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The old soldier, The wandering lover, an
POEMS.
 
THE OLD SOLDIER;

The Wandering Mover; -

AND OTHER POEMS;

TOGETHER WITH

B Shetch of the Author's Wife.

BY WILLIAM HEATON,
Author of “ The Flowers of Calder Dale.”

PUBLISHED BY REQUEST.

LONDON:
SOLD BY SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
HALIFAX: T. & W. BIRTWHISTLE, NORTHGATE,
PRICE THREE SHILLINGS,

 

MDCCCLVII,

Ys
ty
Y, AND W. BIRTWHISTLE, PRINTERS, NORTHGATE, HALIFAX.
,
THE FOLLOWING UNPRETENDING

Poems
ARE DEDICATED BY PERMISSION
TO
JOHN CROSSLEY, ESQ., J.P.,
OF MANOR HEATH, NEAR HALIFAX, YORKSHIRE,

AS

‘
1

A SMALL TRIBUTE OF RESPECT AND ESTEEM
FOR THAT GENTLEMAN'S CHRISTIAN WORTH ;
AS WELL AS
HIS PHILANTHROPHY AND BENEVOLENCE,
IN USING EVERY MEANS IN HIS POWER
TO AMELIORATE THE SUFFERINGS
WHICH FRAIL HUMANITY IS HEIR TO,
AND FOR THE
ZEAL AND PROMPTITUDE DISPLAYED BY HIM
IN
WORKS OF CHARITY AND LABOURS OF LOVE,

BY HIS OBEDIENT SERVANT,

The Author.

a3

 
PREFACE.

In presenting this, my Second Volume, to the public,
I am fully sensible that I throw myself open to the
scrutiny of the learned and the critic: and that, in
some instances, my effusions may meet with censure.

It is one thing to possess the feelings, images,
and thoughts which are the elements of poetry, and
which may be deeply embedded in the soul: but
it is another thing to be able to give expression to
those feelings; the latter may require years of ex-
perience to accomplish.

Several of the minor pieces have appeared in
different periodicals, and I, as a working man, feel
extremely flattered at the reception they have met
with. I feel perfectly aware that, in bringing such
a work before the world, in the present advanced
state of literature, I expose myself to its criticism ;
but I think if those who peruse these Poems will con-
sider the disadvantages under which I have laboured,
they will be inclined to look at them in a more chari-
table light, and will make allowance for the various
errors and blunders which may be found therein.
I refer my readers to the sketch of my life; I think
viii PREFACE.

the perusal of it may disarm criticism of that deadly
venom which killed poor Joun Kuars; if so, I shall
feel that I have not lived in vain, nor spent all my
leisure hours for nought.

I cannot let this opportunity pass, without ten-
dering my sincere thanks to the gentlemen in this
neighbourhood, as well as to those of the nobility,
who have come forward as subscribers, with such
promptitude as to enable mé to get this, my Second
Volume, through the Press. There is one gentleman,
in particular, whom I cannot forget, for the kindness
he has shewn me, in examining some of the following
Poems, as well as for the friendly advice he has ever
given me, for which service and advice I shall ever
feel grateful.

I now commend my Work to a candid public,
hoping that, through the blessing of Him who is too
wise to err and too good to be unkind, that they may
derive some pleasure, if not profit, from these simple
lays of a working man.

W. A.

87, Green Lane,
Halifax, 1857,
CONTENTS.

——_@——.

PAI
Poets on Earth. Lines sent to the Author by Bernard

Barton .. , iG a $6 se oA
A Sketch of the Author! 's Life

The Old Soldier. Part I .. ae ah za i

” ” ” II oe
” ” 5 TEE sess an ay se
” ” ” IV pia oe “% wi
” ” ” Vv oe oe

The Wandering Lover, or Randolph and Talia. Part L
” a ” ” ” ” ir
” ” ” ” ” ” Tit

Iv

”

Speak Softly a a os a8

Wild Flowers ae ie on

Stanzas on the burial of Goiaral Fox tia gaa who
was killed at the battle of Inkermann, on Sunday,
November 5th, 1854, and was buried the day follow-
ing, in front of the Camp of the 4th Division ..

The Hypocrite Portrayed .. os . os

Lines on the Peace with Russia. Written ir in commemora-
tion of the Peace of Paris, April 29th, 1856, and
celebrated at Halifax, May 29th, the same year. A
new Beacon was erected on Beacon Hill the night
previous 8 <2 ee ce a ‘ie

Evening in August .. ofa a we oe i

This World would be a World of Love os oe

GE

12
16
24
39
50
“67
83
85

87
88

90
91
93
x CONTENTS.

Lines on the Holmfirth Flood, which took place on
Thursday Morning, February 5th, 1852; by which
dreadful calamity nearly one hundred persons lost
their lives as an os Da

Our Fathers, where are fey oe eee Ses i

The Poet’s Song to the Month of June .. a

The Dying Soldier as se eo ie ae

One Summer's Eve .. es = ae ca oe

Be Hushed! Ye Winds ..

Never Despair ua ins a ate

Stanzas addressed to a young lady, on seeing a beautiful
rose in her bosom .. oa = oa

Oh! breathe a sigh for me .. ae me oe ee

England's Welcome to Kossuth 3s ie a

Onward se oe be 2 oe ae

Lines on Ancient Forestry

Stanzas to John Crossley, Esq., on the death of his saacal
mother, who departed this life, November 20th, 1854,

aged 79 years. .. as ua aa ei
The Song of the New Year os oe oe
Let us Love and Live Happy Together
The Lover of Nature .. se "i oa =

Lines on seeing two venerable Yew nibaas cut down at
Kershaw House, near Luddenden, Yorkshire

Christmas Musings .. ‘ W ee

The Ejected Widow. An Irish Tale fs a i

God’s Design in making Man

Awake! Lovely Maiden; or, A Voice Pics ite iiacn.
Written on seeing a letter from a young soldier in

the English Army to his sweetheart in England.
To the Forget-me-not te wi <a
The Forsaken One
The Happy Family

Those Cottage Homes of Breil + a a
The Early Primrose. Written on finding one near
Luddenden, January 17th, 1849 .. ai iy
The Cotter's Evening at Home... a is a

Pace

9L
96
97
99
100
101
103

ib.
105°
106
107
109

lil
113
ll4
115

117
120 +
122
124

1381

182
ib,
CONTENTS. xi

PAGE
Lines written on gathering some of the beautiful flowers
of the Forget-me-not sts se Ee oe 136
Ivy Boughs .. ai ee as a -. 187
The Blind Girl's Address to hag Mother is ii 138
The Friends of other Years .. ee ia a +. I4l
Think on the Poor i ala is = a 142
Home for ever, Fare-thee-well re i a ~. Hdd
Could I récall Departed Hours as es Be 146
Oh! give me a Home in the Heart ae iva -» 148
T love to seek the Thicket’s Shade .. va a 149
The Old Valentine .. ae 3 ». 150
Midnight Recollections in iiadduanlen Ghishigailas 152
A Few more Years .. ne ia ee .. 154
The Convict’s Death and Burial. Part I. “ip 156
” ” ” ” » I ere -» 159
The Bible. Written ona blank leaf of a Bible belonging
to the Author's Daughter .. a6 160
The Poet’s Welcome. Written to J. B., a Nottinghamshire
Poet, on his visit to Luddenden oe -. 16l
Stanzas written in sickness, addressed to J sigh Robert.
shaw, Author of “Sketches and Traditions of the
Yorkshire Moorlands.” is ee os a 163
Sexton, spare that Grave .. ih a wd .. 164
Come under my Mantle... ss as ye el 165
_I'm standing on my Mother's Grave 2 As .. 166
To James Fielding, Esq., of Todmorden a en 167
The Song of the Hand-loom Weaver oe ts -. 168
Let us love one another .. a a ake 171

Meet me on the banks of Aire. Written to J. Nicholson,
the son of the Airedale Poet .. ‘te es ae 192

The Music of Spring .. ss ae se st 174
Let us speak ofamanaswefindhim.. oe . 175
Ye Forest Scenes. . te arg ea 2 a 176
The Mourner. Part I oe Ses ie “a aa ATS

i “4 » IL. ery: 180

Musings in Kirkstall Abbey, near Angie oe ae «. 182
xii CONTENTS.

Yesterday .. we wie ws

Manor Heath. Lines suveened on canting over the
grounds, and through a part of the mansion, of Manor
Heath, the beautiful residence of John Crossley, Esq.,

Skircoat Moor, Halifax, Yorkshire .. tees
What is Fame? .. aia ais Sa ai ia
Hark! the night wind is si ea “8 ie
Come ramble with me .. as :

Stanzas written on the top of Haddershelf Suonk a sah
mountain wild, near Mytholmroyd, Yorkshire

Those Moonlit Glens. Written on visiting a beautiful
valley, at Cullingworth, near Bingley, where the
Author made his first attempt at poetry, 35 years
before a : oa os

The Fisherman’s Child” ‘

Stanzas on gathering a solitary Daisy on the top of a bleak
hill in Shibden Dale, near Halifax, Nov. 12, 1815

Lines to a giddy young female friend

The Dance of Death

Old England .. os ea es ae ae
Remember the Cot on the Moor ee oe a
To John Crossley, Esq. ait oe a0
The Author's Conclusion os oi ne we

PAGE

184

185
187
188
189

190

192
194

196
197
198
200
201
202
208
POETS ON EARTH. xiii

POETS ON EARTH.*

Lines sent to the Author by Brrnarp Barton, the Poet of

Woodbridge, Suffolk.

Posts on this earth should live
As not of it! Theirs the light
Inward faith alone can give,
Often hid from outward sight.
What are types and emblems meetest,
Of the lot to them assigned ?
Flowers—that lavish odours sweetest
On the thoughtless, thankless wind !

Brooks—that flow, unheard, unseen,
Oftentimes without a name;
Making earth’s bye-places green,
Yet unchronicled by Fame !
Larks—that greet the sun’s first ray,
Singing sweetest out of sight,
Songsters—loveliest in their lay,
"Mid dark watches of the night.

Such their ministry fulfil,

Heedless of reward or praise ;
Thus should heaven-born poets still
Fearlessly pour forth their lays.
Looking——not for wealth nor honour

Man can give or take away ;
But to Him who is the donor
Of the light of endless day!

* This, I believe, was the last Poem ever written by that excellent
Poet; it is true, he promised me another, on the perusal of my last work,
but I am sorry he never lived to accomplish it,—W. H.

B
A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE;

Written at the request of a number of his Friends,
Ml cit

To give a correct and faithful account of all that has transpired
in my chequered and variegated life would nearly amount to
an impossibility; but, to gratify my friends and the public
generally, I will endeavour to give an outline of my past
history. I think common courtesy demands it at my hands,
as a debt of gratitude I owe to those who have wished me to
do so.

The robin had been dumb all day, and the snow-flakes had
fallen in abundance on the moorland wilds and woodland
plains of my native country. The wood-notes of the wren and
the sparrow were not heard, for the hollow howling of the
wintry wind told to the sleep-ridden inhabitants of Luddenden
that winter had set in, of which undeniable proofs were seen
on the cottage windows and cases. The trees were all naked,
with the exception of the holly, the ivy, and a few others
brought from a more northern clime at some remote period.
It was on such a night as this, the 5th of February, 1805, that
my father sallied out to a distant village in search of a midwife.
She was below the middle size, dressed in woolsey petticoats,
and short bed-gown, a large pair of unsightly clogs decorated
her feet, while over her head and shoulders was thrown an old
scarlet cloak, which might have seen the better half of at least
eighty summers ; she took a stout oaken staff to support her
tottering limbs among the snow, which was then falling fast ;
and, lest it should adhere to her clogs, she took the precaution
xvi 4 SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

to draw an old stocking over each foot. Thus equipped, she set
off on her pilgrimage of mercy, accompanied by my father;
and by her assistance was I ushered into this world.

At the time of my birth my father was a journeyman tanner,
and worked at a short distance from home. He was possessed
of very little literary knowledge, consequently he could not
impart much to me. He had served five years in the First
West York Militia, and frequently told me tales of a soldier's
jife, which attracted my youthful attention. As soon as I could
run about, I was taught the alphabet by my beloved and much
respected mother. At this period of my narrative we resided
in a cottage situated beside a small stream, in Luddenden, near
Halifax, Yorkshire. It is a lovely village, reposing in a deep
valley, on the banks of a winding brook which empties itself
into the Calder.

One dark and gloomy night, in the winter of 1808, the rain
had fallen in torrents during the day, and the night looked
dark and forboding, we had not long retired to rest, when the
waters of the Clough began to overflow its banks, and trees,
stones, and rubbish were swept forward with such tremendous
violence, that they completely stopped up a covered drain
opposite our house, consequently the pent-up waters rushed in
at the windows, and, had it not been for the kindness of the
neighbours, we should in all probability have met with a watery
grave. They unroofed part of the house, and drew my mother
through the opening with w rope, my father, myself, and the
rest of the family escaped in the same way. The following
morning we removed to another house; all our provisions were
completely spoiled, as well as the principle part of our house-
hold goods.

Soon after this I was sent to school to learn reading, I did
not, however, make much progress, being too fond of play. At
length I became so far advanced that I could read the New
Testament, though very indifferently. I soon longed for more
books, for we had not many in the house. I found an old
imperfect copy of “ Robinson Crusoe,” and never ceased till I
A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE. xvii

had read it again and again. I then began to wish I could
write; but my parents were so poor, they could not afford to
send me to a school-master. Often have I sat on a tomb-stone
in Luddenden church yard, and watched the other lads writing
their names with a piece of broken pipe, wishing I could have
done the same; and when they have gone away I have stolen
to the place they have left and tried to imitate them. At
length I was obliged to go to work, to learn the trade of a hand-
loom-weaver. Being under nine years of age, I prevailed on a
friend to write my name for me; and night after night, when
the other boys were at play, I have been trying to imitate the
copy, and if I ever found any paper with writing on, I carefully
preserved it, and never rested till I had copied it.

I was now sent to the Sabbath School connected with the
Methodist Chapel, at Luddenden; and was put in the first
bible class, where I progressed pretty well. My kind and
indulgent mother borrowed “Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress”
for my perusal, which delighted me very much. I rambled
with Christian from his home in the wilderness to the Celestial
City; mused over his hair-breadth escapes, and his conflict
with giant Despair. I was very much delighted with it. I read
also “Henry Earl of Moreland;” “The Children of the
Abbey ;” The Old English Baron ;” “The Life and Adventures
of Roderic Random ;” in short I read voyages, travels, history
and every other book which came in my way. When my work
was out of my fingers some book or other was in; or I sat and.
listened while my mother told some tale which she had read,
or some privation which she had endured in her youth.

In this manner years rolled on, till the month of May, 1817,
when we removed to Cullingworth, near Bingley. The superin-
tendents of the Methodist School, at Luddenden, gave me a
letter of recommendation to the school at Cullingworth, which
caused my name to be put on the writing-class list. This
pleased me very much; although it was nearly a year before
my turn came, and when it did I only wrote every alternate
Sabbath. As soon as I could write, so that I could read it

BS
ese

xvili A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.’

myself, I began to write verses, some of which I read to my
mother, which gave her great pleasure.

In May, 1819, we removed back to Luddenden, in conse-
quence of the death of my father’s master. Early in the follow.
ing year I had two cancers extracted from my nose, which
prevented me from reading so much, but I used to walk in the
woods and fields, and there string my feeble lyre; while old
Father Time kept taking from the present and .adding to the
past.

In the spring of the year 1828, my dear beloved mother was
taken ill; she lingered in great suffering till the 11th of Sep-
tember, when death put an end to her troubles. She had
always been a kind mother to me, and for twenty years had
been a member of the Methodist Society. After her death I
neglected my writing for a time, but began to look more intently
into the book of nature. The fields, the wilds, and woodlands
of my native country were ransacked for specimens of natural
history. Having no brothers, and only one sister, who was
married prior to my mother’s death, I found my companions in
books. I read a great deal, and, being of a lively temperament,
I often frequented the public-houses in the neighbourhood. I
had a good musical ear and purchased a great number of songs,
chiefly comic. I altered them to please myself, then committed
them to memory, and burnt them, so that no one could buy
songs like mine. Frequently have I gone miles, after I have
done my work, to sing for gentlemen at public-houses. In this
way upwards of four years passed away.

On the 6th ot November, 1832, I was married to Mary
Nutter, soon after which I went to weave at a shop in Ludden-
den Foot, belonging to the late Jonathan Akroyd, Esq., of
Halifax, Yorkshire. I then began to write verses in my leisure
hours, and kept copies of them, but for what purpose I know
not. I seldom visited the public-houses now; the poetical
ideas which I was striving to cultivate gave me a distaste for
the ale-house and its company. I again began my study in
the school of nature; I collected insects, in company with a
‘

A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE. xix.

number of young men in the village. We formed a library,
and bought a number of the best books we could find on the
subject. As soon as the lovely rays of the summer's sun have
shone over the hills of my native valley, have we wandered
forth, especially on the Sabbath morning, by four o'clock, and
have not returned till seven or eight at night; often having never
tasted food all the day: we have brought shells, eggs, and nests
as well as insects home with us, and were as much, or more,
pleased than if we had dined off the best. I believe I anda
companion of mine (now no more) collected twenty-two large
boxes of insects; one hundred and twenty different sorts of
British birds’ eggs; besides a great quantity of shells (land and
fresh water), fossils, minerals, ancient and modern coins, and
plaster-casts of those coins we could not procure.

On the 17th day of January, 1883, our first daughter was
born, whom we named Sarah, after my mother; and on the
21st of August, 1834, my eldest son was born, which we
named John, after my father. All this time my leisure hours
were employed in writing poetry, collecting insects, or exchang-
ing with other collectors.

On the 25th of July, 1835, I was initiated into the Ancient
Order of Foresters, when I began to compose toasts and short
sentiments, which pleased the brethren with whom I was
associated. On the 31st of January, a half-yearly meeting of
the above Order was held at Mytholmroyd, which I attended.
I was singing songs till an early hour on Sunday morning,
little thinking or knowing what was taking place at home in
my absence; you may judge my surprise and dismay, when, on
my return, I saw dark volumes of smoke issuing from my own
door, which was partly open. On entering, I found my wife
nearly burnt to death. It appeared she had been heating the
oven, and, by some means or other, her clothes had caught fire.
As soon as she saw the flames, she laid the child down and
ran up to my father, who was in bed, and it was some time
before he could extinguish the flames. I ran about the house
like one bereft of reason, but did all in my power to relieve my
xxu1 A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

abode. In few weeks I had had six pieces inserted in that
paper, for which I ever shall feel grateful. These were mostly
transferred to other periodicals, thus attracting the attention
of the Rev. James Nelson, Incumbent of Luddenden, and other
influential gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who, on looking
over the manuscripts in my possession, wished me to publish a
volume by subscription, which I at last agreed todo. I wrote
to Lord Morpeth, now Earl of Carlisle, who sent me his name
for four copies, also to George Lane Fox, Esq., of Bramham
Park, (since deceased) who kindly sent me his name for eight
copies.

Thus encouraged, I set about getting more subscribers, and
completing pieces that were partly written; and in the month
of December, 1847, I published the “ Flowers of Calder Dale.”*
When I came to deliver them I found ninety-five of the sub-
scribers, on whom I had relied, declined taking the copies,
which caused me to have a number left on my hands. This
made me rather regret that I had written them, but it was no
use. As soon as I had finished one piece another was begun,
till at length my friends wished me to publish another volume,
which I now present to the public.

Often, when all around have been asleep, have I invoked
my muse, till my pen has fallen from my powerless hand, and
tired nature has found refuge in balmy sleep.

Many of the short pieces in this work have been carefully
examined by a gentleman, in every way qualified to understand
them.

In 1850, I got employment at Crossley’s Carpet Manufac-
tory, Halifax, and for nearly four years, I have worked from six
in the morning, till six in the evening, and sometimes longer.
My wife has been nearly eight years unable to dress or undress
herself, in consequence of being heavily afflicted with the rheu-
matism. We have tried all the remedies which have been
recommended to us, but to no purpose; but with all my dis-
couragements I still persevered with my writings. It was

* A few copies still remain on hand, and may be had of the Author,
37, Green Lane, Halifax. Price 2s,
see

A SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE. XXL

when I was weaving at home, that I made the most progress
with them. I then worked in « small chamber, overlooking
Luddenden Churchyard. I used to go out in the fields and
woods around the village at meal-times, and listen to the songs
of the summer birds, or watch the trembling waters of the
Luddon, as they murmured melodiously over the pebbly brook.
l have watched the butterfly dance on the lovely flowers, and
heard with rapture the hum of the wild bee in the foxglove.
Sometimes I have been roused from those reveries by some
forsaken lovesick maiden, who not knowing there was any one
near her, has poured forth her heartwailing to the thankless
wind. I have then gone home and have written, as soon as I
could find time, on something or other that I have seen or heard.

I recollect once, I believe it was in the year 1849, my wife
was going to whitewash the walls of the chamber, but I had
written so many of my effusions on them that it took me two
days to copy them off. I frequently wish now for my church-
yard cot, and my busy loom, that I could walk in the fields at
the close of the day and at my leisure hours. But it is all over;
I must continue to work amidst the clatter of machinery.
Although I have only one hour at noon, I generally occupy
one half of it either in reading or writing; and as soon as my
work is finished for the day, I retire to my chamber, and,
closing the door, try to forget the troubles of the past, and look
forward with hope to the future. All is not gold that glitters,
nor all those friends, which profess to be so. I generally find
that those who profess the most sincere friendship in prosperity,
are very cool in adversity. What is man, selfish man, but a
mass of wants and absurdities? THe strives to please others
and cannot please himself.

For nearly eight years I have resided in Halifax, and found
friends in the lower, middle, and higher classes of society. I
have corresponded with some of the great ones of the earth.
My productions have found their way to distant lands; and —
some have been pleased with their simple and melodious .-
strains; yet it has not added one comfort to my fireside, nor -_
put one guinea in my pocket; but I have climbed to the top of *.
xxiv A SEETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

the Parnassian Mountains, and have gazed in rapture on the
wonderful, the sublime, and the beautiful, until, wrapped in
deep meditation, I have sung my feeble and unadulterated
strains to tunes of my own composition. This has not been
achieved by college learning, for I have had none; nor yet by
my own acquirements, but by the gift of Him who says that a
sparrow shall not fall to the ground without His knowledge; if
it was not so, why should I have more exalted tastes than
those around me of my own station, or why should I feel a
pleasure in spending every leisure hour away from the gay
thoughtless world, who dance away their short life among the
glittering sunbeams of pleasure? and when they have closed
their earthly career, leave not a single stone to tell of their
departure. Surely, this dower was given me for some wise and
good purpose, something, over which I have no control, urges
me onward, and points me to joys which to sordid minds are un-
known. I have never travelled, nor have I seen the sea, but
I have seen the moorland wilds dressed in the lovely garb of
summer, with the heather bells in full bloom. I have listened to
the sounds of the sweet murmuring rill, till methought it gushed
forth in sweet poetic sounds, too sweet for my poor illiterate
mind to describe. I have also looked on the flower-bespangled
meads, and gazed on the flowers in their loveliness; drunk
deeply of the honeyed nectar from their enchanting lips, while
the wild bee and butterfly have fluttered from one object to
another, till I have been lost in deep meditation ; and the
waving woods, the heath-clad mountains, the song of the birds,
the gushing fountains and the heart-breathings of my own soul
have all been themes on which my muse has loved to dwell.

If these my humble endeavours should gratify my friends,
or tend to raise the class to which I belong, I shall be well
repaid; if not, I have toiled in vain, and have lived till my
fifty-third year, without a shilling to call my own, or a strip
of land to rest my weary foot on.

87, Green Lane, Halifax,
August 1, 1857,
POEMS.

 

THE OLD SOLDIER.

IN FIVE PARTS.

PART I.—The Introduction.

“ A soldier's life to labour seems
Unruffled as the summer streams ;
Save by the stroke of pleasure’s oar,
That wafts hie skiff from shore to shore."—
THomas CROSSLEY.
One night, when December’s cold chilling breath
Was blowing fresh over the mountains,
All nature seemed wrapt in the mantle of death,
And the frost had congealed the fountains.

The robin had crept to his hole free from harm,
Benighted, and hungry, and weary;

And the wren in the haystack had made itself warm,
Far away from the woodlands so dreary.

The insect creation was lull'd fast asleep,
Save the cricket that sung in the corner;
And the mouse from its hiding place slowly did creep,
In the dairy to be a sojourner.
c
2 THE OLD SOLDIER.

The day had been stormy, and piercingly cold,
The coldest that e’er I remember ;

And the wintry wind round the village church howl’d—
"Twas a comfortless night in December;

When I left my retreat near the village church yard,
A friend and a neighbour to see;

A trusty oak sapling I had for my guard,
To be my support o’er the lea.

Arriv’d at the place, I was soon welcom’d in,
When my friend drew a chair to the fire ;

And we talked of the tumult of war, and the din
Of earthquakes and hurricanes dire.

We spoke of the battles on sea and on land ;

Of the storms and commotions which raged ;
Of the ships which are lost on a far distant strand ;
-. And of those which in war are engaged.

As we talked, a soldier popp’d in for a chat,
Who some foreign service had seen;

They reach’d him a chair, as he took off his hat,
His visage was pale and serene.

He seemed to have passed the hey-day of life;
Peace and concord were mark’d on his brow,

His eye did not glisten with warring or strife,
But pleasing his language did flow.

He told of the freaks and the follies of youth,
Of the tosses and losses of age;

His language was drest in the plain garb of truth,
And did my attention engage.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 8

I asked him to tell to what shores he had been,
When o’er the salt water afar:

Of the fears he had felt, and the sights he had seen,
Of the din and the horror of war.

He promised to tell us on some other night,
When he hoped he should meet us again,

Of the blood and the groans and the heartrending sighs,
Of foemen stretched dead on the plain.

That evening we parted with joy and delight,
Intending again soon to meet,

When of the Old Soldier again I will write,
Till I his sad tale shall complete.

PART II.

“ Of arms and war, my muse aspires to sing,

And strike the lyre upon an untried string ;

New fire informs my soul, unfelt before,

And on new wings to heights unknown I soar.”
CONGREVE.

THE moon had just peeped o’er the high bounding hills,
Which surround my retreat in the vale,

And shed her pale light on the murmuring rills,
‘That rippled along in the dale.

All was still, save the wind which howled in the trees,
That grew on the steep mountain side,

And scattered their leaves all around, which the breeze
By fits whirled along to the tide.
4 THE OLD SOLDIER.

The voice of the school-boy no longer did float
Along on the chilling night air;

But the village dog sounded its dissonant note,
While the youth to his cot did repair.

The matron had seated herself by the fire,
And the kitten played round on the floor;

While the blaze on the hearth circled higher and higher,
And the wind in the chimney did roar.

The stars brightly sparkled above in the sky,
When I went, the Old Soldier to see;

Determined to hear the whole story was I,
As I hastily tripped o’er the lea.

With pleasure I knocked at the Old Soldier's door,
And was soon welcomed up to the fire;

To list to the wonderful story once more,
My bosom heaved high with desire.

I was anxious to hear the Old Soldier begin,
So I asked him tell me the tale ;

But he begged I'd wait till my friend should come in,
And then he’d begin without fail.

We had not. sat long when my comrade arrived,
So blithe and so cheerful was he;:

We felt quite elated, our spirits revived,
And were as cheerful as ever could be.

The warrior began: ‘I was born in this place
Some fifty-eight summers ago ;

Deep sorrow and age may have wrinkled my face,
For my joys have been blighted with woe.
THE OLD SOLDIER: 5

When a boy, I the soldier did strut on the parade,
With my father’s old crutch for a gun;

- In my cap, mother fastened a dashing cockade,

Which brilliantly shone in the sun.

My father would smile when I ran with the crowd,
At the sound of the fife and the drum ;

While the man with the sword often shouted aloud—
‘Come play us up “ Britons, strike home!’”

I thought if I ever should grow up a man,
I would fight for my country and king ;

To battle the French, I would go with my clan,
And fresh laurels back would I bring.

So year after year kept hasting away,
Till twenty long summers had past,
When off I did go without further delay,

To enlist for a soldier at last.

The sergeant enquired if willing I was,
And able to fight for my king;

And when I said ‘yes,’ and he tipped me the brass
O how I did merrily sing.

To the justice next morning I went,
As merry as e’er could be;

On swearing me in they was very intent
And sending me off to the sea.

Our regiment was ordered at Dover to stay,
Whose castle stands high on the hill,

To it I was sent without further delay,
And. very soon went to the drill.
6 +HE OLD soLDIK.

In full regimentals I soon was arrayed,
With collar stuck under my chin ;

So closely to press my poor neck it was made,
That it frequently caused me to grin,

To shoulder my arms my attention was bent,
And march at the word of command ;

While very soon after on guard I was sent,
Though winter ruled over the land.

"Twas just twelve o'clock, and the wind whistled hard,
While stormy and rough was the main,

And dark was the night when I mounted the guard,
To stand for two houts in the rain.

O ‘twas then that I thought of my home in the vale,
And the charms of my father’s old cot;

I told to the billows my sorrowful tale,
And mused on my comfortless lot.

* Then I said to myself ‘If I’m blest with the sweets,
In the bitters as well I must share,

Though rough be the tempest the mariner meets,
It seldom o’erwhelms him with care.’”

But night closes in, I must haste to depart,
For the sweets of my own cottage fire ;

And when we next meet, I'll with pleasure impart
The story you so much desire.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 7

PART III.

“The warrior grasps the battle brand,
And seeks the field of fight.”
JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.

"Twas eve, and the rain did fall heavy and fast,
While cold blew the wind o’er the plain,

And the swift mountain flood by my cottage swept past,
The banks of the Calder to gain.

The last shade of day had forsaken the sky,
And solemn and dark was the scene,

And often I thought on the moments gone by
The months and the years which had been.

Since first the Old Soldier departed from home,
To fight on a far distant shore,

What thousands are laid in the cold silent tomb,
Where warring and fighting are o’er.

But I will away to the Old Soldier's cot,
Which stands in the village not far ;

I'll list while he tells of the wound that he got,
And ask him to shew me the scar.

Then I hastened away without further delay
An hour in his presence to spend ;

But as I was going, I stopped on my way,
At the lovely retreat of my friend.

And, oh! the delight which thrilled through my breast,
‘When I found the Old Soldier was there ;

So calmly he sat, so entirely at rest,
His heart seemed devoid of all care.
8 THE OLD SOLDIER.

He spoke, and my bosom then thrilled with delight,
When he said he’d continue the tale,

To which I had listened one wild stormy night,
At his cottage which stands in the vale.

He said, “I was corporal made very soon,
To teach our young soldiers the drill;

And then I could go to the ‘ Jolly Dragoon,’
To drink of good liquors my fill,

One evening through Dover's famed city I strayed,
To wander for pleasure awhile ;

So I thought I would speak with a pretty young maid,
The long weary hours to beguile.

I briskly stepped to her, and asked her to go
With a soldier upon the sea shore;

But she lifted her hand, which was white as the snow,
And said ‘ You must teaze me no more.

If my father should know that I company keep
With a soldier, he’d send me away

To yon castle afar o’er the watery deep,
And there I for ever must stay.

So I beg, I implore, I entreat you to go,
And leave me to wander alone;

My parents will grieve at my absence, I know,
And will wonder where I can have gone!’

Then I caught her fair hand, and besought her to stay,
While I told her the sorrowful tale,

Of a girl I once loved, now mouldering away,
Afar in my own native vale.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 9

I told her of joys that were withered and fled,
Since first I had played on the green;

Of friends that are laid with the long silent dead,
Who once my companions had been.

We talked till the sun had gone down in the west,
And rambled along the sea shore ;

While often I pressed her fair form to my breast,
And vowed we'd be parted no more.

But scarce had I sajd, ‘We'd be parted no more,’
When a picket of soldiers I espied ;

So I jumped in the mud, and bespattered all o’er,
Till midnight was forced to abide.

.

Then I crept from my hiding place, washed myself well,
And made myself decent and clean ;

Then sallied away to the sign of the ‘Bell,’
To ask if the picket had been.

There soon I was met and escorted away,
Though hungry and weary was I,

To the guard-house I went without further delay ;
With their rules I was forced to comply.

For soon a court-martial was summoned to sit,
When they ordered me extra to drill ;
Besides, on my back to carry my kit,
And march up the castle’s high hill.

Scarce a week had elapsed, when a route came to call
Us to London without much delay,

To be viewed by the king, in the park near Whitehall,
Ere to Holland they sent us away.
10 THE OLD SOLDIER.

Then I smiled to myself as we marched on the road,
With our colours unfurled in the air ;

For I was released of my troublesome load,
Which I had been long forced to bear.

We stayed in the city a fortnight or so,
New scenes did my fancy beguile,

After which we were ordered to Deptford to go,
And leave those gay charms for awhile.

We marched on to Deptford, a sea-port in Kent,
And quickly were ordered on board

Of asmack, which was soon to The Hague to be sent,
With men and provisions well stored.

With sorrow I wept when they sent me on board,
And my heart with deep anguish was torn,

While the hollow wind loud o’er the swelling sea roared,
And I felt myself weak and forlorn.

I oft cast a look o’er the wide swelling sea,
And sighed for Albion’s loved shore,

While I said to myself, ‘I fear I shall see
The land of my fathers no more.’

As evening advanced, I looked o’er the main,
While fast fell the rain from the sky,

And the land at a distance seemed but a dark stain,
Which far in the ocean did lie.

But quickly a storm arose in the west,
And the wind blew a terrible gale;

We crowded our sails and onward we prest,
But soon all our efforts did fail.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 11

The storm long continued, the thunder’s loud roar
Sounded wild o’er the wide trackless deep,

‘And the lightning’s red glare tinged the billows all o'er,
And caused them to tremble and weep.

With fury it raged two days and two nights,
Each moment we thought was our last,

When a large British vessel appeared in our sight,
And we thought that our danger was past.

The wildest commotion now reigned all around,
When a signal we made of distress ;

And the sailors all cried, ‘We shall quickly be drowned,’
While each to his messmate did press.

They speedily sent to our help the long-boat,
And soon we were safely on board ;

Then o’er the wide foaming sea we did float,
Though loudly the tempest still roared.

Sometimes we were mounted aloft in the air,
And anon we were sunk in the wave;

We clung to the boat in the greatest despair,
Expecting a watery grave.

But we soon got on board of this famed ship of war,
And away we sailed over the sea ;
The wind did abate, and we saw from afar,
The land we desired much to see.

Ere evening arrived to anchor we came,

' When I thought on my own native shore,

And sighed for another fond look at the same,
But feared T should see it no more.
12 THE OLD SOLDIER

But ‘tis past ten o’clock, and away I must go,
So I wish to you all a good night,

And when we next meet, in a fortnight or so,
My tale 1'll resume with delight.”

PART IV.

“When danger fronts, or foes are nigh,

I'd have a soldier's heart and eye;

When duty calls, I would not flee,

Though death should breast his bolt at me."
Tomas CROSSLEY.

Tue sun’s fading rays were forsaking the west,
And evening was hastening amain ;
While the meadows with hare bells and daisies were
drest
And buttereups smiled on the plain.

The little birds sung in each woodland and spray,
And the bloom of the hawthorn was fair ;

While the bee on each floweret was sporting away,
Or winging its flight through the air,

To its hole newly dug in my own native vale,
Its rich golden sweet to lay by,

Till winter’s wild winds blew loud in the gale,
And snow flakes fell fast from the sky.

The moon’s silvery light threw its shade on the brook,
As I hastened away from my home ;

Delighted around me on Nature to look,
I resolved o’er the meadows to roam.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 13

I wandered away till I met my dear friend,
Who was strolling along the wood side,

Where the ash, and the elm, and the willows did bend,
And the sycamore waved in its pride.

*Twas then that I thought of the Old Soldier's cot,
Where soon I considered to go ;

So I pressed my dear friend to revisit the spot,
As I wished something further to know.

He gave his consent for us quickly to start
For the Soldier’s sweet cot in the vale,

Whom soon we besought again to impart,
Some more of the sorrowful tale.

He bade us be seated, and thus he began :
“At The Hague we were landed on shore,
And the citizens welcomed us there, to a man,

While the guns in the harbour did roar.

The French had been there, and with fire and sword,’
Had threatened to level the place,

And leave not a man the sad tale to record,
Nor a woman the streets to retrace.

But news quickly came that Britannia’s brave sons
O’er the billows were rowing that way,

When off o'er the plains they fled with their guns,
Determined no longer to stay.

Some houses they sacked, and a few they burnt down,
There arose from the ruins a smoke,
So we loaded our guns, but the birds had all flown,
And in vain we did after them look.
D
14 THE OLD SOLDIER.

Such shouts of rejoicing and gladness were heard,
And pleasure beamed forth from each eye ;

And when we poor soldiers on duty appeared,
Our praises were sung far and nigh.

For four merry days did we feast on the best;
The valleys with music did ring ;

Each house in the city with garlands was dressed ;
Each flag bore the arms of our king.

And when these few days of rejoicing were past,
To Delph we were ordered to go,

And leave the gay city of feasting at last,
With hearts deeply clouded with woe.

Then I thought of the land, of the great, and the free,
As my billet I took for the night,

In a place where the language was new unto me,
And their acts did my bosom affright.

\
That night in the house of the gaoler I lay,
With a well loaded gun by my side ;
How often I sighed for the dawn of the day,
That I might o’er the salt billows ride.

I did not admire the place I was in,
For my host was a fierce looking blade ;
In the morning I strove his attention to win,
But he did all my questions evade.

How happy was I when the bugle’s shrill blast,
’ Called me far from my quarters away;
I thought, surely then all my sorrows were past,
And off to the parade I did stray.
THE OLD SOLDIER 18

‘When I met my companions again in the street,
We laughed, and conversed on the past,

And wished that again we might oftentimes meet,
Where the horrors of war could not blast. *

Ere night we were ordered to stand to our arms,
And prepare o’er the billows to go ;

For war was then spreading its dreadful alarms,
And filling the nations with woe.

We entered a ship, and away we did sail;
All the sailors were cheerful and free ;

For they banished dull care with a song or a tale,
And merry and jovial were we.

As morning advanced we saw land far a-head,
Where breakers were lashing the shore ;

While winter’s cold blast filled each bosom with dread;
For the wind in the canvas did roar.

A pilot came on who rowed us to land,
And soon we were all on the beach,

Where the villagers welcomed us on to the strand,
But we knew not a word of their speech.

To Williamstead barracks away we did go,
Which just had been left by the French,

Where we found everything in disorder and woe,
And filled with a terrible stench.”

But evening advances, and I must away,
And leave the Old Soldier awhile,

I intend soon again to his cottage to stray,
An hour or two to beguile.
16 THE OLD SOLDIER.

PART V.

“ O curst ambition in the breast of kings!
For sure will heaven her wrathful vials pour,
So long as man to lust of empires clings,
Down on his latest sons the scourge of battle brings.”
Wittiam Henry LEaTHaM.

Tue flowerets had closed their eyes for the night,
And sweet were the zephyrs of eve,

And the glowworm was shedding its gay lovely light,
"Neath the shade of the bramble’s dark leaf.

The moth spread its wings for a light fairy dance,
In the midst of the dingle’s deep shade,

And the sly cunning fox from his lair did advance,
To hunt over woodland and glade.

The pale waning moon tinged lightly the scene,
As slowly I wandered from home ;

And lovely indeed was the sight on the green,
Where the lads and the lasses did roam.

Then I mused o’er the past, till dark boding care,
Pressed his cold ugly form to my breast;

While close by his side, stood the monster, Despair,
Which robbed my poor heart of its rest.

But hope whispered comfort again in my ears,
And bade me remember the past;

When morning appeared with its sorrows and fears,
And sweet was the evening’s repast.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 17

When life’s troubled waters were big with a storm,
Which on its foundations did lave;

Then mercy encircled my path with her form,
And snatched me a brand from the grave.

Then I thought, as I walked through the woodlands away,
On the lovely delights of the past,

Of faces once happy, and cheerful, and gay,
Now hid from the winter’s rude blast.

But who should I chance in the distance to spy,
‘Neath the shade of a dark spreading tree ?
But a friend who had often delighted mine eye,
When the snow glistened bright on the lea.

He quickly arose when he saw me advance,
And asked me his rambles to share,

While he at a scene of his story would glance,
If I would to the recital give ear.

So we wandered away, and hope gilded the scene,
Which round in the distance did he;

While evening stood wrapped in her mantle serene,
And the bat whisked in sullenness by.

The warrior began in his own native style,
To divert my attention away

From things which he thought would my fancy beguile,
And thus unto me he did say:

“From Williamstead barracks we quickly did go,
When midnight had spread forth its gloom,
And winter had covered the lowlands with snow,

And made for the bushes a tomb.
D3
18 THE OLD SOLDIER.

In silence we marched three hours and more,
Till we came where the French soldiers lay;

But the guns in the city so loudly did roar,
That it made us retreat in dismay.

For two or three weeks we encamped in a wood,
And the French they encamped on the plain,

While away in the distance the sentries stood,
A constant look out to maintain.

Each morn we expected to fight we should go,
And cover the valley with gore,

Which filled every bosom with sorrow and woe,
For they wished the sad conflict was o’er.

So early one morning, when midnight was past,
And fast fell the snow from the sky ;

While the wind from the north blew a terrible blast,
And whirled like a hurricane by.

We crept from our camps in the snow-covered wood,
And in silence we all marched along,

Assured that if there any longer we stood,
Death soon on our numbers would throng.

We planted our guns by a wide spreading moat,
Which surrounded the city’s high walls;

But the frost had forbidden its waters to float,
And had hardened its face with the squalls.

All things were prepared, and the rope ladder reared,
It was fixed on the castle’s high hill,

Not a motion was made, nor a whisper was heard,
For we intended the Frenchmen to kill.
THE OLD SOLDIER. 19

But the French had prepared all their engines of war,
And all our manceuvres had seen,

While they were determined our projects to mar,
And spread desolation between.

They stood to their guns, and with grape-shot and shell,
Spreading great consternation around,

Each shot that they fired on our soldiers did tell,
Till our men lay in heaps on the ground.

Destruction and death, disorder and woe,
O’ershadowed our soldiers that day ;

And many a Briton was laid on the snow,
Who had lately been blithesome and gay.

Then I said to myself, ‘ This is hard to endure,
But my country such duty commands,

Her freedom, her rights, and her peace to secure,
My life and my all she demands.

So, hurra for the charms of my own native land!
Though the battle field round us may rage,

There’s a conquering power in the brave Briton’s hand,
The tyrants proud wrath to assuage.’

As our flag in the havoc of battle was torn,
We were soon compelled to retreat,

While we silently wandered neglected, forlorn,
Without any rest for our feet.

I left my companions and ran for my life,
While the bullets around me did fly,

And the heart-rending groans, the contention and strife,
I shall never forget till I die.
20 THE OLD SOLDIER.

The snow all around me was covered with blood,
*Twas the blood of the foe, and the friend ;

I made a retreat from the spot where I stood,
For fear did my footsteps attend.

"Twas terror and woe added speed to my feet,
For I fled when there no one pursued,

Till a party of Frenchmen I happened to meet,
Who did on my freedom intrude.

They first tightly fastened my hands to my back,
And lest I should troublesome grow,

They held me so long that my hands they grew black,
And pain through my system did flow.

Then they took me and tumbled me, bound as I was,
O’er the top of a village church wall,

Where I fell among gravestones, and rubbish, and glass,
And was very much hurt by the fall.

When morning arrived they took me away,
And kicked me and called me a dog ;

They spoke, but I knew not a word they did say,
Though I thought they designed me to flog.

To prison they took me, ‘twas gloomy and dark,
No candle there was, nor yet fire ;

The nature within me had fled to a spark,
And I hoped that it soon would expire.

Weak, weary, and faint, I reclined on the straw,
While I mused on the visions long past ;

And thought of the seasons of sorrow and woe,
Which fortune around me had cast.
THE OLD SOLDIER. Q1

I thought on my home in the wood-covered vale,
And wished I its comforts might share,

And tell to my mother the sad doleful tale,
While I sat by her old rocking-chair.

Sweet dreams of my childhood for ever long fled,
Were recalled to my half-broken heart,

And hot burning tears down my countenance sped,
While keenly my bosom did smart.

But ah! it was useless to weep and repine,
Confined in a far distant land,

Where the sunbeams of pleasure never could shine,
Nor the solace of friends be at hand.

With scarce any food to support my poor frame,
For sixteen long weeks, aye and more,

While deep burning thirst did my bosom inflame,
How I wished all my troubles were o'er.

But quickly I was for another exchanged,
And sent my companions to meet,

Who shouted and capered as if half deranged,
When first I appeared in the street.

But soon our rejoicings were brought to an end,
For the French they had taken the field,

Determined their country and homes to defend,
And their old institutions to shield.

We fought a great battle, which lasted three days,
While the field was all covered with gore;

Thus war's horrid demon his carnage displays,
Before the dread conflict is o’er.
22° THE OLD SOLDIER.

As I gazed on the scene, a large bullet came,
Which shattered my arm in its flight,

While a cold deadly stupor crept over my frame,
That filled me with terror and fright.

To La Belle Alliance* they sent me away,
Where death’s darkest terrors were seen ;

Here two English doctors their skill did display,
But my sufferings were dreadfully keen.

The ball from my arm was extracted with speed,
Which caused me most torturing pain,

While many around me for mercy did plead,
But all their entreaties were vain.

The groans of the dying, and looks of the dead,
Which prostrate around me did lie,

Made everything near to inspire me with dread,
And often I wished I might die.

But time hastened on with its light fairy wing,
When to England they sent me away,

To tell of the failings which battle did bring,
And to feast with the great and the gay.

But sorrows unnumbered around me have past,
And pleasures bright dreams are all fled ;

While steady old age is approaching at last,
And friends that I loved are all dead.

And yet I can talk of the dark battle-field,
Or show how the battle was won,

And sigh o’er the sorrows which then were revealed,
And weep o'er the deeds which were done.

*A farm house, used by the English as an hospital.
THE OLD SOLDIER. Q3

But night spreads her plumes o’er the far distant scene,
And hides all the sports of the past,

While you, my kind friend, must return o’er the green,
And we must be parted at last.

We may, or may not, another time meet,
In meadow or deep shady dell,

To talk o’er the future with pleasure replete,
But now I must bid you farewell.”

We parted, and each of us homeward retired,
To muse on sweet moments now fled,

When friendship and love had each bosom inspired,
And pleasures around us were spread.
24 THE WANDERING LOVER.

THE WANDERING LOVER,
OR, RANDOLPH AND JULIA.

IN FOUR PARTS.

THE ARGUMENT.

The “Wandering Lover” is founded upon fact. In the early part of
last century there resided, near a village lying between Keighley and
Skipton, a gentleman of ample fortune having an only daughter. An
adjacent cottage was the home of the man-servant, his wife, and their
boy. Circumstances threw the children into daily intercourse. They
played together—strolled together—ripened into youth together. Both
were models: Julia of women’s grace and sweetness—Randolph of man’s
enthusiasm and valour. It is needless to say thet sharing each other's
society and pursuits they became attached in a deeper sense. At length
Randolph made a declaration of his passion, and was overjoyed to learn
that his love was reciprocated. From that hour their stolen interviews
were frequent; and forgetful of the disparity in their stations they
plighted faith in all sincerity and trust. It was during one of these
clandestine meetings, on a lovely summer's evening, they were overheard
by Julia’s father. Breaking in upon them, the proud man, with bitter
words spurned Randolph from his presence. Julia by her pitiless parent
was sent to a distant abode ; but Randolph continued to haunt the scenes
of his former bliss until a message, in Julia's own hand, besought a last
interview. They met, and the broken-hearted girl, convulsed with grief
which no earthly means could assuage, died in her lover's arms. Bereft
of all that had endeared him to the haunts of his childhood, aur hero
resolved to leave his native land, and seek in the excitement of adven-
ture cessation from his melancholy. A raging fever, however, for a time
stretched him on a bed of languishing pain, and it is at this point the
tale commences.

PART I.

“ The heart that sorrow doomed to share,
Has worn the frequent seal of woe,
Its sad impressions learns to bear,
And finds fall oft its ruin flow;
But when that seal is first imprest,
When the young heart its pain shall try,
When the soft, yielding, trembling breast,
Oft seems the startled soul to fly.”
Dr. LancHorne.

Far in the wilds remote from human sight,
A youth once wandered with deep care bedight ;
THE WANDERING LOVER. 25

He left his cottage in the mountain glen,

To seek repose away from cruel men,

Who at one blow had robbed him of his love,

And made him wander like some turtle dove,

‘That seeks his mate through every wood and glade,

And mourns her loss where flowerets bloom and fade:

Resolved to seek in other lands a home,

To fly o’er deserts and through forests roam.

No peace by day, at midnight hours no rest,

A prey to sorrow, and with grief oppressed.

His heart, that erst with youthful fervour glowed,

Was torn by anguish known not to the crowd ;

The jocund song had ceased its magic strain,

In broken accents sickened on the brain ;

The tinge of health had left his youthful cheek,

Now deeply furrowed, while affliction bleak

Preyed on his frame, and with its icy hand

Seized on its victim in his native land,

Before he sails for yonder distant shore,

Where dashing whirlwinds on its summits roar.

He often cries, but all his cries are vain,

A raging fever rankles in his brain,

Which drags fair reason from her lofty throne,

And makes her travel into climes unknown,

Where all is dark, unconscious, void of fear,

Knowledge has fled, and hope has ceased to chee:
His mother tries, with all her wonted skill,

To stay his ravings, while his stubborn will,

On mischief bent, with craft and cunning rife,

Attempts to rob his body of that life

Which God designed should in his cause be spent,

And bade him use it for a good intent.

Meanwhile the fever, with redoubled speed,

Weakens his frame, and makes him humbly plead

E
26 THE WANDERING LOVER.

For mercy from the everlasting throne,

‘Where pain and sorrow are alike unknown ;
While Galen's sons, with all their skill and care,
A soothing medicine for his lips prepare :

Which having drunk, and his hard pillow pressed,
Soft balmy sleep enwraps his troubled breast ;

Its potent charm, like summer's early dew,
Wakes up new scenes enchanting to the view,

Or dreams of darkness hover o'er the mind,

And blacker phantoms wander in the wind ;
Which make him cry: “ Ye demons, do your worst!
I know my Julia's father has me cursed.

I feel it here! It burns within my breast!

It racks my brain, and will not let me rest !

Deep in my heart I feel it working there !

My nerves are tortured by that fiend, Despair!
But her last kiss still thrills thro’ this poor frame,
While joy enraptured hangs upon her name.

I see her there! She beckons me away

To yonder regions of cternal day!

A brilliant crown sits lightly on her brow;

Her robes are whiter than the drifted snow ;

Her golden harp sends forth far sweeter strains
Than all the music that this earth contains;
While her loved voice, that erst was soft and sweet,
Sounds louder far with heavenly fire replete.

She beckons me! and, with her snow-white hand,
Points upward to that bright and happy land,
Where all is peace and joy without compare,

And night is lost, for endless day is there !

‘They need no sun, no moon, nor twinkling stars ;
No pain nor sickness their rejoicing mars.

Envy and hate ne’er banquet on that shore,

But each full heart with heavenly love runs o’er.
THE WANDERING LOVER. Q7

Methinks she speaks, and bids me longer live,
And asks me, why I o’er her ashes grieve ;
Tells me to seek an interest in His blood,
Who reigns enthroned o’er Jordan’s swelling flood.
I feel exhausted ; how I long to sleep —
Deep in the grave where crawling earth-worms creep ;
Where my poor frame would quickly be forgot,
My name unheard of, and unknown my lot;
While some lone wanderer, at the twilight hour,
Strays o’er the spot to cull some lovely flower
That grows in clusters on my lonely grave,
And rank tall grass in solemn sadness wave.”

See! there he muses o’er the long long past,
On by-gone pleasures buried in the blast.
Tears trickle down his furrowed careworn ‘cheek, |
Where anxious thought has left her traces bleak.
His heart is torn with many a bitter sigh,
And darkening clouds obscure his evening sky.

“*O let some angel guard my sinking head!
With Hermon’s sweet may my poor frame be fed!
Till Gilead’s balm my wounded soul restore,
And round: my head its healing virtue pour;
Then will I go to yon far distant land,
Where dashing billows roll upon its strand,
And cloud-capped hills in orient grandeur rise,
And flowerets waft their odour to the skies.
O sleep! thou soother of the human breast !
Come and enwrap me in thy silken vest!
And I will soar on hope’s outstretched wings,
They'll bear me up when threat’ning danger rings ;
They'll cheer me on through life's unpleasant vale ;
They'll soothe my soul when stormy blows the gale;
And when my bark on time’s last wave is driven,
Through death they'll bear me to the gate of heaven.
238 THE WANDERING LOVER.

But I must cease to murmur and complain,
For death or sleep is stealing o’er my brain ;
Its icy hand now stays my clamouring tongue,
And fading phantoms in the distance throng ;
Their horrid forms around the room are spread,
They fill the air, and wander o'er the bed.
Guard me, ye angels, in this trying hour!
Let streams of bliss from yon bright city lower
On my poor heart in heavenly strains divine!
May faith’s strong arm my struggling soul entwine !
And if I die, may some celestial band
Convey me up to Canaan’s happy land.”

His voice is stayed, he on his pillow falls,
While loud his mother for assistance calls ;
But ah! ‘tis vain, for no one hears her cries,
Attends her summons or her need supplies.
Meanwhile she stands and gazes on her child,
With hair dishevelled and with sorrow wild.
In agony she cries—a flood of tears
Roll down each cheek, but lessen not her fears ;
Again she looks in horror towards the spot
Where lies her son, the sharer of her lot,
Through long long years of widowhood and woe,
Her last companion in the vale of woe.
A death-like paleness overspreads his face ;
Large drops of sweat each other quickly chase
Down the deep furrows of his withered cheek ;
His mother feels the woe she does not dare to speak ;
And while the bed his perspiration sips,
A long drawn sigh escapes his half closed lips!
Which makes his mother look with wondering eyes,
And soon a cordial to his mouth applies!
Which having drunk, nature’s restorer, sleep,
Steals o'er his frame in slumbers sound and deep ;
THE WANDERING LOVER. 29

And for twelve hours it holds supreme control,
While dreams of pleasure o'er the senses roll ;
Thus are brought back iost treasures from the past,
Radiant with beauty, but they cannot last ;
They look like flowers in a May morn scene,
Lovely in colours—fairer than a queen.
Their choicest sweets in rich effulgence flow ;
Their genial perfumes through the desert blow;
But, touched by fate, their loveliest colours fade,
And all their sweetness withers in the shade.
So his sweet dreams from Nature's golden store,
Though dressed so lovely, quickly will be o'er,
And all those charms, once dear unto his heart,
Cast but a shadow, and away they start
To other climes, and leave the wretch to mourn
For moments gone which never will return.

He lifts his eyes, and looks around the room,
And sees his mother in the distant gloom ;
He calis her to him, when they both embrace,
And childlike tears each other quickly chase
Down the deep furrows of each careworn cheek,
And each heart suffers what it cannot speak,
Till the fond mother, in deep accents wild,
Breaks the long silence with—‘‘ My child! my child!
Oh, how I loved thee, when thine infant tongue
First tuned my heart in soft melodious song !
And when thy gambols in thy youthful hours
Caused me to roam midst fertile woods and bowers,
To seek fresh beauties in each lovely shade,
Where pale-faced daisies on the grass were laid,
And warbling birds in sweet and lovely strains,
Sung their sweet notes while on the distant plains.
The little lambs, in wild and sportive play,
Danced on the grass as lively and as gay

E38
30 THE WANDERING LOVER.

As the wild lark when first he takes his flight,
And the grey morn has ushered in the light,

He shakes the moisture from his dew-clad wings,
Mounts the rude hills, while heaven’s blue arch rings
With the sweet strains of his enchanting song,
As soft it floats the mountain wilds among.

Thy father taught thee many a pretty tale,

And gently led thee thro’ the flowery dale,

Where bees, and birds, and butterflies were seen,
And purling streams ran bubbling forth between ;
Two shelving rocks appeared on either hand,
Whose high peaked summits rose sublime and grand.
Oft would he point thee to the woodland stream ;
Call thee his darling, while a joyful theme

Of pleasure whispered to his tender heart;

And oft he vowed that nothing should you part.
But ah! how vain is every human vow;

How soon forgotten in the world below!

And those we love, when absent from our sight,
Are scarce remembered in time’s hurried flight.
"Twas so with him, for, on a certain day,

He left his home and wandered far away
‘Through woods and valleys to a distant fair,
Where old companions soon around him were ;
And soldiers dress’d in scarlet, green, and red,
Caused him to drink till evening’s shadows fled.
When morning broke in loveliness around,

And found them drunk and senseless on the ground,
Each had enlisted, and that very day

The soldiers came and tore them all away,

And sent them off in distant lands to roam,
From parents, children, and their native home,
Where choicest fruits and orange blossoms grow,
And balmy gales their richest fragrance throw
THE WANDERING LOVER. 31

In scented sweetness on the noontide air,

And honeyed dew-drops glitter bright and fair.
Thy father oft would in the forest roam,

Muse o’er the past, and languish for his home;
But now he’s gone ; peace to his sacred head!

In peace he slumbers with the silent dead.

When the sad news first reached this lonely cot,
A dreadful trembling seized me on the spot;

My heart grew sick, and memory fled away,

I raved and mourned through many a weary day,
Till nature got the better of my woes,

And. grief gave way, and a sweet calm repose
Stole o’er my frame and eased my troubled heart :
And though less poignant, yet I felt the smart,
Through twenty years of widowhood and woe,

A weary pilgrim in this world below;

Sometimes elated by hope’s blushing charms,
When black despair would raise his withered arms,
That lay concealed when hope had taken flight,
And left the soul in sorrow’s darkest night.
Desponding fears, deep horror and dismay,
Haunted my couch and drove my sleep away,
Until thou reached the stature of a man,

And in thy face thy father’s features ran ;

Till fancy brought his image to my side,

As fresh as when he called me his dear bride ; "
His pleasing vows, his promises so sweet,

His ardent longings for this snug retreat,

Flashed on my mind like midnight’s golden dreams,
Till lovely fancy with his likeness beams.

I've guarded thee through many a weary hour,
And watched thee bloom like a sweet scented flower,
That reared its head beneath my fostering hand,
Unfolding colours beautiful and grand;
82 THE WANDERING LOVER.

But now for months I’ve watch’d my floweret fade,
Its strength and beauty wither in the shade ;

I tried each art thy silent grief to scan,

My efforts failed, and marred was every plan;
But when this sickness overwhelmed thy soul,
Thy dreadful ravings verified the whole.

Thou talk’dst of love, of sorrow, grief, and woe,
And the afflictions thou did’st undergo ;

How thy full heart was torn with hidden grief,
Yet my sage counsel gave thee no relief.

List to my voice, and timely warning take!
And oh! these sorrows from thy bosom shake !
Thy mother fain would heal thy broken heart,
And sacred truths to thy young mind impart.
When smiling health strews blessings on thy cheek,
Some lonely village in this country seek,
Where pride of birth and hate are both unknown,
And Reason reigns triumphant on her throne.
Some virgin there thy fancy may engage,
Heal thy deep sorrows and thy pain assuage,
Till time’s sweet moments steal away thy grief,
And in fresh objects thou can find relief.

May Jacob’s God be with thee all the way!
And this good book be thy support and stay !
It was thy father’s, it he loved to read ;

Oh! take it! May it be, indeed,

A lamp to shew thy youthful feet the way !

A star to guide thee, lest thou go astray !

A staff to guard thee in each lone retreat!

A dear companion with its counsel sweet!

It points the way to everlasting rest ;

That happy home, the mansions of the blest,
Where we shall meet, and never parted be,
Through the bright ages of eternity.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 83

‘Cheer up! my son, those bygone sorrows chase

From thy lone heart and let sweet joy have place

Within thy breast! and oh! tell me, I pray,

Where thou intend’st to guide thy weary way!

When rosy health with blushes on her cheek,

Spreads a soft radiance o'er that visage bleak,

Which once was lit with many a playful smile,

That did thy mother’s lonely hours beguile.”
He bids his mother sit down by his side,

While he relates where he intends to guide

His steps, when health his wonted strength restores,

And lovely Spring her richest blessings pours

Above, below, in meadow, wood, and plain,

And Flora comes with all her glittering train

Of lovely flowers and blossoms rich and rare,

And paints the landscape in her colours fair.

** Mother,” said he, “ I'l visit Julia’s grave

As soon as health permits me; I shall crave

To wander to that dear neglected spot,

Where lies a form never to be forgot,

While reason can my wayward soul command,

‘And I am left a wreck upon the strand

Of time. My thoughts will often back return

To that lone spot, while I in silence mourn

O’er her I loved when youthful hours were fair,

And summer breezes fanned the fragrant air.

Her name shall be m:’ watchword in the storm,

When howling billows lash my slender form.

On her I'll think when far upon the deep,

And midnight terrors o’er the waters creep.

I cannot bear this spot, ’tis hateful now!

A death-like stupor steals across my brow !

My heart is faint, I can no longer stay!

And if to morrow’s sun shines bright and gay,
34 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Ill seek the spot just when the setting sun
Casts her last shadows ere her race is run.

I'll wander forth and find that lonely grave,
Ere I depart where raging billows rave.

Which having found, I'll sit and o’er it mourn
For bygone hours which never will return.
Then far away to distant lands 1’ll roam,

And leave you, mother, and my childhood’s home.
Your prayers I covet—your blessing grant,
May God preserve you from distress and want!
My father’s bible I will safely keep,

And read its pages on the boisterous deep ;

Or mark its sayings in some hermit’s cell,
Where solitude and earth’s best comforts dwell.
For T intend that solitude to seek

In distant lands o’er mountains bleak ;

Far from the world with all its glittering toys !
Its empty dreams and short delusive joys.

And now, dear mother, leave me to my rest;

I feel a pleasure beaming through my breast.
Sweet balmy sleep, and your maternal care,
Have eased the wound my bleeding heart did bear.
But never can this troubled breast know peace,
Till my frail fluttering mortal pulse shall cease
To beat its rounds within this careworn frame,
Or I forget that sweet endearing name.”

His mother leaves him, and sweet soothing sleep
Spreads her soft pinions and around him sweep
In honeyed slumbers, which do softly creep
Upon the frame, like summer's early dew,
Breathing sweet fragrance o'er each floweret new ;
While balmy odours wanton in the air,

Fanned from a thousand blossoms rich and fair,
Dream after dream their loveliness display
In fitful fancies till the opening day
THE WANDERING LOVER. 85

Throws its soft shadows o'er the distant scene,

And paints each valley with a smile serene ;

While the sweet lark its morning song begins,

And shakes the dewdrops from its glittering wings,

Then mounts aloft to meet the rising sun,

As through the clouds its orient beauties run,

In lovely rays like pure celestial gold,

Dispensing blessings great and manifold

O’er the wide world, where care and sorrow reigns,

And pride of birth its sovereign right maintains.
Our hero early walks about the streets,

And soon is known by many whom he meets,

As one who writhes beneath a father’s curse ;

They call him villain and a something worse :

A demon, though in human shape arrayed,

That must be shunned, as one who long had strayed

From the deep caverns of that horrid pit,

Where black despair and hellish furies sit.

These things make home quite hurtful to the mind,

So he resolves to leave them all behind,

And wander far across the trackless deep,

Where things unknown in countless numbers creep.

He bids his mother one fond last adieu ;

And, as he goes, he takes another view

Of that loved spot—the cottage of his birth,

Recalling joys the brightest upon earth.

Childhood's gay dreams, with al] its sunlit flowers,

Its golden sweets and cheerful happy hours,

Shoot o’er the mind like treasures from the past,

Tinged with soft beauty, but too short to last.

He talks of scenes for ever past and fled,

Of friends once loved now mouldering with the dead.
Then off he hastes to Julia’s lonely grave,

Deep in the vale where lofty yew trees wave.
36 THE WANDERING LOVER:

The western clouds had lost their golden hue,
And twilight’s shadows overspread the blue,
Which hung around fair Luna’s lovely form,

As if to shield her from the coming storm.

And as the cattle to their homes retired,

The silvery moon a neighbouring mill-stream fired,
And cast her image on its polished face,

While dancirg bubbles do each other chase
Down the smooth tide into the Jake below,
Where towering oaks upon its margin grow;
While little daisies on the grass reposed,

And other flowers their lovely eyelids closed.

An old grey church just by the spot appears,
Which braved the blasts for full three hundred years;
Its ancient form, its lengthened age portrays,

It bears the impress of departed days.

Around it lies the once young, gay, and proud,
While the deep graves their mould’ring dust enshroud.
Once they could take their rambles on the green,
Or gaze with wonder on the lovely scene

Which stretches round its fane on every hand,
While heath-clad hills in the far distance stand,
But now they lie neglected ‘neath the spot,

Their names unknown, their ages quite forgot.
Their songs have ceased their votaries to inspire,
And each bright eye has lost its living fire.

"Twas thus thought Randolph, as he slowly crept,
To seek the grave where Julia's ashes slept.

Each new-raised tomb his wandering eye surveys,
And each is read by the pale moonbeam’s rays,
Till the deep midnight brings him to an urn,
O’er whose high top two weeping willows tum,
As if to hide a tablet from the sight ;

"Twas made of marble of a spotless white ;
THE WANDERING LOVER, 37

And there was writ fair Julia’s lovely name,

Her pedigree and acts unknown to fame.

Then follows what made Randolph's heart to bleed :
Read it, ye lovers and ye proud ones, read !

JULIA’S EPITAPH.

“ Here lies, beneath this stately sculptured urn,
A lovely child for whom her parents mourn ;
Cut off by death in a false lover’s arms,

Just ere her youth had spread its lovely charms.
Her father cursed him, and he fled away:

May it go with him, and his strength decay ;

In sorrow may he number up his years ;

His joys be few, but many be his tears:

Let him be childless, and his life be filled

With anxious care and little sunshine yield,
Till death unnerves him on some distant shore,
Where howling winds and dreadful tempests roar.”

Thrice did he read it, and his youthful heart
Was filled with sorrow, while big tears did start
Down the deep furrows of his careworn face.
Prostrate he fell, unconscious near the place ;
And there he lay as if bereft of life,

No friendly hand to soothe the bitter strife
Which then was raging in his troubled breast.
This being over he her shade addressed.

RANDOLPH'S ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF JULIA.

“Julia, see thy Randolph kneeling
Here at midnight on thy grave ;
Morning’s dawn will soon be stealing

On a cursed wandering slave.
F
38

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Look from heaven that holy dwelling,
On this lonely spot below !

See my heart with trouble swelling !
I am sunk in grief and woe!

Exiled from my home for ever,
I thy father’s curse must bear,
In a land where wilds shall sever
Me from those I loved so dear.

Night winds cold around me hover,
Dew-drops fall upon my head ;
Listen to thy faithful lover
From the portals of the dead!

Screen me from thy father’s curses !
Guard me in affliction’s hour !

Holy angels, be my nurses
Thro’ dark scenes where dangers lower.

I must bid adieu for ever,
To this land where sorrows dwell,
And from all my joys must sever,
Grave of Julia! fare-thee-well!”

The morning dawns upon the Eastern skies,
Ere Randolph hastes from Julia’s grave to rise ;
The little robin, with its scarlet breast,

Tunes forth its song, as if the tale possess’d
Sufficient merit for its morning’s song,

Which soon is joined in by the woodland throng,
Who chant their notes on many a lovely tree,
Which wakes the stranger from his reverie.

He rises slowly from the lonely spot,

And plants a flower—'tis the “ Forget-me-not.”
THE WANDERING LOVER. 39

In frenzied thought he gazes all around,

Uplifts his eyes, then looks upon the ground,
Where sculptured stones in countless numbers lie,
Whose ancient legends serious thoughts supply.
Then off he goes towards the swelling sea,
Bemoans his lot and wishes to be free.

His heart recoils at every step he takes,

Once near the sea his mournful bosom shakes ;
But still resolved to leave his native land,

And roam a stranger on an unknown strand,

His passage in a first-rate ship he takes,

For India’s shores his own loved land forsakes.
With his few things he quickly went on board,
Where in the steerage he was safely stowed,
Ready to sail with the first opening breeze,

O’er the blue waters of the Indian seas,

Where far from home, with all its glittering charms,
He'd seek a spot where sorrow never harms.

PART II.

“Not all the wealth thet Indian mines can bring,
Can soothe the heart of disappointed love.”
Tos. CROSSLEY.

Morntne has dawned upon the sea-girt land,

And streaked the clouds with colours rich and grand;
While the bright sun his glorious face displays,
And warbling birds break forth in songs of praise.
A thousand flowers lift up their opening eyes,

In lovely colours of a thousand dyes:
40 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Superior far to all the magic art
Which man, proud man, to canvas can impart.
Millions of dew-drops glitter on the plain,
And dancing zephyrs balmy sweets contain ;
While rippling waves roll gently from the shore
Against the breakers, while a sullen roar
Of booming cannon breaks upon the ear,
Raising a thought to Randolph’s memory dear.
He looks abroad, and each wide spreading sail
Is swiftly filling, and a pleasant gale
Wafts them along like shadows in the wind,
While home’s best comforts linger far behind.
The distant shore is sinking from the sight,
The heath-crowned hills and mountains’ towering
height
Fade in the distance, till they all are lost.
The last faint streak is by the wild wave cross'd.
Deep heartfelt sorrow settles on his soul,
While scalding tears in countless numbers roll
Down the deep furrows of his careworn cheek,
And many a sigh the passing moments break,
As swift they steal around the aching heart,
While scenes gone by, like lovely treasures, start
On memory’s wings, recalling to his mind
A mother's tears and home far left behind.
Meanwhile the ship, spreading her gallant sail,
Skipped o’er the sea, and pleasant was the gale
Which wafted them across the rippling main,
With scarce a cloud the lovely scene to stain,
Till they arrived in a far distant land,
Where they cast anchor near unto the strand.
The sun had risen, and each glimmering ray
Painted the landscape in its colours gay,
Cheering the heart, while many a sunlit smile
And new-born zephyrs danced around the while.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 41

They sought for water in a lovely vale,
O’erhung with flowers which fluttered in the gale.
Fresh trees and scenes their loveliness impart,
To tempt his fancy, while his wayward heart
Broods o’er the past, when all was fresh and fair,
And his fond breast untortured by despair.
Meanwhile his friends for water far did seek,
While he resolved to cross a distant creek,
And leave them all to do as they thought best;
So he himself of several things possessed :
A knife, a pistol, and a little shot;
Besides some powder, and a single pot
Of sweetmeats; with a stock of bread and meat
To cherish nature in his lone retreat.
When thus equipped, he wandered o’er the plain,
Resolved ere night a distant wood to gain,
Where pendant boughs with clustering fruits were
hung,

And little birds their warbling music sung.
He travelled slowly, for the rising ground
Was thickly set with thorny plants around,
Which clung like ivy to each lofty tree,
And spread their branches where the grass should be ;
While on them grew full many a lovely flower,
Which might have graced with beauty many a bower;
The feathered songsters warbled in the air,
While lurked beneath envenomed reptiles were.
He quickly gained a large extensive wood,
Where tall old trees in countless numbers stood,
Whose spreading tops were decked in emerald green ;
Where lovely blossoms dangled in the scene.
A thousand flowers he'd never seen before ;
A thousand birds flew from the neighbouring shore ;
While insects basked on every leafy spray,
And butterflies, in rainbow colours gay,

F383
42 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Spread wide their wings on almost every flower,
Drinking fresh nectar from each woodland bower.
There Randolph stood enchanted to the spot,
Nor wished for ought, save but to share the lot
Of some lone hermit in that lovely vale,

Where scented zephyrs flutter on the gale.
Heath-covered mountains to the left appear,
Which to the clouds their giant heads uprear,
Carved into curious dark fantastic forms,

Washed into furrows by a thousand storms.

A lovely spring came trembling from its bed
Beneath those mountains, while it wider spread,
Till it was lost amidst the sand below,

Where reeds and willows in abundance grow.
Randolph looked up with wonder in his eyes,

A thousand thoughts did in his bosom rise,
Which swiftly ran on memory’s silvery wings,
While from the past delighted fancy brings

Old treasures from the long forgotten store

Of days gone by, which will return no more.
Friends after friends in thought’s bright mirror rise,
Each lovely form that magic glass supplies,

As when they fluttered in those sunny hours,
When childhood culled its most delicious flowers.
Julia’s fair form, her last farewell adieu,

Her father’s curse, stood prominent to view :
Causing his bosom many a bitter sigh,

While gloomy thoughts the wanderer’s breast supply ;
These soon were broken by the distant sound

Of martial music, as it did resound

From some lone cavern in the distant hills,
While echo bore it on those murmuring rills,
Which danced along that sweet and lovely vale,
Where balmy sunbeams wantoned in the gale.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 43

The time, the place, the sweet delicious sound,
Made Randolph start, who gazed all around,

As if to catch the music as it fell,

Which for a moment broke the mystic spell,
That like a millstone hung upon the heart,
Recalling thoughts which made our hero start.
He look’d around, the sun was setting fast,

Its last faint streaks painted the mountains vast,
Which spread their arms far as the eye could see,
Touching the clouds in their sublimity.

The fading daylight settled into gloom,

While twilight’s shadows through the forest loom.
No sight of man falls on his wondering eyes,

A thousand phantoms in the distance rise ;

A thousand thoughts take refuge in his breast,
Which grief and sorrow had so long oppress’d.
Onward he moved, the music died away,

And nought was seen but the last close of day,
Which gave to fright its wonder-working wings,
That like a phantom to the bosom springs.
Each bush, each tree, hath some wild magic given
To scare the outcast by misfortune driven

To seek afar in other lands a home,

Where beasts of prey in countless numbers roam.
With hasty steps he gains a block of wood,
Which on that spot for centuries had stood,

Its circumference was of vast extent,

Its limbs had tumbled from the trunk, and bent
The lower branches of the neighbouring trees

So low that Randolph could not walk with ease;
Therefore he creeps unto its moss-grown side,
Ascends with care, when quickly he espied

A hollow, worn by time’s decaying hand,

Within its centre, which he slowly scann’d,
44 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Lest some wild beast or bird should there possess
A home or covert in its wide recess.

He shouts aloud in incoherent cries,

Of which the echo in the distance dies ;

Then all is hushed and silent as the grave,

Save where the wild winds tarough the bushes rave.
Slowly he enters, while his trembling heart
Breathes a soft prayer to Him who can impart
Joy to the mourner ; honour to the brave ;

Sleep to the weary; freedom to the slave.

He then lies down within his curious cell,

And for the night bids boding care farewell.
Calmly he sleeps, and dreams of peace and joy,
And happy moments, when a little boy

He walked with Julia through each flowery field,
And culled the choicest flowers the woods did yield,
To wreathe a chaplet for her lovely brow,

Sweet as the blue-bell when September's glow
Spreads its soft charms upon the scented gale,
While butterflies its pleasant sweets inhale.

His soul, enraptured, grasps the smiling prize ;
But ah! ‘tis gone; and thus the vision dies.
When Randolph waked, to slavish fear a prey,
And gazed with wonder on the opening day,
Spreading its wings o’er many a forest scene,

And mountain summits tinged with lovely green;
While the soft sound of a sweet murmuring stream
Wakes up to life young morning's lovely dream ;
A thousand voices warble in the air;

A thousand insects dance on flowerets fair ;

A thousand dew-drops glitter in the sun ;

A thousand sweets through Randolph’s bosom run.
Till roused by music from deep reverie,

That in the distance rung melodiously,
THE WANDERING LOVER. Ab

While Randolph's heart beat lightly at the sound,
And calmness breathes a solemn stillness round.
Hope points the way to far superior joys,

To fairer climes where pleasure never cloys ;
Calm resignation settles on the mind,

And leaves dull care a wanderer far behind.
Randolph looks up, and from the tree retires ;
Fresh hope and joy his youthful breast inspires.
Slowly he walks and listens to the sound,

And long past pleasures softly whisper round,
Till the deep wailing of the bugle dies,

And a sweet voice its vacant place supplies,
Which gently falls upon his listening ear,
Recalling back old recollections dear.

Softly he creeps the flowering shrubs among,
Then stands and listens to the hermit’s song,
Whose gentle words the lonely wanderer cheers ;
And, as he listens, this sweet song he hears.

THE HERMIT'S SONG.

“Those woods, and trees, and opening flowers,
Which look so sweet and cheering,
Awaken up a thousand charms
To memory endearing.
Joys wither'd in my aged heart,
For ever now departed , ae
Hopes that were bright in childhood’s years
Have back on fancy started.

Methinks I travel o'er again
Those spots I trod so early ;
And press that angel to my heart,
Whom then I loved so dearly.
46

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Her golden locks, her smiling face,
Her cheeks as red as roses,

And twice ten thousand other charms
My memory discloses.

But my poor bosom bleeds afresh,
To think my flower has faded ;

That dark mysterious thing called Death
My blossom has invaded.

And there she slumbers in the dust,
Beneath that aged willow ;

While many a year away has past,
O’er life’s dark stormy billow.

I've scattered many a flower there,
When Autumn’s winds howl’d dreary ;

I've gazed upon that long-loved spot
And thought upon my dearie.

I've told again those tales of love
Which fluttered in my bosom,

And longed to share that lovely grave
Where sleeps my faded blossom.

But time moves on, my eyes grow dim,
My limbs with age are bending ;
And this poor feeble frame of mine,
Is to the grave descending.
But there’s a hope within my breast,
Which I will cherish ever :
It is to sleep close by her side,
When death these ties shall sever.”

Randoph’s young heart danced lightly, as the sound
Of the last words was sweetly floating round ss

 
THE WANDERING LOVER. 47

His fevered brain, with thoughts of home inspired,

Led by one impulse to the spot retired,

Where sat a hermit in deep reverie,

Beneath the branches of a tall old tree.

His beard was grey, and to his girdle hung;

His old keyed bugle on the grass was flung;

His feeble limbs were dressed in dark attire ;

His aged face did pleasing hopes inspire ;

Which made our hero close beside him kneel,

And in sweet language to his heart appeal :
“Father,” said he, “ protect a wayward child,

Who here has wandered through this forest wild :

I've left my home to seek in solitude,

A spot where grief will never more intrude,

To mar the yearnings of my youthful heart,

And break each pang which sorrow may impart.

From you I crave protection for a while ;

Oh! screen me from those cares which would defile

The deep recesses of my wounded soul,

Where life’s dark billows in deep anguish roll !”
The hermit slowly rising from his seat,

Takes his bugle from the wanderer’s feet,

Then bids him follow without much delay,

Points to the woods and gently leads the way.

Slowly they wander underneath the trees ;

A solemn silence sits upon the breeze;

Each thinks, but speaks not, as they onward move,

Until they reach the margin of a grove,

Where a fair stream came bubbling from its bed,

And lovely flowers on either side were spread ;

While on the left a lofty old tree stood,

Which seemed to be the monarch of the wood ;

Its lofty branches dressed in foliage green.

Spread tent-like o'er the enchanting scene,
48 THE WANDERING LOVER,

Which lay exposed around on every hand,

Like Eden’s garden or some fairy land.

Our hero stopped to gaze upon the tree,

But soon was wakened from his reverie,

The old man pulled some bushes from its side,
Which showed an opening that was large and wide,
Where each one entered, but no words did speak,
At length the hermit did the silence break.

“My son” said he, “this spot has been my home
For many summers, and I would not roam
For all the world calls wonderful or grand.

These have no charms to tempt me from this land,
To seek cold pleasures for a few more years,
Amid the sorrows of this vale of tears.”

Randolph looked around upon this curious spot,
And thought with wonder on its owner's lot,
Meanwhile the hermit spread upon a board,

The choicest sweets his garden would afford :

Cold roasted meat, and water from the spring,
With fruits, and roots, and many a dainty thing,
Preserved by him with unremitting care,

To give a relish to his daily fare.

Then to the spot he rolled a block of wood,

On which they sat to eat the dainty food ;

But ere they ot the frugal meal partook,

The hermit sighed and thus the silence brake :
“My son! attend ; learn wisdom from a sage,

Who now has lived beyond the common age
Allotted unto mortals here below,

Where thorns and briers in countless numbers grow,
Where man, the proud, the thoughtless, and the gay,
Looks on his poorer brother with dismay ;

And often boasts of his superior birth ;

His ancient halls and treasures upon earth.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 49

Builds splendid seats, and calls them by his name ;
The hand forgets that lifted him to fame.
The poor man cries—his tears are all in vain ;
He neither knows nor feels one pang of pain
Which twines around the poor man’s aching heart,
Nor bids one sorrow from his breast. depart.
But stay! I will these hell-born sins forbear
To mention, while each of us do share
Those comforts spread in this wide wilderness,
And may that God who feeds the ravens, bless
And guide us both by His almighty hand,
Through scenes of danger to that happy land,
Where fruits divine in rich abundance grow,
And streams of bliss in sweet effulgence flow.”
The meal concluded and with smiles serene,
They sit and talk till darkness steps between,
And shades the prospect with her evening wings ;
But soon the moon a silvery radiance flings
Across the pathway from that lovely spot,
While these two wanderers now approach a grot,
Where they can lie sécure from all alarms,
Forget the troubles and recount the charms
Which once enwrapp’d each now forsaken breast,
Now fraught with sorrow and with woe oppressed.
But ere they close their weary eyes to sleep,
They talk of England till they both do weep ;
Its forest scenes, its sweet sequestered bowers,
Its fairy glens, and antique mountain towers,
Rush back on thought like treasures from the past,
Fresh in their beauty but too short to last.
The hermit promised when the day was light,
To meet our hero ‘neath the mountain’s height,
Within the precincts of a distant vale,
Where numerous insects on its sweets regale,
And tell the story of his lengthened life,
Chequered by sin, oppression, care, and strife.

G
50 THE WANDERING LOVER.

PART IIT.

THE TALE OF HERMUS, THE HERMIT OR HERMUS AND PHOEBE.

“Condemned whole years in absence to deplore,

And image charms he must behold no more;

Such if there be who love so long—so well,

Let him our sad, our tender story tell.

The well sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost:

He best can paint 'em who shall feel’em most.”
ALEXANDER POPE.

Tue shades of night had passed away,
And lovely was each woodland glade,
A thousand birds, with plumage gay,
Sounded their notes in every shade;
They chased each other through the wood,
And fluttered round the opening flowers,
To gather some delicious bud,
To give their young in distant bowers.

When Randolph wandered to the spot,
Where Hermus promised he would meet
The hapless sharer of his lot,
And tell his tale with woe replete.
He sat and mused beside a stream,
Where little fishes sportive played,
And thought on life’s uncertain dream,
And happy moments swiftly fled.

The bugle sounds a martial air
He'd often heard in days of yore;
And Hermus soon was seated there,
While high peaked rocks above them tower.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 51

Tears started down each furrowed cheek,
And fell upon his withered hand,

While thus he did the silence break :
“List to my tale and understand.

Where Caldene’s waters softly creep,
Transparent o’er their pebbly bed,
A cottage stands upon the steep,
With trees and flowers around it spread.
There butterflies delighted roam,
And gather from each flower its sweet ;
And little birds in winter come
For shelter to that snug retreat.

In that sweet cottage I was born,
And by my parents fondly reared ;
I’ve watched the flocks and sheared the corn,
And was by them beloved—endeared.
My mother told me many a tale,
And gave me counsel wise and good,
While oft we rambled through the vale,
Where lovely trees in clusters stood.

I loved her well, and many a sigh,

Stole from my young and tender heart,
To think that we must soon comply,

With something which would grief impart :
For we must leave that lovely spot,

And wander where we are not known;
By friends and foes alike forgot,

To live beside a seaport town.

*Twas there I lived, my parents’ joy,
Till nineteen years away had past,

Since I at first a happy boy,
Entered upon life’s stormy blast.
52

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Love had not touched my tender heart ;
Its sacred sweets I never knew;

I could not from my parents part ;
My love to them was strong and true.

Till Pheebe met me on the beach,
Fair as an angel sent from heaven ;
I could not speak, the power of speech
From my frail lips away was driven.
I felt my bosom fondly beat,
And longed to call the blossom mine,
To bear it to some sweet retreat,
Where nought but love could on it shine.

I scarce could breathe, the breath of love
Was stamped upon my youthful heart,
And nought but death can e’er remove
That image, or new joys impart.
I saw her ramble far away ;
And leave me by myself to roam,
To muse upon past visions gay,
As thoughtfully I wandered home.

Home I retired, but not to rest;
Methought her form I often saw ;
Her image on my heart was pressed,
While love’s soft joys around did flow.
Evening had spread her sable wings
O’er the sweet landscape fresh and green,
Which conjured up a thousand things,
Fresh as they but that day had been.

I thought upon that sunlit vale,
O’erspread with sweet and lovely flowers,
Where wild birds whispered to the gale,
And wakened up those dormant powers,
THE WANDERING LOVER. 53

Which in the breast forgotten lay,
‘When shrouded in the arms of sleep,

To dreams and evil thoughts a prey,
That on the night winds softly creep.

The breath of morning, fresh and sweet,
Spread its soft odours o’er the spot,
When I, faint-hearted, went to meet
My Pheebe by the woodland grot.
I met her but the night before,
Which made me feel a sacred pang
Of love, which was for me in store,
And threatening dangers round me rang.

We met; I told my artless tale;
She listened in amazement wild ;
At length her lovely cheeks grew pale,
And thus she spoke in accents wild :
‘Young man; my heart I cannot give.
My mother promised it to-day
To one with whom I cannot live;
So leave me here alone, I pray.

My heart, I feel, is deeply torn ;
A languor chills my youthful breast.
I wish I never had been born,
Or that I in the grave might rest.
Shield me! oh! shield me from the man
Who seeks an interest in my love.
Have pity, stranger, if you can;
And from my heart this grief remove !’

I soothed her with a brother’s care,
And. bade her throw her fears aside,
And told her I her grief would share ;
To guard her would be all my pride.
63
54

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Tears trickled down each lovely cheek,
As she my youthful form surveyed,
And thus again essayed to speak :
‘ Have pity on a hapless maid!

My father lives on yonder farm ;
It is a large one, and his own ;
Around which there is many a charm,
To the licentious world unknown.
‘Twas there my mother fondly taught
My little infant lips to sing ;
And many a pretty plaything bought,
While I around her neck would cling.

I listened to those childish tales,
Which she to me would often tell,
Of nymphs and swains in distant vales,

Where truth and love together dwell.
But now, alas! my mother’s gone ;

I saw her in the churchyard laid ;
She’s left. me now to weep alone,

And be by friend and foe betrayed.

Another shares that sacred place,
Which to my mother did belong ;
Another feels that fond embrace,
Which on her bosom often hung ;
But how unlike that angel form,
Who taught my infant heart to love,
And told me how to shun each storm,
Which threatened from the heavens above.

I cannot, nay, I dare not live

Where my step-mother’s voice has sway ;
I soon unto despair should give

My life, and pine and waste away ;
THE WANDERING LOVER, 55

For there a drunkard seeks my hand,
Led by a demon in disguise,

Who through deceit and his will stand,
And madly blind my father’s eyes.’

Tears roll’d like pearl-drops down each cheek,
While Pheebe told her tale of woe;

And my poor heart did well nigh break,
To think what she did undergo.

If gold had been at my command,
Or I in riches might have rolled,

I would have shared them with that hand,
Which unto mine felt chill and cold.

But sorrow plants her arrows deep
Within the coverts of the heart,
Which makes a chilling stupor creep
Throughout the frame in every part;
Till hope wakes up the latent spark,
Which bid the darkening clouds give away,
And points the soul, through visions dark,
To future prospects fresh and gay,

In vain I strove to stay her tears,

And told her of those early flowers,
Which oft the swelling bosom cheers,

When the black wing of danger lowers.
We parted ; and a year or more

Had rolled o’er time’s mysterious brink,
And hurried many from the shore,

Who form’d of nature’s chain a link.

My parents dear neglected lay

_ Beneath the yew-tree’s lonely shade ;

The grave had claimed them as its prey,
And they were in its silence laid ;
56

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Which made me sigh, and mourn, and grieve,
As one bereft of every hope:

Of pride, and pomp, and health the scorn,
Left with a thankless world to cope.

I sought my Phoebe far and near,

O’er mountains wild and valleys deep,
And my poor heart began to fear

That she, too, slept her last long sleep;
But, on one lovely summer's eve,

A little girl a letter brought,
Which gave my aching heart relief,

And banished all my fears to nought.

In it she pointed out the woes,
Which hung upon her virgin breast ;
She did a tale of grief disclose,
That could no longer be repressed.
Her parents had her torn away
From home, and friends, and kindred dear ;
Confined within a madhouse, they
Had little left from her to fear

She said that I, that very night,

Must ‘hasten to that lonely spot,
And aid her in her mystic flight,

To where she soon would be forgot:
Ere midnight stole across the skies,

Or spread its pinions o’er the deep,
I wandered forth in dark disguise,

Around the moorland wilds to creep.

Until I saw a glimmering light
Shine through the dark majestic trees,
Which grew upon the mountain side,
Where silence whispered on the breeze.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 57

I sought around the lonely place,
And very soon a ladder found,
Which made me back my steps retrace,
To see if all was still around.

But all was silent as the grave,

The owl had ceased her midnight song,
The ivy leaves forgot to wave,

And pendant hung the flowers among,
Which grew upon the furrowed cheek

Of that old building’s crumbling form,
Carved by a thousand winters bleak,

The butt of every passing storm.

A trembling overspread my frame,
As I the ladder upward reared ;
Deep heartfelt grief did me inflame,
.When I upon its top appeared.
I saw the girl I dearly loved,
‘Wasted by sickness and decay,
Far from the thankless world removed,
To grief and wretchedness a prey.

I tapped the window, when she rose
And gazed in solemn silence round,

Then did its antique frame unloose,
And into my poor arms did bound.

I clasped her to my aching breast,
And bore her to the woods afar,

When we sat down awhile to rest,
Where nothing could our projects mar.

We talked till morning’s orient streaks
Began to shoot across the sky :

While the proud lark the silence breaks,
As swift it mounts to soar on high.
58

THE WANDERING LOVER.

The dew-drops tremble on the grass,
And glitter in the rising sun,

While dancing shadows swiftly pass
Away where murmuring brooklets run.

I asked her if she longed to share
My hand, my home, my wayward heart ;
Or if she would with me repair
Beyond the sea, no more to part.
She said she willingly would go
Where’er my wandering footsteps led,
To be my own in weal or woe,
When dangers round my path were spread.

I kissed her, as we rambled forth
Across a wild and trackless moor,
Where dwelt a man of sterling worth
Who opened us his cottage door.
He bade us stay those gloomy fears
Which clouded life’s dark chequered scene,
And told sweet tales of bygone years,
When children sported on the green.

I left her there, and wandered -home
To seek for comfort, but alas !
How short the joys through which we roam,
As onward through this world we pass.
A thousand cares and nameless ills
Are hidden in time’s secret hand,
While joy but for a moment fills
The soul with visions rich and grand.

Home had no charms, no joys for me,
Its sweets were all for ever fled ;

"Twas there ; but those who used to be,
Were mouldering with the silent dead.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 59

Their names were still revered—beloved ;
Their actions clung to memory ;

‘Though far away by death removed,
Sweet visions brought them back to me.

I sold the cot, the trees, the flowers,
The land, and all that it contained,
And left those sweet enchanting bowers,
With all the joys which there remained,
To seek a home in other lands,
A home away from care and strife,
Far from oppression’s cruel bands,
With Phoebe for my loving wife.

To Liverpool we did repair,
She never saw her father more,
She wished she could his blessing share,
Or a kind parting word implore ;
But, no; the swelling billows rolled,
The streamers fluttered in the wind,
Along the “ Emma’s” deck we strolled.
And thought on home far left behind.

There the dark deep receding wave,

Fast bore us further from the land,
And on the ship the surges lave,

Which drove us from our native strand.
We saw large dolphins sportive play,

Where the blue waters wide were spread ;
While other fishes, blithe as they,

Were sweeping o'er the sea-shells’ bed.

For three long months and fourteen days,
We sailed upon the billowy deep,
. And this old bugle’s wailing lays
Did o’er the bounding waters leap.
60

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Its deep majestic warlike sound
Brought many a vision from the past;
Diffusing pleasure all around,
In lovely sweets which could not last.

For soon the rain in torrents fell,

The clouds assumed a darkening shade,
The sea rolled on with horrid swell

And foaming spray around was laid.
The wind rose high, a furious blast

Drove us ahead with all its might;
One tumult filled the waters vast,

And heaved them upwards with affright.

The thunder roared and cast dismay
On every gallant sailor's heart,
And the red lightnirg touched the spray,
Which made each trembling bosom smart
To see the waves run mountains high,
And shivering sails in pieces torn,
While drifting timbers round did he,
Or upward by the sea were borne.

A dreadful shock, and one wild wave
Swept my fair Phoebe from my side:
The next did o’er the vessel lave,
And dashed me on the ocean wide.
I turned around, but all was lost:
No boat nor vessel could I see;
The crew was round about me tossed,
But soon they sunk beneath the sea.

One fearful wave bore me away,

And cast me on an unknown land,
Where I awhile neglected lay,

Half buried in the wreck and sand.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 61

I rose and wandered on the shore,
Then gazed upon the raging main ;
I thought on her I did adore,
And wished to see her once again.

Throughout the night the tempest raged,
While horrid was each howling blast ;
No gleam of joy my grief assuaged,
Fear had my bosom overcast.
At length the lovely rising sun
Tipp’d the far distant hills with gold ;
Each bird its warbling song begun,
Each floweret did its sweets unfold.

Ship’s stores and timbers lay around
Among the dead upon the beach ;
While, far upon the rising ground,
My Pheebe lay bereft of speech.
I ran and called her by her name,
And clasped her to my wounded heart,
And when I felt her breathe, the flame
Of love did sacred joy impart.

I chafed her temples, rubbed her hands,
Which woke her from that death-like sleep,
And soon we talked of distant lands,
Until we both began to weep.
All seemed a wilderness of woe,
Though deck’d with various lovely flowers ;
While many a murmuring stream did flow
Through fertile plains and fragrant bowers.

We rose and wandered by the sea,
And gazed upon its ebbing tide;
While on it swept both broad and free,
As though it man, proud man, defied.
H
62

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Barrels and chests, and logs of wood,
Were cast upon that lonely shore,
And hither borne upon the flood,
Were friends whom we had known before.

But death had robbed them of those charms,
Which bind man to his fellow man ;
Its fetters held the strong man’s arms,
And made his visage pale and wan,
While there he lay bereft of life,
The sport of every heaving wave,
As though the sea and land in strife
Contended which should prove a grave.

The tide rolled gently back, and left
The vessel high upon the shore;
Its splendid sides, in pieces cleft,
Were doomed to brave the storms no more;
While near it lay a thousand things,
Torn from the caverns of the deep ;
And birds of prey, with outstretched wings,
O’er the wild waters calmly sweep.

We climbed the ship, and quickly found
Provision in abundance there ;

Then we sat down and looked around,
And tasted of the dainty fare

Thus spread in this wide wilderness,
Far from the world’s delusive charms,

Where death and grief, and deep distress,
Had spread for us their dire alarms.

We feasted, then we wandered far
Into the wilds to seek a home,

Which pride of birth could never mar,
And where deceit could never come.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 68

*[was there we found, among the trees,
A grotto overhung with flowers,

Fanned by a sweet and gentle breeze,
Which hither sighed in summer hours.

"Tis in that rock, close by the stream,
Formed by that great Almighty hand,

Which made the sun on all to gleam
Resplendent at his high command.

"Tis spacious, lofty, large and wide,
Extending far beneath the hill;

While down the rock’s rough granite side,
Dances a little murmurizig rill,

Which falls into the stream below,
Where pretty fishes sportive play ;
While on its banks rich dainties grow,
Which serve for food from day to day.
‘We stood and gazed upon the scene,
Which round was spread on every hand ;
While nature cast a smile serene
Upon this rich enchanting land.

We very soon resolved to make
This beauteous spot our place of rest ;

While from the ship we meant to take
Whate’er could be by us possess’d.

So forth we rambled to the shore,
Marking our way on every tree,

For fear that we could find no more
The grotto’s distance from the sea.

We gathered what we wanted most,
And took it to that lovely spot :

Then back we hasted to the coast,
And toil and care regarded not,
64

THE WANDERING LOVER.

Until we'd taken what we could,
And borne it to the woods away,
Where shady trees in clusters stood,
And flowerets bloomed both fresh and gay.

Months rolled away, and every morn,
When the swift tide had swept the strand,
We gathered what was hither borne,
And cast upon this fruitful land.
I often wished to be possess’d
Of my old bugle, but, alas!
It lay below the sea at rest,
Where the wild waves did o’er it pass.

One lovely morn, the sun shone bright,
We wandered on the lonely shore ;
The floating tide was at its height,
Its foaming billows loud did roar.
I gazed. around, and at my feet
I saw this old keyed bugle lie,
That I so oft had sounded sweet,
In happy moments long gone by.

Oft has it soothed those golden hours,
Which o’er our heads unnoticed fled,
As slow we rambled o'er the flowers,
That round our path were sweetly spread.
Each day my Phebe lovely grew ;
Of future increase gave the test;
Her arms around my neck she threw,
And thus my loving heart address’d.

‘Hermus; I feel a mother’s love
Encircles.this frail slender frame ;

Hope, whispering, points my soul above ;
It bids me think on Jesus’ name.
WHE WANDERING LoVER. 65

Tis He can bear me conquering through
Those sorrows which my steps surtound,
Or gather me His kingdom to,
Where joy, and peace, and love abound.

On Him I'll cast my every care,
His grace will all my wants supply,
He will with me His goodness share,
And make me fit to live or die.
He can, in this wide wilderness,
Provide me all things which I need ;
Console me in my deep distress,
And to the Rock my spirit lead.

A something hangs upon my mind

Which tells me that I soon must die—
Must leave these lovely scenes behind,

And ‘neath the green grass mould’ring lie.
My heart for thee a yearning feels,

I grieve to leave thee here alone ;
A stupor o’er my bosom steals,

Which makes me inwardly to groan.’

In vain I strove to soothe her fears,
And give her help in time of need ;

But all my prayers and bitter tears
Could not the fell disease impede.

I saw my child brought to the birth ;
Its mother with deep anguish torn,

Stretched in disorder on the earth,
Helpless and weak, and quite forlorn.

Great drops of sweat rolled down her face,
A paleness stole across each cheek ;
She said—* Mine is a hopeless case ;’
And then her tongue forgot to speak.
HS
66

THE WANDERING LOVER.

I saw her die; my heaving breast

Was filled with sorrow, grief, and woe;.
A thousand ills my heart oppress’d,

My eyes with tears did overflow.

I mourned her loss, and oft did sigh ;
I made her grave beside that tree,
Where now her sacred relics lie,
Unknown to all the world but me.
I never can forget her name,
‘Tis written here upon my heart,
Though years have past tis still the same,
It does a sacred pang impart.

Oft have I strewn her grave with flowers,
While lovely birds sung o’er my head ;.
I’ve mused on childhood’s golden hours;
When pleasures round my path were spread,
This bugle’s soft melodious sound
Has often cheered my drooping mind—
Softened those cares which hemmed me round,
And to my fate, my soul resigned.

I've everything my heart could wish,
Toshelp me through this darksome vale :
Herbs, roots and fruits, with flesh and fish ;
Indeed, I could a king regale.
But there’s a void within my breast,
Which this frail world can never fill:
A grief which steals my midnight rest,
And makes my bosom cold and chill.

It is that I have lost my love,
The solace of my youthful years,
The joy that did my cares remove,
The sharer of my doubts and fears.

*
THE WANDERING LOVER. 67

She was my counsellor, my all
That I had left on earth below;

A thousand sweets my mind recall,
In this cold world of grief and woe.

And when at last my life shall close,
Or wither like the morning flower,
Which by the murmuring streamlet blows,
The plaything of a passing hour,
May I rejoin her far away,
Where flowerets bloom to fade no more ;
Where shines the sun of endless day,
And parting never taints the shore.

O may I moulder by her side,
Deep in the lonely woodland shade,
Where gentle breezes softly glide,
Or whisper through each flowery glade.
And now I’ve told my heartless tale,
As it is written on my heart ;
And you to-morrow shall detail
Things which have made your bosom smart.”

PART IV.

“ Her pillow swells, not deep with down;
For her no balms their sweets exhale:
Her limbs are ‘neath the pale turf thrown,
Pressed by her lovely cheek as pale.
On that fair cheek, that flowing hair,
The broom its yellow leaf hath shed,
And the chill mountain's early air
Blows wildly o’er her beauteous head.”
Dr. LawGHorNe.

THE morning opened wide her lovely eyes,
Painting the landscape with its orient dyes ;
68 THE WANDERING LOVER.

The rocks, the brooks, the woods, the opening flowers
Spread forth new beauties, while far distant bowers,
Tinged by the sun, their loveliest sweets display,
And soft-toned music issues from each spray,
When Randolph strayed in silence thro’ the wood,
Where tall stout trees in lovely foliage stood.

His mind reverted to the hermit’s tale,

Whose bugle sounded softly o’er the vale ;

Its wailing sound called back to memory

A mother’s love revered, when infancy

Spread its fair mantle o’er the sylvan scene.
While placid nature, with a smile serene,
Laughed at the phantom as it passed away

Into the bygone where all things decay.

The splendid halls, the monumental towers,

The sculptured urns, the sacred woods and bowers,
All, all are fled, and left no trace behind,

To point the future ages of mankind

To deeds of darkness done in days of yore,

And old traditions filled with ancient lore.

Thus Randolph mused till he the spot regained,
Where he and Hermus had before ordained

To meet, while Randolph told the heartless tale
Which made him wander from his native vale,

To the fair spot where nature’s generous hand,
Ladened with blessings, gently did expand,

To cheer the heart and animate the mind,

And raise the spirits of the care-worn hind.
Randolph sat down upon the rising ground,

And gazed, enraptured, on the woods around ;
When seeing Hermus hasten o’er the plain,

Who quickly did the well known spot regain,

And sitting down by Randolph on the grass,

Kind friendly greetings did between them pass,
THE WANDERING LOVER. 69

Till Hermus asked his fellow to relate

The joys and sorrows, and the way which fate

Had brought him through till he became a man.
Randolph looked up, and thus the tale began :

“In a small village, on the banks of Aire,

Where hawthorn blossoms bloom both fresh and fair,

Where Yorkshire lasses, filled with Yorkshire pride,

Walk in the summer by its lovely side

To hear the birds, whose sweet melodious sound

Breaks the soft silence in the woods around,

Or build their nests among the leafy spray,

And line them well with feathers, wool, or hay.

Romantic scenes, enchanting hills and dales, .

Soft smiling meadows, and delightful vales .

Break on the view, while twice ten-thousand flowers

Scatter the plains or hang upon the bowers.

Near this sweet stream there stands an-antique hall,

Whose stately form long bygone homes recall,

And by it stands a curious little cot,

With trees surrounding. “Tis a lovely spot.

Nature and art on it have showered their charms.

‘Tis far from bustle and the dire alarms

Which haunt the city and the busy town,

Where want and sorrow have together grown ;

Where anxious care on many a face appears,

And crime is carved upon declining years.

In that small cottage I was bred and born ;

By friends surrounded, ‘twas a joyful morn.

My mother smiled, and called me her sweet boy,

Her pride, her happiness, and every joy

Her heart contained was lavished upon me,

While oft I hung upon my father’s knee

To catch the smile which mantled on his face,

Or clasp his neck in a beloved embrace,
70 THE WANDERING LOVER.

And prattling tell some little artless tale

While he with “ bacco ” did his pipe regale.
Years rolled away, and I was sent to school
Where I was seated on a little stool,

And taught to read and write and cast accounts,
While the school-master some sweet tale recounts,
To lead us on in wisdom’s pleasant way,

And guide our feet lest we should go astray.
But soon my father for a soldier went,

And o’er the sea was quickly from us sent,

To distant lands where cypress blossoms bloom,
Alas! to moulder in an early tomb.

Meanwhile my mother sent me to the hall,

To watch the sheep and be at every call,
Where’er my master sent me I did go,

Though keen the blast and drifting was the snow.
But time passed on, my master had a child;

A modest flower meek, dutiful and mild;

Her cheeks were lovely as the virgin rose,
When the soft zephyr of the summer flows
Around its head with incense on its wings,
Throwing a fragrance o’er surrounding things ;
Her hair in ringlets fell upon her breast,

Fair as the dew-drops in the rosy West,

Ere the bright sun had lighted up the hills,
Tipp’d the deep fountains or the murmuring rills.
We grew together, and my youthful heart

Felt cold and lonely when from her apart ;
Dark visions rose, grew up, and fled away ;
Hope sometimes whispered of a distant day,
When I should call that lovely creature mine;
But, ah! the thought oft caused me to repine,
Because I knew her father was a man,

Proud and imperious, of a haughty clan ;
THE WANDERING LOVER. TL

Doting to madness on his only child,

Whose form was graceful and her actions mild;
New beauties bloomed upon each lovely cheek,
Each word was music that her lips did speak;
Each kindred smile which fluttered on her face
Chained my heart deeper in its fond embrace,
Till my full bosom grew too small to hold

That golden treasure, so to her I told

My hopes, my fears, the sorrow and dismay,
And those dark thoughts which stole my sleep away
Rolled on the mind from memory’s silvery: wings,
Which was related, while a thousand things
Fresh from love's fountain told their flattering tale,
Which her fair bosom quickly did inhale,

And mutual love enwreathed each happy heart,
Bidding old sorrow irom each breast depart.

We often met beneath the hawthorn bowers,

And culled sweet fragrance from delicious flowers,
Or told soft tales of reciprocal love,

Exchanging vows which time could never move,
Till one sad night, beneath the moonbeam’s eye,
When glittering stars shone forth resplendently,
Her father seated in an alcove near,

Our whispering tales of love did overhear.

He in a passion ordered me away,

Strictly forbade me on his grounds to stray.

Told me if ever I came there again,

I should the rigour of his wrath obtain.

He called me dastard, coward, beggar, slave ;
Bade me begone—for a designing knave.

Then with his hands he drove me from the spot,
A wandering outcast, to bemoan my lot
Unknown, unseen, neglected, and forlorn,

I often wished I never had been born.
72- THE WANDERING LOVER.

My mother, too, was from the cottage turned,
Her prayers neglected, and her offers spurned ;
What for, she knew not, but my master’s rage
Had lost its bounds, and no one could assuage
That haughty spirit, for exalted pride

Was deeply wounded, and a fearful tide

Of bitter words rolled from his parched tongue,
Which made my mother from his presence throng.
Distress and woe were written on her heart,
When she had seen her household goods depart
From that loved spot; she sat her down to weep,
While bygone pleasures back on memory creep.
Week after week in sorrow past away,

My health was wasting, and I felt decay,

With hasty step, was stealing o’er my frame,
But no one whispered my beloved’s name,

Till one sweet morn a letter came to hand,
Which I soon opened, and its contents scanned.
It told of love unaltered, fresh and free,
Exposed her father for his cruelty,

In sending her so far away from home,

To close confinement where she could not roam.
No friend to speak to, and no one to feel,

Or give her paper lest she should reveal

The secret spot: where she was thus confined,
Watched by a maid, unlearned, unrefined,
Whose simple love she quickly tried to gain,
That she from her some paper might obtain

To write this letter, which away was sent

To heal the wound by cruel parents rent.

It told me that if I her love would share,

Just three days hence I might to her repair,

Or take one last, one kind, farewell adieu

Of one who ever would to me be true.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 13

I waited not when I its contents read,
Love gave me wings, while hope me onward led,
Through woods and vales, and lanes o’erhung with
trees,
And o’er sweet flowers which trembled in the breeze,
Till I arrived before an antique door,
Close on the borders of a dreary moor.
Here soon I rapped, and asked for Julia’s maid ;
I called her sister, for I was afraid
To ask for Julia, lest they should detect
My private motives and my ways suspect ;
So, when she came, I beckoned her aside,
Told her my name, and wished to be supplied
With all she knew concerning my true love,
And wished she would the barrier remove,
Which stood betwixt fair Julia's heart and mine,
And caused me oft in sorrow to repine.
She told me that her master had gone out
To see a neighbour laid up with the gout,
And that her mistress had just left the place ;
So, if I could the present hour embrace,
I might go see that dear neglected dove,
Soothe her torn heart and many a care remove ;
Might find the wound by cruel parents riven,
And vows repeat, but registered in heaven.
Softly she led my wandering feet the way,
Through a dark passage without much delay,
And then she left me in my Julia’s room;
*Twas a low chamber overhung with gloom,
On whose rude walls some faded flowers were spread,
Whose withered leaves claimed kindred with the
dead :
Emblems of pleasure once so bright and fair,
Now fled like shadows on the noontide air.
T
74 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Slowly my Julia paced the oaken floor;
Her back was turned towards the entrance door.
She quickly stopped and listened to the sound ;
Then in a hurry turned herself around,
And, when she saw me, flew into-my arms.
But how can I relate the dread alarms
Which filled my soul, when a low stifled groan
Fell on my ears, and then an awful moan ?
While the red stream from her dear mouth and
nose :

Gushed in a torrent o’er my face ; my clothes
Were crimsoned over with her precious blood,
While like a pillar on the spot I stood.
Her upturned eyes looked wishful in my face,
Her arms still held me in their last embrace,
Her lips grew pale, her quivering eyeballs rolled,
Her slender fingers soon released their hold.
Pale was each cheek, the lustre thence had fled,
And her fair form was numbered with the dead.
I laid her down; a languor chilled my frame,
While poignant grief did my poor breast inflame,
To see the flower, I from achild had loved,
Tn one short moment from my side removed
To that bright world where weary pilgrims rest,
And all is peace—the mansions of the blest.

I called her maid; her father overheard,
And quickly at the chamber door appeared.
When with a curse, which shocked my very blood,
And made my limbs to tremble as I stood,
Bade me begone ; but when he saw his child,
His lips broke forth in curses still more wild ;
Then with his hands he tore his silvery hair,
And paced the room in anguish and despair.
His tongue unfolds the sorrows of his heart,
And scalding tears in countless numbers start
THE WANDERING LOVER. 75

Down his pale face ; but when he turned around
And saw me there, his passion knew no bound;
So with his staff he drove me from the place,
He called me murderer, villain vile and base.
His eyeballs rolled ; his face grew red as fire ;

It caused me from his presence to retire.

So off I ran, for terror gave: me wings,

While scenes just past on fading memory springs.
My shirt and vest with blood were crimsoned o’er,
I gazed upon it—'twas my Julia's gore.

My head grew giddy, and I stumbling. fell

Upon the grass; my pulse could scarcely tell
Its busy rounds upon my wayward heart,

Or life or vigour to my frame impart.

Week after week a fever raged within

My love-torn breast, while many a horrid din
Assailed mine ears, as if in curses deep,

While dream-like pleasures o'er my senses creep.
At last I rose and wandered through the room,
Thought on the future, while a darkening gloom
Hung o’er my head, as if some magic charm
Grasped my body with its iron arm.

"Twas then I thought I’d leave my-native land,
With all its joys, to seek a distant strand,

And find a home in some wild solitude,

Where dark-faced sorrow never would intrude,
To mar those joys returning health might bring,
Or soil the fountain whence they all did spring,
My mother strove my wandering mind to stay,
With this old bible which I brought away.

She bade me read it, and each page explore,
And learn its precepts on a distant shore.

Tears from her eyes in countless numbers fell ;
I heard her whisper-—’twas her last farewell.
76 THE WANDERING LOVER.

I left my home to seek that lonely spot,

Where Julia lay neglected—not forgot.

Then off I started for the rolling tide,

And took my passage in the ‘ Brigand’s Bride,’
In which I sailed to this delightful land,

Where we cast anchor near unto the strand,
When eight of us were quickly sent on shore
For wood and water, when we did explore

A lovely creek ; and while they felled some trees,
Away I walked to inhale the fragrant breeze
Which gently fluttered through each sylvan grove,
Where warbling songsters sweetly sung of love.
Onward I went till twilight’s sacred hour
Spread o’er the trees, and shut up every flower ;
Quickly I climbed a hollow block of wood,
Perchance some wildling of the field or flood,

Or cruel men more brutal far than they,

Should cross my path and seek me for their prey,
So in I crept, and soon was fast asleep,

Till the first sunbeams shone into the deep
Wherein I lay and woke me from a dream ;

T looked abroad, and a delightful theme

Of sacred joy rushed through my wayward heart,
And new-born pleasure to it did impart ;

But soon I heard your bugle’s wailing sound,
Which roused me from a reverie profound.

I heard your song, ‘twas music to my ears,

It raised my spirits and assuaged my fears.

You know the rest, now finished is my tale;

Oh! let my prayers on your kind heart prevail,
And let me cheer your life’s declining hours,
And strew your path with friendship’s lovely flowers,
And when these flowers are faded in the gloom,
These hands shall lay thee in the silent tomb.”
THE WANDERING LOVER. 17

The hermit wept, then homeward led the way,
And talked of scenes which never would decay.

THE CONCLUSION.

Days passed away, and weeks rolled gently on,
The flowerets spread, they faded, and were gone ;
While little birds sat silent on the trees,
Whose leaves lay scattered by the boisterous breeze,
Their mellow fruit was spread upon the ground,
Or hung in clusters on the boughs around.
The fading sunbeams danced upon the stream,
Awakening joys in life’s uncertain dream ;
Treasures of hope on magic pinions rose,
While memory all her faded sweets disclose,
And in her lap lay long forgotten flowers,
And joys which gladdened childhood’s golden hours.

"Twas thus thought Randolph, as a gentle sigh
Aroused the hermit from his reverie,
Who took his staff and slowly led the way
To look at nature in her wild decay,
And gather fruits and roots, and herbs for food,
Which when they tasted both pronounced good.
He shewed our hero how he made his 1 read,
And how his nets he in the wood had spread,
To catch a bird or else some truant beast,
To add one comfort to the daily feast,
Freely prepared in that sweet solitude,
Where want ne'er came nor sorrow dare intrude.

Time rolled along, its moments stole away,
Its swift winged arrows nothing could delay,
Till two long years had faded with the blast,
Whose changing scenes were added to the past.
Declining age was preying on the cheek
Of the lone hermit, and his voice was weak,

13
78 THE WANDERING LOVER.

His eyes were dim, he scarce could see the light,
Life’s fading dream was sinking from his sight.
Often had Randolph read the bible o’er,
Mused on its contents, and its ancient lore
Was fondly cherished in his youthful heart,
While he to Hermus did its truths impart,
Who, like a flower was sinking in the gloom
Of death's cold grasp, and hastening to the tomb.
His few short days in penitence were spent,
And mercy from the heavenly throne was sent
To cheer him on through death’s dark gloomy vale,
Where noxious vapours flutter on the gale.
But ere he died, he beckoned Randolph near,
And thus addressed him in a tone sincere :

‘« My son, attend to this my last request ;
I feel a languor stealing through my breast ;
My limbs are weak, I feel exhausted quite,
A few short moments, and time’s hurried flight
Will cease for me upon this mortal shore,
This beating heart will never flutter more ;
This tongue, now feeble, must for ever cease ;
I feel the pangs of parting life increase.
But, ere I die, wilt thou one favour grant :
I ask thee kindly, it is all I want:
Wilt thou but lay my body by her side,
Whom once I called my counsellor and guide;
Dig deep the grave and lay my ashes there,
And let my bugle that cold prison share ;
It’s been my solace in my grief and woe,
Then let it share that lonely spot below.
O’er my grave then plant a lovely flower,
Some dream-like phantom of a passing hour,
Which in the morning sun looks sweet and fair,
Then fades and withers in the noontide air.
THE WANDERING LOVER. 19

My race is run, my short-lived visions past,

And I must part with this vain world at last.
Hope spreads her wings, and points my soul above
To streams of bliss and everlasting love ;

While happy spirits linger here and wait

To bear me through that bright celestial gate,
Where sin and grief will never more annoy,

And nought be heard but universal joy.

Farewell, vain world! with all thy gilded charms;
Thy sweet delusions and thy wild alarms,

Thy empty joys to me are ever fled ;

The die is cast; I slumber with the dead.”

A solemn sigh now fell on Randolph's ears,
And dread forebodings woke his latent fears ;
Each quivering breath foretold the parting pang,
And the last groan through the cold caverns rang.
Randolph looked up with sorrow in each eye,
Thought on the future, and resolved to fly
Back to his home, that home to memory dear,
To bless his mother and her heart to cheer ;

To tell her tales of tenderness and love,

And life’s dark ills to soften or remove,

He dug the grave, as Hermus had required,
Then laid him in, and from the spot retired
To gather flowers to scatter o’er his head,
While o’er them all a riven sail he spread.

He placed his bugle in the clay-cold grave,
Then filled it up and hastened to the cave—
But not to rest, for busy memory

Woke up old treasures fresh as they could be,
Old joys once sweet in childhood’s happy hours,
Old friends once walked with in secluded bowers,
And hopes once full of innocence and peace,

A home above where jealous passions cease.
80 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Morning returned with its enlivening train,
The sound of music danced along the plain,
Its soothing strains now fell on Randolph’s ears,
Chasing away those wild fantastic fears,
Which like mad billows rolled upon the mind,
Raised by the misdeeds of a world unkind.
He slowly rose and wandered to the shore,
Where he had wandered but the night before,
And there he saw a large old English ship,
Which lay at anchor just behind the slip
Of land, where Hermus, shipwrecked by the storm
Had sat and wailed that fair and lovely form
He loved so well; yea, dearer than his life,
Torn from his arms by the contending strife
Of the big waves, which dashed upon the strand,
Or rolled their victims on the distant land.
Randolph looked round and a small boat espied,
"Twas safely moored and fastened to the side,
While in it lay two sailors fast asleep,
Whom Randolph wakened; he then began to weep,
And tell them tales of sorrow and of woe,
And beg they with him to the cave would go.
They called the captain, and five valiant men
Went down with him to view the woodland glen,
Where nature smiled in all her lovely charms,
Unknown to despots, and those wild alarms
Which fill the soul with anguish and distress,
Or on the mind like midnight phantoms press.
Randolph soon shewed the wonders of his cave,
The hollow tree and the lone hermit’s grave,
The relics Hermus rescued from the wreck.
A bag of money, and a banker's cheque,
He gave the captain for his passage home,
For he resolved he hither back would come,
THE WANDERING LOVER. 81

And leave that sweet and lonely solitude,

And on the world his future life intrude.

So for six hours they on the land sojourned,
Then to the stately ship they all returned,

And Randolph with them, while the other crew
Set out for water, and to take a view

Of that sweet spot, where lovely fruit and flowers
Grew in abundance in the summer hours.

They gained the ship, and raised the spreading sail,
And soon they floated, while a pleasant gale
Wafted them onward o’er the trackless sea,

And songs and music filled each breast with glee.
Weeks sped away, and soon they gained the land,
And oh! what joy when anchored on its strand.
Randolph set off for the sweet banks of Aire,

To see his mother, and her joys to share.

And oh! what anguish for him there did wait :
The house was empty, and the garden gate

Was barred against him, when a passer by

Spoke of her death, so he resolved to fly

To Julia's grave and strew it o’er with flowers,
And sit and muse on long departed hours.
Onward he moved to that neglected spot.

He often wished to share that peaceful lot,

Of her he once loved dearer than his life,

His sweet companion in his child-like strife ;

For him she lived and in his arms she died,
And her great loss could never be supplied.

Her father’s curse hung heavy on his mind,

So he resolved to leave these scenes behind,

And seek a home in some deep winding vale
Where no one knew him, nor his tender tale
Had e’er been told among the thoughtless fair,
To mar his peace or urge him to despair.
82 THE WANDERING LOVER.

Forward he moved till twilight shadows fell,

~ And darkened clouds obscured a distant dell,
Where stood a village church amongst. the hills.
With lovely gardens and sweet murmuring rills,
Its gilded fane, its old fantastic spire,
Made Randolph to its.lonely shades retire,
To seek a place of shelter for the night.
Forlorn and friendless, and a stranger quite,
He asked for lodgings at a little inn,
Then called for supper and a glass of gin.
A thousand thoughts now darted through his mind,
Of moments vanished, and of friendships kind, .
Till tired nature sealed his eyes in sleep,
And childish visions back on memory creep,
In cheering streams of pure celestial love,
Drawn from the treasures of the world above.
‘When morning came, he from the inn retired,
New hopes, new joys, his youthful breast inspired.
He soon found work upon a little farm,
Close by the village, where a lovely charm
Of hill and dale rose to his wandering eyes,
Decked with sweet flowers of the richest dyes,
Whose bounteous hand had thrown profusion round,
Through fields, the woodland, and the moorland

ground.
Month after month in silence fled away,

And spring returned with buds and blossoms gay,
While warbling birds, in soul enlivening strains,
Sung in the woods or fluttered o’er the plains,
When Randolph spied a fair and comely lass,
As to her work she through the fields did pass.
He wooed and won her, and a faithful wife
She was to him—his comforter through life.
For thirty years of sorrow grief and care,
She leaned upon him and his griefs did share.
SPEAK SOFTLY. 83

Seven lovely children sat around their board,
To taste the comforts which it did afford.
Their prattling tales life’s fleeting hours beguiled;
Their untaught ears, by sorrow undefiled,
Listened to tales by Randolph often told.

Years rolled away into the sparkling tide,
Where all is Jost and cannot be supplied,
And Randolph's face was furrowed, thin and grey,
His frame enfeebled, bending to the clay ;
While trade was bad, and everything was dear,
And friends were few his drooping heart to cheer ;
So he resolved to leave them all behind,
The workhouse of his native town to find,
Where he could rest from labour for awhile,
Regain his strength, or his last hours beguile.
He left his home, but ere two months had fled,
The Wandering Lover slumbered with the dead;
His active pulse had ceased, alas! to beat,
Numb were his hands and motionless his feet ;
Cold was that heart, which once did dearly love
The fairest flower e’er grown in Skipton grove.

SPEAK SOFTLY.

Spax softly, man! thy brother's heart’
Can feel as well as thine ;

An unkind word or angry look
Will cause him to repine.

Soothe him with words of tenderness,
In love his faults reprove,

And strive, through this dark wilderness,
His burdens to remove.
84

SPEAK SOFTLY.

Cheer him! when sunk in deep distress,
Your friendly counsel give ;

Pour a sweet balm into his soul,
And teach him how to live.

Let not his spirits droop nor fall ;
His stricken conscience cheer ;

Tell him of pleasures yet to come,
And bid him not despair.

The poorest beggar whom you meet
Required a God to form

That lovely germ, the soul, which lives
When death has hushed the storm.

Then why despise thy fellow man,
Or treat him with disdain ?

Perhaps he bears an honest heart
Which riches cannot stain.

A lord may boast his pedigree,
A duke his ancient clan;

But one thing will outweigh them all—
It is an honest man.

An honest man, though doomed for life
Through sunless scenes to plod,

Bears this sweet impress on his heart—
“ The noblest work of God.”

Then softly speak to each, to all,
And do not one offend ;

For soon thy threescore years and ten
Will hasten to an end.
WILD FLOWERS. 85

WILD FLOWERS.

I love to see the primrose bloom
Beside the sylvan stream,

And little daisies open fair,
Beneath the sunshine’s gleam ;

When daffodils and buttercups
Bloom in each lovely vale,

And the wild bees with honeyed lips
Their fragrant sweets inhale.

, When nature from her golden lap

Scatters a thousand flowers,

To blossom on the desert waste,
Or in the woodland bowers.

Far from the daring haunts of men,
Upon the mountain crest,

Where the wild eagle rears her young,
And builds her lonely nest.

They rear their heads unseen, unknown,
Upon the moorland wild,

And hang upon the hedgerows green,
By nature undefiled.

Their scented sweets are carried far
Upon the balmy air ;

They bloom upon the lonely grave

~ Of the once fresh and fair.

Each valley bears the impress sweet
Of their enlivening charms ;
They bloom upon each heath-clad hill,
’Mid nature's wild alarms.
K
86

WILD FLOWERS.

Their loveliness is never seen
Within the city’s gloom:

But in the forest’s lonely wild
They love to bud and bloom.

The lily and the mountain rose
Their lovely sweets display ;

And flowers of different tints and shades
Look quite as fresh as they.

The foxglove by the forest dell
Uprears its gorgeous head;

While scores of other beauteous flowers
Around our feet are spread.

These all were made by one great Hand,
For some wise purpose given;

They cheer man in life’s stormy path,
And point the way to heaven.

To-day they bloom both fresh and fair,
With all ‘their colours grand :

To-morrow’s sun may find them all
A wreck upon the strand.

They image forth those short-lived joys
Designed for man below,

Where sorrow and its kindred weeds
In countless clusters grow ;

While hope looks up with streaming eyes,
And points the soul above,

Where everlasting flowerets bloom,
And everlasting love.
ON THE BURIAL OF GEN. 5. STRANGEWAYS. 87

STANZAS

On the burial of General Fox Strangeways, who was killed at the battle of

Inkermann, on Sunday, November 5th, 1854, and was buried the day
Sollowing, in front of the Camp of the 4th Division.
Tue sun had sunk in a threatening cloud,
Though it brightly shone in the morning ;
While a cheerless breeze was springing up,
And the camp fire dim was burning.

When a funeral car moved slowly on,
Through the ranks of the British soldier ;

While the trickling tears ran slowly down
The cheek of each pale beholder.

Not a martial flag nor a funeral pall
O’er his clay-cold corpse was carried ;

Nor the magic sound of the bugle’s note
On the Crimean mountains tarried.

But the cannon’s roar from the Russian fort
O’er the distant mountain sounded ;

While the scattered shot from a random gun
O’er the deep-dug earth-works bounded.

Slowly and calmly they marched along,
And looked on the scene in sorrow;

They mused on the fate of their comrades dear,
And gravely thought on the morrow.

They buried him deep in his narrow bed,
Where a comrade* lies beside him,

* General Cathcart,
88

THE HYPOCRITE PORTRAYED.

Who fell in his country’s glorious cause,
With the Russian foes around him.

They breath’d their prayers o’er the warrior’s grave,
Ere away from the spot retiring,

And thought of the homes of their father-land
As the random guns were firing.

They left him to sleep on a foreign shore,
Not far from the field of glory ;

But his works of mercy and deeds of love
Shall live in his country’s story.

THE HYPOCRITE PORTRAYED.

Tue hypocrite has a hundred faces
To fit him for as many places ;

. And each of which he often uses,
To gull and cheat whene’er he chooses.

Go seek him in the house of prayer :

You're sure to find his lordship there.
With face as long as a jackass’s, .
He for a saint among them passes ;
He seems so full of pure devotion,
His eyes and lips are all in motion,
While his false heart is hard as steel,
He seems for all the world to feel
A brother’s love—a brother’s care ;
And wishes all his heaven might share,
He preaches loud against abuses,
And talks of gold’s immoral uses.
THE HYPOCRITE PORTRAYED. 89

His alms he gives before the Lord,
According to God's holy word.

At sacrament he loves to sit

And taste the consecrated bit ;

He sips the nectar from the vine,
In honor of his Lord divine,

Who had not where to lay His head,
And oft by miracles was fed.

But follow him when Monday comes,
When he to fair or market roams,
And hear him talk so plain and civil,
Eneugh to cheat the very devil.

He talks of conscience ; but, alas !
His own has gone as hard as brass ;
He cares not for the stranger's fears,
The widow's sighs, nor orphan’s tears.
He is a sycophanting knave;

A canting, cunning, hell-born slave ;
A fawning, cringing, fell deceiver ;

A smooth-tongued viper; sneaking ever
Like a serpent in the grass :
Deceiving all who near may pass ;
Hiding ‘neath an angel’s face,

A heart as vile—as black and base

As ever filled a human breast,

When by infernal fiends oppress’d.

K3
90 LINES ON THE PEACE WITH RUSSIA.

LINES

On the Peace with Russia ; written in commemoration of the Peace of Paris,
April 29th, 1856, and celebrated at Halifax, May 29th, the same year.
A new Beacon was erected on Beacon Hull the night previous.

Now Peace descends on her celestial wing,

A thousand beauties round her person sprink,
A thousand flowers their lovely heads uprear,
And with sweet perfume greet her presence here.
Each valley rings with her melodious voice,
The heath-clad hills in lively strains rejoice,
Jewels and gold bedeck her matchless car,
Before her flies the hell-born god of war.

The gun and sword lie conquered by her side,
And cannons rest unheeded, unsupplied,
With murderous balls to scatter death around
The peaceful city or the hallowed ground,
Where the forefathers of our country rest,

Or man is by his fellow man oppress’d.

Hail! matchless Peace! ‘my muse with thee would
climb ;
- The towering summit of departing time,
And watch the vessels as they onward glide’
Through the deep waters of the swelling tide,
To tell the world that war for aye shall cease,
And nought shall reign but universal peace.
Freedom, and love, and laws both good and wise,
Will bind each nation, while each state shall rise.
Knowledge shall spread, and truth maintain her sway ;
Error shall fall, and ignorance give way. :
The murderous sword shall in its scabbard rot,
While pride of birth is by the world forgot;
EVENING IN AUGUS®. 91

And man’s proud self be measured by his mind,
By reason governed, and by love refined.

Then welcome, Peace! England shall build thy shrine ;
She'll teach thy creed and own thy name divine.
Science and art on every hand shall spring,

While God-like genius spreads her golden wing
O’er east and west, until the north and south
Laughs at old systems; and from every mouth

A shout shall rise, “‘ Britannia’s sons are free !
Deception’s dead, and far famed liberty

Reigns in its place, enrobed with moral power!”

A nation’s love triumphant in this hour

Echoes the sound to every distant land,

Truth plants its standard, and on every hand
Sweet songs are heard, while patriots shout between,
” Hurrah for England and her lovely Queen!”

EVENING IN AUGUST.

"Tis August; and the setting sun,
Is sinking in the west;
While every field, and wood, and vale,
In loveliness is drest.
The birds have ceased their evening song,.
The shepherd hies away,
And one by one the twinkling stars
Their silvery light display.

The rippling streamlet calmly flows.
In music at my feet ;

While Ceres in her hand displays
Her many treasures sweet.
92

EVENING IN AUGUST.

Her head is crowned with happiness,
Her path bestrewed with flowers,
She’s plenty in her golden lap,
For winter's doleful hours.

A smile of joy lights up her face,
To see such treasures vast ;

She bids me for the future hope,
Then points me to the past.

And bids me think on childhood’s years,
When bread was very dear,

When household comforts were but few,
And scanty was my cheer.

When smiles and pleasures, now no more,
Shone on each lovely cheek,

And those whom I so dearly loved,
Unto my heart did speak.

But now those mid-day dreams are o’er,
Those joys, alas! are fled,

And left me here on earth to mourn,
Those pleasures long since dead.

But hope expands her balmy wings,
Suffused with odours sweet,
And points to yon celestial plains,
Where friend with friend shall meet,
Where joys unmixed shall fill each breast,
And flowers for aye shall bloom,
And death shall never enter in,
To hurl us to the tomb:
THIS WORLD WOULD BE A WORLD OF LOVE. 93

THIS WORLD WOULD BE A WORLD
OF LOVE.

Turis world would be a world of love,
If each one acted as a brother:
Life’s bitter weeds would soon be gone,
If men would feel for one another.
The golden calf would quickly fall,
Which causes so much grief and sadness ;
While right would triumph over might,
And fill the earth with joy and gladness. .

This world would be a world of love,

If man was measured by the standard
Of that great instrument—the mind ;

Too oft by wealth and folly slandered.
Merit would meet its due reward,

While growing hopes would not be stunted ;
Man’s actions would outweigh his words,

And wrong with right would be confronted.

This world would be a world of love,
If candour governed every action :
If man would sympathize with man,
Instead of bowing down to faction.
Labour would meet its just reward,
While each to each would act with kindness;
The sword would rest beside the spear,
Forgetful of each other’s blindness.

This world would be a, world of love,

And peace flow through it like a river,
If that dread enemy, termed war,

Would not two kindred nations sever. _
94

On

LINES ON THE HOLMFIRTH FLOOD.

Joy, universal joy, would crown
The good and wise of every station ;
While golden words and famous deeds,
Would be the glory of our nation.

LINES

5
the Holmfirth Flood, which took place on Thursday Morning, Feb. 5th.
1852 ; by which dreadful calamity nearly one hundred persons lost
their lives.

Tue rain had fallen in torrents all the day,

The cloud-capped hills in mist and darkness lay ;
While little brooks were swollen to mighty floods,
Spreading destruction thro’ the neighbouring woods;
And mighty trees were by their roots uptorn

By the wild waters, and away were borne

O’er shelving rocks into a distant field,

While the strong branches to the waters yield.
Darkness spreads forth her mantle o’er the green,
And howling winds add terror to the scene ;

While the deep water in the moorland vale

Causes dismay and sorrow to prevail.

Fresh horror strikes each looker-on with woe,
When the wild waters o’er the embankment flow ;
And then, as sudden as the lightning’s flash,

The bank gives way; while with a thundering crash,
The pent-up flood rolls with a dreadful sound
Down the deep valley, tearing up the ground.
Houses, and hills which towered in the air,
Touched by the torrent, soon engulphed were,
LINES ON THE HOLMFIRTH FLOOD. 95

And tottering fell with a tremendous crash,
While the dark waters o’er their contents lash,
And all is lost beneath the trembling waves ;
The dead uptorn untimely from their graves ;
Mothers and children startled from their sleep,
Wakened, alas! to perish in the deep.

No hand to save, no eye to shed a tear,
Nothing but death and desolation near.

They cry for help, but soon their cries are o'er,
‘The waves engulph them till they rise no more.
Brothers and sisters, husbands and their wives,
Cast on the waters, scramble for their lives ;
Hope bears them up, but soon it fades away,
They sigh and sink beneath the foaming spray.
Can pen describe, or human mind conceive, -
Or will the nations of the earth believe

That this fair valley, once bedeck’d with flowers,
Covered with verdure in the summer hours,
Should thus be stripped on one dark dreadful night
Of all its beauties, and a fearful blight

Be cast around the vale on every hand,

Its people drown’d and cast upon the land,

Or hung like scarecrows on the distant trees,
While their torn garments flutter in the breeze.
Aged and young, the thoughtless and the fair,
Throng to the spot in horror and despair,

To view the scene which everywhere is spread :
Mothers and fathers weeping for the dead,

Cast on the world quite homeless and distressed ;
Despair sits silent on each troubled breast.
Britannia sheds a sympathetic tear,

Raises her voice, and bids her sons revere

The widow's sighs, the orphan’s heartfelt grief,
To soothe their sorrows and to give relief.
96 OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY ?

Her voice is heard, while pity’s generous hand
Expands in blessings to the forlorn band

Thus cast uncared for on an unknown world;
Of friends bereft, by death untimely hurled

To that dark world of bitterness and gloom,

Or where swect flowers on trees immortal bloom.

OUR FATHERS, WHERE ARE THEY?

© Your fathers, where are they? and the prophets, do they live for ever?"—
ZECHARIAH i. 5,

Our Fathers, alas! where are they?
The prophets have slept a long sleep ;
Our youths are consigned to the clay,
Their friends have forgotten to weep.
Those pleasures we with them did share
Are gone and will never return :
Their faces once lovely and fair
Now in the cold graveyard sojourn.

Ah! where is that friendship so kind,
Which cheered our faint hearts with a smile:
That solace and joy to the mind,
Which life’s darkest hours did beguile ?
Can hope point a way to the spot,
Where we with each other shall meet ?
Will ought from the memory blot
Those tender reflections so sweet ?

If away to the woods we repair,
And. gaze on the spot where they stood,
When summer’s gay phantoms were there,
And sweet was each blossom and bud.
THE POET'S SONG TO THE MONTH OF JUNE. 97

Some spot where they loved to retire
‘May bind each fond heart to the scene:
Some nook that each breast did inspire,
When Spring waved her mantle of green.

Though loudly we call on their names,

Or ask them our bosoms to cheer,
Old echo far distant exclaims

In deep hollow whispers, ‘‘ Not here!”
They're gone to the dark silent grave ;

This cold world will know them no more,
Each vessel is sunk in the wave,

‘And gone to a fathomless shore.

THE POET'S SONG TO THE MONTH OF
JUNE.

Jung, June, lovely June!

T'll sing thee a song to a merry tune,

I'll clothe it in language rich and rare

As the dew drops bright on the morning fair,
When the busy bee, with a humming sound,

Is gathering sweets from the flow’rets round ;
And the lark mounts up on its dew-clad wings,
And nigh to the shining portal sings,

Where the sun looks down on a thousand flowers,
And smiles on the fields, the woods, the bowers,
Which lie in the distance far below,
Where the bubbling streamlets softly flow.

June, June, sprightly June!

The zephyrs dance to a magic tune,

As they swiftly fly o'er each mountain wild,

And are’ kissed by the sunbeam undéfiled,
L
48 THE POET'’s SONG .TO THE MONTH OF JUNK

Which lavishes treasures rich and rare,

Where the furze-bush grows and. the heath blooms
fair;

While Flora walks in her mid-day dreams,

And scatters her treasures by woods and streams,

While a thousand sweets from her lap have strayed,

And now in the fields and lanes are laid.

Painted in colours of various dyes,

Which are now upturned to the azure skies.

June, June, fertile June!

The wild birds are singing a joyful tune,

Which rings through the woods in its wildest strains,
Each valley its loveliest sound retains,

Till it dies in the distance far away,

Where the butterfly dances young and gay,

And spreads forth its wings in its colours bright,
Just ready to start on an aerial flight,

Where the trees are ladened with sweet perfume,
And the rose doth its crimson blush resume,
Where the hawthorn blossoms are fresh and fair,
As the soft sweet breath of the morning air. —

June, June, fading June!

Thou'rt passing away like a pleasant, tune,
Which hung on the lip of truth to-day,

And fell on the heart with its visions gay.

"Tis past! ‘tis past! and its sweetness fades
And dies away in the distant shades,

Now the buds will soon be dark and sere,

And nature will fade in her bright career;
While her flowery treasures will waste and die,
And deep cold snow on the grass will lie;
And the birds will have lost the gladsome tune
They loved to sing in the month of June.
TH pyINd! SOLDIER. 99!

THE DYING SOLDIER.

DzatH’s ceold blights are o 'er me stealing,
Midnight darkness round i is spread,
Not a friend i is o'er me weeping,
While I languish with the dead.

Weak and helpless, faint and bleeding,
Here I breathe my life away 5

This frail breath is fast receding,
My limbs are numb and cold’as élay.

Yesterday the cannon’s rattle
Sounded o’ér those lovely plains ;

While a fierce and bloody battle
Tinged the grass with gory stains.

Foe to foe, in strife contending,
Each for victory inclined,

Each their country’s right defending,
Battled with’ a foe unkind.

I for England, home, and glory,
Left my own dear native land ;

Trod the Alma’s heights, though gory,
With a warlike chosen band,

Now my life is swiftly fleeting,
Down that dark mysterious tide,

And upon its margin noting
Things which cannot be supplied.

Frail, cdld world! I soon must leave thee:
Thou art fading from niy sight ;
100

ONE SUMMER'S EVE.

Ah! how oft hast thou deceived me—
Filled my bosom with affright.

My poor mother, often weeping,
Watches for her son’s return ;

Wild despair is o’er her creeping,
And her heart’s with anguish torn.

Will some kindred soul hereafter
Think upon the Tchernaya;
Chronicle a bloody chapter,
Which will England's foes dismay

Time’s soft moments swift. are stealing,
Breaking earth's cold magic spell,
Visions to my soul revealing,
To which I ne’er shall bid farewell.

ONE SUMMER'S EVE.

Onze Summer’s eve I stole away,
Where grew a thousand lovely flowers,
While fading sunbeams, light and gay,
Recalled to mind departed hours,
When little birds sweet music sung
In every tree with pleasure wild,
And dream-like phantoms o'er me hung,
Which made me think myself a child.

I wandered through each lovely field,
And gathered flow’rets rich and gay,

But they no lasting sweet could yield,
So, soon I threw them all away;
BE HUSHED! YE WINds. 101

Roses and pinks with odours’ sweet,
I culled by every woodland’ grot ;
But none I gathéred could compete
With that fair flower—forget-me-not.

Still will it cling to memory,
When youthful pleasures all are fled,
And treasured joys from infancy ;
Around life’s chequered path are spread.
Familiar faces, fresh and fair, °
Fly back on thought’s unsullied wing ;
And joys, which kings might wish to share,
Their short-lived pleasures here may bring.

We seek for pleasure’s golden flowers,
Where fancy’s glittering toys beguile ;
We touch them, but they fly those bowers,
Where care and sorrow do beguile.

"Tis thus with man’s life journey through:
He gathers flowers at every stage,

Then casts them down as childien do,
From infancy to hale old age.

BE HUSHED! YE WINDS.

Be hushed! ye winds, ye purling streams
Flow gently to the tiver ;

Roll back! ye billows in dismay ;
Ye cloud-capped mountains quiver!

Ye twinkling stars forget to shine!
Ye flowers forget your blooming !

For the deep-b!ood-stained warr‘or’s . rave,
My lover is entomb’d in.

ALLL ey

Ls
102

BE HUSHED! YE WINDS.

"Tis but a little while ago
Since we two lovers parted,

We shook each other by the hand,
Unnerved and broken-hearted,

Because he to the wars must go,
And leave me a sojourner

Upon the world's dark dreary waste,
A poor heart-broken mourner.

He fell on Alma’s towering height,
By many a foe surrounded,
While hundreds of grape shot, and shell,
O’er his poor body bounded.
A letter in his hand he held,
He’d torn it from his bosom,
"Twas written but an hour before,
Cold death had nipped my blossom.

A kind companion hither brought
That pledge I love so dearly,

So I will bind it to my heart,
And read it late and early ;

I'll read it in the summer hours,
When birds are sweetly singing,
And lovely treasures, fresh and fair,
Around my heart are springing.

And when old age my feeble frame -
Into the grave is bending,
And nature, with a tottering step,
My last dark draught is blending,
I'll clasp it to my throbbing heart,
As the last sand is stealing,
While death around my worn out frame
Its treasures are revealing.

r
NEVER DESPAIR. 108.

NEVER DESPAIR.

Never despair ; quickly forbear ;
Why be so familiar with sorrow ?

Her insults don't mind, she is very unkind,
Cheer up! there is hope for to-morrow.

Never despair; drive away care ;
"Tis a bauble that is not worth having ;

"Tis a cold bitter weed, there’s death in its seed;
‘Tis a poison the soul cannot live on.

STANZAS

Addressed to a young lady, on seeing a beautiful rose in her bosom.

Lany, that rose upon thy breast,
Though decked in colours fair,
Hides ‘neath its head a cruel thorn,

The fingers to ensnare.

Besides, it soon will droop and fade,
Will wither and decay ;

Those precious sweets upon its stem
Will quickly waste away.

Emblem of thee, fair lovely maid !
Whose bosom knows no guile ;

Beset by cruel men, who would
Thy purity defile.
504

STANZAS TO A LADY.

Would pluck thee from the parent stem,
In an unguarded hour,

And leave thee in a thankless world,
For virtue to deplore.

Shun the gay path’ where pleasure léads
The young and thoughtless fair ;

For oftén'; ’néath the swéetest smile,
There lurks a deadly snare.

Seek not for true and lasting joys
In this frail world of ow's,
For all the treasurés you can find

Will fade like summer flowers.

All is not gold which brightly shines,
There’s bitter with the sweet ;

Hope shews her lovely face to-day,
With gracious smiles replete,

To cheer us on through life’s dark gloom,
Where howling tempésts lower,

Or points us to declining yéars,
And many a happy hour.

Like that frail rose upon thy breast,
Thy youth will quickly fade,

And all its virgin loveliness
Will wither in the shade.

Beware! there’s danger lurking round
That youthful heart of thine,

That would its brightest prospects mar,
And cause thee to repine.
oH! BREATHE A SIGH FOR ME., 105

OH! BREATHE A SIGH FOR ME.

Ow! breathe a sigh for me, my love,
When sorrow does assail,

And whisper. to my tender heart,
That sweet delicious tale

You used to tell in childhood’s years,
When you and I were young,

When each gay scene was spread with flowers,
And pleasures round us hung,

When hope danced light on every breeze,
Unclouded. by despair,

And gladness filled a, jovial cup,
While peace and love were there.

But now those sunlit pleasures all,
On time’s dark wings have fled,

And those we loved in infancy.
Are sleeping with the dead.

Their names recall to memory
Some gay delightful theme

We used to love in childhood's years,
When all looked like a dream.

Then softly fled those golden hours,
Like dew-drops from the grass,

Touched by the zephyrs when they breathe
Upon them as they pass.

Away and mingled with the dust,
And never more are seen,
. 2 di ans Aes ae 5 Wh seg miter dy
106 ENGLAND'S WELCOME! To’ KOSsUTH.

And not a single ray is left
To glitter on the green.

Then breathe a sigh for me, my love,
Oh breathé 4 sigh’ for mé;'

And smooth niy life’s declining*hours
With counsel wise’ and freé.’

ENGLAND'S WELCOME TO KOSSUTH.

InxustRrovs chieftain, from Hungaria’s plains,
Where worth is covered with despotic stains,
Where tyrants rule with uncontrolled sway,

And force thy tribe their orders to obey.

Thy female friends with crimson blood were’ stained,
Their husbands tortured, and their daughters chain’d,
"Midst hostile foés, and Haynau’s cruel bands,
They're made to wander in fai distant lands,

A prey to want, privation, grief, and woe—

Exiles and outcasts in this world below,

Until Britannia’s highly favoured’ sons

Watched thy keen struggles for thy chosen ones.
We saw thee rise like liberty’s bright star,

Cheering thine armies in the heat of war :

Cool in command, but lion-like in fight,

A friend to counsel in that blackest night,

Till forced to fly, by cruel friends betrayed,

And leave thy country destitute of aid,

A stranger in a stranger’s land to roam,

A fugitive, far from thy childhood’s home,
ONWARD. 107

Till England's sous, as if by one consent,

Raised their proud jhands to save the innocent.
America declared thou should’st be free,

And sent their ships to waft thee o’er the sea,
Where free-born Briton’s wait—a generous band—
To bid thee welcome to their father-land.

Thy mighty name sounds oer, each hill and dale,
And echo wafts it on the passing gale:

Its magic sounds fall on each listening ear,

And every heart shall raise one generqus cheer ;
One shout of welcome from each patriot: band
Shall greet. thy landing on our fatherland.

Thy name shall.live on history's great, page,

Each child shall read it, while each reverend sage
Shall wreathe for thee, among the fayoyred few,
A crown of laurel, interspersed with yew;

It shall be green when proud ambition dies,

And long-forgotten in the graveyard lies ; ;

Yea! it shall live upon the scroll of fame,

When pampered bigots rest without a name.

ONWARD.

The wise, as flowers which spread at noon,
And all their charms expose,
When evening damps and shades descend,

Their evolutions close—
Youne.

ONWARD ever, ever onward,
Time’s dark streamlet rolls along,
While upon its treacherous waters
Dance a gay, and thoughtless, throng.
108

ONWARD.

Childhood's joys, so sweet and lovely,
‘Like a dream have passed away,

And the friend who once reproved me
Moulders in the silent clay.

Nature's works are ever onward,
First the bud and then the flower,
Blooming but, alas! to wither,
Vision of a passing hour.
Birds may sing, and trees may fidurish,
Brooks may soon to rivers rise,
But those joys we loved to cherish,
Fade before our wondering‘eyes.

Shadows flit across each meadow,

Gilded by the sun’s bright gleam,
Onward ever, ever onward,

Like a mighty rushing stream.
Hark! its echo from the mountain,

Now it bounds through wood and dale,
Soft it whispers by the fountain,

Ere it dies upon the gale.

Scenes which yesterday were lovely,
Decked in nature’s rich attire,
Are for ever now departed—
Other scenes the heart inspire.
Whirlwinds, death, and desolation,
Each their onward path pursue,
Sparing neither rank nor station,
Hiding sweets which once were new.

Time and tide will stay for no one,
Changing seasons pass away,
LINES ON ANCIENT FORESTRY.

And those flowers so sweetly blooming,
Soon will wither and decay.

Kings may rule and despots flourish,
Statesmen rise and nations fall,
Pride of birth the rich may nourish ;

Onward is the lot of ali!

Mind! that great and mighty lever,
Shall accomplish great designs ;
Shall uprear a mighty structure,
Where the truth for ever shines;
Where the wise of every nation
Of one house shall brothers be ;
Every rank and every station
Then shall dwell in unity.

Onward, then, ye toiling millions,
Let not sloth around you creep;
Seek for knowledge—'tis a treasure,
Hide it in each bosom deep.
This will make each man a brother,
This will soften many a woe,
Make us feel for one another
While we journey here below.

LINES ON ANCIENT FORESTRY.

Wuen Adam ruled o’er earth’s extensive plain,

He lived in peace, and happy was his reign,
Till he had tasted the forbidden tree,

Which brought a curse on all mankind, and he

M
110 LINES ON ANCIENT FORESTRY.

Was driven forth from that delightful spot

"Midst howling beasts that hence would know him not;
Before, he'd with these gentle creatures play:

But now they're changed to savage beasts of prey.
Hence he devised weapons of offence,

And made the cudgel for his own defence,

"Twas rudely formed to chase the beasts away :
With such a one did Cain his brother slay.

As men increased and fresh arts arose,

They formed fresh weapons and enacted laws ;
The sling began to be in much renown,

For by its aid was great Goliah thrown,

Which made Philistia’s army to retreat,

And leave their champion at the stripling’s feet.
So skilled was Israel ’gainst their common foe,
Seven hundred men could to a hair’s-breadth throw.
The sword, the batt'e-axe, and the long spear
Were made for conflict and the foe to tear,

With these they chased the savage beasts away,
And cruel men more savage still then they,

Often they dyed them in each other’s blood ;
While clashing arms resounded through the wood.
Then came the bow, strung with a leathern string,
Which far exceeded either sword or sling.

The feathered tribe, the beasts that roam the plain,
Fell in the distance by the arrow slain.

No music then had ever charmed the ear,

No flute had sounded nor the organ clear.

The instrument first made was the ram’s horn,
"Twas used on feast days and the Sabbath morn,
To call to arms and likewise call to pray,

When the bright sun had tipped the opening day.
Dressed in their robes of green with the long bow,
They wandered through the forest scenes below,
STANZAS TO JOHN CROSSLEY, ESQ. iW

To shoot the eagle or the fallow deer,

The lordly lion or the savage bear.

We all are foresters on earth below,

Sometimes in pleasure and sometimes in woe,
Formed to assist each other on life’s dreary road,
And smooth our passage to the dark abode.

We soon must go and leave this world of care;
Oh! may we all for that great change prepare ;
And when we die, may we all meet at last,
Where wars shall cease and storms will all be past.

STANZAS

To John Crossley, Esq., on the death of his beloved mother, who departed
this life, November 26th, 1854, aged 79 yeurs.

Weep not, dear friend, she’s only gone
A little while before,

To yonder fair and happy land,
Where parting is no more.

Her joys below, though once so fair,
Were doomed alas! to fade;

That mortal frame you loved so well,
Isin the graveyard laid.

Those eyes you often looked upon
Are motionless in death ;

The guardian of thine infant years
Has now resigned her breath.
112

STANZAS TO JOHN CROSSLEY, ESQ.

Her days have hastened to a close,
Her sun has sunk in night;

She's gained that everlasting rest,
Among the saints in light.

That Holy Book she loved to read
Is safely laid aside ;

That vacant spot within thy heart
Can never be supplied.

Ah! where is now that Mother’s love—
That Mother's skill and care?

Not all the riches in the world
Can the great loss repair.

But hope extends her golden wings,
And points thee to the skies,

And whispers—‘ You shall meet again
In everlasting joys.”

Then why should you so fondly mourn
O’er those you once did love,

When you with them so soon shall meet,
In yon bright world above.

Where peace with joy and love shall blend
In one eternal song,

And parting never more will be
In the thrice happy throng.
THE SONG OF THR NEW YEAR. 118

THE SONG OF THE NEW YEAR.

I’m the last lone child of old Father Time,
And 1 come from the darkness drear
Of the long, long past,
In the winter's blast,
To wish you a happy New Year.
I come o’er the rough wild mountain steep,
While the snow and frost are there,
And the leaves all round
Lay dead on the ground,
To wish you a happy New Year.

I come while the trees are black and bare,
And the hawthorn buds are sere,
But there’s joy in the bowers,
In the summer hours;
So I wish you a happy New Year.

I come in haste through the forest waste,
I the withering leaves revere ;
Then list to the sound
Of the wild winds round,
As I wish you a happy New Year,

May smiling Peace on each cot descend,
And sweets which the heart will cheer,,
And a halo throw
On the world below,
For I wish you a happy New Year.
uo
114 LET US LOVE AND LIVE HAPPY TOGETHER.

Recall to your mind scenes left behind,
In time’s gladsome gay career,
Sweet friends now fled
To their cold damp bed,
Who have wished you a happy New Year.

May hope arise like a long lost prize,
And banish despair and fear,
And joy descend
Like a bosom friend,
To wish you a happy New Year.

LET US LOVE AND LIVE HAPPY
TOGETHER.

Let us love and live happy together,
Tho’ the storms of affliction may blow,
For it is not the richest of weather
When life's raging billows are low.
For a calm, if continued too long,
Will make us each duty forget,
And the hopes that we build on the strong
Will cause us to sigh and regret.

Let us love and live happy together,
For life’s but a dark gloomy day ;
Like birds let us flee from the heather,
To scenes that are lovely and gay.

For joy’s but a delicate flower,
Which close by affection will bloom ;
It springs up and decays in an hour,
The next lies forgot in the tomb.
THE LOVER OF NATURE. 115

Tho’ clouds may arise in the morning,
Bespangled with sorrow and dread ;
There’s a bright star the heavens adorning,
Whose mantle all round us is spread ;
It gilds the dark scenes of the past,
And lifts the disconsolate soul,
From pleasure too feeble to. last,
To joys which for ever will roll.

Then why should we think for to-morrow ?
Sufficient is care for to day;
Let us silently feel for each sorrow
Which poverty throws in the way ;
For a heart that can feel for a friend,
And feeling, will comfort bestow,
Is better than gold in the end,
For riches yield trouble and woe.

THE LOVER OF NATURE.

“ Some living odour hangs upon the air,

From clustered leaves, fresh herbs, and blossoms fair ;

Tones of strange melody. from sources dim,

Mingle to greet me with a choral hymn;

All air-born sounds, birds, bees, and gushing springs,

Breathe to my listening soul a thousand happy things."—
Joun CRITCHLEY Prince.

*Y 13 sweet for the lover of nature to roam,
And leave the delights of his own native home,
116 THE LOVER OF NATURE.

For the fields and the woods, and the bonny green
bowers ;

For the hum of the bee and the scent of the flowers ;

For the soft gentle sigh of the zephyr's swift wing,

In the gay smiling vale where the buttercups spring ;

For the gush of the fountain, the swell of the stream,

As they murmur along in a musical theme.

He loves where the butterfly swings on the rose,

And the pale blushing daisies their eyelids unclose ;
Where the grasshopper sings on the furze-covered lea,
And the lark on the heather is cheerful and free ;
While a thousand swift insects dance light on the air,
And a thousand fresh flowerets bloom lovely and fair;
Where nature is dressed in her holiday sheen,

And new-opened blossoms bespangle the scene.

He loves the sweet breath of the woods to inhale,
Where the cuckoo is sounding her notes in the vale ;
Where the wren and the linnet provide each a nest,
And line them within with the softest and best;
Where beetles and saw-flies skip light o'er the plain,
And the ant loves to ramble the woodlands again ;
When the summer-birds come over mountain and flood,
To sing their new songs in the field or the wood.

When the sun sinks in night and the stars brightly
shine,

And a deep solemn silence his footsteps entwine ;

When the glow-worm looks up from its green grassy
bed,

On the half-closed flow’rets that round it are spread,

And the moth plumes its wings for a feast on the green,

Where the oak, and the elm, and laburnum are seen;

While the hare steals away to repose on the flowers,

Which grow by the brook in the summer's glad hours.
LINES ON TWO YEW TREES. 117

And when winter comes with its tempests and clouds,
And thick-falling snow the pathway enshrouds,

He loves in the deep leafless woodlands to stray,
Where the nest of the magpie is gone to decay ;
While the humble-bee sleeps in its moss-covered cell,
By the side of the stream near the wood-crowned dell,
Where the wind whistles loud in the wild thorny brake,
And dormant is laid both the lizard and snake.

"Tis sweeter by far, when the summer bird sings

In the moss-covered oak where the tall ivy clings,
When the soft sound of music is sweet on the air,
And the heart is divested of sorrow and care;

When the sunshine of hope dances light on the soul,
And paints each gay scene with delight as they roll,
Away o’er the meadow, the woodlands, and stream,
Till they fade on the mind like a tale or a dream.

LINES

On seeing two venerable Yew Trees cut down at Kershaw House, near
Luddenden, Yorkshire.

Ox! why have you cut down those aged trees
Which lately looked so lovely ? when the breeze
Of summer swept its fragrance through the shade,
Touching the flowers on Nature’s carpet laid,
Winding its way around each sylvan bough,
Or gently twisting its fair fingers through

* Those dark green branches which now mould'ning lie,
Or ‘neath the snow-white howling tempests fly
118 LINES ON TWO YEW TREES.

O’er hill and dale with poison in their breath,

And lays all nature on the couch of death.

Those trees, which yesterday were fresh and fair,

Are now uprooted and lie prostrate there ;

Once they looked well on this delightful spot,

But now, alas! they soon will be forgot.

For centuries their furrowed cheeks have borne

The blush of evening and the smile of morn,

The Winter's chill and Summer’s burning heat,

While Flora scattered blessings at their feet.

When Spring winds came with lovely buds and
flowers,

And threw fresh beauties on this land of ours,

These reared their heads in foliage rich and green,

While many a sunbeam glittered in between,

And shed fresh lustre on that field below,

Where daffodils and pretty snow-drops grow.

But why, my muse, past treasures back recall,

Since these old relics are ordained to fall.

No more the swallow shall at eventide

Pour forth its notes upon its branches wide,

Before it flies to some far distant shore

Where Winter will not in its wildness roar.

It oft has sat on that old rotten bough,

As if in haste to tell the story through,

Ere Autumn from the sylvanscene retired,

Or the bright harvest many a breast inspired.

Oh! could I now long by-gone hours retrace,

When these yew trees were planted on this place,

And see the man who with pickaxe and spade,

Dug deep the ground and in their tendrils laid;

Health paints his face with her fair rosy hand,

While pleasure whispers, and at her command

He sings the strains of long departed hours,

While the sweet blackbird listens to his powers,
LINES ON TWO YEW TREES. 119

And swells the chorus ‘neath the sylvan shade,
Where lilies bloom and buttercups are laid.

But, ah! since then what scenes away have past,
Strong trees have bent ‘neath many a Winter's blast;
Hopes that were rife have long since passed away,
And plotting heads are mould’ring in the clay;
States that were young have now to nations risen,
And mighty kingdoms into nought are riven;
Arts that were fresh lie nearly now forgot,

And deeds of darkness with their plotters rot.
Commerce now flows to distant lands afar ;
Treaties of peace are superseding war ;

While man, the sovereign of all things below,

Is drinking knowledge from those streams which flow,
From press and pen, like floods of living fire,
Lifting the masses of each nation higher

In the grand scale of human enterprize :
Building them up like giants to the skies,

Giving them hope instead of black despair,
Bidding them to her ample board repair.

But, stay! my muse, this work of death survey ;
Look at those trees, they quickly will decay ;
Their bright green leaves will moulder in the dust,
Like the great temple or the portly bust,
Upreared by man to shew his wondrous skill,
Who cut and carved them to his lordly will.

But where are they ? deep buried in the ground ?
Or thrown where moss is scattered all around ?
Unseen, unknown, they're lost, and quite forgot,
Deep in the ground where no one knows the spot.
Just so is man: he grows up like a flower,

The fair frail blossom of a passing hour ;

The next he withers, droops, and fades away,
And lies forgotten in the church-yard clay.
120 CHRISTMAS MUSINGS.

CHRISTMAS MUSINGS.

Curistmas has come with its boisterous breath,
And its leafless trees and bowers,
While the flowers all round
Lie hid in the ground,
And wait for the summer hours.

Where is the daisy’s crimson fringe?
The pink and the damask rose ?
And the bells of blue
In the woods which grew
Where the murmuring streamlet flows.

Where is the lark with its matchless song,
And the throstle’s joyful tune,
And the cuckoo’s note
Which did sweetly float
Through the woods in the month of June.

Hopes and delights which were young and fair,
And joys that were fresh and gay,
Like the choicest flowers
In the spring tide hours,
They have long since died away.

And left the snow on the mountain brow,
And frost on the window pane,
While the friends we loved
Are by death removed
To the grave’s deep dark domain.
CHRISTMAS MUSINGS. 121

But music floats on the midnight air
Through the leafless trees ‘tis borne,
And voices sing
Of a glorious King,
Who came on this joyful morn.

They sing of his wondrous matchless love,
And his saving truth proclaim,
Till the morning breaks,
And its orient streaks
Doth the Christian's heart inflame.

When the misletoe and the berries red
Of the holly bush are seen
On the old church walls
And the ancient halls
With leaves from the ivy green.

And many a bough from the old yew tree
On each picture-frame is spread,
While the box tree gay,
On this festal day,
Is torn from its woodland bed,

And hung in the homes of my father-land—
The homes of the gay and proud,
While the log fire glows,
And the cold wind blows,
And snow doth the grass enshroud.

Then raise a song to old Christmas true,
As they did in the days of yore,
To the Saviour born
On this happy morn
Be glory for evermore.
122 THE EJECTED WIDOW.

4

THE EJECTED WIDOW.

An Trish Tale

The wintry wind howled o'er the moor,
And deep was the white drifted snow,
While barred was a small cottage door,
Which stood on the steep mountain brow.
A sullenness reigned o’er the spot,
Its inmates had sunk to repose,
The ills of the day were forgot,
And lost was the past with its woes.

The window panes shook with the wind,
Which woke the old couple from sleep,

Who talked of old times left behind,
Until they began for to weep.

A rap sounded loud at the door,
It filled the old couple with dread,

To think that the helpless and poor
Should be without shelter and bed.

A faint hollow groan from the cold,
As if from the depths of despair,
Made Dennis and Mary grow bold,
And list to the wanderer's prayer.
A female's soft voice they did hear,
Which sounded in accents most wild,
“ Pray, hasten my bosom to cheer,
And save a poor widow and child.

My cot they’ve pulled down to t'1° ground,
And forced me from thence to depart,
THE EJECTED WIDOW.

Oh! hark what a terrible sound,

It makes the cold tear-drops to start.
My breast with deep anguish is torn,

I feel almost dead with the frost,
Ah! how I do wish it was morn,

"Tis hard in the snow to be lost.

Does sympathy dwell in this cot?

Or have you a heart which can feel?
Then pity the wanderer’s lot,

And do not your mercy conceal ;
But grant me to-night my desire,

And soften my path to the tomb,
For if we're compelled to retire,

To-morrow will settle our doom.

Then pray let the wanderers in,

And shield us this night from the blast,
We tremble without, while within

Are fears which a long time will last.
Another loud knock I will give, ’

And beg them to open the door,
And give us a longer reprieve,

Or else we must die on the moor.”

She knocked, and old Dennis came down,
Who welcomed them both to his cot,
While Mary, in night-robes and gown,
Prepared them a supper quite hot;
‘Twas homely, but not of the best,
And of it they freely partook,
And then, that they sweetly might rest,
The dame made a bed in the nook.

128

at

ahs
124 GOD'S DESIGN [N MAKING MAN.

GOD'S DESIGN IN MAKING MAN,

Drip God design man, when he made him at first,
To wander through life by his brother accursed,
To seek for a home in his own native soil,

Or ask of his kinsman to let him go toil

In sorrow or grief for a morsel of bread,

While he in abundance is pampered and fed ?

Did God plant the stars in the region of light,

And clothe them with lustre resplendent and bright?
Did he point out each pathway, examine each frame,
Determine their phases and give them a name?

Did he throw them, like jewels, profuse from his hand,
That the learned and wise might alone understand?

Did God make the woods and the lovely green bowers,
And strew o’er the earth a profusion of flowers?

Did he make the green herb, in his wisdom and might,
To heal our diseases and give us delight?

Did he clothe the rich valleys with sweet smiling corn,
And yet leave his image neglected—forlorn ?

Did he build up the mountains and fathom the stream,
And give to the billows a musical theme?

Did he send forth the zephyrs the sweets to inhale,
Of the woodland and fountain, the moorland and dale?
Did he point out a track to the wide swelling sea,

And say to the streamlet “Be joyful and free”?

The cattle he made, and the beasts of the field,
That they unto man their abundance might yield ;
AWAKE! LOVELY MAIDEN. 125

While the sweet sound of music which rings in the wood,
And the fishes which sport in the tempest and flood,
He gave unto man, while he bade him repair

To the wide field of nature his goodness to share.

He made all men equal, and gave them a law
To comfort them while on their journey below.
Twas framed by wisdom, by justice designed,
To raise in the bosom a maxim refined,

To love one another in sunshine and rain,

And each other's burden through life to sustain.

Oh! why then should man his poor brother despise,
And treat him as if he were dirt in his eyes:

Ah! why should he cringe like a thief or a slave,
Or bow in submission when one common grave
Will hide the poor peasant as well as the peer?

The humble and haughty must all moulder there.

AWAKE! LOVELY MAIDEN;

OR, A VOICE FROM THE CRIMEA,

Written on seeing a letter from a young soldier in the English Army to his
sweetheart in England.
Aware! lovely maiden, the grey morn is breaking,
The dew-drops are bright on yon high mountain hill,
The sun’s lovely rays the dark moorlands are streaking,
And sweet smiling flow’rets their odours distil;
While I wander here all the night broken-hearted,
And sigh for the day which will never return,
When I pressed thy fair form to my breast, then departed
And left thee behind me in sorrow to mourn.
n3
126 AWAKE! LOVELY MAIDEN.

Ah! say shall we meet by the deep winding river,
Where oft we have wandered in moments gone by?
Or shall the dark gloom of the battle-field sever
Those vows which were registered by us on high ?
No! Alma shall tell thee the wonderful story,
What England achieved on its wide open plains ;
Balaclava shall rise, a memento of glory,
While Inkermann loudly its triumph proclaims.

Perchance we may meet when the wild wars are ended,
And peace spreads her wings o’er the land of my birth;
When the despots below to the grave have descended,
And concord shall bloom o’er the nations of earth,
While hope, smiling hope, to the future is pointing,
And beckons me onward through dangers below,
The demon of war is his minions appointing,
To spread desolation, destruction, and woe.

For thee, lovely maiden, my warm heart is beating ;
I often think on thee, though parted afar ;

In the chill stormy night I thy name am repeating,
‘Tis my pilot, my joy, in the midst of the war.

Oh! could we but meet on the banks of the river,
And whisper the vows which we uttered of yore,
And say to the winds “You shall part us, oh! never:’

My heart fondly clings to the girl I adore.
TO THE FSORGET-ME-NOT. 127

TO THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

THERE is a flower that blooms betimes unseen,
Deep in the woodlands where sweet flowing streams,
And warbling songsters join in strains divine,
Awaking treasures from life's bygone dreams,
Old memories gone, old faces far away,

Old times departed when our joys were gay,

Old songs once sung in childhood’s happy hours,
Old tunes forgotten rise on magic wings,

In sylvan strains, as if they just were past,

Till hope again returns her golden strings,

And points us back to that endearing spot,
Where oft we plucked the flower Forget-me-not.

THE FORSAKEN ONE.

Txov told me once thou loved me well,
And my unguarded heart

Believed thou would be kind to me,
And act a manly part.

I thought thee chaste, and wise, and good,
And did mine ear incline

To those sweet tender tales thou told ;
I loved to call thee mine.
128 THE FORSAKEN ONE.

But ah! how changed that lovely dream,
Which then was young and fair ;

‘Tis vanished from my wayward breast,
And left it in despair.

For thou hast been unkind, untrue,
Hast tampered with my love,

And left me here in helpless grief,
Which time cannot remove.

Another leans upon that arm
That should have succoured me:
Another's heart is pressed to thine,.
Deluded too by thee.

"Twas thee who stole my virgin love,.
And left me thus to mourn,

For happy moments now no more,
And never to return.

May deep regret, and wild remorse,
Thy short-lived joys attend,

And solemn thoughts from childhood’s years,
Their dream-like phantoms lend,

To lure thy youthful feet away
From pleasure’s slippery brink,
Where care shall mar thine every joy,
And leave thee time to think.
THE HAPPY FAMILY. 129

THE HAPPY FAMILY.

In yonder deep secluded vale,
A little cot once stood,

Where lived the hero of my tale;
A yeoman blythe and good.

The little cottage was his own,
Likewise the garden fair,

And discontent was seldom known
To ever enter there.

He knew the arts, the wiles, the woes
Of human nature well;

And many a secret could disclose,
If he had chose to tell.

But he was not to tales inclined,
Nor yet to folly prone ;

He evil had to none designed,
Nor wished ought but his own.

He worked and toiled from morn till night,
And scanty was his fare ;

Yet, though ‘twas poor, his heart was light,
And free from sordid care.

A wife he had, and children three,
Who did on him depend
For food and raiment, and that he
Should to their wants attend.
180

THE HAPPY FAMILY.

He loved them well and tenderly,
Yea, dearer than his life ;

They cheered him in his poverty,
And smoothed his path of strife.

They counselled him when hope grew dim,
Or hid its cheering light ;

When sickness threw its darts at him,
They watched him day and night.

His loving wife his pillow smoothed
With fond conjugal love,

Sat by his side, his bosom soothed,
And pointed him above,

To joys unsullied, rich and rare,
Reserved above the sky

For those who hung upon His care,
Who did for sinners die.

Weeks fled away, and smiling health
Spread happiness around,

And blessings better far than wealth,
Made every bosom bound.

Each day, each hour, was well improved,
Each year brought its increase,

And when they were by death removed,
They each one died in peace.
THOSE COTTAGE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 131

THOSE COTTAGE HOMES OF ENGLAND

THosE cottage homes of England ;
O, where, alas! are they ?

They live but in the visions past,
Or with the rich and gay.

Those festal joys within them kept,
And sung in days of yore,

Are gone like ancient chivalry,
They will return no more.

Where are those winter evening tales
Around each hearthstone told ;

Those pictures of departed years
Described in days of old ?

Those household joys dear to the heart,
At once so fresh and fair,

Have vanished in the gloomy past,
And left us in despair,

But still the homes of England
All other homes surpass ;

They live in every poor man’s heart,
Engraved as if on brass.
They image forth a thousand sweets

To other lands unknown ;
While health, and peace, and liberty,
Around their joys have thrown.
182 THE EARLY PRIMROSE.

THE EARLY PRIMROSE.
Written on finding one near Luddenden, January 17th. 1849.

First offspring of the new-born year!
Winter hath set on thee his face,
His furrows on thy cheek appear,
And thou must quickly end thy race.

Cold chilling blasts around thee blow,

With scarce a sunshine’s glimmering ray,
To light upon thy youthful brow,

Ere thou must droop and fade away.

Thus thou portray’st the poet’s fate,
Cradled amidst the storms of life,

A prey to envy, grief, and hate,
And foes with evil passions rife.

Like thee, secluded in the vale,
Neglected and unknown, he lies,

When hope, upon the passing gale,
Whispers his name, and then he dies.

THE COTTER'S EVENING AT HOME

THE setting sun proclaims the evening hour,
The twittering swallow hastens to her nest,
While round the scene the shades of twilight lower,
Enshrouding nature in a sable vest.
‘THE COTTER’ EVENING AT HOME. 183

The groves are hushed, no solitary ‘tone
Breaks on the ear, nor music's lovely strain,
Save when the waters o'er the pebbles moan,
Or murmuring breezes to the wilds. complain.

The cotter slowly from his work retires
To his lone dwelling in the woodland glen ;
His prattling children soon his bosom fires,
As each one strives a father's wants to. ken.

One smoothes the. cushion of: his easy chair,
And bids him welcome ‘to-his humble eot;
While helpless childhood drives away his care,

And reconciles ,him to.his future lot.

His faithful partner chants her evening song,
Puts on the kettle and,lays by her wheel ;

While all his family round the hearth-stone throng,
Ready preparing for the evening meal.

He looks around-on each gay smiling face,
Where pleasure sits unsullied by despair,
Where heart-felt. sorrow yet has had no place,

Nor smiles yet blighted by: corroding care.

He covets not that ‘sordid thing called wealth ;
No costly viands grace ‘his humble. board ;

A prayer he offers—'tis a prayer for health
And happiness their treasures to afford.

Parental love enwraps his manly breast,
Affection’s‘tears steal quickly from each-eye,
The smothered groan can scarcely be repress'd,
While the dark future mars each budding joy,
o
134 THE COTTER'S EVENING AT HOME.

The things gone by pass swiftly thro’ the mind,
Youth’s joys and fears their wonted sweets display,
Life’s present griefs are loitering far behind,
While hope with flowers bestrews the future way.

Imagination paints the distant scene
Of years to come, in colours glittering bright ;
When hale old age, with countenance serene,
Visits its children with intense delight.

When children’s children frolic, sport, and play,
In playful gestures round the cottage floor,

Tinging the furrowed cheeks with lustre gay,
And driving care and sorrow from the door.

The supper ended, and each youthful heart
Joins in a chorus filled with sacred sweets ;
While each fond parent bears a humble part,
Which dies in whispers round these lone retreats.

The song concluded, while around the fire
Each draws a stool, a buffit, or a chair;

While with fond looks they gaze upon their sire,
Expecting him a story to declare.

With joy he opens the prophetic page,
And reads of Joseph's piety and worth ;

How Jacob with an angel did engage,
And David led his valiant army forth.

How Paul and Silas in the prison sung,

When midnight spread her sable plumes around;
While vaulted cells with loud hosannahs rung,

And dreadful earthquakes shook the solid ground.
THE COTTER’S EVENING AT- HOME. 185

He then looks up, and, in a warning strain,
Gives each by name some pertinent advice ;

Then bids them fly base actions with disdain,
And shun the paths of perfidy and vice.

Then kneeling down, ere they retire to rest,
The father prays for blessings from above,

To aid the young and comfort the distressed,
And that the poor may shelter in his love.

‘In faith he wrestles for his native isle,
And begs that war and tyranny may cease;
That God will always on her children smile,
And fill the world with piety and peace.

The prayer concluded, then they all retire
To sleep, protected by His gracious care,

Who guards us with a wall of sacred fire,
The people who His saving truths declare.

Such was old England, once a happy band

Of wel!-clad peasants graced their native soil,
Ready to drive intruders from the land,

Or with their hands for daily bread to toil.

But now, alas! how are the mighty fallen ?
Where are the far-famed dwellings of the poor ?

Distress, and want, and poverty, have. swollen,
And dire oppression shuts the poor man’s door.
136 LINES ON THE. FORGET-ME-NOT.

LINES

Written on gathering some of the beautiful flowers of the Forget-me-nos.

Forcrt-me-not! thy lovely flowers
Long bye-gone scenes recall to mind,
When I, in childhood’s happy hours,
O’er yon far distant mountain climbed.

Ye waken in my aching breast

Thoughts of my youth’s gay smiling morn,
When I each pretty flower caressed,

Nor ever thought to find a thorn.

All looked so fair, so sweet, so bright ;
I envied not the rich man’s gold;

Each changing scene brought fresh delight.
Each bud new beauties. did unfold.

No boding care to damp my joy ;

No deep distress to break my rest ;
No silent grief that dared destroy

The pleasures of my youthful breast.

But all these scenes away are fled,
Yet cannot be by me forgot ;

Where’er my wandering steps are led,
I hear them say— Forget-me-not.”

The daisied mead, the hazle grove,

With each endearing long-left. spot,
Awaken up another love,

That whispers loud—* Forget-me-not.”
IVY BOUGHS. 137

The dearest friends of other years,
Who nursed me in my native cot,
Have left this world with all its fears,
But I shall still forget them not.

There's something in the vista dark,
Which hangs around my future lot,
That seems to say frail mortal, “ Hark!

Time flies away, forget it not.”

These flowers will fade, I too must die,
And soon be by the world forgot,

While some smooth stone will on me lie,
With on it carved, “ Forget-me-not.”

IVY BOUGHS.

Ivy boughs in the spring are seen
Around the ash tree clinging,

Decked in their robes of lovely green,
Where the fairest flowers are springing.

They shake in the winter's howling blast,
When the snow-flakes spread the mountains,

And hold by the bare rock firm and fast,
While the frost shuts up the fountains.

“They spread o'er the old grey castle walls,
When the summer sun is gleaming,
And proudly cling to the lordly halls,
When the glittering stars are beaming..
08
1388 THE BLIND GIRL'S ADDRESS TO HER MOTHER.

They twine round the oak with a deadly grasp,
In the forest dark and dreary,

And the tottering walls of the abbey clasp,
Where the murmuring winds sound weary.

The leaves are green as the bud of hope,
In the youthful breast that’s blooming,

When left with the ills of life to cope,
And care is the mind entombing.

They emblems are of the purest love,
Which dwells in the human heart,

That time with its sweets cannot remove,
And naught but death can part.

They cling with a firm tenacious hand,
Like the scenes of my memory dear,

When I with a gay delighted band,
Danced in the moonbeams clear.

THE BLIND GIRL'S ADDRESS TO HER
MOTHER.

Tury say the stars are bright, mother,
And twinkle in the air,

And that a thousand other things,
Are equally as fair:

They talk of flowers of various kinds—
I smell their odours sweet,

When they are shaken by the winds,
That dance around thejr feet.
THE BLIND GIRBL’S ADDRESS. TO HER MOTHER. 139

They say that some are white, mother,
And others ting‘d with red ;
And others larger are by far,
Than my two hands when spread ;
And some, they say, do open wide
Their eyelets to the sun,
Forgetful that at evening tide
Life's little race is run.

They say the trees are green, mother,
And some are full of flowers,

And butterflies are sporting there,
In summet’s sunlit hours;

And that their virgin loveliness
Is splendid to behold,

When each gay flow’ret’s lips they press,
With wings like shining gold.

I hear the small birds sing, mother,
The lark high in the air;

The robin in the garden hedge,
When roses cluster there ;

The blackbird in the woodland brake ;
The linnet on the thorn: ~

Some visions from the past awake,
By death untimely torn.

They talk of mountains wild, mother,
And heather bushes sweet ;

Of flowing brooks, and bubbling streams,
With nature’s smiles replete ;

Of golden scenes in foreign lands,
Where beasts of prey abound;

Of burning sands and hostile bands,
Where waste and want are found.
140- -

THE BLIND GIRL'S ADDRESS TO HER MOTHER.

Oh! I should love to see, mother,
Such fields, and trees, and flowers,

And gather garlands rich and rare,
In summer's noontide hours ;

And wander on the moorland wild,
To hear the cuckoo sing,

Till by its soothing song beguil'd,
A thousand hopes would spring—

Around my tender: heart, mother,
But, ah! it cannot be;
Though flow’rets round my pathway spring,
They bloom in vain for me ;
For I am poor, and weak, and blind,
And cannot see the light ;
The fairest scene by man defin’d,.
To me is black as night.

But there’s a place for me, mother;
Where flowers immortal bloom,

And I shall there my sight receive—
Tis far beyond the tomb ;

And children there shall dwell in love,.
Unmix'd, without a stain;

And they who to that clime remove,
Shall endless life obtain.
THE FRIENDS OF OTHER YEARS. 14t

THE FRIENDS OF OTHER YEARS.

Wuere are the friends of other years,
The thoughtless and the gay,

That strove to calm my childish fears ?
They long have pass’d away.

Have left this lovely vale below,
Where joys and sorrows dwell,
Where hope and fear together grow,

And amorous passions swell.

They've shared the common lot of all,
That liv'd in bygone hours ;

Have heard the solemn watchman’s call,
And passed away like flowers.

A thousand sunlit smiles appear
Upon the fading past ;

A thousand faded sweets as dear
Lie buried in the blast.

The jocund song, the merry glee,
Of youth have pass’d away ;

And pleasant dreams so fresh and free,
Like shadows now decay.

They've spent their musings on the wind,
Their works are seldom seen ;

They nothing now have left behind,
To tell where they have been.
142:

THINK ON TIIE POOR.

Their actions all were mark’d in sand,
Upon time's shifting shore,—

And when death's billows wash'd the strand,
The imprint was no more,

Save in the bosom of a child,
Or friend they loved so dear,
Who many a tedious hour beguil'd,
With tales the heart to cheer.

Those mystic musings o’er the past
Are well-springs to the soul,

Which bear upon each slender blast
Faint images that roll

Betimes around the human heart,
With all its joys and fears ;

While on the wings of fancy start
The fiiends of other years.

THINK ON THE POOR.

Tink on the poor, the cheerless wind

Howls over many a homeless heart,

Torn by an adverse world unkind,

Their's is a miserable part.

Perchance for bread the orphan cries,

It’s heart is fill’d with many a woe ;

No parent's hand its want supplies,

They lay the clay cold earth below.
THINK ON THE POOR. 143

It’s grandsire weeps, but, ah! ‘tis vain,
A crust of bread he cannot spare,
Nor clothes to screen it from the rain,

Nor shoes, for his own feet are bare.

Cold blows the wind, the night grows chill,
The snow falls thick o’er lawn and tree,
The tempest loud howls o'er the hill,
The frost is glittering on the lea.

Hungry and cold he deigns to seek
A barn to hide him from the storm ;

While death-like paleness spreads cach cheek,
And pain enwraps his youthful form.

Think on the poor and aged too,
They're fore'd to beg their daily bread
From door to door, the cold world through,
And have not where to lay their head.

Why is it so? God is the same,
And hears his children when they cry ;
And says that they who name His name,
He will with every good supply.

Think on the poor, ye rich men all!
For ye at first were brothers made ,

And he who hears the ravens’ call
Demands your brother should be fed.

Oh! aid him when in deep distress,
For you with him must meet at last—
Must round the same tribunal press,
And hear the curse or blessing pass’d.
144 HOME, FOR EVER, FARE-THEE-WELL !

HOME, FOR EVER, FARE-THEE-WELL.

Scene.—The sea shore in Van Diemans’ Land.

Time.—The midnight hour. A convict, standing on the sea shore,
watching the billows as they roll away from the land, addresses them
in the following strain :—

GENTLE. billows, softly stealing,
Lit up by the moonbeam’s smile,
Still your onward track keep wheeling,
Go and kiss my native isle.
Home, for ever, fare-thee-well !

Tell it that an exiie, weeping,
Wanders on a distant shore ;
Thus his nightly vigils keeping,
Brooding o'er what's gone before.
Home, for ever, fare-thee-well !

Childhood's dearest. recollections
Twine around my aching heart:
Kindred joys, and sweet affections,
Make the inmost soul to smart.
Home, ‘for ever, fare-thee-well!

Blooming hopes have quickly faded,
Smitten by the passing gale ;
Fortune has my grasp evaded,
Black-cye’d sorrow fills the sail.
Home, for ever, fare-thee-well !
HOME, FOR EVER, FARE-THEE-WELL!

There my parents low are sleeping,
In the cold forgotten clay ;
Noxious weeds are o'er them creeping,
No one tears them now away.
Home, for ever, fare-thee-well!

These to me are lost for ever,
Fate has bound me in her chain;
Nought but death that chain can sever,
Nought but death remove the stain.
Home, for ever, fare-thee-well !

Home, in England, how I love thee—
Thee to memory ever dear—

Cruel fate has torn thee from me,
Hide me in the desert drear.

Home, for ever, fare-thee-well.

Here till death I’m doom’d to wander:
On this far forgotten land,

Doom'd my life’s last days to squander,
Midst a savage hostile band.

Home, for ever, fare-thee-well.

And when death life’s ties must sever,
And these faltering lips shall swell,
May my last words be for ever,
Home, in England; fare-thee-well !
Home, for ever, fare-thee-well.

145
146 COULD I RECALL DEPARTED HOURS,

COULD I RECALL DEPARTED HOURS.

Coutp I recall departed hours,
The wide world I would roam,

Into far distant woodland bowers,
To seek a cottage home.

A home which care could never find,
And sorrow never know,

Nor tyranny, with deeds unkind,
Its baneful venom throw.

Nor avarice, with demon face,
Stand laughing at the door;

Nor neighbours think me a disgrace,
Because my fare is poor.

But where fair nature’s generous hand
Profusion throws around,

And health and wealth, a happy band,
Dance lightly o’er the ground.

Where love with friendship kindly reigns,
From spite and envy free ;

And truth injustice leads in chains,
And man’s at liberty

To hunt the field, the moor, the wood,
The upland and the- plain ;

Or draw the fishes from the flood,
Nor think it crime nor stain,
- COULD IT RECALL DEPARTED HOURS. ‘147

Where law and reason both combine,
And look on man as man;

Nor leave a part in want to pine,
As of a different clan.

But all by honest labour live,
And nature’s blessing share ;

For she doth always freely give
Her lovers ample fare.

Then would I look on youthful hours,
Through memory's magic glass,

And view the fields and rocky bowers,
Where I was wont to pass

My infant, and my childhood’s years
In mirth and playful glee,

Unhurt by care or madd’ning fears
That cling to memory.

Till safely borne by hale old age,
To threescore years and ten,

Then would I, like some Christian sage,
Look through dark nature’s glen,

To purer streams and richer fields,
And crowns unbought with gold,
Where every field sweet nectar yields,

And gifts to man untold. saa
148

oH! GIVE ME A HOME IN THE HEART.

OH! GIVE ME A HOME IN THE
HEART.

Ox! give me a home in the heart,
Where friendship with sympathy dwells,
From pride and ambition apart,

And envy with all her dark spells.

The venom of wrath is not there,

The poison of grief is not known,

And malice and hate have no share,
For reason hath set there her throne.

And there she triumphantly reigns,
Surrounded by concord and peace ;
Hope’s anchor her nature sustains,

And life’s choicest blessings increase.
Her cares on the whirlwinds are fled

To the wilds of a far distant shore ;
True pleasure each pathway hath spread
With sweets that will never be o’er.

Tis there I my fears can disclose,

And find in that bosom a friend,

To soothe me in life’s darkest woes,
And pilot me safe to the end.

It’s counsels are wisdom and love,

It’s actions are mercy and peace,

It’s smiles all my fears can remove,
It’s cheer makes each blessing increase.

‘Tis a beacon that lights up the soul
Through life’s thorny valley below ;
‘Tis a day-star that leads to the pole,
Whence joys everlasting will flow.
¢ tov# To SEEK THE THICKET’s SHADE. 146

Then give me a home in the heart,
Where friendship with sympathy dwells,
From pride and ambition apart,

And envy with all her dark spells.

I LOVE TO SEEK THE THICKET'S
SHADE.

Written to Eliza Cook

I Love to seek the thicket’s shade,
When summer laughs in all her pride,
When moorland, hill, and woodland glade,
With verdant sweets are well supplied.

When warbling songsters, shrill and sweet,
Lisp to each other in reply ;

And twice ten thousand odours meet,
And to each new-born zephyr fly.

And sweep as if by magic art,
Through sylvan shades and meadows fair,
And to the mind fresh joys impart
Treasures that seldom enter there.

The sun hath veil'd his lovely face,
And twilight lingers in the west,

And dark’ning scenes the shadows chase,
And mid-day music sinks to rest.

‘Tis then I muse in solitude,
On youthful hours of mirth and glee,
‘When busy care dar’d not intrude,
To mar my mid-day melody. -
Pg
150. THE OLD VALENTINE..

When fancy, in her wide domain,
Sought pleasure in the joys of sense ;

And hope, with all ner golden train,
Danced hand in hand with innocence.

The loves of long departed years

Are summoned up at memory’s call—
Each bygone day, its joys and fears,

Are there depicted—one and all,

But some are dress’d in colours bright,
Fair as the rose in summer hours ;

While others, touch’d by death's dark blight,
Appear like leaves in winter bowers.

They waken lays forgotten long,

They fill the heart with sacred fire,
And I forget the noisy throng

That bade me tune my stringless lyre.

Till roused by yonder village clock,
As loud it tells the midnight hour ;
While distant vales its warnings mock,
And bid me give my reveries o’er.

THE OLD VALENTINE.

Wuen gloomy February rode
Triumphant o'er the plain,

And snow-flakes crowned the mountain tops,
While hoar-frost chill’d the lane,
THE OLD VALENTINE. 151

A hale old woman, stout and strong,
Of three-score years and more,

With furrowed cheek and wrinkled brow,
Entered my cottage door,

Displaying in her withered hand,
An ancient valentine—

Two youthful hearts its centre gruce,
While flowers around it twine.

And verses of a faithful kind
Fach corner full. is writ,

Twas sent by a rare old village bard—
Once fraught with pregnant wif.

Tis forty-six long years,” she said,
“ Since this I first called mine—
A lung-remembered day to me:
The Feast of Valentine.

My young heart bounded with delight,
And blushes spread each cheek,

I read its contents. often o'er, -
With heart too full to speak.

‘Twas then my soul first dreamt of love,
_ Or felt its sacred pain,
Tt wotind around my tender heart,
And touched my youthful brain.

But soon, my lover told his tale,
And vewed he would be mine,

And call me his dear loving wife,
His constant valentine.
152 MIDNIGHT RECOLLECTIONS, ETC.

The bridal knot, ere long, was tied,
Binding us both in one ;

Thus like two kindred roses, when
Kiss'd by the morning sun.

Together did we live in love,
Our joys and griefs we'd share ;
If sickness touched one tender heart,
The other watched with care.

But death unnerv'd the strong man’s arm,
And laid my husband low,

In yonder village lone church yard,
Where yarrow blossoms grow.

Though carking care my path beset,
And years of pain be mine,

I'll wear love's relic on my breast—
This aged valentine,”

MIDNIGHT RECOLLECTIONS IN
LUDDENDEN CHURCH-YARD.

‘Tis midnight now; the glittering moonbeams pale,
Cast their faint lustre o’er the village spire,
Neath which is carved full many a rustic tale,
That erst was sounded from the poet's lyre.
MIDNIGHT RECOLLECTIONS, Etc. 1538

The village hush’d.in silence deep profound,
Wakes up within a melancholy lay,

To think that in this narrow plot of ground
So many rustics of the vale decay.

Time was when they in strength could walk abroad,
Could gather flowers on yonder distant green,

Or hold sweet converse on the downward road,
That ‘twixt man’s birth-day and his grave is seen.

But now, alas! their voices are not heard ;

Their songs are ended on this mortal shore ;
They've in the wreck of bygone ages shared,

And theit good deeds will scarce be mentioned more.

There lies a youth, whom once a mother’s pride
And doating fondness decked in rich array ;

Stripped of his trappings, and to death allied,
His journey’s ended in the house of clay.

Beneath yon tombstone on the rising ground
A soldier sleeps away from mortal strife,

His warfare’s past—he’s heard the awful sound,
And ceased to fight for liberty and life.

There youth and age, and jealous passions cease,
Nor want, nor care, nor poverty is known,
And spotless virtue rests in sacred peace,
And war, and wrath, and grief are overthrown.

The orphan weeps not at it’s mother’s grave,
As it was wont to-do in days gone by ;

Nor aged widows o'er their partners rave,
Or in deep anguish on their tombstones lie,
154 A FEW MORE YEARS.

I saw a virgin on the Sabbath morn,
Bedeck'd in meekness hasten to this spot;
The next I saw her hither sadly borne,
And there she lies neglected and forgot.

Friendship is lost beneath these sculptured stones,
And malice lurks not in the clay-cold grave,

And parents reck not for their children’s groans, .
Nor sailor mourns when howling tempests lave.

There rival lovers moulder in the dust,

And pride of birth has lost its lordly sway,
And stern oppressors in corruption rust,

While self-made despots moulder in the clay.

A distant day these secrets must reveal,
Which now are hid from erring mortals’ sight;
When the archangel breaks the seventh seal,
The mighty judge will order all things right.

ge

A FEW MORE YEARS.

A Few more years, and then these joys
That flutter round the youthful heart—

These witching smiles that love decoys—
Must from the dimpled cheek depart.

That buoyant step, as light as air,
Dancing like sunbeams on the green,

Must from these flowery scenes repair,
And darker clouds will intervene.
A FEW MORE YEARS, 158

These little notes so fresh and free,
Sounded in childhood’s happy hours ;
And joyous feats of mirth and glee,
Will pass away like summer flowers
Fresh blushes on the face will bloom ;
Fresh sorrows hover o’er the mind ;
Fresh grief may fill the soul with gloom,
And leave these blissful sweets behind.

A few more years, and the pale cheek
Will wither with declining age :
And hollow furrows, wan and bleak,
A wasting of the frame presage.
The palsied step, the sunken eye,
The few locks left both thin and grey,
Foretel that death is drawing nigh,
And youthful visions die away.

A few more years, and this frail frame

Must moulder in the lone churchyard—
Must rest, perhaps. without a name,

And no one feel the least regard.
Unconscious do they pass the spot,

And joy each swelling bosom cheers:
They think not of the common lot

That waits them in a few more years.

A few more years, and anxious thought
Will twine its fingers round the frame—
Will waste these love-like dreams to naught,
And leave gay pleasure but the name.
Its sweetest joys for ever fled ;
Its images to memory dear
Lie in the distance, sere and dead,
And other scenes the heart must cheer.
156 THE CONVICT'S DEATH AND BURIAL,

THE CONVICT’S DEATH AND BURIAL.

IN TWO PARTS,

The following poem was written on hearing a lady, lately returned from
Van Dieman's Land, after an absence of 38 years, relate the following story :—

“Two young men were transported from England to that colony
not many years ago, where, on their arrival, they were each apportioned
to different masters. One of them got a very bad master from whom he
soon ran away; but before he went, the two contrived to meet often
beneath the shade of a venerable old tree to condole with each other on
their misfortune. One evening, after they had heen conversing together
on the scenes and delights of their fatherland, the younger of the two
pade the other farewell, then took to the bush, and his companion heard
no more of bim for nearly five years, when, one fine moonlight evening,
having been on some business for his master, and returning along the
sea shore, on his approaching near the place where the old tree stood,
bygone recollections suddenly returned, and he stood as if transfixed
to the spot. Not long had he thus remained when a deep groan caught
his ear; his eyes wandered in bewilderment around the neighbouring
pushes, but nothing could he see. On turning round, however, to go
away, another groan summoried him to a clump of brush-wood at a little
distance, where lay the companion of his youth, just on the point of
death. He lifted him up and called him by his nanie, but it seemed as if
the last spark had fled, when suddenly he spoke and gave utterance to
sentiments similar to those contained in the 6th and following verses :—

PART J.—The Death-bed.

Twas night, and the silvery moonbeams shone
On the wide and trackless: sea,

When a convict wandered quite alone,
Where the waters. murmured free.

‘He thought on a far, far distant land,
Where the song birds warbled fair,
And flow’rets grow on its lovely strand,

And. his youthful home is there,
THE CONVICT’S DEATH. AND BURIAL. 157

He moralized on the joys long past,
And tears from his eyes did start ;
While a deep full groan, as if the last,
Did fall from his wounded heart.

His eyes look wild, and he thinks he sees
A man on the cold damp ground ;

Which made his blood, as it were, to freeze,
And terror enwrapped him round.

He lifted him up, and bade him speak
Of the joys and sorrows fled ;

While a chilly sweat ran down each cheek,
The following words he said:

“Dig me my grave in the forest wild,
Where the night-winds slowly creep,
And there let a poor and friendless child

In the green woods calmly sleep.

Lay me therein at the midnight hour,
When the moonbeams brightly shine
On the lonely spot where shadows lower,

And murmuring streamlets twine.

Place not a stone on that lonely spot,
And shed not for me a tear ;

But carve on that tall old tree—‘ Weep not!
For a slave lies buried near.’

We're wont to sit ‘neath its lovely shade,
And talk of our father-land,

When the midnight zephyrs round us played,
And the stars shone bright and bland.

Q
158 THE CONVICT'S DEATH AND BURIAL.

Oh! think on my own dear native shore,
As you lay me ‘neath the sod,

On its‘ heath-crown’d hills, where wild winds roar,
Where our youthful footsteps trod.

We used to play in. the old church-yard,
When the primrose bloom was fair;

And thought those joys would not be marr’d
By grief or distressing care.

But, stay awhile! in an evil hour,
Old England’s laws we broke;

They sent us here by their mighty power,
To pine in a convict’s yoke.

While twive three tedious years have roll’d
Their joys to the long, long past,

We've far in these distant regions stroll’d,
Inthe tempest’s howling blast.

But now I feel that my life is gone:
Death creeps o’er my wasted frame;

I soon must gasp for the faintest moan,
And have in the world no name.”

A feeble groan and.a hollow sound
In faltering accents fell,

And a solemn silence reigned around,
When he breathed his last farewell.
THE CONVICT’S: DEATH! AND BURIAL. 169

PART IL.—The Grave.

Tue deep ocean wave on the sea beach! was rolling,
Its sweet gentle swell on the breakers did lave,

And far in the desert the wild wolf was howling,
While slowly was dug the lost wanderer's grave.

No spade and no pickaxe to cut the lone furrow,
Where nature's cold relics: mustilowly repose;

His hands and a hatchet must dig the deep burrow,
And hide the loved ‘friend of his youth from his woes.

The chain that once bound him in silence: must
moulder,
The tongue that maligned him will cleave and decay
The hands that now press him will quickly be bolder,
Or fade, like the breath-of-the morning, away.

The home of the youth is neglected—forsaken,
His bones must repose.on a far distant land,

He’s in the last sigh of the bygone partaken,
And -gone to decay like a wreck on the strand.

No lover was there to partake of the sorrow,
No mother to weep o’er the cold:silent bed,
No father to watch for his ‘son on the morrow;
Or brother to mourn when: the spirit: hath fled.

The bright lovely moon o'er the forest. was shining,
When low in the dust a poor convict was laid;

One friend o’er the spot in deep thought was reclining,
To take a last look at the face of the dead:

He covered him.up with his hands, lightly pressing
The earth as it fell on his pale haggard face ;

A thought from the past his fond heart is possessing,
While tears from his eyelids each other do chase.
160 THE BIBLE.

His grave's by a tree on the banks of the ocean,
Where flowers in their richest profusion will bloom;
And there his friend stood in the deepest devotion,
To place the last sod on the wanderer’s tomb.

A small willow bush o’er his ashes is weeping,
And sweet lovely blossoms around it are spread ;
While calmly the wind through the brushwood is
creeping,
Afraid to disturb the repose of the dead.

He sleeps like a king in his coffinless glory,
No blood stains the spot where the wanderer died,
Fame has not his deeds in her wonderful story,
And pity forgets to lament by his side.

THE BIBLE.
Written on a blank leaf of a Bible belonging to the Author's Daughter.

In this book you'll find a treasure,
Written in the days of old ;
Prize it without mete or measure,
"Tis of greater worth than gold :
For when gold shall melt away,
Its fair truths will not decay.

If you're filled with tribulation,
Here’s a promise bids you hope;
And though mean and low your station,
There's another lifts you up:
Fills the soul with holy fire,
Matchless as the Psalmist’s lyre.
THE POET'S WELCOME. 161

There, as in a’glass, beholding
Visions of eternal love ;

And these plans to man unfolding,
Rich in treasures from above :

Telling to the nations far,

Of the bright and morning star.

Here you'll learn the way to heaven,
As therein ‘tis pictured forth ;
And how you may be forgiven.
‘Tis a gem of priceless worth :
Read each page with fervent prayer,
Heavenly things are treasured there.

THE POET'S WELCOME.

Written to J. B., a Nottinghamshire Poet, on his visit to Luddenden.

We tcome! bard of nature, here;
Let these scenes thy bosom cheer ;
Let thy muse the sweets inhale,
Of this deep secluded vale.

Paint, with all thy wonted skill,
Flowing brook and murmuring rill,
Heath-clad hill and woodland glade—
Scenes that in the distance fade.

Ramble o’er each flowery field ;

Catch the scents their fragrance yield ;
Seat thee by old Luddon’s* side ;
Watch the bubbles on its tide.

* The river Luddon.

a3
162°

THE POET'S WELCOME.

Gather sweets on every hand;

Bind them with hope’s golden band ;
Twine them in a living wreath ;

Let thy muse upon them breathe.

Touch them with celestial fire,
That shall every breast inspire,
When far distant years shall stand,
Crowned in beauty rich and grand.

Think on youth’s enchanting age—
Infancy’s first happy stage,

That around the heart-strings twine
In fair images divine.

Bathe your hopes of future bliss

In the fount of happiness ;

Colours mix that will not fade ;

Let sweet dreams the mind pervade.

They shall whisper joy to come,
In a bright eternal home,

Where immortal pleasures roll,
Cheering to the Christian soul.

We must parted be awhile;

Grief may both our hearts beguile ;
But when landed on that shore,
We shall say farewell no more.
STANZAS TO JOSEPH ROBERTSHAW. 163.

STANZAS.

Written in sickness, addressed to Joseph Robertshaw, Author of
“ Sketches and Traditions of the Yorkshire Moorlands.”

Frienp! Brother! adverse sorrows roll
Across my aching breast ;

They tear my heart, unman my soul,
Till I can take no rest.

They make my bark sometimes to sail
In waves of deep distress ;

While black impatience wings the gale,
And makes my comforts less.

If I look up, the clouds are fill’d
With darkness and despair ;

If down IJ turn, my heart is chill’d,
My yawning grave is there.
The silvery moon but seldom shines,
No glittering star I see ;

My wasting life I feel declines,
There’s nothing left for me..

Hope on her golden wings has fled
To other regions far ;

And fell despair her-net hath spread,
My life’s last joys to mar.

But here my plaintive muse shall stay
Its melancholy flight ;

I hope you'll think on me by day,
And pray for me at night.
164: SEXTON, SPARE THAT GRAVE!

SEXTON, SPARE THAT GRAVE!

SExton, spare that grave!
Touch not its sculptured stone!
But do compassion have,
And let it rest alone!
‘Tis my old father’s grave ;
He lies beneath that spot.
Oh! spare it now I crave!
Thy spade shall harm it not:

He used with me to roam,

When summer flowers were fair,
Far from my native home,

My joys or griefs to share.
He told me pleasant tales,

That touch’d my tender heart ;
His language yet prevails,

And makes these tears to start.

Oh! spare that sacred spot!
Those yarrow blossoms spare !
That daisy harms thee not,
That rears its head up there.
There oft I look and mourn,
And call to memcry back,
Scenes never to return,
Which now my bosom tack

Go! do! I pray thee leave
That old familiar stone !

Thy presence makes me grieve ;
Pray leave me here alone,
COME UNDER MY MANTLE. 165

To sigh o'er bygone hours,
When folly’s ways were mine,

When that loved spot of ours,
Those ashes did enshrine.

COME UNDER MY MANTLE:

Comz under my mantle! the blithe bonny morning
Spreads forth its sweet lustre o’er hamlet and tree ;
While flowrets and blossoms the earth are adorning,
Come under my mantle, sweet Willie, to me!

My own bonny Willie, thou’rt fair as the lily,

And bright as the peach bloom that hangs on the tree ;
Come here my sweet rover! my own dearest lover!
Thy Sally is waiting this morning for thee !

I'll twine thee a wreath of the sweetest of roses,

And blossom-buds fresh from the hawthorn so fair,
And lead thee away where the lambkin reposes,

And summer's gay songsters shall welcome us there.
We'll wander through bowers among the bright flowers,
And list to the music with pleasure and glee,

While thy darling Sally, the pride of the valley,

Will whisper her love-tales again unto thee.

The lark from her nest in the corn will be springing,
Or luring her young o’er the flower spangled lea ;
While high in the heavens her gay mate his singing,
Come, come, to the woodlands, dear Willie, with me!
The lads will be wooing while ringdoves are cooing;
And butterflies flutter both joyful and free,

And thy own dear Sally, the rose of the valley,

Shall save all her smiles and caressses for thee.
166 = 1's sTANDING: oN MY MOTHIR'S’ GRAVE.

I'll tell thee of hopes in my bosom now lying

Of sorrows and joys that for ever are fled ;

While smiles from thy face my fond heart are supplying,
Tl sing of thy truth till I rest with the dead.

Then come bonny Willie! my own darling Willie!
Let’s away once again over mountain and lea!

Thy own dearest Sally, the star of the valley,

Can never know comfort with any but thee.

IM STANDING ON MY MOTHER'S
GRAVE.

T’w standing on my mother’s grave,
Though twenty years have fled

Since last I gazed upon that face,
Which death had overspread.

The birds are singing just as sweet
As they did that very day;

And that fair brook runs bubbling by—
But motheyr’s still away.

These sighs run back to infancy,
With all its lovely flowers,
And waken up a thousand thoughts
Of childhood’s golden hours.
These blooming love-wreaths of the past,
In memory’s glass look gay ;
But they, alas! all fade too soon—
For mother’s still away.
FO JAMES ;FIBLDING 167

I saw her on the bed of death,
And felt her cheek was cold ;

She could not listen to my woes,
Or hear my tale when told.

They laid her in that lonely grave,
Which makes me oft to stray,

To look upon that long loved spot—
For mother’s still away.

They say she will return again.
When a few years are o'er;

And that her kindred spirit guards
Me round, when tempests lower.

In darkening shadows o’er my’‘head,
‘Which causes sore dismay.

Hope, blooming hope shall bear me up—
Though mother’s still away.

TO JAMES FIELDING, Esgq.,
Of Todmorden.

TueEre is a sweet in youth’s gay morn,
Unknown to men of riper years ;
Because dull care has never torn
The bosom with distressing fears.

The young heart feels its own delight,
And bounds when buttercups are seen ;
While fancy takes its flaunting flight,
To look for joys both fresh and green.
168

THE SONG OF THE HAND-1.00M WEAVER.

Hopes silvery wire enwraps the soul—
She points to scenes when youth is fled:

When love's bright visions round will roll,
In joys that o’er the heart will spread.

Be’t yours to share in every sweet,
That gives to life its brightest joy—
That makes the pilgrimage complete,
Through scenes that oft are wont to cloy.

May pure religion’s sacred fire
Dwell in thy home—thy head—thy heart,
And love’s gay strains thy breast. inspire
With fervent zeal to act thy part.

And as thou journeyest on through time ;
Strive just to live each day—each hour,
As if to-morrow was not thine—
Lost to the world with all its power.

And when life’s closing scene is come,
And manhood bows its withered head,
May seraphs bear thy spirit home,
To where celestial flowers are spread.

THE SONG OF THE HAND-LOOM

WEAVER.

In a garret with lumber fill’d,
On a stormy winter’s night,

A hand-loom weaver was plying his loom,
By a farthing candle’s light.
THE SONG OF THE HAND-LOOM WEAVER, 169

Weave! weave! weave!
With a clattering noise and clang,
Like a man that had not a soul to save,
He shuttled away and sang.

Weave ! weave! weave!

While the storm howls loud without;
Weave! weave! weave !

Till the flickering light goes out.
The crimson blood runs chill,

And the fingers are numb and red,
But here I work like a Jew or a Turk,

With scarce a bit ot bread.

Weave! weave! weave !
Forsaken. and forlorn.
Weave! weave! weave !
Till the heart with grief is torn.
A curse instead of a prayer
Thrills through my bleeding heart,
While oaths are heaped on the powers that be,
And tears down the pale cheek start.

Ye titled of the land,
Oh! list to a brother’s song,
And think of the lives that are wearing out,
That never yet did wrong.
Groan! groan! groan !
For poverty never flags ;
You dress your wives in costly robes,
While mine is dress’d in rags.

Cherish this toil-worn breast
With a brother's tender love,
And let him enjoy the bread he earns,—
"Tis promised him above.
R
170 THE SONG OF THE HAND-LOOM WEAVER.

Despise not his humble name,
But feed him with tender care,

And twine round his heart a wreath of love,
To be remembered there.

Weave! weave! weave!
My labour never tires,

And what are its wages? Grief and woe,
And never fill’d desires ;

Hopes smothered as soon as born,
And joys that will soon decay ;

But grief and care the heart must share,
For life flies fast away.

Weave! weave! weave!
While all around me sleep.
Weave! weave! weave!
Hard thoughts upon me creep.
This dull November night,
When all is chill and cold,
I'm forced to work with my brain asleep
In these tattered garments old.

Weave! weave! weave!
For time wears fast away ;
Weave! weave! weave!
These muscles will soon decay.
The deep cold grave will hide
The rich as well as the poor ;
Then what is wealth, or title, or rank,
With death just at the door.
LET US LOVE ONE .ANOTHER. 171

LET US LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

Let us love one another, though dark boding care
Should throw his black shafts at the beggarman’s
door,
Should hurry him.on to the brink of despair,
And each one despise him because he is poor.
He was made of the same low-materials as we;
The same human kindness expands in his breast ;
He breathes the same air fresh to him as to thee ;
And on him the same stamp of God is impress’d.
Then why, oh! despise him; he too is a brother,
And nature has taught us to love one another.

We should harbour within us a-spirit of love

To the poor and unwise in their moments of need ;
Encourage the helpless, their sorrows remove,

And list to the prayers that the fatherless plead ;
And cheer the lone heart in the depth of its sorrow,

And dry the salt tears from the cheeks as they fall.
Then point with delight to the joys of to-morrow,

When friendship triumphant will reign over all!
When man will meet man as a friend and a brother,
And angels rejoice that we love one another !

Then if it were mutual how happily we
Could steer through the world in its calm or its strife ;
Could sweeten these bitters that around us we sce,
And cherish the kindest endearments of life.
The poor and oppress’d would not ask for a friend,
For each in the fondest affection would live,
United in reason, good laws to defend,
Determined past acts to forget and forgive :
To know nought in man but a friend and a brother,
And have no desire but to love one another!
172 MEET ME ON THE BANKS OF ATRE.

Ambition would sink in its own native place,

And scandal would vomit its venom and die,
While envy would flee from the land in disgrace,

And discord and malice have nowhere to lie.
The works of oppression would cease in the land,

And sorrow would languish no more in the street ;
While falsehood would crouch at the touch of truth’s

wand,

And jealousy fly with his sister—Deceit,
And leave nought on earth but a friend and a brother,
Contented for ever to love one another.

MEET ME ON THE BANKS OF ATRE.

Written to Joseph Nicholson, the son of the Airedale Poet.

MEET me on the banks of Aire,
When the summer flowers are fair!
Little songsters warble there

In the spring.

Lovely blossoms round will bloom,

Sweeter than the honey-comb ;

Spreading lustre o’er the gloom
Of the past.

We will mention dangers past,

Joys that swell and fears that blast,

Hopes once bright, now over-cast
In the shade.
MEET ME ON THE BANKS OF AIRE. 173

We our childhood’s tales will tell,

Lift again the magic spell,

Peep beneath its long-lost shell
At the past.

We will sit beside the stream.

Talk o’er life’s departing dream,

Friendship on our souls shall beam,
; When we meet.

Friendship whispers lasting joys,
Sacred sweets without alloys,
‘Happiness which never cloys

On the heart.

Peace and love shall on us shine,

Gratitude shall round us twine,

But life’s joys will soon decline,
Time is short.

We will shake each other’s hand,

Live in friendship’s happy band,

Till we leave this stormy land—
Land of toil.

And when life’s sad warfare’s past,

Overblown each stormy blast,

May we meet in heaven at last,
There to dwell.

k3
174 THE MUSIC OF SPRING.

THE MUSIC OF SPRING.

Ox7 list to the music of spring,
Tt sounds through each woodland and glade,
While winter's cold caverns‘re-ring,
As back she returns to the shade.
Her reign for the present is o’er,
The frost glitters not on the plain,
The snow crowns the uplands no more,
For spring is returning again..

The earth hears the sound of her voice,
And spreads forth its mantle of green ;
The woods and the meadows rejoice,
For nature is painting the scene.
The daisy comes forth with its train
Of violets and primroses sweet ;
The bushes fresh foliage regain,
And make for the birds a retreat.

The meadows new beauties display,
Enriched by her magical skill ;
Her smile makes the desert look gay,
As she bounds over mountain and rill.
The mistle-thrush tunes its sweet song,
Where lilies and buttercups bloom ;
And hither the summer birds throng,
To welcome fair spring from the tomb.

Her voice wakes the zephyr’s sweet breath,
And shakes the old leaves from the trees ;
And nature wakes up as from death,
While butterflies dance in the breeze.
LET US SPEAK OF A MAN AS WE FIND HIM! 175

She cheers up the cottager’s heart
With prospects both lovely and gay,
And bids boding sorrow depart,
And malice and envy. decay.

Her voice be a warning to thee,
Frail mortal, in loveliness dress'd !
Though health in the countenance be,
And pleasure may dance in thy breast,
Yet death on the night-wind may fall,
As spring music floats on the air :
And then thou must turn to the wall,
And from these gay phantoms repair.

LET US SPEAK OF A MAN AS WE
FIND HIM!

Let us speak of a man as we find him !
Tho’ poor and despised he may be;
Tho’ sorrow and grief may surround him,
And foes on his downfall agree.
Yet truth ‘round his pathway may twine
A wreath of sweet flowers for his crest <
While hope on his bosom will shine,
And love find a place in his breast.

Let us speak of a man as we find him!
Tho’ pleasure may bloom on his cheek ;

And honour and riches surround him,
And friendship with all he may seek.
176

YE FOREST scENEs !

But who can look into the heart ?
Or measure the depth of its gloom ?
Then stop! ere you make it to smart—
One action may settle its doom.

Let us speak of a man as we find him!
And counsel in amity give;

Of life’s sweetest moments remind him,
And teach him the best way to live,

Cheer him on in his journey through time,
With truths that will never decay ;

Then point him to prospects sublime,
Which never will vanish away.

YE FOREST SCENES !

Ye forest scenes! ye forest scenes!
I bid you all farewell;

For here upon my tender heart
You bind a magic spell.

A charm, to live in after years,
When far away I roam

To seek in other realms afar,
A happy peaceful home.

My heart I feel is fit to break,
To leave this lovely vale;
It speaks in language loud and strong,
Young childhood’s tender tale.
It points a spot for ever dear,
To live within my breast,
*Mid other scenes in other lands,
Far in the rosy west.
YE FOREST SCENES. 177

How can I leave you, and forget
That little cottage there ?
Where I was nurs’d so tenderly
By my own mother dear :
Who used to kiss my pale white cheek,
And call me her dear child,
And sung her softest lullaby,
In accents sweet and mild.

My mother and my father too,
In yonder church-yard lie ;
No brother, sister, or a friend,
In this cold world have I;
But hope shall cheer my drooping heart,
Shall guide me when afar
I wander in a distant land,
Where foes and strangers are.

Farewell! my own loved fatherland,
Away from thee I go!

Thou art not all that I could wish,
In this frail world below.

But thee T'll love where’er I move;
Old England’s happy home

Shall be my theme, and many a dream
Will cause me back to roam.

To this sweet spot my memory
Shall often wing its way—

Shall cheer me in the midnight hour
With many a tender lay,

Till death shall bid my wand’rings cease,
And hope with me shall die,

This lovely picture from the past
My fancy shall supply. ,
178 THE MOURNER.

THE MOURNER.

IN TWO PARTS.

Scene.—The vale of Hebden, in the flowery month of June.

TimE.—Sunset; when a young man, dressed in deep mourning, wan-
ders through the flower-bespangled woods in profound meditation, and
as he muses, methinks I hear him break forth in the following strains.

PART I.—The Mourner.

Ag! how often have we wandered
Through these woods in twilight hours,

And our precious moments squandered
In these sweet secluded bowers.

I have pluck’d thee many a blossom,
Fair as evening in the west ;

Placed them on thy spotless bosom,
Spotless as the dew-drop’s crest.

* Lovely birds around were singing
Cheerful songs of mutual love ;
Hebden, with the echo ringing,
Told the tale through many a grove.

Oh! what visions then were stealing
On each young and tender heart :

Pleasant things to each revealing,
Joys from which we could not part.
THE MOURNER.

Dreams of pleasure hovered o'er us,
These my lips may not unfold ;

Happy prospects lay before us,
Tender tales were often told.

There we met and there we parted,
Hoping oft to meet again,

But, alas! half broken-hearted,
Here I now alone remain.

Death, that dark mysterious stranger,
Tore thee from my aching breast,

Causing a poor woodland ranger
Here to wander seeking rest.

Flow’rets bloom as fresh as ever ;
Leaves fall from the trees and die ;

Bubbles burst upon the river ;
Lightning glances from the sky,

Spring and summer, autumn, winter,
Each in turn salutes the plain,
Gives to life a varied tincture,
Joy and sorrow, grief and pain.

But thy form no more returning,
To these sweet and lovely bowers,

While I am alone sojourning,
Spending thus life’s golden hours,

Till we meet where griefs are ended,
And where flow’rets fade no more,

Peace and love together blending,
Make the heavenly cup run o’er.
180 THE MOURNER.

Oh, what joy! what love! what pleasure !
Twine around my broken heart ;

Just to think there is a treasure,
Where true lovers never part.

PART II.—The Grave of Ann.

CuosE by where Caldene softly pours
Its waters through the sylvan scene,
A little church* serenely towers
Its head o'er many a grave quite green.

Where young and old together lie,
By friend and foe alike forgot,

Malice and hate can never pry
Into that dark mysterious spot.

The throstle sings its evening lay,

High in the beech tree’s lovely shade ;
While slowly sinks the queen of day,

Tn clouds with various tints arrayed.

Night spreads its mantle o’er the scene,
The twinkling stars with lustre shine,
The weary toiler plods the green,
And feels his wonted strength decline.

He stops; the lonely spot surveys,
Where stands a youth in dark attire,
His eyes look down with fixed gaze,
While thoughts of death his breast inspire.

* Mytholm Church, Hebden Bridge.
THE MOURNER, " 181

Upwards he looks; the waning moon
Casts from the clouds a silvery light,
Then cries, ‘‘ Dear Ann; ah! why so soon

Did thy fair morning sink in night?

Yon mountain wilds possessed a charm
To the gay giddy world unknown,
There oft we wandered arm in arm,
Or sat us on the heather down.

While young love told its artless tale,
Cheering each breast with joys to come ;

Our whisperings mingled with the gale,
As through yon woodlands we did roam.

I pluck’d the flowerets fresh and fair,
And wove them in a true-love’s knot ;
Violets and buttercups were there,
And little sweet forget-me-not.

But I have lost my virgin love,
She sleeps unseen by mortal eye,
And distant years may not remove
These sorrows that around me lie.

Hope drops her wings—her vigour’s fled ;
The song-birds sing in vain for me;

For thou art mouldering with the dead,
Thy like I never more shall see.

Time wears away, and I must leave
Thee here to take a long long rest,
Where cold deceit will not deceive
The slumbers of thy peaceful breast.
§
182 MUSINGS iN KIRKSTALL ABBEY.

Farewell, loved spot! I'll oft return
A wanderer to this lonely place,

And sit and o’er these ashes mourn,
And bygone hours on memory trace.”

Then o’er the churchyard wall he crept,
And by fair Caldene’s streamlet strayed,
And often turn’d around and wept,
To think upon his long lost: maid.

MUSINGS IN KIRKSTALL ABBEY,*

NEAR LEEDS,

 

TuE ivy now with rade luxuriance bends
Its tangled foliage through the cloister'd space,
O’er the green window's mould'ring height ascends,
And fondly clasps it with a last embrace.

 

I rove to ramble in the gloomy shade
Of Kirkstall Abbey, when the evening sun
Hath ceas’d to glitter through the opening glade ;
Where the sweet lark its morning song begun,

No sound of music greets the listening ear,
The song of day hath in the distance died ;
Life’s fading flow’rs have ceas’d the heart to cheer,
While moments past can never be supplied.

The silv’ry moon her lovely radiance flings
In fitful glances on these mouldering walls ;
While from the past delighted fancy springs,
And old tradition listens to her calls,
* Kirkstall Abbey was erected for Cistercian Monks, A.D, 1153.
MUSINGS IN KIRKSTALL ABBEY. 183

And bids me gaze:upon these antique towers—
Old mouldering relics of a bygone age—

Where the tall ivy twines its lovely flow’rs,
Forgetiul of times elemental.rage,

Here lies the dead of long departed years,

No sculptur’d.stone tells where their ashes:lie :
No legend on. this. ancient wall:appears,

Or stately urn my wandering thoughts supply.

Their names, their deeds, their titles are forgot ;
Their acts of mercy bear no record here ;

Their bones, perchance, beneath my footsteps rot,
And I forget the tributary tear.

Old Time rolls back his dark mysterious scroll,
And points enraptur’d to its sacred page ;
While round his head long bygone treasures roll,
Their uncouth forms my wandering thoughts
engage. .

Monks, nuns, and friars.ramble down the aisle,
Led by the taper's solitary ray;

While the tall.organ sweetly. sounds the while,
And calls the inmates of the place to pray.

They kneel; ‘tis midnight; and.a sullen gloom
Hangs o’er the place, while reverential awe
Thrills through my, heart, and the dark opening
tomb
Seems deeply pictur’d in the scenes below.

Methinks these walls some serious tale might tell,
If they were gifted with the power of speech :
Point out the way to some mysterious cell, _
A rueful lesson from the past to teach.
184 YESTERDAY.

Kingdoms have chang’d since these old crumbling
walls
Upreared their heads in monumental guise ;
That ancient tower full many a scene recalls,
Torn from dark records that the mind supplies.

Farewell! ye shades; ye ivy mantl’d towers!
Ye vaulted aisles and deep monastic cell !

And thee, sweet Aire! with thy secluded bowers,
Where solitude and pompous grandeur dwell.

YESTERDAY.

*Tis gone to the shadowy shore,
Like a dream to the memory dear ;
‘Tis gone to the wilds to return no more,
And left us dark and drear.

Its flowers so sweet and fair
Look’d well in the mid-day sun ;

But now they lie on the cold bank there,
With their tendrils all undone.

And closed is the well fill’d page,
And hid with the moments past ;

And the fears that then did the heart engage
Are buried in the blast.

Twas a link in the golden chain,
Unlink’d by the hand of time ;

‘Tis chained to the past and will there remain,
With a thousand sweets sublime.
MANOR HEATH. 185

MANOR HEATH.

Lines suggested on rambling over the grounds, and through a part of the
mansion, of Manor Heath ; the beautiful residence of John Crossley, Esq.,
Skircoat Moor, Halifax, Yorkshire.

No ancient strain or legendary lore,

Or deed of darkness done in days of yore;

No soothing tale by love-sick maiden told,

Or hard-fought battle sung in days of old,

Tinges the spot where this fair mansion stands,

Whose curious form a passing strain demands.

Skill, grace, and beauty, and their sister—art.

Their richest treasures to these walls impart ;

Each window-stone some different form portrays,

While each carv'd door-way loftier thought displays.

A thousand sweets my wondering eyes behold—

A thousand scenes my muse cannot unfold—

Rush on my mind like visions from the past,

Crown’d with new beauties, but too short to last.

Which way I look new objects meet mine eyes ;

Some sculptur'd stone each wandering thought supplies,

With something grand, ennobling and sublime,

That long shall figure on the scroll of time;

Some deep device intended to portray

In language strong, at some far distant day,

Its owner's wish, his pedigree and fame,

And history shall chronicle his name ;

And ‘in her lap his deeds of love shall live,

Long as old Time his record back will give.

Yon ancient tower uprears its lordly form,

While round it howls the tempest and the storm.

Stern winter's chill, and summer's genial ray,

Shall each in turn their liveliest tints display.
$3
186 MANOR HEATH.

But stay! my muse; look round this lovely spot:
Beneath that hill there stands a curious grot,
O’erhung with flowers of every shade and hue,
From the deep scarlet to the palest blue ;

Within its shade may peace and love abound,
And truth like pearl-drops on each lip be found.
May friendship reign the lord of every heart,
And sacred joy its lasting swects impart ;

While hope to all its golden wings extends,

And with her hands her soothing mixture blends.
Gardens and woods, and sweet secluded bowers,
And lawns, and walks, and lovely scented flowers ;
While warbling songsters warble in the shade,
And little lambkins on the grass are laid.

But now my feet shall from these scenes retire,
And other strains shall touch my unstrung lyre.
Within this mansion elegance and grace,

Taste and refinement, each have here a place;
Knowledge and wealth are scatter’d all around,
While skill and art in every room is found.
Mirrors and books, and pictures from afar,

And nought that can the tender conscience mar.
Oh! may its owner long these scenes enjoy ;
May happiness her greatest gifts employ ;

May pleasure sit exulting at his board,

And wisdom shine in every act and word;

May justice reign triumphant in his heart,

And truth and love their god-like sweets impart.
As years roll on may blessings more abound,
Than glittering sands that by the sea are found.
May peace unsullied in this mansion reign,

And nothing come life’s fleeting hours to stain ;
And when life’s sand from each frail glass has run,
May each one hear the wecome sound—* Well doné!”
WHAT IS FAME? 187

WHAT IS FAME?

Wuart is fame? A gilded bubble,
Shining all the world around ;

Hiding oft a host of trouble,
That in meekness is not found.

Tis a thing of man’s creation,
To uphold a favoured clan ;
Though it lifts the poor in station,
"Tis not gold that makes the man.

See the soldier, hot for glory,
Battle with his fellow man ;
All to be renowned in story,
Lo! he murders when he can.

Sailors brave the briny ocean,
Distant regions to explore,

Seeking with intense devotion,
Just to find an unknown shore.

Painters in deep meditation

Often try fresh light and shade ;
Emulous of exultation,

How they picture wood and glade.

Fame’s a gilded shadow, floating
O’er life’s dark beclouded scene ;

Sometimes ‘tis around us sporting,
Then it flies o’er meadows green.
188 HARK! THE NIGHT WIND.

Now the poor man vainly striving
To secure a glimpse at fame ;

Hope, sweet hope, is so reviving,
That it glitters o’er the same.

Poets string their harps with rapture,
And their lines with sweetness flow,

And they strive in each fresh chapter,
Greater beauties to bestow.

Fame is but ambition’s daughter,
Tinfoil'd o’er in robes that flame,

Causing man life’s sweets to barter,
Just at last to gain a name.

HARK! THE NIGHT WIND.

Set to music as a Glee for three voices, by Thomas Smith, New Pelton,
near Halifax.

Hark the night wind softly stealing
Round the hawthorn’s snow white crest !

And the moonbeams are revealing
Pleasure to the toil-worn breast.

Hope, sweet hope, the heart is cheering ;
Love enwraps the weary soul ;

Friendship’s joys are so endearing,
Their gay visions round us roll.
COME RAMBLE WITH ME. 189

Let us give the wind that sorrow
That entwines each wayward heart ;
There’s a pleasure for to-morrow
That forbids us to depart.

COME RAMBLE WITH ME.

Comr ramble with me to the bonny green woods!
The cuckoo is singing his lay,

And sweet is the blush on the primrose’s buds,
While daisies rich colours display.

A loveliness twines my fond heart to the spot,
Where first thou enticed me to roam,

And gave me the first sweet moments of love—
A garland to take with me home.

It was made of the pride of the forest and field.
A diadem lovely and rare ;

A thousand fresh fancies my bosom revealed,
Whilst wreathing its sweets in my hair.

Thou calledst me by names I shall never forget,
And taught me at first how to love,

And kindled a flame in my innocent heart,
Which nothing but death can remove.

Then hasten with me through the bonny green fields!
And whisper thy love as of yore,
And cherish the germ that true happiness yeilds,
And promise to love mgre and more.
Yes, promise to take me for better for worse,
A partner and equal for life,
And then on thy fond loving bosom I'll lie,
A kind and affectionate wife.
190 STANZAS.

STANZAS

Written on the top of Haddershelf Scout, a rough mountain wild, near
Mythotmroyd, Yorkshire.

I sar on the brow of the Haddershelf mountain,
The scene far below me seemed fearful and wide ;
While far to the left rose the Calder’s bright fountain,
Which onward its course bore away to the tide.
The sun o'er the deep moorland heather was peeping,
And each blade of grass with a dew-drop stood weeping ;,
While numberless insects around me were creeping,
Or dancing away o’er the steep mountain side..

I gazed all around while my heart beat with sadness
To think on past moments now over and fled ;

The music of birds filled the valley with gladness,
And over the gloom a new fragrance was spread,

The wild mountain hawk to its nest was descending

Inthe heath-covered rock where the old oak was bending;

And the scream of the starling the chorus was blending
As blithely it flew to its soft mossy bed.

My mind wandered back to the years long departed,
When the fox had its lair in the valley below.

When the croak of the raven the young leveret started,
And bilberries grew on this steep mountain’s brow.

A little girl came without mother or father

To this dark fearful spot thes® sweet berries to gather, ..

And no one was there from destruction to guard her, ©
Or one parting word of advice to bestow.
STANZAS. 191

A cluster she saw, and her arm she extended
To cull its fresh sweets for her porringer nigh ;
But a scream and a crash! and away she descended,
Far, far in the deep lonely valley to die.
Her poor broken limbs on the bare rock lay bleeding
When the last shade of day from the west was receding ;
And a cold fearful storm in the north-east was breeding
To burst o’er the spot where the orphan did lie.

The next morning came and a little boy found her,
As through the lone woodlands he happened to stray;
And he ran and told the sad tale to his master
Who bore the torn corpse of the orphan away.
They buried her deep when the sun was descending,
No father or friend o’er her coffin was bending,
And no silent tear with the cold earth was blending
As softly they laid her torn limbs to decay.

Tradition now points to the spot with her finger,
Where this lovely girl from the mountain top fell ;
While nymphs and their swains on that lonely spot linger

_ The hopes and desires of the moment to tell.
They gaze on that place where that dark waving bramble
From the deep mountain cliff down these barren rocks
ramble ;
Where man, daring man, for its fruit dare not scramble,
‘ The pampered desires of the moment to quell.
192 THOSE MOONLIT GLENS.

THOSE MOONLIT GLENS.

Written on visiting a beautiful valley, at Cullingworth, near Bingley, where
the Author made his first attempt at poetry, 35 years before.

I loved that vale in childhood’s hours,

Where nature spreads her loveliest flowers,

And butterflies with untried wing,

Forth from each broken chrysalis spring,

To hail the sun's first opening ray,

Or dance on flowerets fresh and gay.
Hearon.

Sweet were those moonlit glens to me,
When first a youth I wandered near

That woodland brake to gather flowers,
The first fruit of the opening year.

The primrose wooed my youthful hand
To pluck its lovely virgin form,

And shield it from the gathering blast
That threatened soon to be a storm.

My heart was gay, my spirit light,
The dream of after years was fair ;
Hope promised many a golden hour,
Without a frown, without a care.
The humble bee with tiny horn,
Gathered its sweets from many a bloom
That grew beside that lonely brook,
O’erhung with blossoms of the broom.
THOSE MOONLIT GLENS. 198°

The mountain, where the druid sung
His ancient song in days of yore,
Stands just the same as it did when
I sat to count the blue bells o’er,
That grew upon its furrowed side,
Far from the daring hand of man,
Where the sand-martin train’d its brood,
Just ere its autumn’s flight began.

The first string of my virgin lyre,
T touch’d beneath that hawthorn shade,
Where the song throstle makes her nest,
When summer flowers bestrew the glade.
Years thirty-five have past away, ,
And gathered many to the tomb,
And blossoms then so fresh and sweet,
Have long ere this forgot to bloom.

The merry voices of the fair
Lie hush’d among the silent dead ;
And those we loved in infancy
Ave numbered with the moments fled.
The leaves have fallen, the stormy wind
Hath murmur’d thro’ the woodland shade,
And care hath often wrung my heart,
_-/, Since I in this deep valley strayed.

" Time rolls along its onward course,

And carves its furrows on my cheék,
Paints the grey hairs upon my brow,

And wastes me to a shadow bleak ;
Yet memory oft’ again returns

To this loved spot among the flowers,
And recollects the ‘giddy throng

That hither strayed in’twilight hours.

T
194 THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD.

THE FISHERMAN’S CHILD.

Tue last tinge of day in the green woods had faded ;
The songsters had ceased in the wilds to complain ;

While evening’s dark mantle the prospect had shaded,
And swiftly descended cold torrents of rain.

The lightning’s red glare o’er the deep waters bounded ;
The dark rolling waves foretold sorrow and dread ;
While each mountain glen with the thunder resounded,

And fear and alarm in each bosom were spread.

A fisherman’s child on the sea beach was kneeling,
Her little hands spread on her half naked breast;

Her lips could not tell what the heart was revealing,
Or name half the grief which her bosom possess’d.

The gloom on her face in thick darkness was shrouded,
While tears down her cheeks in abundance did fall ;

And her innocent heart with deep grief was beclouded,
And loud on her father’s loved name she did call.

“He kiss'd me” she cried, “‘ when he left me this morning;
I saw his light boat dancing light on the wave.

Oh! tell me, ye wild winds, where he is sojourning—
Perchance he is lost in a watery grave.

My mother is dead, and I have not a brother
To comfort me now in the moment of need ;
And where is the friend that will feel for another,
Or bind up the heart that is broken indeed ?
THE FISHERMAN’S CHILD. 195

Ye foam crested billows! that yonder are rolling,
Bear hither my father’s light boat to the strand ;
Be hushed! ye dark whirlwinds, that o’er them are
howling,
And suffer that bark its dear treasure to land.

I hear a deep groan from the wild waters sounding,
It falls like a chain on my innocent heart ;

I see something dark where the lightning is bounding,
And I will a little assistance impart.”

She hastes to the spot where her father lay bleeding.
Extended half naked upon the sea shore,

And dragged him away as the waves were receding,
For fear that the sea should engulph him once more.

Then off she departs for the fisherman’s dwelling,
And tells to the. inmates her innocent tale ;

And oh! the delight in her tender heart swelling,
As softly they bear his torn form to the vale.

She soothes him with hope in the midst of his sadness,
And calls him by names both familiar and dear,

And clasps his cold hand in affection and gladness,
And bids him the gloom from his countenance clear.

A sweet solemn prayer through his pale lips is stealing,
It thrills through each heart in an ecstasy wild ;

To the great aud the high and the holy appealing,
For blessings to rest on the fisherman’s child.
196 STANZAS ON GATHERING A DAISY.

STANZAS.

On gathering a solitary Daisy on the top of a bleak hill in Shibden Dale,
: d near Halifax, November 12th, 1855.
War bloom’st thou here ? November's breath,
Blows keenly round thy pale white head ;
No crimson blush is on thy cheek—
Its colour has for ever fled.

A thousand flowers, as fresh and fair,
Have withered in the chilling breeze ;
And leaves, that once were bright and green,
Lie scatter’d now beneath the trees.

A picture thou of modesty,
Thrown on a cold and barren soil,
Where every wind unkindly blows,
That fell deceit around can coil.

Like some fair maid oppress’d—forlorn ;
All, all is cheerless at thy birth ;

And dark neglect around is strewn,
Which makes thee bow thy head to earth.

So worth oft blooms unseen, unknown—
Neglected by a thankless world,

Till care’s dark clouds obscure the sky,
And reason from her throne is hurl’d.

Man to his fellow man unkind,

Leaves him to wander, droop, and die,
And never mourns his hapless fate,

Nor o’er his sorrow heaves a sigh.
LINES TO A GIDDY YOUNG FEMALE FRIEND. 197

Genius like thee is oft exposed

To fulsome praise from flattery’s lips,
And as the glittering bud expands,

She from the flower the honey sips.

The Bard in poverty, like thee,
Hangs to the wind his care-worn face ;
But no one knows, nor no one cares,
How soon he ends his earthly race.

Yet he can sing his sylvan strains,

When winter's blast around him blows,
And little daisies are as sweet

And lovely as the damask rose.

LINES TO A GIDDY YOUNG FEMALE
FRIEND.

Guppy, thoughtless, artful Jane !
Sly and cunning—yet how vain !
Dost thou fly from flower to flower ?
Pretty plaything of an hour!

Many a danger lurks unseen
"Neath the flow’ret’s leaves so green,
Spreading for thy youthful feet
Many a snare with woe replete ;
Gilding o’er life’s bitter cup

Just to make thee drink it up:

But a poison lies within,

Shun it! happiness to win.
198 THE DANCE OF DEATH.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

What is the world to those poor breathless beings—what are their
pleasures? A bubble broken. What their honours? A dream that is
forgotten. HERYEY.

T saw ‘twas a grim unsightly thing,
Dancing against the wall,

Spreading a dark and cloudy wing
O’er objects great and small.

He held in his hand a monstrous dart,
‘Dipp’d in a poison keen,

Ready to pierce each human heart,
That round the world is seen.

He danced awhile o'er each wood and plain,
Where flowers were fresh and fair,

And waved his arm o’er the earth again,
And waste and want were there.

He flapp’d his wings, and the quivering leaves
Fell lifeless from the trees ;

And a cold damp wind through the forest breathes,
And buds and blossoms freeze.

He breathed on the sea, and a dark’ning cloud
Spread o’er the waters far,

And a howling tempest deep and long
Buried the home-bound tar.

He danced again, and a fell disease
Spread terror through the land ;
And millions more he slew with ease,

And threw them on the strand.
THE DANCE OF DEATH. 199

I saw him enter the rich man’s gate,
Where pride with wealth did share ;
He touched his face with the rod of fate,

And horror was pictured there.

He danced with the thoughtless and the gay,
He danced with the young and proud;

But each in the solemn dance gave way,
And the head in silence bow'd.

He gazed on the spot where the marriage bed
Lay smooth without a care ;

And touch’d the cheek, and the colour fled
From the blushing bride so fair.

Then hied away where a merry band
Of village minstrels stood,

And swept them off with his clay cold hand, ~
And sunk them in the flood.

He’s danced round the world in every age,
In every land and clime,

And all in that dance must once engage
Before the end of time.

And when time’s fluttering wing shall cease
Upon this mortal shore,

The monster's shafts will rest in peace,
And death will dance no more.
200 OLD ENGLAND.

OLD ENGLAND.

Op England I love! ‘tis the fair land of freedom ;
Old England’s the land of all others for me!
Should foemen advance, I will cry ““ Never heed ‘em!
The sons of old Albion will soon let them see.”
Tis the land of the brave, and none shall enslave ;
A slave, when he touches her sea-beaten shore,
The freedom he sighed for he then shall obtain,
And the chain that once bound him shall bind him
no more.

Breath softly ye winds! bear a hope on your pinions—
A hope that old England for ever will bloom ;

That concord may reign o’er its wide spread dominions,
And war never cover its inmates with gloom.

‘Tis my joy and my pride! and my forefathers died
To establish those rights that we each one enjoy—

To build in each bosom an altar of love,
That a foe cannot reach or a traitor destroy.

How dear to my heart are its cloud-crested mountains?
And dear are its woodlands and sweet flowing rills ;

And joyful's the sound of its deep gushing fountains,
And lovely’s each scene on its furze-covered hills.

‘Tis the land of my birth! there’s none like it on earth!
Its commerce is wafted far, far, on the sea;

‘Tis the pride of the ocean! the gem of the world!
The bulwark and strength of the brave and the free.
REMEMBER THE COT ON THE MOOR. 201

REMEMBER THE COT ON THE MOOR

Rememeer the cot on the moor, sweet Ann!
Where the shepherd did once reside ;

And the old garden gate, where I for thee did wait,
That morning I made thee my bride.

A sycamore stood near the spot, sweet Ann!
And its leaves were so lovely and green ;

Oh ! it looks like a dream, as 1 dwell on the theme,
Where pleasure enraptur’d has been.

I know you remember the field, sweet Ann!
Where daisies and buttercups grew ;
While the lark’s morning prayer sounded loud in the
air,
And the grass was besprinkled with dew.
But where is the shepherd's old dog, sweet Ann!
That used to run after the sheep ?
Then frisky and gay it around us would play,
Or over the bushes would leap.

And do so remember the spot, sweet Ann !
Where the old woman taught us to read ?

With her smooth parted hair, and her bed-gown so fair,
And a smile that each youngster could lead.

But the shepherd is gone from the spot, sweet Ann!
And the cottage has fall’n to the ground ;

While old father Time, in his rambles sublime,
Has spread desolation around.

The sycamore bears not a leaf, sweet Ann!
For its limbs are all naked. and bare ;

Still, still, in decay it is wasting away,
Like a man in the depths of despair.
202 TO JOHN CROSSLEY, ESQ.

The old dog he died on the moor, sweet Ann!
And the woman that taught us to spell

Escap’d in the blast of a winter long past,
And left me the story to tell.

But the roses have fled from each cheek, sweet Ann !
‘And the lustre is gone from each eye ;

And youth’s brightest hours have faded like flowers,
And left us to mourn and to sigh.

And few are the friends that are left, sweet Ann!
And those are decrepit and grey ;

And soon, one by one, they will each. one have gone
To the grave where we all must decay.

TO JOHN CROSSLEY, ESQ.

May peace, smiling peace, on your footsteps attend !
May the Ruler divine be your guardian and friend !
May comfort and happiness sit at your board !

And the smile of contentment its lustre afford.
While health, wealth, and freedom together combine,
A bright wreath of gladness around to entwine,

To shield you from sickness, from sorrow and woe,
While hope points the way through the valley below.

May your wife with the choicest of blessings be blest !

On the bright wings of faith may her confidence rest!

May her worth shine resplendent, like diamonds so
bright,

To cheer the torn heart in afflictions dark night.
THE AUTHOR'S CONCLUSION. 208

As age creeps along, may her pleasures increase !
May she always reside near the mansions of peace !
May misfortune and want ever find her a friend!
And the sunshine of truth be her guide to the end.

May your children be train’d in the way they should go
In wisdom and love may they every day grow!

May knowledge and virtue to each one be given!
And each day they live may they live it for heaven.
May their actions like stars in the firmament shine!
In deeds like their Master—eternal—divine ;

And when from this vain fleeting world they remove,
May they dwell with the blest in the regions above.

This, this is the prayer of your servant the Bard ;

’Tis breath’d from the heart with the kindest regard ;
May its maxims and precepts for ever engage

The foibles of youth and discernment of age.

May friendship’s mild dictates henceforward impart

A bright gleam of pleasure to thrill through the heart!
And when life’s frail bark on its breakers are driven,
May the angels of God bear you up into heaven.

THE AUTHOR'S CONCLUSION.

Tue last sand from the glass had sped,
The hoar frost’s from the window fled,
The flower is from the rose bush torn,
Tis blush is gone! tis left forlorn!

The withered leaves fall to the ground,
Night draws its last dark curtain round,
204 THE AUTHOR'S CONCLUSION.

And bubbles on time’s limpid stream
Have vanish’d like the last night's dream ;
While friends we loved have left the shore,
And hither will return no more ;

The shadow’s fled, the shooting star

Is sinking in ‘the distance far,

And hopes that yesterday were fair

Have pass’d like sunbeams on the air ;
And joy that danc’d upon the cheek,

Is fled and left the visage bleak ;

While man his short-lived day supplies,
Then sinks to rest, and there he lies.

His hopes are gone, his wayward breast
No more is by disease oppress’d ;

His house is into ruins fall’n,

The tide’s roll’d back that erst was swoll’n.
"Tis ‘so with me ; I once began
This little book, my vision ran

On lovely scenes in foreign lands—
Of stormy seas and hostile bands—
And life-like pictures from my heart
I did to every page impart,

Till it has grown to what you see,
A reflex from my memory.

May its fair truths be read afar!

Its maxims break down every bar
That keeps man from his fellow man—

Of every tribe and class and clan !

Till knowledge through the world has spread,
And peace on every face is read,

And every breast with love shall swell,

So prays the Author, fayt-thee-well.

T. & W. Birtwhistle, Printers, Northgate, Halifax.
 

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