104 CONOSCENTl. 
 
 (" Gusto," they call it) for the sister art — 
 
 For painting*. Heaven preserve us from such taste ! 
 
 These learnedly harangue on breadth and depth, 
 
 Gradation, concentration, keeping, tone, 
 
 Tint, glazing, chiaroscuro, and what not. 
 
 At some old picture (moderns cannot paint), 
 
 Some smoke dyed canvass, where experienced eyes 
 
 In the brown chaos may distinguish form, 
 
 Lo ! where they gaze with reverential awe, 
 
 Peer through the focus of their rounded hand, 
 
 With features screw'd up to the exactest pitch 
 
 Of connoisseurship — fall enraptured back, 
 
 With head aside, and eyes all pucker'd up 
 
 Obliquely glancing — then with folded arms 
 
 They stand entranced, and gaze, and sigh, and gaze, 
 
 And mutter ecstacies between their teeth — 
 
 "Divine! incomparable! grand! unique!" 
 
 Less learn'd critics condescend t' admire 
 Some amateur production — yours perhaps ; 
 
CONOSCENTI. 105 
 
 These, little skill'd in jargon technical 
 
 Of conoscenti, murmur gentle praise ; — 
 
 Holding your drawing to their eyes quite close, 
 
 As 'twere a newspaper, and they perplexM 
 
 To make out the small print. — " Dear me !" they cry, 
 
 " How nice ! how natural ! how very soft ! " 
 
 These phrases serve, or some as richly fraught 
 
 With meaning, for all subjects and all styles ; 
 
 Or, if with more discriminating taste, 
 
 They own a preference — it falls, be sure, 
 
 On the most worthless, whose tame character 
 
 Is in this gentle phrase — " So very soft ! " 
 
 Inflict not on me, Stars ! the killing blight 
 Of such companionship. Oh ! rather far 
 Assign me for my intimate and friend 
 One who says plainly — " I confess to me 
 Painting's but colour 'd canvass, Music noise, 
 And Poetry prose spoilt ; those rural scenes 
 Whereon you gaze enraptured, nothing more 
 
106 CONOSCENTI. 
 
 Than hill, and dale, and water, wooded well 
 With stout oak timber groaning for the axe." 
 
 'Twixt such a heart and mine there must be still 
 A bar, oft painfully perceived indeed, 
 And never overstepp'd : But I could feel 
 Respect — affection — confidence for such, 
 If dignified with sound clear-judging sense 
 And piety, that gem beyond all price, 
 Wherewith compared all gifts are valueless. 
 
 It is not once an age two hearts are set 
 So well in unison that not a note 
 Jars in their music ; but a skilful hand 
 Slurs lightly over the discordant tones, 
 And wakens only the full power of those 
 That sound in concord. 
 
 Happy, happy those 
 Who thus perform the grand concerto — Life ! 
 
PART THE THIRD. 
 
 The Old Mile-stone. — Angling. — Royden Stream. — The Silvan 
 Feast. — Age of Intellect. — Afternoon. — Isaac Walton. — A 
 Bitter Night. — The Farmer. — The Pet Lamb.— Our Old 
 Garden. — Painting.^- The Altar. — Priscilla — Tea Drinking. 
 — Curiosities. — The Cuckoo Clock. — William Gilpin— The 
 Visit The Vicarage.— -The Study. 
 
PART THE THIRD. 
 
 Old friend ! old stone ! old way mark ! art thou 
 
 gone ? 
 I could have better spared a better thing 
 Than sight of thy familiar shapeless form, 
 Defaced and weather-stained. But thus it is 
 Where'er I turn me, wheresoe'er I look, 
 Change, change, change, change is every where at 
 
 work 
 In all mine ancient haunts. Gramercie though ! 
 Reform — improvement is the proper word — 
 We live, God wot, in an improving age, 
 And our old world, if it last long enough, 
 Will reach perfection. Lo ! conceptions vast 
 
110 THE OLD MILE-STONE. 
 
 Germ not alone in patriot statesman's mind 
 Or great phanthropist's. Our public men, 
 Ours in this rural district'nook o' th' world, 
 " Armed with a little brief authority," 
 Wield it like Jove's own thunder, and affect 
 Th' Olympic nod. Would they had nodded off 
 Their sapient heads, ere, in an evil hour, 
 Beautiful elms ! your spreading branches fell, 
 Because, forsooth ! across the Kings highway, 
 Conspiring with the freeborn " chartered" air, 
 Your verdant branches treasonably waved, 
 And swung perchance the pendant dewdrops off 
 On roof of royal mail, or in the eyes 
 Of sleepy coachman, wakened so full well 
 For safety of his snoring " four insides," 
 Unconscious innocents ! — or on his pate — 
 His awful pate — ev'n his, mine ancient foe, 
 Your ruthless enemy — the man of power, 
 Of measurement, and acts of Parliament, 
 The great road dragon — man of flinty heart, 
 
THE OLD MILE-STONE. Ill 
 
 Belike ye showered the liquid crystal down, 
 
 Irreverend boughs ! and so your fate was sealed. 
 
 But, veteran oak ! what rank offence was thine ? 
 
 In memory of man thou had'st not flung 
 
 One flickering shadow 'thwart the royal road, 
 
 Nor intercepted sunbeam from the head 
 
 Of noontide traveller. Only left of thee 
 
 The huge old trunk, still verdant in decay 
 
 With ivy garlands, and a tender growth 
 
 (Like second childhood) of thine own young shoots ; 
 
 And there, like giant guardian of the pass, 
 
 Thou stood'st, majestic ruin ! thy huge roots 
 
 (Whose every fretted niche and mossy cave 
 
 Harboured a primrose) grappling the steep bank, 
 
 A wayside rampart. Lo ! they've rent away 
 
 The living bulwark now — a ghastly breach, 
 
 A crumbling hollow left to mark its site 
 
 And the proud march of utilitarian zeal. 
 
 And the old thorns are gone. — the thorns I loved 3 
 
]12 THE OLD MILE-STONE. 
 
 For that in childhood I could reach and pluck 
 Their first sweet blossoms. They were low like me, 
 Young, lowly bushes, I a little child, 
 And we grew up together. They are gone ; 
 And the great elder by the mossy pales- 
 How sweet the blackbird sang in that old tree ! 
 Sweeter, methinks, than now, from statelier shades— 
 They've felled that too— the goodly harmless thing ! 
 That with its fragrant clusters overhung 
 Our garden hedge, and furnished its rich store 
 Of juicy berries for the Christmas wine 
 Spicy and hot, and its round hollow stems 
 (The pith extracted) for quaint arrow heads, 
 Such as my father in our archery games 
 Taught me to fashion. That they've ta'en away, 
 And so some relic daily disappears, 
 Something I've loved and prized ; and now the 
 
 last — 
 Almost the last— the poor old mile-stone falls, 
 And in its place this smooth, white, perked up thing, 
 
THE OLD MILE-STONE. 113 
 
 With its great staring figures. 
 
 Well! well! well! 
 All's doubtless as it should be. Were my will 
 The rule of action, strange results, I doubt, 
 Would shock the rational community. 
 No farmer round should clip one straggling hedge, 
 No road-surveyor change one rugged stone, 
 Howe'er illegible its lettered face, 
 Nor pare, nor trim, nor chop one craggy bank, 
 Nor lop one wayside tree, although its boughs 
 Arched all the royal road. I'd have the road 
 One bowery arch — what matter if so low 
 No mail might pass beneath ? For aught I care 
 The post might come on foot — or not at all, 
 At least with tidings of the troublous world. 
 In short — in short, it's quite as well, perhaps, 
 I can but rail — not rule. Splenetic words 
 Will not tack on again dissevered boughs, 
 Nor set up the old stone ; so let me breathe 
 
 H 
 
114 THE OLD MILE-STONE. 
 
 The fulness of a vexed spirit out 
 In impotent murmurs. 
 
 Gentles ! could ye guess 
 What thoughts, what feelings, what remembrances 
 Are in my mind associated with sight 
 Of that cold senseless stone, that shapeless thing 
 Which there lies prostrate, ye would smile perhaps, 
 But not methinks in scornful wonderment 
 At the strange utterings of my wayward mood. 
 Here, to this very spot (the guardian hand 
 Still clasping mine) with tottering steps I came — 
 A good half mile from home — my first long walk — 
 The first remembered. Here, the goal attained, 
 They set me up on the old stone to rest, 
 And called me woman !. — Baby now no more, 
 Who walked so stoutly ; filled my lap with flowers, 
 And pulled within my reach the woodbine down, 
 That I might pluck, with mine own eager hand, 
 A wreath for Dido's neck. She sat beside, 
 (The grave old creature ! ) with her large brown eyes 
 
ANGLING. 115 
 
 Intently, as in delegated watch, 
 
 Fixed on her master's child. Soon came the days, 
 
 When his companion, his — his only one 
 
 My father's — I became. Proud, happy child ! 
 
 Untiring now, in many a lengthened walk, 
 
 Yet resting oft (his arm encircling me) 
 
 On the old mile stone, in our homeward way. 
 
 My father loved the patient angler's art ; 
 And many a summer day, from early morn 
 To latest evening, by some streamlet's side 
 We two have tarried ; strange companionship ! 
 A sad and silent man ; a joyous child — 
 Yet were those days, as I recall them now, 
 Supremely happy. Silent though he was, 
 My father's eyes were often on his child 
 Tenderly eloquent — and his few words 
 Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone 
 Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts 
 With childish question. But I learnt at last — 
 
116 ANGLING. 
 
 Learnt intuitively to hold my peace 
 
 When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs 
 
 Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then 
 
 I crept a little closer to his side, 
 
 And stole my hand in his, or on his arm 
 
 Laid my cheek softly ; till the simple wile 
 
 Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned 
 
 With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook his head, 
 
 Stooping toward me : So I reached at last 
 
 Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it close, 
 
 Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. 
 
 That was a lovely brook, by whose green marge, 
 
 We two (the patient angler and his child) 
 
 Loitered away so many summer days ! 
 
 A shallow sparkling stream, it hurried now 
 
 Leaping and glancing among large round stones, 
 
 With everlasting friction chafing still 
 
 Their polished smoothness — on a gravelly bed, 
 
 Then softly slipt away with rippling sound, 
 
ROYDEN STREAM. 117 
 
 Or all inaudible, where the green moss 
 Sloped down to meet the clear reflected wave, 
 That lipped its emerald bank with seeming show 
 Of gentle dalliance. In a dark, deep pool 
 Collected now, the peaceful waters slept 
 Embayed by rugged headlands ; hollow roots 
 Of huge old pollard willows. -Anchored there, 
 Rode safe from every gale, a silvan fleet 
 Of milk-white water lilies ; every bark 
 Worthy as those on his own sacred flood 
 To waft the Indian Cupid. Then the stream 
 Brawling again o'er pebbly shallows ran, 
 On — on, to where a rustic, rough-hewn bridge, 
 All bright with mosses and green ivy wreaths, 
 Spanned the small channel with its single arch ; 
 And underneath, the bank on either side 
 Shelved down into the water darkly green 
 With unsunned verdure ; or whereon the sun 
 Looked only when his rays at eventide 
 Obliquely glanced between the blackened piers 
 
118 ROYDEN STREAM. 
 
 With arrowy beams of orient emerald light 
 
 Touching the river and its velvet marge — 
 
 'Twas there, beneath the archway, just within 
 
 Its rough mis-shapen piles, I found a cave, 
 
 A little secret cell, one large flat stone 
 
 Its ample floor, embedded deep in moss, 
 
 And a rich tuft of dark blue violet. 
 
 And fretted o'er with curious groining dark, 
 
 Like vault of Gothic chapel, was the roof 
 
 Of that small cunning cave — " The Nereid's 
 
 Grot!" 
 I named it learnedly, for I had read 
 About Egeria, and was deeply versed 
 In heathenish stories of the guardian tribes 
 In groves, and single trees, and silvan streams 
 Abiding co-existent. So methought 
 The little Naid of our brook might haunt 
 That cool retreat, and to her guardian care 
 My wont was ever, at the bridge arrived, 
 To trust our basket, with its simple store 
 
THE SILVAN FEAST. 119 
 
 Of home-made, wholesome cates; by one at home 
 Provided, for our banquet-hour at noon. 
 
 A joyful hour ! anticipated keen 
 
 With zest of youthful appetite I trow, 
 
 Full oft expelling unsubstantial thoughts 
 
 Of Grots and Naids, sublimated fare — 
 
 The busy, bustling joy, with housewife airs 
 
 (Directress, handmaid, lady of the feast ! ) 
 
 To spread that " table in the wilderness ! " 
 
 The spot selected with deliberate care, 
 
 Fastidious from variety of choice, 
 
 Where all was beautiful : Some pleasant nook 
 
 Among the fringing alders ; or beneath 
 
 A single spreading oak ; or higher up 
 
 Within the thicket, a more secret bower, 
 
 A little clearing, carpeted all o'er 
 
 With creeping strawberry, and greenest moss 
 
 Thick veined with ivy. There unfolded smooth 
 
 The snowy napkin (carefully secured 
 
120 THE SILVAN FEAST. 
 
 m 
 
 At every corner with a pebbly weight), 
 Was spread prelusive ; fairly garnished soon 
 With the contents (most interesting then) 
 Of the well-plenished basket : simple viands, 
 And sweet brown bread, and biscuits for dessert, 
 And rich, ripe cherries ; and two slender flasks, 
 Of cyder one, and one of sweet new milk, 
 Mine own allotted beverage, tempered down 
 To wholesome thinness by admixture pure 
 From the near streamlet. Two small silver cups 
 Set out our grand buffet — and all was done ; 
 But there I stood immovable, entranced, 
 Absorbed in admiration — shifting oft 
 My ground contemplative, to re-peruse 
 In every point of view the perfect whole 
 Of that arrangement, mine own handy work. 
 Then glancing skyward, if my dazzled eyes 
 Shrank from the sunbeams, vertically bright,, 
 Away, away, toward the river's brink 
 I ran to summon from his silent sport 
 
THE SILVAN FEAST. 121 
 
 My father to the banquet ; tutored well, 
 
 As I approached his station, to restrain 
 
 All noisy outbreak of exuberant glee ; 
 
 Lest from their quiet haunts the finny prey 
 
 Should dart far off to deeper solitudes. 
 
 The gentle summons met observance prompt 
 
 Kindly considerate of the famished child : 
 
 And all in order left — the mimic fly 
 
 Examined and renewed, if need required, 
 
 Or changed for other sort, as time of day, 
 
 Or clear or clouded sky, or various signs 
 
 Of atmosphere or water, so advised 
 
 TV experienced angler ; the long line afloat — 
 
 The rod securely fixed ; then into mine 
 
 The willing hand was yielded, and I led 
 
 With joyous exultation that dear guest 
 
 To our green banquet room. Not Leicester's self, 
 
 When to the hall of princely Kenil worth 
 
 He led Elizabeth, exulted more 
 
 With inward gratulation at the show 
 
122 AGE OF INTELLECT. 
 
 Of his own proud magnificence, than I, 
 When full in view of mine arranged feast, 
 I held awhile my pleased companion back, 
 Exacting wonder — admiration, praise 
 With pointing finger, and triumphant " There !" 
 
 Our meal concluded — or, as Homer says, 
 
 " Soon as the rage of hunger was appeased" — 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 And by the way, our temp'rate silvan feast 
 
 Deserved poetic illustration more 
 
 Than those vast hecatombs of filthy swine, 
 
 Where Trojans, Greeks, and half-immortals gorged, 
 
 Sharp'ning their wits for council. Process strange ! 
 
 But most effectual doubtless, as we see 
 
 Clearly illustrated in this our day, 
 
 In this our favour'd isle, where all affairs 
 
 (Glory to Britain's intellectual age !) 
 
 Begin and end with feasting : Statesmen meet 
 
 To eat and legislate ; to eat and hang (1) 
 
AFTERNOON. 123 
 
 Judges assemble ; chapters congregate 
 To eat and order spiritual affairs ; 
 Philhellenists to eat and free the Greeks ; 
 Committees of Reform, Relief, Conversion, 
 Eat with amazing unction : and so on, 
 Throughout all offices, sects, parties, grades, 
 Down to the Parish worthies, who assemble (2) 
 In conclave snug to eat, and starve the poor. 
 
 Our banquet over, — nor omitted then 
 
 Grateful acknowledgment for good received 
 
 From Him, whose open hand ail living things 
 
 " Filleth with plenteousness," — my dear companion 
 
 Sought once again the river's flowery marge, 
 
 To me committing (as the spreading out) 
 
 The gath'ring up all fragments of the feast, 
 
 " That nothing might be lost/' Instruction wise, 
 
 By simple illustration well enforced ! 
 
 Nor strain'd to Pharisaic meaning hard, 
 
 Forbidding to communicate the good 
 
124 AFTERNOON. 
 
 Abundantly bestow'd. So lib'ral dole 
 
 I scattered round for the small feath'red things 
 
 Who from their leafy lodges all about 
 
 Had watch'd the strange intruders and their ways ; 
 
 And eyed the feast with curious wistfulness, 
 
 Half longing to partake. Some bold, brave bird, 
 
 He of the crimson breast, approaching near 
 
 And near and nearer, till his little beak 
 
 Made prize of tempting crumb, and off he flew 
 
 Triumphant, to return (permitted thief !) 
 
 More daringly familiar. 
 
 Neatly pack'd 
 Napkin and cups, with the diminish'd store 
 Of our well-light'ned basket — largess left 
 For our shy woodland hosts, some special treat 
 In fork'd branch or hollow trunk for him 
 The prettiest, merriest, with his frolic leaps 
 And jet black sparkling eyes, and mimic wrath 
 Clacking loud menace. Yet before me lay 
 The long bright summer evening. Was it long, 
 
AFTERNOON. 125 
 
 Tediously long in prospect ? Nay, good sooth ! 
 
 The hours in Eden never swifter flew 
 
 With Eve yet innocent, than fled with me 
 
 Their course by thy fair stream, sweet Royden Vale ! 
 
 The stream, the mead, herb, insect, flower and leaf, 
 
 Sunbeam and shadow, — all, as I have said, 
 
 Were books to me, companionable things ; 
 
 But lack of other volume, Man's device, 
 
 Was none, when turning from the outspread scroll 
 
 Of beauteous Nature, sweet repose I sought 
 
 In varied pleasure. In a certain pouch, 
 
 Ample and deep, the Fisher's coat within, 
 
 Lurk'cl an old clumsy russet cover'd book, 
 
 That with permitted hand extracted thence — 
 
 CI see the smile to the young smiling thief 
 
 Vouching impunity) — for many an hour 
 
 Furnish'd enjoyment, flavour'd not the less 
 
 For oft renevv'd experience intimate. 
 
 Just where the river with a graceful curve 
 
126 ISAAC WALTON. 
 
 Darken'd and deepen'd in the leafy gloom 
 Of a huge pollard oak — a snug retreat 
 I found me at the foot of that old tree, 
 Within the grotto work of its vast roots, 
 From whose fantastic arches, high upheaved, 
 Sprang plumy clusters of the jewell'd fern, 
 And adder's-tongue, and ivy wreaths hung down 
 Festooning elegant ; soft greenest moss 
 Flooring the fairy cave ; the temper'd light 
 (As through an emerald roof) stole gently in, 
 Caressingly, and play'd in freckling gleams 
 On the dark surface of the little pool, 
 Where as it seem'd the ling'ring stream delay 'd 
 As loath its brawling course to recommence 
 In glaring sunshine. Ah ! could we delay 
 Time's current, as it bears us through some reach 
 Where the rough stream sinks waveless, peace- 
 embay'd. 
 
 The river at my feet, its mossy bank, 
 
ISAAC WALTON. 127 
 
 Clipt by that cavern'd oak my pleasant seat ; 
 Still as an image in its carved shrine 
 I nestled in my silvan niche, like hare 
 Upgather'd in her form, upon my knees 
 The open book, o'er which I stoop'd intent, 
 Half-hidden (the large hat flung careless off) 
 In a gold gleaming shower of auburn curls. 
 Ah ! gentle Isaac ! by what glamourie 
 Chain'd ye the eyes of restless childhood down 
 To pages penn'd for other readers far, 
 Mature and manly ? What concern of mine 
 Thy learn'd lessons to the docile twain, 
 Thy sometime pupils ? What concern of mine 
 Thy quaint directions how to dress a chub ? 
 Or bait the barb'd hook with hapless frog 
 " Lovingly handled?" What concern of mine 
 Thy merry meetings at that rural hostel 
 With the fair hostess ? lavender i' th' window, 
 And " twenty ballads stuck about the wall?" 
 Yet sure I long'd to share of that same chub, 
 
128 ISAAC WALTON. 
 
 And took no thought how that unlucky frog 
 Relish'd such loving treatment ; and full fain 
 Would have made one at that same merry board, 
 And drank in with insatiate ear thy words, 
 Rich in the truest wisdom, for throughout 
 (Hallowing what e'er of homely, quaint, and coarse 
 Might shock fastidious taste, less pure than nice) 
 The love of God, and Man, and holy Nature 
 Breathed like the fragrance of a precious gum 
 From consecrated censor. Then those scraps 
 Erom th' olden poets ! " the divine Du Bartas !" 
 And " holy Master Herbert ! " and Kit Marlowe ! 
 Whose ballad by the modest Milkmaid sung 
 Combined methought sweet strain of sweetest bird, 
 And pleasant melody of trickling rill, 
 And hum of bees, and every natural tone 
 Most musical. And then what dear delight 
 Beneath the sheltering honeysuckle hedge 
 To share thy leafy covert, while " the shower (3) 
 Fell gently down upon the teeming earth, 
 
ISAAC WALTON. 129 
 
 From the green meadows all with flowers bedeck'd, 
 Wakening delicious odours ; while the birds 
 Friendly contention, from a grove hard by, 
 Held with an echo, whose dead voice did live 
 (So seeming) in a hollow tree high up 
 Crowning the primrose knoll." Ah ! gentle Isaac ! 
 How could I choose but love thy precious book, 
 Then in that blessed springtime of my life 
 When life was joy, this fair earth paradise, 
 And thine a master-key, in its green glades 
 Opening innumerous paths ! I love thee still 
 With an exceeding love, old batter'd book ! 
 And from thy time-discolour'd leaves outsteal 
 Methinks sweet breathings of that merry May 
 So long o'erpast. My Winter is at hand 
 (Summer departed, Autumn on the wane), 
 But as I read, and dream, and smile, and sigh, 
 Old feelings stir within me, old delights 
 Kindle afresh, and all the past comes back 
 
 i 
 
130 ISAAC WALTON. 
 
 With such a rush, as to its long* dried bed 
 The waters of a stream for many a year 
 Pent from its natural course. 
 
 Oh ! nothing- dies — 
 Nothing is lost or wholly perisheth 
 That God hath called good, and given to Man, 
 Worth his immortal keeping. Let them go, 
 Let them pass from me like a troubled dream, 
 The things of this world ; bitter apples all, 
 Like those by the Dead Sea, that mock the eye 
 With outward fairness, ashes at the core. 
 Let this frail body perish day by day, 
 And to the dust go down, and be resolved 
 Thereunto — earth to earth : But/ shall live 
 In spiritual identity unchanged, 
 And take with me where happy spirits dwell 
 (Through Christ, the door, I hope admittance there) 
 All thoughts, desires, affections, memories 
 Sealed with the heavenly stamp, and set apart 
 (Made worthy) for duration infinite. 
 
A BITTER NIGHT. 131 
 
 u This is a bitter night for the young* lambs/' 
 My father said, and shivering drew his chair 
 Close in to the warm hearth. " The biting air, 
 When I looked out but now, was thick with snow 
 Fast driven in furious gusts — and, hark ! that's hail 
 Clattering against the window." 
 
 To the storm 
 Listening a moment, with a pitying thought 
 For houseless wanderers ; to our dear fire-side 
 We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense 
 Of comfort and security, that each 
 Reflected in the other's face, read plain 
 As in a page of some familiar book 
 Long learned by heart, y 
 
 " Gary ! what makes you sigh 
 And look so sad i' th' sudden ? " asked my mother, 
 As letting fall my pencil, I rose up, 
 And stealing to my father's side, drew close 
 The little stool, my own peculiar seat, 
 And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up, 
 
132 A BITTER NIGHT. 
 
 With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft 
 Childhood's reflective pause. 
 
 " I'm thinking-, mother, 
 Of what my father said about the lambs- — 
 What will become of them this bitter night, 
 Poor little pretty creatures ? We looked at them 
 A long, long while, in our way home to-day, 
 While with their mothers they were folded up 
 By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand, 
 So very weak they were, so very young ! 
 Don't you remember, father ! you said then 
 A cold hard night would kill them." 
 
 " Did I, child ? 
 Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd 
 
 Will take good heed to them— and Little girl ! 
 
 Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God 
 6 Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb ? ' So these, 
 Helpless and tender as they are, his eye 
 Still watcheth, and his guardian care protects." 
 
THE FARMER. 1 33 
 
 " Oh! but I wish" unuttered was the wish ; 
 
 For the door opened, and a burly form, 
 Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap 
 And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow, 
 Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in 
 With little form by Joe, within the room 
 Advanced a step or two, in country fashion, 
 Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di 
 With hostile growling, from her master's feet ; 
 But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment 
 Dropping her tail, she came contented back 
 To her warm station. 
 
 " What's the matter, Farmer, 
 That you're abroad so late this blust'rous night ? " 
 My father, with a friendly greeting, asked. 
 " My little lassie, here, was just bewailing 
 For your young lambs — but they're all snug, I guess." 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir ! thank ye kindly, snug enough; 
 And many thanks to miss, God bless her heart ! " 
 
134 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 He added, with a loving look at me, 
 
 Who had stolen round by this to my old friend, 
 
 Admiring much his bruin-like aspect. 
 
 A knowing twinkle with that loving look 
 
 Was mingled ; and his bluff good-natured face 
 
 Brightened with kindliness, as he went on : — 
 
 " I'll lay my life on't, Miss will never guess 
 What I've got here, all cuddled up so warm 
 Under my old great coat. And yet, Lord love her ! 
 The things for her, whatever it may be !" 
 
 Then there was wonder and impatient joy, 
 And jumping round and round, and 
 
 " Oh, dear Farmer ! 
 Is it alive ? — what is it ? — let me look — 
 Only one peep," — And eagerly I pulled 
 At the wet shaggy coat. 
 
 « Just let me feel!" 
 Then with feigned caution he admitted slow 
 
THE PET LAMB. 135 
 
 One little curious hand. 
 
 " How soft — how warm ! — 
 It's a young* kitten ! " 
 
 " Kitten ! — sure I'd scorn 
 To bring such vermin." 
 
 " Well, a rabbit, then — 
 Or — no — I'm sure now it's a guinea pig — 
 Isrit it, Farmer?" 
 
 " Guinea pigs don't bleat — 
 Harken ! " 
 
 " Oh mercy ! — it's a little lamb !" 
 
 " My Missis said 'twas just the thing for Miss, 
 
 When Amos brought it in an hour agone 
 
 From the dead ewe. The poor dumb brute had three, 
 
 This only living ; well enough for strength, 
 
 Considering : and Miss will mud * it up 
 
 I know, as clever as a little queen, 
 
 If I may leave it for her." 
 
 * Mud — Provincial. 
 
136 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 If!— that if 
 Checked in a moment my ecstatic fit, 
 And a quick glance imploringly* I turned 
 To the parental faces. Smiles were there, 
 But not consenting ones — and heads were shaken, 
 And sage remonstrance was preparing plain, 
 And lips were opened ; but I stopt them quick 
 With smothering kisses, and — the lamb was mine. 
 And thanks to Lydia, maiden most expert 
 In things pertaining to the dairy's charge, 
 And country matters — ever mine ally, 
 Ready and faithful — the small creature throve 
 As though the mother's milk and her strong love 
 (Nature's unerring course) had nurtured it ; 
 And from a tender fondling, soon became 
 My mate and playfellow. Such friends we were — 
 Willy and I ! Inseparable friends, 
 In door and out — up-stairs and down — where'er 
 My step was heard, the little pattering hoofs 
 Close following, or before me, sounded too. 
 
THE PET LAMB. 137 
 
 Only at lesson time awhile disjoined 
 
 The fond companionship. Good reason why — 
 
 The pupil never much renowned at best 
 
 For patient application ; little chance 
 
 Was there of any, when that gamesome thing 
 
 Made scoff of learning, and its teachers grave ; 
 
 Upsetting inkstands — nibbling copy-books — 
 
 And still provoking to irreverend mirth 
 
 With some new merry mischief. 
 
 Time went on 
 (More wondrous had he stopt), and winsome Willy, 
 The pet lamb still, drew near to ram's estate — 
 Then 'gan affairs to alter. Budding horns, 
 Fondled at first, grew formidable things, 
 And pretty freedoms to audacious onslaughts. 
 Old Di was sent off howling — from the lines 
 Linen hooked down and tattered — maids laid sprawl- 
 ing— 
 And visitors attacked, and butchers' boys, 
 And bakers, with their trays and baskets butted, 
 
138 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 And forced to fly and and hallo for their lives. 
 Our mutual love still perfect, I alone 
 Scaped molestation, threatening life or limb ; 
 Only for summer wear more cool and airy 
 The muslin frocks were made, by sundry slits 
 From top to bottom, and large eyelet holes ; 
 But that was all in sport — no harm intended — 
 And I the last to take offence at things 
 Concerning only those who had to mend 
 Or to replace my wardrobe. But all hearts 
 Were not so placable, and day by day 
 Dark looks and angry murmurs darker grew, 
 And waxed more wrathful. 
 
 " 'Twas not to be borne : 
 The beast was dangerous : some serious mischief 
 Would come of it at last ; it must be seen to." 
 Oh Willy ! Willy ! how I quaked for fear 
 At those vague threatenings, with ingenious art 
 Concealing or excusing as I could 
 Thine oft delinquencies. But all in vain ; 
 
THE PET LAMB. 139 
 
 The fatal day, long dreaded, came at last. 
 It was the time of blossoms, and my father, 
 Who in " trim gardens " much delight did take, 
 Was scanning with a gardener's prideful eye 
 His neat espaliers ; every well-trained branch 
 Thick set with bloom — deep blushing like the morn, 
 Or fainter tinged, or snow-white, of each sort 
 Indicative, and its abundant fruit. Fair show ! 
 Rich promise ! Many a season cold, unkind, 
 Had nipped the gardener's hope since such was 
 
 seen — 
 " If frost returns not, and no cruel blight 
 Comes near us " — with exultant hope broke forth 
 My father's meditation — when, alas ! 
 Destruction was at hand, and in mid speech 
 He stopt astounded. Frost nor blight most dire 
 So direful as the sight of visible mischief 
 Personified in Willy's form, at work 
 Ten paces ofT, where thick as snow flakes fell 
 A shower of milk-white blossoms. Glorious sport ! 
 
140 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 Another butting charge, and down they come, 
 Whitening the walk and border. 
 
 " Help ! help ! help ! 
 Ho, Ephraim ! Ephraim ! " At the call appear 
 More than the summoned — rushes out amain 
 The gaping household, mistress, maids, and man, 
 And I, half guilty, much confounded cause 
 Remote, of all the evil, helpless then 
 To stay its progress > 
 
 " Here he is — here ! here ! 
 Stop him — he's off again ! " 
 
 " Where ? where ? " " There, there ! " 
 Down comes the flowery rain — that shake will do 
 For the old golden rennet — fair pearmain ! 
 Thy turn comes next — and next — 
 
 " Destruction ! death ! 
 There goes the gansels bergamy — will no one 
 Stop the cursed brute ? " 
 
 How beautiful he looked ! 
 (Even in my shame and terror so I thought), 
 
THE PET LAMB. 141 
 
 When at safe distance he stood still and gazed 
 At his pursuers with provoking air 
 Of innocent wonder, dangling from his mouth 
 A bunch of apple blossoms, now and then 
 Mumbled in wantonness. 
 
 " Confound him ! there ! 
 He's at the golden pippin — Where's the gun ? 
 Joe ! run and fetch it — or — hold, hold — a rope ! 
 Well noose the rascal ! " 
 
 Oh my heart ! my heart ! 
 How died ye at the sound of guns and ropes ! 
 But capture was not death — -and he was caught, 
 Caught and led up to judgment. Willy ! Willy ! 
 That ever to such strait and to such w r o 
 Thine evil courses should have brought us both ! 
 For the decree went forth that parted us — ■ 
 Thou to return to thy first owner's flock, 
 And I (bereaved !) to mourn my merry mate. 
 Ah doleful day ! when for the last, last time 
 We two went forth together—thou, poor fool ! 
 
142 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 In thine unconscious gladness by my side 
 Trotting- contentedly, tho' every step 
 Took thee to exile nearer, and my tears 
 Fell fast as summer rain drops. How I clung 
 (When to the farm we came) with sobbing- clasp 
 About thy snowy neck ! refusing- comfort, 
 Although they told me, to assuage my grief, 
 A many flattering tales of good designed, 
 Peculiar good to thee. Thou wert to range 
 For life respected — master of the flock — 
 To crop the sweetest herbage, and be housed, 
 When winter came, in warm luxurious crib. 
 a But shall I see him sometimes ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay, sure, 
 Often and often, when the flock comes back 
 From the far pastures." 
 
 Back it came — alas ! 
 I saw not Willy — saw him never more ; 
 But half deluded still by glozing words, 
 I thought not (witless !) of the butcher's cart, 
 
OUR OLD GARDEN. 143 
 
 Nor transmutation fell, by murderous sleight 
 Of sheep to mutton. To thy manes peace, 
 Offending fav'rite ! wheresoe'er thy grave. 
 
 Dear garden ! once again with lingering look 
 Reverted, half remorseful, let me dwell 
 Upon thee as thou wert in that old time 
 Of happy days departed. Thou art changed, 
 And I have changed thee — Was it wisely done ? 
 Wisely and well, they say who look thereon 
 With unimpassioned eye — cool, clear, undimmed 
 By moisture such as memory gathers oft 
 In mine, while gazing on the things that are 
 Not with the hallowed past, the loved the lost 
 Associated as those I now retrace 
 With tender sadness. The old shrubbery walk 
 Straight as an arrow, was less graceful far 
 Than this fair winding among flowers and turf. 
 Till with an artful curve it sweeps from sight 
 To reappear again, just seen and lost 
 
144 OUR OLD GARDEN. 
 
 Among the hawthorns in the little dell. 
 Less lovely the old walk, but there I ran 
 Holding my mother's hand, a happy child ; 
 There were her steps imprinted, and my father's, 
 And those of many a loved one, now laid low 
 In his last resting place. No flowers methinks 
 That now I cultivate are half so sweet, 
 So bright, so beautiful as those that bloomed 
 In the old formal borders. These clove pinks 
 Yield not such fragrance as the true old sort 
 That spiced our pot-pourrie (my mother's pride) 
 With such peculiar richness ; and this rose, 
 With its fine foreign name, is scentless, pale, 
 Compared with the old cabbage — those that blushed 
 In the thick hedge of spiky lavender — 
 Such lavender as is not now-a-days ; 
 And gillyflowers are not as they were then 
 Sure to " come double ; " and the night breeze now 
 Sighs not so loaded with delicious scents 
 Of lily and sevinger. Oh, my heart ! 
 
PAINTING. 145 
 
 Is all indeed so altered ? — or art thou 
 The changeling-, sore aweary now at times 
 Of all beneath the sun ? 
 
 Such weariness 
 Knows not that blessed springtime of the heart 
 When " treasures dwell in flowers." How glad 
 
 was I, 
 How joyously exultant, when I found 
 Such virtues in my flowery treasury 
 As hitherto methought discoverer's eye 
 Had passed unheeded ! Here at once I found, 
 Unbought, unsued for, the desired command 
 (How longingly desired !) of various dyes, 
 Wherewith to tint the semblance incomplete 
 In its hard pencil outline, of those forms 
 Of floral loveliness, whose juices now 
 Supplied me with a palette of all hues, 
 Bright as the rainbow. Brushes lacked I none 
 For my rude process, the soft flower or leaf 
 
 K 
 
146 THE ALTAR. 
 
 Serving for such ; its moisture nice expressed 
 By a small cunning* band, where'er required 
 The imitative shadow to perfect 
 With glowing colour. Heavens ! how plain I see ? 
 Ev'n at this moment, the first grand result 
 Of that occult invention. There it lies, 
 Living as life itself (I thought no less), 
 A sprig of purple stock, that dullest eye 
 Must have detected, and fault-finding critic 
 Have owned at least a likeness. Mother's love 
 Thought it perfection, when with stealing step 
 And flushing face and conscious, I drew near 
 And laid it on her lap without a word ; 
 Then hung upon her shoulder, shrinking back 
 With a child's bashfulness, all hope and fear, 
 Shunning and courting notice ; 
 
 But I kept 
 Profoundly secret, certain floral rites 
 Observed with piously romantic zeal 
 Through half a summer. Heaven forgave full sure 
 
THE ALTAR. 147 
 
 The unconscious profanation, and the sin, 
 
 If sin there was, be on thy head, old friend, 
 
 Pathetic Gesner ! for thy touching song 
 
 (That most poetic prose) recording sad 
 
 The earliest annals of the human race, 
 
 And death's first triumph, filled me, heart and brain, 
 
 With stirring fancies, in my very dreams 
 
 Exciting strange desires to realize, 
 
 What to the inward vision was revealed, 
 
 Haunting it like a passion. For I saw, 
 
 Plain as in substance, that first human home 
 
 In the first earthly garden ; — saw the flowers 
 
 Set round her leafy bower by banished Eve, 
 
 And watered with her tears, as they recalled 
 
 Faintly the forfeit Eden ; the small rills 
 
 She taught to wander 'mongst their blooming tribes, 
 
 Completing — not the semblance, but the shade. 
 
 But beautiful, most beautiful methought 
 
 The altar of green turf, whereon were laid 
 
 Offerings as yet unstained with blood— choice fruits, 
 
148 THE ALTAR. 
 
 And fairest flowers fresh culled. 
 
 " And God must still,"— 
 So with myself I argued — " surely love 
 Such pure, sweet offerings. There can be no harm 
 In laying them, as Eve was wont, each day 
 On such an altar ; — what if I could make 
 Something resembling that ! " To work I went 
 With the strong purpose, which is strength and 
 
 power; 
 And in a certain unfrequented nook 
 Of our long rambling garden, fenced about 
 By thorns and bushes, thick with summer leaves, 
 And threaded by a little water course 
 (No substitute contemptible methought 
 For Eve's meandering rills), uprose full soon 
 A mound of mossy turf, that when complete, 
 I called an altar ; and with simple faith — 
 Ay — and with feelings of adoring love 
 Hallowing the childish error — laid thereon 
 Daily my floral tribute — yet from prayer, 
 
THE ALTAR. 149 
 
 Wherewith I longed to consecrate the act, 
 Refraining with an undefined fear 
 (Instinctive) of offence : and there was doubt 
 Of perfect blamelessness (unconscious doubt) 
 In the suspicious, unrelaxing care 
 With which I kept my secret. All's not well, 
 When hearts, that should be open as the day, 
 Shrink from inspection. So by slow degrees 
 I grew uneasy and afraid, and longed 
 To cast off the strange burthen— and at last, 
 Ceasing my visits to " the sacred grove," 
 I soon forgot, absorbed in fresh pursuits, 
 The long neglected altar — till one day, 
 When coming winter, with his herald blasts 
 Had thinned the covert's leafiness, I saw 
 Old Ephraim in his clearing progress pause, 
 And strike his spade against a mossy heap, 
 Washed low by autumn's rains, and littered round 
 Among the thick strewn leaves, with spars and 
 shells, 
 
150 PRISCILLA. 
 
 And broken pottery, and shrivell'd things 
 That had been garlands. 
 
 " This is Missy's work," 
 Quoth the old man, and shook his head, and smiled — 
 " Lord bless her ! how the child has toiled and moiled 
 To scrape up all this rubbish. Here's enough 
 To load a jackass !" 
 
 Desecrated shrine! 
 Such was thy fate, demolished as he spoke ; 
 And of my Idyl, the concluding page. 
 
 " The Thane of Fife " — said some one — " hath a 
 
 wife," 
 And so had Ephraim — a precise old dame, 
 Looking like ancient waxwork ; her small face 
 Of lemon-coloured hue (framed closely round 
 With most elaborate quilling) puckered up 
 To such prim fixedness, the button mouth 
 Scarcely relaxed into a button hole 
 When with a smile distended ; and the eyes, 
 
PRISCILLA. 151 
 
 (Two small black beads) but twinkled, never moved* 
 
 And mincing was her speech, and picked withal, 
 
 Dainty and delicate, as was her frame, 
 
 Like an old fairy's. She had spent her youth, 
 
 And prime, and middle age — two thirds of life — 
 
 In service of a maiden gentlewoman 
 
 Of the old buckram sort, wellnigh extinct ; 
 
 Prudent, and formal, and fantastical, 
 
 Much given to nervous tremors, and hysterics, 
 
 Flutterings, and qualms, and godly books, and tales 
 
 Of true love crossed, and dreams, and pious courtship. 
 
 Of that soft sisterhood was Mistress Martha, 
 
 On one-legged bullfinches and wheezing lapdogs 
 
 Who lavish sympathies long run to waste, 
 
 " Since that unhappy day " — ('twas her own phrase 
 
 Mysterious, unexplained) oft hinted at 
 
 In memory's melting mood to faithful Prissey, 
 
 With sighs deep fetched, and watery upturned eyes 
 
 Glancing unutterable things, where hung 
 
 Enshrined in shagreen case, a miniature 
 
152 PRISCILLA. 
 
 Set round with garnets, in a true love knot 
 
 Wreathed at the top ; the portraiture within 
 
 Of a slim, pink and white young gentleman 
 
 In bag and solitaire, and point cravat, 
 
 With a peach blossomed coat — " Ah Prissey ! Prissey ! 
 
 Good girl ! remember." So the lady still 
 
 Addressed her handmaiden, when forty years 
 
 And five full told, her girlhood had matured — 
 
 " Men are deceivers all — put no faith in them ; 
 
 But live and die a chaste and peaceful maid." 
 
 With decent grief, Pris cilia to the grave 
 
 Followed her monitress ; and that day month 
 
 To Ephraim (who had waited for his wife 
 
 With patriarchal patience), nothing loath, 
 
 Plighted her virgin troth. 
 
 Came with the bride 
 Into her husband's long prepared home, 
 In carved oak chest, and trunks with gilded nails, 
 Curiously flourished, store of household stuff, 
 And goodly raiment — of the latter, much 
 
PRISCILLA. 153 
 
 Unfitting wear, for decent humble folk 
 
 Knowing their station, as full well did they, 
 
 Keeping thereto, with sense of self respect 
 
 Ensuring that of others. But Priscilla 
 
 (A favoured handmaiden, and privileged), 
 
 Accustomed long to copy (half unconscious) 
 
 Her lady's speech, and habits, and attire — 
 
 I well remember now her puffed out kerchief, 
 
 Closed with a garnet pin, her black fringed mits, 
 
 And narrow velvet collar — thought no wrong 
 
 On Sundays, and on suitable occasions, 
 
 To come forth, awful to the cottage children, 
 
 In rustling pomp of some grave coloured lustring, 
 
 Sprigged muslin apron, short black satin cloak 
 
 (A thought embrowned with age, but handsome still), 
 
 Edged round with rabbit skin, and on her head, 
 
 By long black pins secured to cap and cushion, 
 
 A bonnet— Mistress Marthas second best — 
 
 A velvet skimming dish, flounced round with lace 
 
 Darned to a double pattern. Then her shoes ! 
 
154 PRISCILLA. 
 
 Black velveteen, high-heeled, with silver buckles. 
 
 So in her glory did Priscilla shine 
 
 On holidays and high days. Then her wits 
 
 (In housewifery expedients rich) were taxed 
 
 To cut, convert, turn, twist, transmogrify 
 
 Incongruous elements to useful ends. 
 
 Triumph of female skill ! — as by enchantment, 
 
 Even at the waving of the magic shears, 
 
 Sacks, petticoats, and negligees, became 
 
 Waistcoats and breeches. Shade of Mistress Martha ! 
 
 Saw ye the desecration ? So on Sundays, 
 
 Donning brocaded vest, and nether garment 
 
 Quilted like wise King Jamie's — warm and rich — 
 
 His good drab broadcloth coat with basket buttons 
 
 (Heir'd from his grandsire) making all complete 
 
 Of Ephraim's outward man ; forth sallied he, 
 
 Doing discredit none to her whose eye 
 
 Glanced side-long approbation, as they took 
 
 Leisurely, arm in arm, the churchward way. 
 
PRISCILLA. 155 
 
 No scholarship had Ephraim. A plain man, 
 
 Plain spoken, chary of his words was he, 
 
 But full of reverence for Priscilla's claims 
 
 To knowledge, learning-, and superior breeding. 
 
 Deep read was she in varied lore profound, — 
 
 Divinity, Romance, and Pharmacy, 
 
 And — so the neighbours whisper 'd — in deep things 
 
 Passing the Parson's wisdom. Store of books 
 
 (The richest portion of the bridal dower) 
 
 Were ranged in goodly order on two shelves 
 
 (The third and topmost with choice porcelain piled), 
 
 Surmounting an old walnut-tree bureau ; 
 
 The Holy Bible, cased in green shaloon, 
 
 And Book of Common Prayer (a fine black type) 
 
 Were laid conspicuous on the central spot, 
 
 As first in honour : flank'd on either side 
 
 By Taylor's Golden Grove, The Pilgrim's Progress, 
 
 And Fox's Book of Martyrs. How I loved 
 
 To ransack those old tawny, well-thumb'd leaves, 
 
 Supping my fill of horrors ! Sermons too — 
 
156 TEA-DRINKING. 
 
 (Discourses hydra-headed) had their place, 
 
 And " Hervey's Meditations 'mongst the Tombs," 
 
 With courtly Grandison and Pamela 
 
 (All full of cuts— supreme delight to me !) 
 
 And the true history — -sweetly scented name ! 
 
 Of Jemmy and fair Jenny Jessamy. 
 
 Then came a ragged row of Magazines, 
 
 And songs, and hymn-hooks. — " Kettlewell on 
 
 Death," 
 And " Glass's Cookery." Treatises abstruse 
 On Moles and Warts, and virtues of all herbs, 
 And ailments manifold that flesh is heir to. 
 What wonder if respect akin to awe 
 For her who own'd and studied those grave tomes 
 Impress'd the simple neighbours ? For myself — 
 — Unblushingly I do confess it now — 
 Not without tremor, half delight, half fear, 
 I enter'd, clinging to the Nursemaid's hand, 
 Through the dipt laurel porch, that small neat room, 
 
TEA-DRINKING. 157 
 
 So nicely sanded round the clean swept hearth, 
 Where sat expectant — (Mistress Jane I trow 
 Had her appointments for occult discourse 
 And cup of fragrant Hyson) — the wise woman 
 With her strange primm'd up smile ; the round claw 
 
 table 
 Set out before her with its precious freight 
 (In Sheffield tea-tray) of old real china, 
 The sugar-basin a scoop'd cocoa-nut 
 Curiously carved all o'er and ebon stain'd, 
 On three small toddling silver feet, rimm'd round 
 With the same precious metal ; silver tongs 
 Stuck for eifect among the sparkling knobs, 
 With two thin tea-spoons of the treasured six ; 
 There on its trivot the bright kettle sang, 
 Its cheek all ruddy with rich fire-light glow ; 
 And piping hot the butter'd oven-cake 
 Smoked on the fender ledge, all ready quarter'd ; 
 Inviting preparations ! not alone 
 To black-eyed Jane : the treat had charms for me 
 
158 CURIOSITIES. 
 
 More irresistible ; — that butter'd cake ! 
 
 — Forbidden dainty — tea with cream and sugar ! 
 
 True, but just flnish'd was my nursery meal — ■ 
 
 Dry bread and milk and water, " What of that ? 
 
 The precious lamb had walk'd a weary way, 
 
 And sure must need refreshment. One small piece 
 
 Of nice hot butter'd cake would do her good, 
 
 And tea, a saucer-full, to wash it down." 
 
 So urged the Dame : Jane shook her head and 
 
 smiled,— 
 Conscience made faint resistance, — the rich steam 
 Rose fragrant to my nostrils, and — I fell. 
 
 My treat despatch'd, the Maid and Matron turn'd 
 
 To whisper'd consultation, leaving me 
 
 (Right glad) to seek amusement as I would. 
 
 No lack of that, though I had staid for hours. — 
 
 There was the cat and kitten — always one, 
 
 A creature of immortal kittenhood, 
 
 For whom, suspended by a worsted thread 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK. 159 
 
 To knob of dresser drawer, a bobbing* cork 
 
 Dangled, perpetual plaything ; there aloft 
 
 Among the crock'ry stood a small stufFd pug, 
 
 Natural as life, tight curPd up tail and all, 
 
 And eyes that glared a snarl ; and there i' the sun 
 
 A venerable one-eyed cockatoo 
 
 With gouty legs, snored dozing in his cage — 
 
 A sacred trust ! by dying lips consign'd, 
 
 With his life income, to Priscilla's care. 
 
 Then there were prints and pictures hung all round — 
 
 Prints of the parables, and one rare piece, 
 
 A landscape — castles, clouds, trees, men, and sheep, 
 
 All featherwork ! Priscilla when she died 
 
 Bequeathed it to me. Poor old harmless soul ! 
 
 That ever half-afraid I should have shrank, 
 
 Scarce knowing why, from one who loved me kindly : 
 
 But then she look'd so strangely, and they said 
 
 Such strange things of her. 
 
 Well ! and then — and then — 
 There was the Book of Martyrs, and The Pilgrim, 
 
160 THE CUCKOO CLOCK. 
 
 And fifty other rarities and treasures; 
 
 But chief — surpassing* all — a cuckoo clock ! 
 
 That crowning wonder ! miracle of art ! 
 
 How have I stood entranced uncounted minutes, 
 
 With held-in breath, and eyes intently fix'd 
 
 On that small magic door, that when complete 
 
 Th' expiring hour — the irreversible — 
 
 Flew open with a startling suddenness 
 
 That, though expected, sent the rushing blood 
 
 In mantling flushes o'er my upturn'd face ; 
 
 And as the bird (that more than mortal fowl !) 
 
 With perfect mimicry of natural tone, 
 
 Note after note exact time's message told, 
 
 How my heart's pulse kept time with the charm'd 
 
 voice ! 
 And when it ceased made simultaneous pause 
 As the small door clapt to, and all was still. 
 
 Long did I meditate — yea, often dream 
 
 By day and night, at school-time and at play — 
 
THE CUCKOO CLOCK. 161 
 
 AJas ! at holiest seasons, even at church 
 
 The vision haunted me, — of that rare thing-, 
 
 And his surpassing- happiness to whom 
 
 Fate should assign its fellow. Thereupon 
 
 Sprang- up crude notions, vague incipient schemes 
 
 Of future independence : Not like those 
 
 Fermenting in the youthful brain of her 
 
 Maternally, on fashionable system, 
 
 Train'd up betimes i' the way that she should go 
 
 To the one great end — a good establishment. 
 
 Yet similar in some sort were our views 
 
 Toward contingent power. " When I'm a woman 
 
 I'll have/' quoth I, — so far the will and when 
 
 Tallied exactly, but our difference lay 
 
 Touching the end to be achieved. With me, 
 
 Not settlements, and pin-money, and spouse 
 
 Appendant, but in unencumber'd right 
 
 Of womanhood — a house and cuckoo clock ! 
 
162 WILLIAM GILPIN. 
 
 Hark ! as I hang reflective o'er my task, 
 
 The pen fresh nibb'd and full, held idly yet ; 
 
 What sound comes clicking- through the half-closed 
 
 Distinct, monotonous ? — 'Tis even so ; [door. 
 
 Years past, the pledge (self-plighted) was redeem'd ; 
 
 There hangs with its companionable voice 
 
 The cuckoo clock in this mine house. — Ay, mine ; 
 
 But left unto me desolate. Such end 
 
 Crowns oft Ambition's most successful aim 
 
 (Success than disappointment more defeating) ; 
 
 Passionate longing grasps the ripen'd fruit 
 
 And finds it marr'd, a canker at the core : 
 
 What shall I dare desire of earthly good 
 
 The seeming greatest ; what in prayer implore 
 
 Or deprecate, of that my secret soul 
 
 In fondness and in weakness covets most 
 
 Or deepest dreads, but with the crowning clause, 
 
 The sanctifying — " Lord! thy will be done?" 
 
 Farther a-field we jcurney'd, Jane and I, 
 
WILLIAM GILPIN — THE VISIT. 163 
 
 When summer days set in, with their long, light 
 Delicious evenings. Then — most happy child ! 
 Most favour'd ! I was sent a frequent guest, 
 Secure of welcome, to the loveliest home 
 Of all the country, o'er whose quiet walls 
 Brooded the twin-doves — Holiness and Peace : 
 There with thine aged partner didst thou dwell, 
 Pastor and master ! servant of thy Lord, 
 Faithful as he, the labours of whose love 
 Recorded by thy pen, embalm for aye 
 The name of Gilpin heired by thee — right heir 
 Of the saint's mantle. Holy Bernard's life, 
 Its apostolic graces unimpaired, 
 Renewed in William's, virtuous parish priest ! 
 
 Let me live o'er again, in fond detail, 
 
 One of those happy visits. Leave obtained, 
 
 Methought the clock stood still. Four hours past 
 
 noon, 
 And not yet started on our three mile walk ! 
 
164 WILLIAM GILPIN — THE VICARAGE. 
 
 And six the vicarage tea hour primitive, 
 
 And I should lose that precious hour, most prized, 
 
 When in the old man's study, at his feet, 
 
 Or nestling close beside him, I might sit 
 
 With eye, ear, soul intent on his mild voice, 
 
 And face benign, and words so simply wise, 
 
 Framed for his childish hearer. " Let us go !" 
 
 And like a fawn I bounded on before, 
 
 When lagging Jane came forth, and off we went. 
 
 Sultry the hour, and hot the dusty way, 
 
 Though here and there by leafy skreen o'erarched 
 
 And the long broiling hill ! and that last mile 
 When the small frame waxed weary ! the glib tongue 
 Slackening its motion with the languid limbs. 
 But joy was in my heart, howe'er suppressed 
 Its outward show exuberant ; and, at length, 
 Lo ! the last turning— lo ! the well-known door, 
 Festooned about with garlands picturesque, 
 Of trailing evergreens. Who's weary, now ? 
 Sounding the bell with that impatient pull 
 
WILLIAM GILPIN — THE VICARAGE. l65 
 
 That quickens Mistress Molly's answering steps 
 To most unusual promptness. Turns the lock — 
 The door uncloses — Molly's smiling face 
 Welcomes unasked. One eager, forward spring, 
 And farewell to the glaring world without ; 
 The glaring, bustling, noisy, parched-up world ! 
 And hail repose and verdure, turf and flowers, 
 Perfume of lilies, through the leafy gloom 
 White gleaming ; and the full, rich, mellow note 
 Of song thrush, hidden in the tall thick bay 
 Beside the study window ! 
 
 The old house 
 Through flickering shadows of high-arching boughs, 
 Caught gleams of sunlight on its time-stained walls, 
 And frieze of mantling vine ; and lower down, 
 Trained among jasmines to the southern bow, 
 Moss roses, bursting into richest bloom, 
 Blushed by the open window. There she sate, 
 The venerable lady (her white hair 
 White as the snowy coif), upon her book 
 
166 WILLIAM GILPIN — THE STUDY . 
 
 Or needlework intent ; and near at hand 
 The maiden sister friend (a life long- guest) 
 At her coarse sempstresship — another Dorcas, 
 Unwearying in the work of charity. 
 
 Oh ! kindest greeting ! as the door unclosed 
 
 That welcomed the half-bold half -bashful guest ; 
 
 And brought me bounding on at a half word 
 
 To meet the proffered kiss. Oh kindest care ! 
 
 Considerate of my long, hot, dusty walk, 
 
 Of hat and tippet that divested me, 
 
 And clinging gloves ; and from the glowing cheek 
 
 And hot brow, parted back the clustering curls, 
 
 Applying grateful coolness of clear lymph, 
 
 Distilled from fragrant elder — sovereign wash 
 
 For sunburnt skin and freckled ! Kindest care, 
 
 That followed up those offices of love 
 
 By cautionary charge to sit and rest 
 
 " Quite still till tea time." Kindest care, I trow ? 
 
 But little relished. Restless was my rest, 
 
WILLIAM GILPIN — THE STUDY. 167 
 
 And wistful eyes still wandering to the door, 
 Revealed " the secret of my discontent," 
 And told where I would be. The lady smiled, 
 And shook her head, and said, — 
 
 " Well ! go your ways 
 And ask admittance at that certain door 
 You know so well." All weariness was gone- 
 Blithe as a bird, thus freed, away I flew, 
 And in three seconds at the well-known door 
 Tapped gently ; and a gentle voice within 
 Asking " Who's there ? " " It's me" I answered 
 
 low, 
 Grammatically clear. " Let me come in." 
 The gentle voice rejoined; and in I stole, 
 Bashfully silent, as the good man's smile, 
 And hand extended, drew me to his chair ; 
 And there, all eye and ear, I stood full long, 
 Still tongueless, as it seemed ; love-tempering awe 
 Chaining my words up. But so kindly his, 
 His aspect so benign, his winning art 
 
168 WILLIAM GILPIN — THE STUDY. 
 
 So graciously conforming- ; in short time 
 Awe was absorbed in love, and then unchained 
 By perfect confidence, the little tongue 
 Questioned and answered with as careless ease 
 As might be, from irreverend boldness free. 
 True love may cast out fear, but not respect, 
 That fears the very shadow of offence. 
 
 How holy was the calm of that small room ! 
 How tenderly the evening light stole in, 
 As 'twere in reverence of its sanctity ! 
 Here and there touching with a golden gleam 
 Book-shelf or picture -frame,, or brightening up 
 The nosegay set with daily care (love's own) 
 Upon the study table. Dallying there 
 Among the books and papers, and with beam 
 Of softest radiance, starring like a glory 
 The old man's high bald head and noble brow — 
 There still I found him, busy with his pen — 
 (Oh pen of varied power ! found faithful ever. 
 
WILLIAM GILPIN THE STUDY. 169 
 
 Faithful and fearless in the one great cause) — . 
 Or some grave tome, or lighter work of taste 
 (His no ascetic, harsh, soul-narrowing creed), 
 Or that unrivalled pencil, with few strokes, 
 And sober tinting slight, that wrought effects 
 Most magical — the poetry of art ! 
 Lovely simplicity ! (true wisdom's grace) 
 That condescending to a simple child, 
 Spread out before me hoards of graphic treasures ; 
 Smiling encouragement, as I expressed 
 Delight or censure (for in full good faith 
 I played the critic), and vouchsafing mild 
 T' explain or vindicate ; in seeming sport 
 Instructing ever ; and on graver themes 
 Winning my heart to listen, as he taught 
 Things that pertain to life. 
 
 Oh precious seed ! 
 Sown early ; soon, too soon the sower's hand, 
 The immediate mortal instrument withdrawn. 
 Tares of this evil world sprang thickly up 
 
170 WILLIAM GILPIN. 
 
 Choking your promise. But the soil beneath 
 (Nor rock nor shifting" sand) retained ye still, 
 God's mercy willing it, until his hand, 
 Chastening as fathers chasten, cleared at last 
 Th' encumbered surface, and the grain sprang up.- 
 But hath it flourished ? — hath it yet borne fruit 
 Acceptable ? Oh Father ! leave it not 
 For lack of moisture yet to fall away ! 
 
NOTES TO PART THE THIRD. 
 
 (1.) " To eat and hang" 
 There exists, or did exist, in one of the Channel Islands, a sin- 
 gular convivial custom connected with the execution of criminals. 
 The members of Court meet to celebrate the occasion with a din- 
 ner, and a few non-professional friends are invited " to come and 
 eat a dead man." 
 
 (2.) " Down to the parish worthies" ^c. 
 It may be almost superfluous to mention that this line, and, 
 indeed, the whole paragraph, was written previous to the passing 
 of the Municipal Reform Bill. 
 
 (3.) " While the shower ." 
 " But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder 
 high honeysuckle hedge ; there we'll sit and sing, whilst this 
 shower falls so gently upon the teaming earth, and gives yet a 
 sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant mea- 
 dows. Look, under the broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was 
 last this way a-fishing, and the birds in an adjoining grove seemed 
 to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice 
 seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to that primrose hilL 5 '— - 
 Isaac Walton. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
L 175 ] 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The thought of early death was in my heart ; 
 Of the dark grave, and " dumb forgetfulness ;" 
 And with a weight like lead, 
 And overwhelming dread, 
 Mysteriously my spirit did oppress. 
 
 And forth I roamed in that distressful mood 
 Abroad into the sultry, sunless day ; 
 
 All hung with one dark cloud, 
 
 That like a sable shroud 
 On Nature's deep sepulchral stillness lay. 
 
 Black fell the shadows of the churchyard elms 
 (Unconsciously my feet had wandered there), 
 
 And through that awful gloom — 
 
 Head-stone and altar tomb 
 Among the green heaps gleam'd with ghastlier glare. 
 
1/6 THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Death — death was in my heart, as there I stood, 
 Mine eyes fast fixed upon a grass-grown mound ; 
 
 As though they would descry 
 
 The loathsome mystery 
 Consummating beneath that charnel ground. 
 
 Death — death was in my heart. Methought I felt 
 A heavy hand, that pressed me down below ; 
 And some resistless power 
 Made me, in that dark hour, 
 Half long to he, where I abhorred to go. 
 
 Then suddenly, albeit no breeze was felt, 
 
 Through the tall tree-tops ran a shiv'ring sound — 
 
 Forth from the western heaven 
 
 Flashed out the flaming levin, 
 And one long thunder-peal rolled echoing round. 
 
 One long, long echoing peal, and all was peace ; 
 Cool rain -drops gemmed the herbage — large and few ; 
 
 And that dull vault of lead, 
 
 Disparting over head, 
 Down beamed an eve of soft celestial blue. 
 
THE CHURCHYARD. 177 
 
 And up toward the heavenly portal sprang 
 A skylark, scattering off the feathery rain — 
 
 Up from my very feet ; — 
 
 And oh ! how clear and sweet 
 Rang through the fields of air his mounting strain. 
 
 Blithe, blessed creature ! take me there with thee — 
 I cried in spirit — passionately cried — . 
 
 But higher still and higher 
 
 Rang out that living Lyre, 
 As if the Bird disdained me in his pride. 
 
 And I was left below, but now no more 
 
 Plunged in the doleful realms of Death and Night — 
 Up with the skylark's lay, 
 My soul had winged her way 
 To the supernal source of Life and Light. 
 
[ 178 ] 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 How happily, how happily the flowers die away ! 
 Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they ; 
 Just live a life of sunshine, of innocence, and bloom, 
 Then drop without decrepitude or pain into the tomb* 
 
 The gay and glorious creatures ! " they neither toil 
 
 nor spin," 
 Yet lo! what goodly raiment they're all apparelled in ; 
 No tears are on their beauty, but dewy gems more 
 
 bright [light. 
 
 Than ever brow of eastern Queen, endiademed with 
 
 The young rejoicing creatures ! their pleasures never 
 
 pall — 
 Nor lose in sweet contentment, because so free to all ; 
 
 
THE DEA.TH OF THE FLOWERS. 179 
 
 The dew, the shower, the sunshine ; the balmy bless- 
 ed air, [share. 
 Spend nothing of their freshness, though all may freely 
 
 The happy careless creatures I of time they take no 
 
 heed; 
 Nor weary of his creeping, nor tremble at his speed ; 
 Nor sigh with sick impatience, and wish the light away ; 
 Nor when 'tis gone, cry dolefully, " Would God that 
 
 it were day." 
 
 And when their lives are over, they drop away to rest, 
 Unconscious of the penal doom, on holy Nature's 
 
 breast — 
 No pain have they in dying — no shrinking from decay. 
 Oh ! could we but return to earth as easily as they 1 
 
C 180 ] 
 
 THE SPELL OF MUSIC. 
 
 " Oh ! never, never hand of mine 
 Will wake the harp again, 
 
 The viewless harp, the many voiced, 
 The long* beloved in vain. 
 
 " Oh ! never, never heart of mine, 
 Throughout its inmost core, 
 
 With thrilling tones and symphonies 
 Will vibrate as of yore. 
 
 " On hand, and heart, and spirit now 
 A deadening spell has dropt — 
 
 * The Vision and the Voice ' are o'er, 
 The stream of fancy stopt." 
 
THE SPELL OF MUSIC. 181 
 
 'Twas thus I mused, when suddenly 
 
 A strain of music stole, 
 Like perfume on the night breeze borne, 
 
 Into mine inmost soul. 
 
 And lo ! the living instrument, 
 
 The chords unswept so long, 
 Responded that mysterious touch, 
 
 And trembled into song. 
 
[ 182 ] 
 
 TO DEATH. 
 
 Come not in terrors clad, to claim 
 An unresisting prey — 
 
 Come like an evening* shadow, Death ! 
 So stealthily ! so silently : 
 
 And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath- 
 Then willingly — oh ! willingly 
 With thee I'll go away. 
 
 What need to clutch with iron grasp 
 What gentlest touch may take ? 
 
 What need, with aspect dark, to scare 
 So awfully — so terribly, 
 
 The weary soul would hardly care, 
 
 Called quietly, called tenderly, 
 
 From thy dread power to break ? 
 
 Tis not as when thou markest out 
 The young — the blest — the gay ; 
 
TO DEATH. 183 
 
 The loved, the loving ; they who dream 
 
 So happily, so hopefully; 
 Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, 
 
 And shrinkingly — reluctantly 
 The summoned may obey. 
 
 But I have drank enough of life 
 (The cup assigned to me 
 Dashed with a little sweet at best, 
 So scantily — so scantily) — 
 To know full well that all the rest, 
 More bitterly — more bitterly 
 Drugged to the last will be : — 
 
 And I may live to pain some heart 
 
 That kindly cares for me — 
 To pain, but not to bless. O Death ! 
 
 Come quietly — come lovingly, 
 And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath ; 
 
 Then willingly — oh ! willingly 
 With thee I'll go away. 
 
[ 184 ] 
 
 WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? 
 
 " When shall we meet again ? " my friend, 
 
 An awful question thine ; 
 " Where shall we meet again ? " not ours 
 
 The secret to divine. 
 
 Not ours to lift the veil, perchance 
 
 In tender mercy drawn ; 
 Oh ! could we look beyond, would Hope 
 
 Still lead us cheerly on ? 
 
 Should we behold two living friends, 
 
 Long sundered, meet at last 
 In the far distance ? or appalled, 
 
 Our shuddering glances cast 
 
WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN ? 185 
 
 On a dark mound of Paynim mould 
 
 Uncrowned by turban'd stone ; 
 Or a green grave of English earth, 
 
 As lowly and as lone ? 
 
 Oh ! likelier that — that English grave ; 
 
 And one methinks may stand 
 Hereafter on its sod, and think 
 
 " Alas, my native land ! 
 
 " A warmer welcome had been mine 
 
 This trying hour to cheer, 
 Had the poor heart been warm with life 
 
 Which darkly moulders here/' 
 
 Nay let it fall that blessed veil 
 
 Which shuts the future out ; 
 The earthly future — but beyond, 
 
 Away with dread and doubt. 
 
186 WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN ? 
 
 " When shall we meet ? " When Time is o'er, 
 
 And Sorrow past, and Pain ; 
 " Where shall we meet ? " God grant in Heaven, 
 
 Never to part again. 
 
[ 187 ] 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, when Hope hath built 
 a bower 
 
 Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thorn- 
 less flower, 
 
 To dwell therein securely, the self-deceiver's trust, 
 
 A whirlwind from the desert comes, and " all is in the 
 dust." 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, that when the poor 
 
 heart clings 
 With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings, 
 That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, 
 Is struck to earth by lightnings or shattered by the blast, 
 
188 TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with beams of mortal 
 bliss, [as this ; 
 
 With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world 
 
 One moment round about us their " angel * light- 
 nings " play, [past away. 
 
 Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all hath 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with sounds too sweet 
 for earth — 
 
 Seraphic sounds, that float away (borne Heaven- 
 ward) in their birth ; 
 
 The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute, 
 
 The sweet bells all are silent, and hushed the lovely 
 lute. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with all that's best be- 
 low, 
 The dearest, noblest; loveliest, are always first to go, 
 
 * "II lampeggiar del angelico riso." 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF ISABEL SOUTHEY. 189 
 
 The bird that sings the sweetest, the pine that crowns 
 
 the rock, 
 The glory of the garden, the flower of the flock. 
 
 'Tis ever thus — 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly 
 fair, [tures bear ; 
 
 Too finely framed to 'bide the brunt more earthly na- 
 A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love, 
 Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek 
 their home above. 
 
C 190 ] 
 
 "AURA VENI." 
 
 Balmy freshness ! heavenly air, 
 Cool, oh ! cool this burning brow ; 
 
 Loose the fiery circlet there — 
 Blessed thing ! I feel ye now. 
 
 Blessed thing ! depart not yet, 
 
 Let me, let me quaff my fill, 
 Leave me not my soul to fret, 
 
 Gasping for what mocks me still. 
 
 Oh ! the weary, weary nights 
 
 I've lain awake and thought of thee ; 
 
 Of clouds and corn — and all sweet sights 
 Of shade and sunshine, flower and tree ; 
 
" AURA VENI." 191 
 
 Of running waters, rippling clear, 
 Of greenwood glen, and gipsy camp ; 
 
 Then how I loathed to see and hear 
 That ticking watch, that sickly, lamp 5 
 
 And longed, at least for light again, 
 
 For day — that brought no change to me — 
 
 The weight was on my heart and brain ; 
 God might remove it — only He, 
 
 And now and then the fount of tears, 
 
 So seeming dry, was free to flow ; 
 'Twas worth a score of joyous years, 
 
 That short-lived luxury of wo. 
 
 And in the midst of all my pain, 
 
 I knew I was not quite forgot, 
 I knew my cry was not in vain, 
 
 So I was sad, but fainted not. 
 
192 " AURA VENI." 
 
 And now the merciful command 
 
 Has lightened what was worst to bear, 
 
 And given of better days at hand 
 A foretaste in this blessed air. 
 
[ 193 ] 
 
 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 My Baby ! my poor little one ! thou'rt come a winter 
 
 flower, 
 A pale and tender blossom, in a cold unkindly hour ; 
 Thou comest like the snowdrop, and like that pretty 
 
 thing, 
 The power that calls my bud to life will shield its 
 
 blossoming. 
 
 The snowdrop hath no guardian leaves, to fold her 
 
 safe and warm, 
 Yet well she bides the bitter blast, and weathers out 
 
 the storm ; [I know 
 
 I shall not long enfold thee thus — not long, but well 
 The everlasting arms, my Babe ! will never let thee go. 
 
 N 
 
194 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 The snowdrop — how it haunts me still! — hang's down 
 her fair young head ; 
 
 So thine may droop in days to come, when I have 
 long been dead. 
 
 And yet, the little snowdrop's safe — from her instruc- 
 tion seek ; [meek? 
 
 For who would crush the motherless, the lowly and the 
 
 Yet motherless thou'lt not be long — not long in name, 
 my life ! [wife ; 
 
 Thy father soon will bring him home another, fairer 
 Be loving, dutiful to her — find favour in her sight, 
 But never, O ! my child, forget thine own poor mo- 
 ther quite. 
 
 But who will speak to thee of her ? — the gravestone 
 at her head [dead ; 
 
 Will only tell the name and age, and lineage of the 
 But not a word of all the love — the mighty love for thee, 
 That crowded years into an hour of brief maternity. 
 
THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 195 
 
 They'll put my picture from its place, to fix another's 
 
 there, 
 That picture that was thought so like, and then so 
 
 passing- fair ! [thine own ; 
 
 Some chamber in thy father's house they'll let thee call 
 Oh ! take it there to look upon, when thou art all alone — 
 
 To breathe thine early griefs unto, if such assail my 
 child ; [mild. 
 
 To turn to from less loving looks, from faces not so 
 
 Alas ! unconscious little one, thou'lt never know that 
 best, [breast. 
 
 That holiest home of all the earth, a living Mother's 
 
 I do repent me now too late of each impatient thought, 
 That would not let me tarry out God's leisure as I 
 
 ought : 
 I've been too hasty, peevish, proud; I long'd to go away ; 
 And now I'd fain live on for thee, God will not let 
 
 me stay. 
 
196 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 Oh ! when I think of what I was, and what / might 
 have been, — [nineteen : 
 
 A bride last year — and now to die ! — and I am scarce 
 
 And just — just op'ning in my heart a fount of love 
 so new ! 
 
 So deep ! — Could that have run to waste — could 
 that have fail'd me too ? 
 
 The bliss it would have been to see my daughter at 
 
 my side ! 
 My prime of life scarce overblown, and hers in all its pride . 
 To deck her with my finest things — with all I've rich 
 
 and rare; [fair!" 
 
 To hear it said — " How beautiful ! and good as she is 
 
 And then to place the marriage wreath upon that 
 
 bright young brow — 
 — Oh ! no — not that — 'tis full of thorns Alas ! 
 
 I'm wand'ring now. 
 
THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 197 
 
 This weak, weak head ! this foolish heart ! they'll 
 
 cheat me to the last : 
 I've been a dreamer all my life, and now that life is past. 
 
 Thou'lt have thy father's eyes, my child ! — Oh ! once 
 
 how kind they were ! 
 His long black lashes — his own smile — and just such 
 
 raven hair. 
 But here's a mark — Poor innocent ! he'll love thee 
 
 for't the less — [to press. 
 
 Like that upon thy Mother's cheek his lips were wont 
 
 And yet — perhaps I do him wrong — perhaps, when 
 
 all's forgot 
 But our young loves, in memory's mood he'll kiss this 
 
 very spot ; 
 Oh ! then, my dearest ! clasp thine arms about his neck 
 
 full fast, [the last. 
 
 And whisper that I bless'd him now, and loved him to 
 
198 THE DYING MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 
 
 I've heard that little infants converse by smiles and signs 
 With the guardian band of angels that round about 
 
 them shines, 
 Unseen by grosser senses ; — Beloved one ! dost thou 
 Smile so upon thy heavenly friends, and commune 
 
 with them now ? 
 
 And hast thou not one look for me ? Those little 
 
 restless eyes 
 Are wand'ring, wand'ring, ev'rywhere, the while thy 
 
 Mother dies ; — 
 And yet — perhaps thou'rt seeking me — expecting me, 
 
 mine own ! 
 Come, Death ! and make me to my child at least in 
 
 spirit known. 
 
C 199 ] 
 
 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 
 
 I love thee well, my dainty flower ! 
 
 My wee, white cowering thing-, 
 That shrinketh like a cottage maid, 
 Of bold, uncivil eyes afraid, 
 
 Within thy leafy ring I 
 
 I love thee well, my dainty dear ! 
 
 Not only that thou'rt fair — 
 Not only for thy downcast eye, 
 Nor thy sweet breath, so lovingly, 
 
 That wooes the caller air- 
 But that a world of dreamy thoughts 
 
 The sight of thee doth bring ; 
 Like birds who've wander'd far from hence, 
 And come again (we know not whence) 
 
 At the first call of spring. 
 
200 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 
 
 As here I stand and look on thee, 
 
 Before mine eyes doth pass — 
 (Clearing and quick'ning as I gaze) 
 An evening scene of other days, 
 As in a magic glass. 
 
 I see a small old-fashioned room, 
 
 With pannell'd wainscot high — 
 Old portraits, round in order set, 
 Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffet 
 Of dark mahogany ; 
 
 Twin china jars, on brackets high, 
 
 With grinning Monsters crown 'd ; 
 
 And one, that like a Phoenix' nest, 
 
 Exhales all Araby the Blest, 
 
 From that old bookcase round. 
 
 And there a high-back'd, hard settee, 
 
 On six brown legs and paws, 
 FlowYd o'er with silk embroidery, 
 And there, — all rough with filigree, — 
 Tall screens on gilded claws. 
 
TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 201 
 
 Down drops the damask curtain there 
 
 In many a lustrous fold ; 
 The fire-light flashing broad and high, 
 Floods its pale amber gorgeously 
 
 With waves of redder gold. 
 
 And lo ! the flamy brightness wakes 
 Those pictured shapes to life — 
 
 My Lady's lip grows moist and warm. 
 
 And dark Sir Edward's mailed form 
 Starts out for mortal strife — 
 
 And living, breathing forms are round — 
 
 Some gently touch'd by Time, 
 Staid Elders, clust'ring by the hearth, 
 And one, the soul of youthful mirth 
 
 Outlasting youthful prime* 
 
 And there — where she presides so well, 
 
 With fair dispensing hands — 
 Where tapers shine, and porcelain gleams, 
 And muffins smoke, and tea-urn steams, 
 
 The Pembroke Table stands — 
 
202 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 
 
 That heir-loom Tea-pot ! — Graphic Muse ! 
 
 Describe it if thou'rt able — 
 Methinks — were such advances meet — 
 On those three, tiny, toddling feet, 
 
 'T would swim across the table 
 
 And curtsy to the coffee-pot 
 
 (Cocmettishly demure), 
 Tall, quaint compeer ! — fit partner he 
 To lead with her so gracefully 
 
 Le minuet de la cour ! 
 
 Ah, precious Monsters ! dear Antiques ! 
 
 More beautiful to me, 
 Than modern, fine, affected things, 
 With classic claws, and beaks, and wings 
 
 (" God save the mark ! '') can be — 
 
 How grateful tastes th' infused herb ! 
 
 How pleasant its perfume ! 
 Some sit and sip ; — with cup in hand 
 This saunters round ; — while others stand 
 
 In knots about the room — 
 
TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 203 
 
 In cozy knots — there, three and four — 
 
 And here, one, two, and three — 
 Here by my little dainty flower — 
 Oh fragrant thing ! Oh pleasant hour ! 
 
 Oh gentle company ! 
 
 Come, Idler, set that cup aside, 
 
 And tune the flute for me — 
 What will I have ? Oh, prithee, play 
 That air I love — " Te bien aimer 
 
 Pour toujours ma Zelie." 
 
 Sweet air !« — sweet flower ! — sweet social looks ! — 
 Dear friends ! — young, happy hearts ! 
 
 How now ! — What ! all alone am I ? 
 
 Come they with cruel mockery 
 Like shadows to depart ? 
 
 Ay, shadows all — gone every face 
 
 I loved to look upon — 
 Hush'd every strain I loved to hear, 
 Or sounding in a distant ear — 
 
 " All gone ! — all gone ! — all gone ! " 
 
204 TO THE SWEET-SCENTED CYCLAMEN. 
 
 Some far away in other lands — 
 
 In this — some worse than dead — 
 Some in their graves laid quietly — 
 One, slumb'ring in the deep, deep sea — 
 All gone ! — all lost !— all fled ! 
 
 And here am I — I live and breathe, 
 
 And stand, as then I stood, 
 Beside my little dainty flower — 
 But now, in what an alter'd hour ! 
 
 In what an alter'd mood ! 
 
 And yet I love to linger here — 
 
 To inhale this od'rous breath — 
 
 (Faint as a whisper from the tomb) 
 
 To gaze upon this pallid bloom 
 As on the face of Death, 
 
[ 205 ] 
 
 THE TREATY. 
 
 Never tell me of loving by measure and weight, 
 
 As one's merits may lack or abound ; 
 As if love could be carried to market like skate, 
 
 And cheapen'd for so much a-pound. 
 
 If it can — if yours can, let them have it who care — 
 You and I, friend ! shall never agree — 
 
 Pack up, and to market be off with your ware ; 
 It's a great deal too common for me. 
 
 D'ye linger ? — d ! 'ye laugh ? — I'm in earnest I vow — 
 Though perhaps over hasty a thought ; 
 
 If you're thinking to close with my terms as they are, 
 Well and good — -but I wont bate a jot. 
 
206 THE TREATY. 
 
 You must love me — We'll note the chief articles now, 
 To preclude all mistakes in our pact — 
 
 And I'll pledge ye, unask'd and beforehand, my vow, 
 To give double for all I exact. 
 
 You must love me — not only through " evil report," 
 When its falsehood you more than divine ; 
 
 But when upon earth I can only resort 
 To your heart as a voucher for mine. 
 
 You must love — notmy faults — but in spite of them, me, 
 
 For the very caprices that vex ye : 
 Nay the more, should you chance (as it's likely) to see 
 
 'Tis my special delight to perplex ye. 
 
 You must love me, albeit all the world I offend 
 
 By impertinence, whimsies, conceit ; 
 While assured (if you are not, all treaty must end) 
 
 That I never can stoop to deceit 
 
THE TREATY. 207 
 
 While assured (as you must be, or there too we part) 
 That were all the world leagued against you, 
 
 To loosen one hair of your hold on my heart 
 Would be more than " life's labours" could do. 
 
 You must love me, howe'er I may take things amiss, 
 Whereof you in all conscience stand clear ; 
 
 And although, when you'd fain make it up with a kiss, 
 Your reward be a box on the ear. 
 
 * 
 You must love me — not only when smiling and gay, 
 
 Complying, sweet temper'd, and civil ; 
 But when moping, and frowning, and froward — or say 
 
 The thing plain out — as cross as the Devil. 
 
 You must love me in all moods — in seriousness, sport ; 
 
 Under all change of circumstance too : 
 Apart, or together, in crowds, or — in short 
 
 You must love me — because I love you. 
 
[ 208 1 
 
 THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession, 
 which he met on its way to the cemetery of Rosetta, says — " The 
 procession we saw pass stopped before certain houses, and some- 
 times receded a few steps. I was told that the dead stopped thus 
 before the doors of their friends to bid them a last farewell, and 
 before those of their enemies to effect a reconciliation before they 
 parted for ever. " — Correspondence d' Orient, par MM. Michaud 
 et Poujoulat. 
 
 Slowly, with measured tread, 
 Onward we bear the dead 
 
 To his long home. 
 Short grows the homeward road, 
 On with your mortal load. 
 
 Oh, Grave ! we come. 
 
THE LAST JOURNEY. 209 
 
 Yet, yet — ah ! hasten not 
 Past each familiar spot 
 
 Where he hath been ; 
 Where late he walked in glee, 
 There from henceforth to be 
 
 Never more seen. 
 
 Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move — 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 Fast from our sight — 
 Let the air breathe on him, 
 And the sun leave on him 
 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 Rest ye — set down the bier, 
 
 One he loved dwelleth here. 
 
 Let the dead lie 
 
 A moment that door beside, 
 
 Wont to fly open wide 
 
 Ere he came nigh. 
 o 
 
210 THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 Harken ! — he speaketh yet — 
 " Oh, friend ! wilt thou forget 
 
 (Friend more than brother !) 
 How hand in hand we've gone, 
 Heart with heart linked in one — 
 
 All to each other ? 
 
 " Oh, friend ! I go from thee, 
 Where the worm feasteth free, 
 
 Darkly to dwell — 
 Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 
 Friend ! is it come to this ? 
 
 Oh, friend, farewell ! " 
 
 Uplift your load again, 
 
 Take up the mourning strain ! 
 
 Pour the deep wail ! 
 Lo ! the expected one 
 To his place passeth on, — 
 
 Grave ! bid him haiL 
 
THE LAST JOURNEY. 211 
 
 Yet, yet — ah ! — slowly move ; 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 Fast from our sight — 
 Let the air breathe on him, 
 And the sun leave on him 
 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
 Lay the departed low, 
 
 E'en at his gate. — 
 Will the dead speak again ? 
 Uttering proud boasts and vain, 
 
 Last words of hate ? 
 
 Lo ! the dead lips unclose — 
 
 List ! list ! what sounds are those, 
 
 Plaintive and low ? 
 " Oh thou, mine enemy ! 
 Come forth and look on me 
 
 Ere hence I go. 
 
212 THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 " Curse not thy foeman now — 
 Mark ! on his pallid brow 
 Whose seal is set ! 
 Pardoning I past away — 
 Thou— wage not war with clay- 
 Pardon— forget." 
 
 Now his last labour's done ! 
 Now, now the goal is won ! 
 
 Oh, Grave ! we come. 
 Seal up this precious dust — 
 Land of the good and just, 
 
 Take the soul home ! 
 
[ 213 ] 
 
 ONCE UPON A TIME. 
 
 Sunny locks of brightest hue 
 Once around my temples grew, — 
 Laugh not, Lady ! for 'tis true ; 
 Laugh not, Lady ! for with thee 
 Time may deal despitefully ; 
 Time, if long he lead thee here, 
 May subdue that mirthful cheer ; 
 Round those laughing lips and eyes 
 Time may write sad histories ; 
 Deep indent that even brow, 
 Change those locks, so sunny now, 
 To as dark and dull a shade, 
 As on mine his touch hath laid. 
 
214 ONCE UPON A TIME. 
 
 Lady ! yes, these locks of mine 
 Clustered once with golden shine, 
 Temples, neck, and shoulders round, 
 Richly gushing if unbound, 
 If from band and bodkin free, 
 Wellnigh downward to the knee. 
 Some there were took fond delight, 
 Sporting with those tresses bright, 
 To enring with living gold 
 Fingers, now beneath the mould 
 (Wo is me !) grown icy cold. 
 
 One dear hand hath smooth'd them too 
 Since they lost the sunny hue, 
 Since their bright abundance fell 
 Under the destroying spell — 
 One dear hand ! the tenderest 
 Ever nurse child rock'd to rest, 
 Ever wiped away its tears — 
 Even those of later years 
 
ONCE UPON A TIME. 215 
 
 From a cheek untimely hollow, 
 Bitter drops that still may follow, 
 Where's the hand will wipe away ? 
 Hers I kiss'd — (Ah ! dismal day) 
 Pale as on the shroud it lay. 
 Then, methought, youth's latest gleam 
 Departed from me like a dream — 
 Still, though lost their sunny tone, 
 Glossy brown those tresses shone, 
 Here and there, in wave and ring, 
 Golden threads still glittering ; 
 And (from band and bodkin free) 
 Still they flow'd luxuriantly. 
 
 Careful days, and wakeful nights, 
 Early trench'd on young delights. 
 Then of ills an endless train, 
 Wasting languor, wearying pain, 
 Fey'rish thought that racks the brain, 
 
216 ONCE UPON A TIME. 
 
 Crowding- all on summer's prime, 
 Made me old before my time. 
 So a dull, unlovely hue 
 O'er the sunny tresses grew, 
 Thinn'd their rich abundance too, 
 Not a thread of golden light 
 In the sunshine glancing bright. 
 
 Now again a shining streak 
 'Gins the dusky cloud to break ; — 
 Here and there a glittering thread 
 Lights the ringlets, dark and dead, — 
 Glittering light ! — but pale and cold- 
 Glittering thread ! — but not of gold. 
 
 Silent warning ! silvery streak ! 
 Not unheeded dost thou speak. 
 Not with feelings light and vain — 
 Not with fond regretful pain, 
 
ONCE UPON A TIME. 217 
 
 Look I on the token sent 
 To declare the day far spent ; — 
 Dark and troubled hath it been — 
 Sore misused ! and yet between 
 Gracious gleams of peace and grace 
 Shining from a better place. 
 
 Brighten — brighten, blessed light ! 
 Fast approach the shades of night, — 
 When they quite enclose me round, 
 May my lamp be burning found ! 
 
[ 218 ] 
 
 LITTLE LEONARD'S « GOOD- 
 NIGHT." 
 
 " GooD-night ! good-night ! I go to sleep," 
 
 Murmur'd the little child ; — 
 And oh ! the ray of Heaven that broke 
 On the sweet lips that faintly spoke 
 
 That soft " Good-night," and smiled. 
 
 That angel smile ! that loving look 
 
 From the dim closing eyes ! 
 The peace of that pure brow ! But there — 
 Ay — on that brow, so young ! so fair ! 
 
 An awful shadow lies. 
 
little Leonard's " good-night." 219 
 
 The gloom of evening- — of the boughs 
 
 That o'er yon window wave ? — 
 Nay, nay — within these silent walls, 
 A deeper, darker shadow falls, 
 
 The twilight of the Grave — - 
 
 The twilight of the Grave — -for still 
 Fast comes the fluttering breath — 
 
 One fading smile — one look of love — 
 
 A murmur — as from brooding dove — 
 
 " Good-night/' And this is Death ! 
 
 Oh ! who hath called thee " Terrible ! " 
 
 Mild Angel ! most benign ! 
 Could mother's fondest lullaby 
 Have laid to rest more blissfully 
 
 That sleeping babe than thine ! 
 
 Yet this is Death — the doom for all 
 
 Of Adam's race decreed — 
 " But this poor lamb ! this little one ! — 
 What had the guiltless creature done ? " 
 
 Unhappy heart ! take heed ; 
 
220 little Leonard's good-night. 
 
 Though he is merciful as just 
 
 Who hears that fond appeal — 
 He will not break the bruised reed, 
 He will not search the wounds that bleed- 
 He only wounds to heal. 
 
 " Let little children come to me," 
 
 He cried, and to his breast 
 Folded them tenderly— To-day 
 He calls thine unshorn lamb away 
 To that securest rest ! 
 
[ 221 ] 
 
 DEPARTURE. 
 
 When I go away from my own dear home 
 
 Let it be at the fall of the leaf — 
 When the soulless things that to me have been 
 Like spirits peopling the silent scene. 
 
 Are fading, as if in grief. 
 
 When the strains of the summer birds have ceased, 
 
 Or in far-off regions swell — 
 Oh ! let me not hear the blithesome song 
 Of that Blackbird I fed all winter long, 
 
 When I'm taking my last farewell. 
 
 The Robin-redbreast will come, I know, 
 
 That morn to the window pane, 
 To look, as wont, for the scattered feast, 
 With his large dark eyes : — and that day, at least? 
 
 He shall not look in vain. 
 
DEPARTURE. 222 
 
 Let the Autumn wind, when I go away, 
 
 Make moan with its long-drawn breath — 
 
 " Fare thee well, sad one I " 'twill seem to say — 
 
 " Yet a little while, and a little way, 
 And thy feet shall rest in death." 
 
 And here, and there, an evergreen leaf 
 
 I'll gather from shrub and tree, 
 To take with me wherever I go ; 
 And when this poor head in dust lies low, 
 
 To be laid in the coffin with me 
 
 I go not like one in the strength of youth, 
 Who hopes, though the passing cloud 
 
 May pour down its icy hail amain, 
 
 That summer and sunshine may break out again 
 The brighter from sorrow's shroud. 
 
 An April morn and a clouded day 
 
 My portion of life hath been : 
 And darker and darker the evening sky 
 Stretches before me gloomily, 
 
 To the verge of the closing scene. 
 
DEPARTURE. 223 
 
 Gloomily darkens the evening sky : 
 
 I shall go with a heavy heart — 
 Yet — would I change, if the power were mine, 
 One tittle decreed by the will Divine ? 
 
 Oh ! no — not a thousandth part ; — 
 
 In my blindness I've wished — in my feebleness wept — 
 
 With a weak, weak woman's wail — 
 But humbling my heart and its hopes in the dust 
 (All its hopes that are earthly) — Fve anchored my trust 
 On the strength that can never fail. 
 
[ 224 ] 
 
 "HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE 
 MIND ! " 
 
 AN EXILE S SONG. 
 
 " When I think of my own native land, 
 In a moment I seem to be there." 
 
 That flower, that flower! Oh! pluck that flower 
 for me ! 
 
 There, in the running* stream, 
 Its silvery* clusters gleam : 
 Oh ! give it me I 
 The same ! the very same ! I knew it well, 
 Last seen so long ago. Oh, simple flower, 
 That sight of thee should waken up this hour 
 Thoughts more than tongue can tell ! 
 
 * The Buckbean. 
 
"HOW SWIFT IS A GLANCE OF THE MIND 1 ." 225 
 
 A moment since and I was calm and cold — 
 Cold as this world to me, 
 With all its pageantry, 
 Grown stale and old. 
 Now the warm blood, through every throbbing vein 
 Fast hurrying, mantles over cheek and brow, 
 Like youth and hope rekindling — ebbing now 
 To the full heart again : 
 
 Leaving a paler cheek — a glistening eye 
 With wat'ry gaze fixed fast 
 On visions of the past ; 
 Oh ! where am I ? 
 At home, at home again in mine own land ; 
 
 Its mountain streams are murm'ring in mine ear, 
 And thrilling voices from loud lips I hear. 
 There — there the loving band. 
 
 Mine own long lost ! — Oh ! take the weary one 
 To weep on some dear breast 
 This agony to rest — 
 On thine, my son ! 
 p 
 
226 "how swift is a glance of the mind!" 
 
 Thou answerest not — None answer me — that cry 
 Was from mine own sad heart ; and they are 
 
 gone — 
 And at my feet the little brook flows on, 
 Tranquilly — tranquilly. 
 
 No mountain streamlet of my native land ; 
 Yet doth its voice to me 
 Sound sweet and soothingly; 
 
 And in mine hand, [hold 
 
 Of those pale flowers (now gemmed with tears) I 
 Henceforth to memory sacred : — from this hour 
 That they've awakened with such wondrous power, 
 Dreams of the days of old. 
 
C 227 ] 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED, 
 
 Tread softly — bow the head — 
 
 In reverent silence bow — 
 No passing bell doth toll, 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 
 Is passing now. 
 
 Stranger ! however great, 
 
 With lowly reverence bow ; 
 There's one in that poor shed — 
 One by that paltry bed, 
 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that Beggar's roof, 
 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state i 
 Enter — no crowds attend — 
 Enter — no guards defend 
 This palace gate. 
 
228 the pauper's death-bed. 
 
 That pavement damp and cold 
 No smiling courtiers tread ; 
 One silent woman stands 
 Lifting- with meager hands 
 A dying head. 
 
 No mingling voices sound — 
 
 An infant wail alone ; 
 A sob suppress'd — again 
 That short deep gasp, and then 
 The parting groan. 
 
 Oh ! change — Oh ! wond'rous change- 
 Burst are the prison bars — 
 This moment there, so low, 
 So agonized, and now 
 
 Beyond the stars ! 
 
 Oh ! change — stupendous change ! 
 
 There lies the soulless clod : 
 The Sun eternal breaks — 
 The new Immortal wakes — 
 
 Wakes with his God. 
 
[ 229 ] 
 
 TO MY OLD CANARY. 
 
 'Tis many a long year now, Birdie ! 
 
 Ay, sure — some seven years good, 
 Since I rhymed to you one day, 
 On a certain morn of May, 
 
 In an idle, sing-song mood. 
 
 I remember it all as well, Birdie, 
 
 The hour, and the place and the mood, 
 
 As if time, since slipt away, 
 
 Were little more than a day, 
 And yet is it seven years good ! 
 
 A great sum of life struck off, Birdie ! 
 
 And I feel it has told with me — 
 But you're looking as young and bright 
 As you did in that May morn's light, 
 
 And you're singing more merrily. 
 
230 TO MY OLD CANARY. 
 
 For then you were moping and mute, Birdie, 
 Though I begg'd (and you seem'd to hear me) 
 
 That you'd tune up that little throat, 
 
 But you never vouchsafed a note, 
 Not a single note to cheer me. 
 
 And your silence seem'd very unkind ; 
 
 For, in sooth — as I well remember — 
 Though Earth wore her best array 
 That beautiful month of May, 
 
 My heart was as sad as December. 
 
 For then first I felt myself lonely, 
 Quite — quite left alone upon earth, 
 
 Hid for ever the last loving face, 
 
 And even the old dog's place, 
 Forsaken beside the hearth. 
 
 And I — though a sickly creature, 
 
 Might still live lingering on, 
 Like a trampled passion-flower, 
 Torn down from its bonny bower, 
 
 When all I had clung to was gone. 
 
TO MY OLD CANARY. 231 
 
 I sat at my pleasant window, 
 
 Where the myrtle and rose peep'd in, 
 
 And without, such a smile serene 
 
 Pervaded the quiet scene, 
 
 That sorrow seem'd almost a sin. 
 
 And I tried to rejoice with Nature, 
 
 For my heart was not sullen though sad ; 
 
 But the cloud of my spirit lay 
 
 On all beautiful things that day, 
 
 And I could not — I could not be glad. 
 
 So I bent again to the task 
 
 That had dropt unperceived on my knee, 
 And my needle began to ply, 
 Busily — busily — 
 
 As fast, as fast could be. 
 
 Stitch after stitch I set 
 
 Mechanically true, 
 But the seeming gaze intent, 
 On that dull labour bent, 
 
 Had little with thought to do. 
 
232 TO MY OLD CANARY. 
 
 And soon from the careless finger 
 A crimson drop was drawn — 
 
 And next — from a source less near — 
 
 Another, as crystal clear, 
 Dropt on the snowy lawn. 
 
 And my sight grew dim — and again 
 
 My hands fell listlessly — 
 And the sound of my very breath, 
 In that stillness as deep as death, 
 Was a distress to me. 
 
 " Oh ! for a sound of life 
 
 From a single living thing," 
 I passionately cried — 
 And thou wert by my side, 
 Birdie ! and didst not sing. 
 
 Then 'twas that rhymed remonstrance 
 
 (So famous !) I spake to thee, 
 Not surely less improving, 
 Than it was deeply moving, 
 And its effect on me 
 
TO MY OLD CANARY. 233 
 
 Was wondrously relieving- — 
 
 For as my verse flow'd on, 
 Sad thoughts it did beguile, 
 And for a little while 
 
 My loneliness was gone. 
 
 And from that very moment, 
 
 Birdie ! I do opine, 
 There has been more in thee 
 Than common eyes can see — 
 
 Or any eyes but mine. 
 
 'Tis not because thy music 
 
 Is ceaseless now all day 
 (As many a deafen'd guest 
 Can ruefully attest) 
 
 That thus of thee I say : 
 
 But that when night is round us, 
 
 And every guest is gone, 
 And by the taper's beam, 
 Or fire-light's ruddier gleam, 
 
 I'm sitting all alone, 
 
234 TO MY OLD CANARY. 
 
 Forth from thy gilded prison, 
 
 Soft silvery tones 'gin swell, 
 More sweet and tender far 
 Than tenderest warblings are 
 Of love-lorn Philomel — 
 
 And thou, the while, fast perch'd, 
 
 As if asleep — so still ! 
 That tremulous under tone, 
 Liquidly gurgling on, 
 
 Like a tiny, tinkling rill. — 
 
 And when I watch thee closer, 
 Small creature ! with surprise, 
 
 Half doubtful, if from thee 
 
 That marvellous melody, 
 I meet thy watchful eyes, 
 
 Those bright black eyes, so strangely, 
 Methinks, that answer mine ; 
 
 It surely seems to me, 
 
 Some spirit thou must be, 
 Pent in that plumy shrine — 
 
TO MY OLD CANARY. 235 
 
 But whether spirit, fairy, 
 
 Or mortal fowl thou art, 
 I thank thee, pretty creature ! 
 My comforter ! my teacher ! 
 
 I thank thee from my heart — - 
 
 My comforter I call thee— 
 
 For many a heavy hour, 
 Hath lightened of its sadness, 
 Nay— half attuned to gladness, 
 
 Thy small pipe's witching power, 
 
 And often-time while list'ning, 
 
 I've caught th' infectious tone ; 
 And murmur'd fitful words — 
 And struck a few faint chords, 
 
 Wild music of my own ; 
 
 Till to the realms of Cloudland, 
 
 Freed Fancy wing'd her flight, 
 Far, far beneath her leaving 
 This world of sin and grieving — • 
 
 So, Birdie, with good right 
 
236 TO MY OLD CANARY. 
 
 My Comforter I call thee — 
 
 My Teacher thou shouldst be ; 
 For sure some lesson holy, 
 Of wisdom meek and lowly, 
 May reason learn from thee. 
 
 Debarr'd from choicest blessings, 
 
 Inferior good to prize — 
 Thou hymn'st the light of Heaven, 
 Though not to thee 'tis given 
 To soar into the skies. 
 
 Content thou art, and thankful, 
 For some poor gath'red weed ; 
 
 Though nature's charter'd right 
 
 In gardens of delight 
 
 Gave thee to sport and feed — 
 
 Thou renderest good for evil, 
 
 For sad captivity 
 Sweet music — all thy treasure ; — 
 Oh ! Birdie ! when I measure 
 
 Philosophy with thee, 
 

 TO MY OLD CANARY. 237 
 
 I feel how much I'm wanting, 
 
 Though more is given to me — 
 That thou, poor soulless creature ! 
 Mayst truly be the teacher 
 
 Of proud humanity. 
 
[ 2 38 
 
 TO LITTLE MARY. 
 
 I'm bidden, little Mary ! 
 
 To write verses upon thee ; 
 I'd fain obey the bidding 
 
 If it rested but with me : 
 But the Mistresses I'm bound to 
 
 (Nine Ladies hard to please) 
 Of all their stores poetic 
 
 So closely keep the keys, 
 It's only now and then, 
 
 By good luck as one may say, 
 That a couplet or a rhyme or two 
 
 Falls fairly in my way. 
 
 Fruit forced is never half so sweet 
 As that comes quite in season — 
 But some folks must be satisfied 
 
TO LITTLE MARY. 239 
 
 With rhyme in spite of reason. 
 So, Muses ! now befriend me, 
 
 Albeit of help so chary, 
 To string- the pearls of poesie 
 
 For loveliest Little Mary. 
 
 And yet, ye pagan Damsels ! 
 
 Not over fond am I 
 T' invoke your haughty favours, 
 
 Your fount of Castaly. 
 I've sipt a purer fountain, 
 
 I've deck'd a holier shrine, 
 I own a mightier Mistress — 
 
 O Nature 1 Thou art mine. 
 And Feeling's fount than Castaly 
 
 Yields waters more divine ! 
 
 And only to that well-head, 
 
 Sweet Mary ! Fll resort, 
 For just an artless verse or two, 
 
 A simple strain and short, 
 Befitting- well a Pilgrim 
 
 Wayworn with earthly strife^ 
 
240 TO LITTLE MARY. 
 
 To offer thee, young* Traveller ! 
 In the morning- track of life. 
 
 There's many a one will tell thee 
 
 'Tis all with roses gay — 
 There's many a one will tell thee 
 
 'Tis thorny all the way — 
 Deceivers are they every one, 
 
 Dear Child ! who thus pretend ; 
 God's ways are not unequal — 
 
 Make Him thy trusted friend, 
 And many a path of pleasantness 
 
 He'll clear away for thee, 
 However dark and intricate 
 
 The labyrinth may be. 
 
 I need not wish thee beauty — 
 I need not wish thee grace — 
 
 Already both are budding 
 In that infant form and face. 
 
 I will not wish thee grandeur — 
 I will not wish thee wealth— 
 
 But only a contented heart, 
 
TO LITTLE MARY. 241 
 
 Peace — competence — and health — 
 Fond friends to love thee dearly, 
 
 And honest friends to chide, 
 And faithful ones to cleave to thee, 
 
 Whatever may hetide. 
 
 And now, my little Mary ! 
 
 If better things remain, 
 Unheeded in my blindness, 
 
 Unnoticed in my strain, 
 I'll sum them up succinctly, 
 
 In " English undefiled," 
 My Mother tongue's best benison, — 
 
 God bless thee — precious Child ! 
 
[ 242 ] 
 
 THE HEDGEHOG. 
 
 Some carping, cross-grained souls there be 
 
 (Male specimens are not the rarest), 
 Will split you half a hair in two 
 In argument ; to prove green blue, 
 Or this not that — or truth not true, 
 When it shines fairest. 
 
 'T would wear the patience of a saint, 
 A Job, a Grizzel, all to tatters, 
 One of those wearying wights to hear 
 Harp-harping on for half-a-year 
 (His motto's always " persevere ") 
 Anent such matters. 
 
THE HEDGEHOG. 243 
 
 But, if you prize an hour of peace 
 
 (We'll just suppose, Ma'am ! he's your Sposo), 
 Be cautious how you make pretence 
 To pose him with superior sense, 
 Or airs of calm indifference, 
 
 Play " grandioso." 
 
 That way won't do — believe me, 'twon't — 
 
 You might as well oppose a river ; 
 Or — after fighting very hard, 
 If you do take him off his guard, 
 And get the best on't — mark my word, 
 You're lost for ever. 
 
 To be convinced he's in the wrong ! — 
 
 That all his manly wit's been wasted !— 
 To prove himself & goose ! — and you 
 An oracle ! and to eschew 
 Your meekly Christian triumph too ! — 
 More bitter dose — (that dose you'll rue)— 
 Man never tasted. 
 
244 THE HEDGEHOG. 
 
 And it's by no means very safe 
 
 Always to suffer, like a martyr, 
 In silent sweetness, — or to yield, 
 At the first onset, sword and shield ; 
 He'd rather you'd defend the field, 
 
 And woman's charter, 
 
 Or there's an end of his enjoyment ! — 
 
 He can't talk on without an answer 
 From morn till night ! — But have a care 
 How far you venture with your share 
 O' th' argument ; — a nice affair 
 
 T' engage Drawcansir ! 
 
 But there are methods. — Just look here, 
 
 Observe this odd, brown bunch of thistles ; 
 Touch where you will the living ball, — 
 (For 'tis alive ! — 'twill eat and crawl !) — 
 Its rusty coat is guarded all 
 
 With thick b lack bristles ! 
 
THE HEDGEHOG. 245 
 
 Well ! will you try your naked grasp 
 
 To clutch the crabbed creature firm in, 
 And all his charms unfold to view ? 
 Handle him gently — That won't do — 
 Boldly — he'll prick your fingers through — 
 " Deuce take the vermin !" 
 
 Come, come — we've other ways. Let's set 
 
 This cream down by the churlish villain — 
 Ah ! ha ! — how soon he smells it out ! 
 Look, there's a paw ! and there's a snout ! 
 An's all unrolled now ! Liq'rish lout ! 
 See how he's swilling ! 
 
 And all his bristles laid so smooth ! 
 
 Well, what a change! who could have thought it ? 
 He's really (for a hedgehog) pleasing ; 
 'Twas neither tenderness nor teasing. 
 But that good cream he's over seas in, 
 To pass that brought it. 
 
246 THE HEDGEHOG. 
 
 And to effect such change benign 
 
 In human Hedgehog — saint or sinner — 
 To smooth his bristles — soothe his rage — 
 There's not an argument so sage, 
 Or so prevailing, I'll engage, 
 
 As a good dinner. 
 
[ 247 ] 
 
 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN, WITH HER 
 FIRST BONNET. 
 
 Fairies ! guard the baby's bonnet- 
 Set a special watch upon it : 
 Elfin people ! to your care 
 I commit it, fresh and fair ; 
 Neat as neatness, white as snow — 
 See ye make it over so. 
 
 Watch and ward set all about, 
 Some within and some without ; 
 Over it, with dainty hand, 
 One her kirtle green expand ; 
 One take post at every ring ; 
 One at each unwrinkled string ; 
 
248 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. 
 
 Two or three about the bow 
 
 Vigilant concern bestow ; 
 
 A score, at least, on either side, 
 
 'Gainst evil accident provide 
 
 (Jolt, or jar, or overlay) ; 
 
 And so the precious charge convey 
 
 Through all the dangers of the way. 
 
 But when those are battled through, 
 Fairies ! more remains to do. 
 Ye must gift, before ye go, 
 The bonnet and the Babe also — 
 Gift it to protect her well, 
 Fays ! from all malignant spell, 
 Charms and seasons to defy, 
 Blighting winds and evil eye. 
 
 And the bonny Babe ! on her 
 All your choicest gifts confer ; — 
 
TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. 249 
 
 Just as much of wit and sense 
 As may be hers without pretence — 
 Just as much of grace and beauty, 
 As shall not interfere with duty — 
 Just as much of sprightliness, 
 As may companion gentleness — 
 Just as much of firmness, too, 
 As with self-will hath nought to do — 
 Just as much light-hearted cheer, 
 As may be melted to a tear — 
 By a word — a tone — a look — 
 Pity's touch, or Love's rebuke — 
 As much of frankness, sweetly free, 
 As may consort with modesty — 
 As much of feeling, as will bear 
 Of after life the wear and tear — 
 
 As much of life But, Fairies ! there 
 
 Ye vanish into thinnest air ; 
 
 And with ye parts the playful vein 
 
 That loved a light and trivial strain. 
 
250 TO MY LITTLE COUSIN. 
 
 Befits me better. Babe ! for thee 
 T' invoke Almighty agency — 
 Almighty love — Almighty power 
 To nurture up the human flower ; 
 To cherish it with heavenly dew, 
 Sustain with earthly blessings too ; 
 And when the ripe full time shall be, 
 Engraft it on Eternity. 
 
[ 251 ] 
 
 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME 
 FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Silent friends ! fare ye well — 
 
 Shadows ! adieu. 
 
 Living friends long 1 Fve lost, 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Bitter tears many IVe shed, 
 
 Ye've seen them flow ; 
 Dreary hours many Fve sped, 
 
 Full well ye know. 
 
 Yet in my loneliness, 
 
 Kindly, methought, 
 Still ye look'd down on me, 
 
 Mocking me not, 
 
252 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 With light speech and hollow words, 
 
 Grating so sore 
 The sad heart, with many ills 
 
 Sick to the core. 
 
 Then, if my clouded skies 
 
 B right en'd awhile, 
 
 Seem'd your soft serious eyes 
 
 Almost to smile. 
 
 Silent friends ! fare ye well — 
 
 Shadows ! adieu. 
 Living friends long I've lost, 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Taken from hearth and board, 
 
 When all were gone ; 
 
 I look'd up at you, and felt 
 
 Not quite alone. 
 
ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 253 
 
 Not quite companionless, 
 
 While in each face 
 
 Met me familiar 
 
 The stamp of my race. 
 
 Thine, gentle ancestress ! 
 
 Dove-eyed and fair, 
 Melting in sympathy 
 
 Oft for my care. 
 
 Grim Knight and stern visaged ! 
 
 Yet could I see 
 (Smoothing that furrow 'd face) 
 
 Good-will to me. 
 
 Bland looks were beaming 
 
 Upon me I knew, 
 
 Fair sir !— bonnie lady !— 
 
 From you, and from you. 
 
254 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 Little think happy ones, 
 
 Heart-circled round, 
 How fast to senseless things 
 
 Hearts may be bound ; 
 
 How, when the living prop's 
 
 Moulder'd and gone, 
 
 Heart-strings, low trailing left, 
 
 Clasp the cold stone. 
 
 Silent friends ! fare ye well — 
 
 Shadows ! adieu. 
 Living friends long I've lost, 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Often, when spirit-vex'd, 
 
 Weary and worn, 
 To your quiet faces, mute 
 
 Friends, would I turn. 
 
ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 255 
 
 Soft as I gazed on them, 
 
 Soothing as balm, 
 Lulling the passion-storm, 
 
 Stole your deep calm— ^ 
 
 Till, as I longer look'd, 
 
 Surely methought, 
 
 Ye read and replied to 
 
 My questioning thought. 
 
 " Daughter," ye softly said — 
 
 " Peace to thine heart : 
 
 We too — yes, daughter ! have 
 
 Been as thou art, 
 
 " Toss'd on the troubled waves, 
 
 Life's stormy sea; 
 
 Chance and change manifold 
 
 Proving like thee. 
 
256 ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 " Hope-lifted — doubt-depressed — 
 
 Seeing* in part — 
 Tried — troubled — tempted — 
 
 Sustained as thou art — 
 
 " Our God is thy God — what He 
 
 Willeth is best- 
 Trust him as we trusted : then 
 
 Rest, as we rest." 
 
 Silent friends ! fare ye well — 
 
 Shadows ! adieu — 
 
 One friend abide th still 
 
 All changes through. 
 
C 257 ] 
 
 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Old friend ! that many a long- year through 
 (Dog-days and all), in brown surtout, 
 Hath stood ensconced, with wintriest look, 
 F th' warmest side o' the chimney-nook — - 
 That standeth still i' the self-same place, 
 With that same cool composed face, — 
 (Few, by the way, 'mongst human creatures, 
 Made up of more expressive features), 
 Nor e'er in all that weary while, 
 Hath utter'd plaint of durance vile — 
 In that stiff garment all of oak, 
 Thy sentry-box — of heat or smoke ; 
 Of task perpetual — (worse than mighty) 
 Monotonous — of tsedium vitse — 
 
 R 
 
258 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Of false reflections on thy truth, 
 From weary age — impatient youth, 
 Of Time's deliver'd message, scorned 
 Or heeded not by those thou'st warned. 
 
 All these, and other ills in turn 
 
 " That clocks are heirs to," hast thou borne 
 
 With patience most exemplary — 
 
 No peevish frown, or look awry, 
 
 Marring the placid, polished grace 
 
 Of that smooth, broad, reflecting face 
 
 That shineth still (example rare 
 
 To mortal dames) as smooth and fair, 
 
 As first, some threescore years agone, 
 
 To the admiring light it shone. 
 
 Yet I, who've known thee long and well, 
 Could of some prison secrets tell — 
 How all unseen by mortal eye, 
 In darkness and in mystery, 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 259 
 
 When all the house at dead midnight 
 Is hushed and still — like tortured sprite, 
 Deep hollow murmurs — long-drawn groans 
 Thou utterest, and unearthly tones, 
 Such as if heard by silly ear 
 Of simple Joan, she quakes for fear, 
 Shrinks down beneath the bed-clothes deep, 
 And pants and prays herself to sleep. 
 
 Old friend ! I've listened many a night, 
 To those strange murmurs with affright 
 Unmoved, or superstitious dread, 
 Yet, as to utterings from the dead — 
 Low mystic groanings — sounds of doom 
 Deep-voiced, up-issuing from the tomb — 
 And then methought 'twas Time's own tongue, 
 Not thine, that solemn dirge that sung 
 For generations swept away — 
 For ages gathered to decay. 
 
260 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 But Fancy from her loftier range 
 Descending- soon — a milder change 
 Came o'er my spirit, that full fain 
 To thy familiar voice again 
 Gave ear, discoursing sad, sweet sighs 
 Over the heart's own memories. 
 
 Sweet memories of that blissful time, 
 Life's day spring ! lovelier than its prime, 
 When, with the bird on summer morn 
 That carolled earliest from the thorn, 
 I was awake, and singing too, 
 And gathering wild-flowers wet with dew, 
 Till summoned home, old friend ! by thee 
 (Far-echoing down our cowslip lea) 
 To the dear breakfast board, I came 
 With scattered curls and cheek of flame 
 All glowing from the fresh wind's kiss, 
 One to receive of purer bliss — 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 261 
 
 What was the balmied morn's caressing 
 To that best balm — a Parent's blessing ? 
 
 And when the winter evening* long 
 
 Closed round us, and the cricket's song 
 
 Clicked from the clean-swept hearth, where Di 
 
 Stretched yawning out, luxuriously — 
 
 The heavy curtains dropt — thrown on 
 
 The hoarded log — the tea-things gone — 
 
 The candles trimmed and bright — and we 
 
 (A silent, not unsocial three) 
 
 In our warm parlour snug together, 
 
 Little cared we for winter weather. / 
 
 / 
 
 There sat my mother— on that chair, 
 
 Intent on book or work ; and there 
 
 (Just opposite) my Father sate, 
 
 Poring o'er task elaborate, 
 
 All redolent — (his angler's books) — 
 
 Of summer time, green fields, and brooks — 
 
262 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Arrangement flnically nice ! 
 
 Snares of all pattern ; each device — 
 
 Insects, with such ingenious art 
 
 Copied from nature, every part 
 
 So perfected with curious skill, 
 
 You only wondered they were still. 
 
 Proud was my Father's little maid, 
 
 His nestling neighbour, when the aid 
 
 Of her small ringers was required — 
 
 (What ministry like Love's unhired ?) 
 
 And young sharp eyes, some hair so fine. 
 
 Some feathery filament to twine 
 
 In cunning knot, that, deftly wrought, 
 
 Must be invisible as thought ; 
 
 The service done, a kind hand pressed 
 
 Her up-turned brow, and she was blessed; 
 
 And soon, old friend ! thy sober tone 
 Telling her happy day was done, 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 263 
 
 Down kneeling at the mother's knee, 
 
 Hands clasped, and eyes raised reverently, 
 
 The simple prayer was simply said, 
 
 The kiss exchanged— and so to bed. 
 
 Not soon to sleep — for fancies vain 
 
 Crept oft into that busy brain, 
 
 At that lone hour. Some light and gay, 
 
 Of birds and flower — of toys and play : 
 
 Ambitious some — of bold essay 
 
 At lofty rhyme — conceptions grand 
 
 Of giants, dwarfs, and fairy land ; 
 
 Or elegy on favourite bird, 
 
 Dormouse, or lamb (first griefs that stirred 
 
 The deep, deep, source ! ) — and some of fear, 
 
 As all in darkness, on the ear 
 
 Smote hollow sounds. Hark ! hark ! and then 
 
 How the heart throbbed ! — and there agen ! 
 
 What could it be ? — a groan — a knock — 
 
 « Oh dear ! 'tis only the old Clock." 
 
264 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Then, simple child, thy witless head, 
 With happy sigh, sank back in bed, 
 And ere revolved the minute hand, 
 The soul was in the " dreaming land." 
 Oh ! days, of all I ever knew 
 The happiest — ay, the wisest too, 
 In that sweet wisdom of the heart, 
 Our fallen nature's better part — 
 That lingering of primeval light. 
 Not yet all sunk in sin and night. 
 
 'Twill be renewed that blessed time ! 
 
 3 Twill be renewed that loveliest prime $ 
 
 Renewed, when we again shall be 
 
 Children around the Father's knee 
 
 Of one immortal family ! 
 
 Our portion each — (no more to part) — 
 
 Angelic wisdom — childlike heart. 
 
 Ah ! wandering thoughts — ye've stolen away 
 
 From this dark prison-house of clay ; 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 265 
 
 From earth to heaven ! a pleasant track ! 
 Too pleasant to be trodden back 
 Without a sigh. But, ancient friend ! 
 Not here our colloquy must end — 
 Thy part therein I freely own 
 Subordinate ; an undertone 
 Of modest bass. But thou art one 
 Too sober, serious, and sedate, 
 To be much given to idle prate — 
 So, to thy grave concerns attend, 
 And let me talk. Ah, honest friend ! 
 Sparing and measured though thy speech, 
 What eloquent sermons dost tliou preach 
 When the heart listens. Wo is me 
 If profitless such listening be. 
 
 "But to my chronicles." Full well 
 Was thy watch kept, old sentinel ! 
 Full well thine endless duty done — 
 While fluttering on from sun to sun, 
 
266 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 A butterfly among the flowers, 
 
 I noted not the passing hours, 
 
 Till the rain fell, the storm beat sore, 
 
 And that sweet summer dream was o'er. 
 
 Then first, old friend ! thy voice to me 
 
 Sounded with sad solemnity ; 
 
 The tones upon my heart that fell 
 
 Deep mingled with a passing bell 
 
 Since then, through many a checkered scene 
 
 Of good and ill my path hath been — 
 
 The good — a gleam not long to last ; 
 
 The evil — widely overcast. 
 
 But still to thee in many a mood, 
 
 By night — by day — in solitude, 
 
 Or circled round — in hope or fear, 
 
 Hath turned my long-awakened ear 
 
 As to an oracle, that spoke 
 
 More than the time-dividing stroke. 
 
 Oh ! gladsome to my soul, thy sound, 
 
 Heard wakening first from sleep profound 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 267 
 
 (Youth's light deep slumber) the first morn, 
 
 After long absence, of return 
 
 To my dear home — Oh, happiness ! 
 
 To lie in blissful consciousness 
 
 Of all around : The picture there — 
 
 The books — the flower-glass filled with care 
 
 By a kind hand — And then to know, 
 
 'Twas but to rise, and meet below 
 
 Such a heart's welcome ! 
 
 Wo is me, 
 The sweet and bitter memory 
 Of that old time ! of those bright wakings ! 
 Followed by some — ah ! sore heart-breakings, 
 Leaving a wreck of youthful feeling 
 Beyond the reach of Time's own healing. 
 
 But though all powerless evermore 
 Life's young illusions to restore — 
 (Beautiful dreams !) the wise one brought, 
 In kind exchange, awakened thought, 
 
268 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 Awakened seriousness ; and Hope 
 That, crushed below, took higher scope — 
 Yea heavenly — for her after-flight. 
 Then, in the watches of the night, 
 With mine own heart while communing, 
 Friend ! 'twas a sadly pleasing thing 
 To hear thee tell how Time went on, 
 And how another hour was gone. 
 The earthly hopeful, little care 
 To heed how swift Time's pinions are — 
 But they attend with willing ear 
 Who must make their heart's home here. 
 
 Yet, faithful watchman ! time hath been 
 
 In more than one late after scene, 
 
 That, list'ning to thy voice, I've said, 
 
 " Oh ! would that restless tongue were staid." 
 
 I've said so — weak and selfish heart ! 
 
 When time drew near that I must part 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 269 
 
 With some beloved, whose sojourn here 
 Might have made sunshine all the year ; 
 Whose presence for a little day 
 Chased half the wintry clouds away. 
 
 I've thought so — weak and sinful heart ! 
 When some were summon'd to depart — 
 CalPd from their labours here to cease, 
 The full of days, faith, hope, and peace, 
 Who long had linger'd here in pain ; 
 My loss in them their countless gain — 
 Yet with long watching, worn and low, 
 Too soul-opprest for tears to flow ; 
 When the deep hush of night and death 
 Was in the house — and every breath 
 From those dear lips the last might be ; 
 A shudd'ring ear I've turn'd from thee, 
 Watchman ! whose every minute stroke, 
 On fever'd nerves o'erstrained, broke 
 
270 OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 
 
 As if a leaden, pond'rous blow 
 
 Fell on some hollow vault below — 
 
 " Oh ! for an hour," I could have pray'd, 
 
 " Stern reckoner ! that thy tongue were staid." 
 
 These things are past. Of hopes and fears, 
 
 The current now, with length'ning years 
 
 Flows narrowing in a deeper bed, 
 
 No spark of early feeling fled, 
 
 But all subdued and chastened — 
 
 Too little yet. The Christian strife 
 
 Can finish but with finished life — 
 
 The spirit may be all resign'd, 
 
 Yet inly bleed — The willing mind 
 
 Too oft may faint — The hopeful eye 
 
 Sink rayless in despondency ; 
 
 But one who reads the secret heart 
 
 In all its griefs can take a part — 
 
 Can pity all its weakness too — 
 
 For He who ne'er corruption knew 
 
OUR OLD HOUSE CLOCK. 271 
 
 Nor sin, hath yet our nature borne 
 
 And hung at woman's breast — 
 And He hath said — Oh ! words that calm 
 The troubled heart with holiest balm, — 
 " Come unto me, ye travel-worn ! 
 
 And I will give you rest." 
 
r 272 ] 
 
 THE CHILD'S UNBELIEF. 
 
 " Come hither, my little Child ! to me, 
 
 Come hither and hearken now, 
 My poor, poor Child ! is this a day 
 For thee to dance, and sport, and play, 
 Like blossom on the bough ? 
 
 " Fair blossom ! where's the fostering bough ? 
 
 And where's the parent tree ? 
 Stem, root, and branch — all, all laid low ; 
 Almost at once — at one fell blow : 
 
 Dear Child ! cling close to me, 
 
 " (My Sister's Child ! ) for thou shalt grow 
 
 Into my very heart : 
 But hush that ringing laugh — to me 
 The silver sound is agony : 
 
 Come, hearken here apart, 
 
the child's unbelief. 273 
 
 " And fold thy little bands in mine, 
 
 Thus standing- at my knee ; 
 And look up in my face, and say — 
 Dost thou remember what, to-day, 
 Weeping, I told to thee ? 
 
 " Alas ! my tears are raining fast 
 Upon thine orphan head ; 
 
 And thy sweet eyes are glistening now 
 
 Harry ! at last, believest thou 
 
 That thy poor mother's dead ? " 
 
 " No, no, my mother is not dead — 
 She cant be dead, you know : 
 Oh aunt ! I saw my father die, 
 All white and cold I saw him lie — 
 My mother don't look so. 
 
 " She cried when I was sent away, 
 
 And I cried very much ; 
 And she was pale, and hung her head, 
 But all the while her lips were red, 
 
 And soft and warm to touch. 
 
 s 
 
274 the child's unbelief. 
 
 " Not like ray father's— hard and cold 
 
 And then she said, beside, 
 She'd come to England soon, you know." 
 " But, Harry ! that was months ago — 
 She sickened since and died ; 
 
 " And the sad news is come to-day, 
 
 Told in this letter. See, 
 'Tis edged and sealed with black."— « Oh ! dear, 
 Give me that pretty seal. Look here 
 I'll keep it carefully, 
 
 « With all these others, in my box— 
 They're all for her. Don't cry, 
 I'll learn my lessons every day, 
 That I may have them all to say 
 
 When she comes by and by." 
 
 « Boy ! boy ! thy talk will break my heart— 
 
 Oh Nature ! can it be 
 That thou in his art silent so ?— 
 Yet what, poor infant ! shouldst thou know 
 Of life's great mystery ? 
 
the child's unbelief. 275 
 
 u Of time and space — of chance and change — 
 
 Of sin, decay, and death : 
 What canst thou know, thou sinless one ! 
 Thou yet unstained, unbreathed upon 
 
 By this world's tainting" breath ? 
 
 " A sunbeam all thy little life ! 
 
 Thy very being bliss — 
 Glad creature ! who would waken thee 
 To sense of sin and misery 
 
 From such a dream as this ?" 
 
[ 276 ] 
 
 THE LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 
 
 Come listen to a monkish tale of old, 
 
 Right Catholic, but puerile some may deem, 
 
 Who all unworthy their high notice hold 
 
 Aught hut grave truth, or lofty learned theme ; 
 
 Too wise for simple fancies, smiles, and tears, 
 
 Dreams of our earliest, purest, happiest years. 
 
 Come — listen to my legend ; for of them 
 Surely thou art not : and to thee I'll tell 
 
 How on a time in holiest Santarem 
 Strange accident miraculous befell 
 
 Two little ones ; who to the sacred shrine 
 
 Came daily to be schooled in things divine. 
 
LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 277 
 
 Twin Sisters — orphan innocents were they : 
 Most pure I ween, from all but the olden taint, 
 
 Which only Jesu's blood can wash away : 
 And holy, as the life of holiest saint, 
 
 Was his, that good Dominican's, who fed 
 
 His master's lambs, with more than daily bread. 
 
 The Children's custom, while that pious man 
 Performed the various duties of his state 
 
 Within the spacious church, as Sacristan, 
 Was on the altar steps to sit and wait, 
 
 Nestling together ('twas a lovely sight !) 
 
 Like the young turtle doves of Hebrew rite. 
 
 A small rich chapel was their sanctuary, 
 While thus abiding ; — with adornment fair 
 
 Of curious carved work, wrought cunningly, 
 In all quaint patterns, and devices rare : 
 
 And over them, above the altar, smiled 
 
 From Mary-Mother's arms, the holy child. 
 
278 LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 
 
 Smiled on his infant guests, as there below, 
 
 On the fair altar steps, those young- ones spread 
 
 — (Nor ought irreverent in such act I trow) 
 Their simple morning meal of fruit and bread. 
 
 Such feast not ill beseemed the sacred dome — 
 
 Their father's house is the dear children's home. 
 
 At length it chanced, upon a certain day, 
 When Frey Bernardo to the chapel came, 
 
 Where patiently was ever wont to stay 
 
 His infant charge ; with vehement acclaim, 
 
 Both lisping creatures forth to meet him ran, 
 
 And each to tell the same strange tale began. 
 
 " Father ! " they cried, as hanging on his gown 
 
 On either side, in each perplexed ear 
 They poured their eager tidings — " He came down- 
 
 Menino Jesu has been with us here ! -— 
 We asked him to partake our fruit and bread ; 
 And he came down — and sate with us — and fed." — 
 
LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 279 
 
 u Children ! rny children ! know ye what ye say ? " 
 Bernardo hastily replied — " But hold ! — 
 
 Peace, Briolanja ! — rash art thou alway i 
 Let Inez speak." And little Inez told, 
 
 In her slow silvery speech, distinctly o'er, 
 
 The same strange tidings he had heard before, 
 
 " Blessed are ye, my children ! " with devout 
 And deep humility the good man cried — 
 
 " Ye have been highly favoured. Still to doubt 
 Were gross impiety and sceptic pride. 
 
 Ye have been highly favoured. Children dear ! 
 
 Now vour old master's loving counsel hear. 
 
 " Return to-morrow with the morning light, 
 And as before, spread out your simple fare 
 
 On the same table ; and again invite 
 Menino Jesu to descend and share : 
 
 And if he come, say — < Bid us, blessed Lord ! 
 
 We and our master, to thy heavenly board.' 
 
280 LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 
 
 " Forget not, children of my soul ! to plead 
 For your old master : — Even for his sake 
 
 Who fed ye faithfully : and he will heed 
 Your innocent lips ; and I shall so partake 
 
 With his dear lambs. — Beloved, with the sun 
 
 Return to-morrow. — Then — His will be done." 
 
 u To-night ! to-night ! Menino Jesu saith 
 
 We shall sup with him, Father ! we and thee," 
 
 Cried out both happy children in a breath 
 As the good Father entered anxiously 
 
 About the morrow's noon, that Holy Shrine, 
 
 Now consecrate by special grace divine. 
 
 " He bade us come alone ; but then we said 
 
 We could not, without thee, our Master dear — 
 
 At that, he did not frown, but shook his head 
 Denyingly : Then straight with many a tear 
 
 We prayed so sore, he could not but relent, 
 
 And so, he smiled at last, and gave consent." 
 
LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 283 
 
 " Now, God be praised ! " the old man said, and fell 
 In prayer upon the marble floor straightway, 
 
 His face to Earth : And so, till Vesper bell, 
 Entranced in the spirit's depths he lay ; 
 
 Then rose like one refreshed with wine, and stood 
 
 Composed among th' assembling Brotherhood. 
 
 The mass was said ; the evening chaunt was o'er ; 
 
 Hushed its long echoes through the lofty dome : 
 And now Bernardo knew the appointed hour 
 
 That he had prayed for, of a truth was come. 
 Alone he lingered in the solemn pile, 
 Where darkness gathered fast from aisle to aisle ; 
 
 Except, that through a distant door-way streamed 
 One slanting sunbeam, gliding whereupon 
 
 Two angel spirits — (so in sooth it seemed 
 
 That loveliest vision) — hand in hand came on, 
 
 With noiseless motion. " Father ! we are here," 
 
 Sweetly saluted the good Father's ear. 
 
282 LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 
 
 A hand he laid on each fair sun-bright head, 
 Rayed like a seraph's with effulgent light, 
 
 And — " Be ye blest, ye blessed ones," he said 
 " Whom Jesu bids to his own board to-night — 
 
 Lead on, ye chosen, to th' appointed place 
 
 Lead your old master." So, with steadfast face, 
 
 He followed, where those young ones led the way 
 To that small chapel — like a golden clue 
 
 Streamed on before that long bright sunset ray, 
 Till at the door it stopt. Then passing through, 
 
 The master and the pupils, side by side, 
 
 Knelt down in prayer before the Crucified. 
 
 Tall tapers burnt before the holy shrine ; 
 
 Chalice and paten on the altar stood, 
 Spread with fair damask. Of the crimson wine 
 
 Partaking first alone ; the living food 
 Bernardo next with his dear children shared — 
 Young lips, but well for heavenly food prepared. 
 
LEGEND OF SANTAREM. 283 
 
 And there we leave them. Not for us to see 
 The feast made ready, that first act to crown ; 
 
 Nor to peruse the solemn mystery 
 Of the divine Menino's coming down 
 
 To lead away th' elect, expectant three, 
 
 With him that night, at his own board to be. 
 
 Suffice it, that with him they surely were 
 That night in Paradise ; for those who came 
 
 Next to the chapel found them as in prayer, 
 Still kneeling — stiffened every lifeless frame, 
 
 With hands and eyes upraised as when they died, 
 
 Toward the image of the Crucified. 
 
 That mighty miracle spread far and wide, 
 
 And thousands came the feast of death to see ; 
 
 And all beholders, deeply edified, 
 
 Returned to their own homes more thoughtfully, 
 
 Musing thereon : with one great truth imprest — 
 
 That " to depart and be with Christ is best." 
 
[ 284 ] 
 
 THE RIVER. 
 
 River ! River ! little River ! 
 
 Bright you sparkle on your way, 
 O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
 Through the flowers and foliage glancing, 
 Like a child at play. 
 
 River ! River ! swelling River ! 
 
 On you rush o'er rough and smooth- 
 Louder, faster, brawling, leaping 
 Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, 
 Like impetuous youth. 
 
 River 1 River ! brimming River ! 
 
 Broad and deep and still as Time, 
 Seeming still — yet still in motion, 
 Tending onward to the ocean, 
 
 Just like mortal prime. 
 
THE RIVER. 285 
 
 River ! River ! rapid River 
 
 Swifter now you slip away ; 
 Swift and silent as an arrow, 
 Through a channel dark and narrow, 
 Like life's closing day. 
 
 River ! River ! headlong River 
 
 Down you dash into the sea ; 
 Sea, that line hath never sounded, 
 Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, 
 Like eternity. 
 
[ 286 ] 
 
 TO THE LADY-BIRD. 
 
 " Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home" — 
 
 The field-mouse is gone to her nest, 
 The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, 
 
 And the bees and the birds are at rest. 
 
 Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 
 The glow-worm is lighting her lamp, 
 
 The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled wings 
 Will flag with the close clinging damp. 
 
 Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 
 
 Good luck if you reach it at last : 
 The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam. 
 
 Sharp-set from their Ramazan fast. 
 
TO THE LADY-BIRD. 287 
 
 Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 
 
 The fairy bells tinkle afar, 
 Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness ye fast, 
 
 With a cobweb, to Oberon's car. 
 
 Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home — 
 
 But, as all serious people do, first 
 Clear your conscience, and settle your worldly affairs, 
 
 And so be prepared for the worst. 
 
 Lady -bird ! Lady-bird ! make a short shrift — 
 
 Here's a hair-shirted Palmer hard by ; 
 And here's Lawyer Earwig" to draw up your will, 
 
 And we'll witness it, Death-Moth and I. 
 
 Lady -bird ! Lady-bird ! don't make a fuss— 
 
 You've mighty small matters to give ; 
 Your coral and jet, and — there, there — you can tack 
 
 A codicil on, if you live. 
 
288 TO THE LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Lady -bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away now 
 To your house, in the old willow-tree, 
 
 Where your children, so dear, have invited the ant, 
 And a few cozy neighbours to tea. 
 
 Lady-bird ! Lady-bird ! fly away home, 
 
 And if not gobbled up by the way, 
 Nor yoked by the fairies o Oberon's car, 
 
 You're in luck — and that's all I've to say. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND CO., PATIOS WORK.