2 «fc 7» O n »-> ?^ "^^AUVHflii^ ^^Aavngni^^ A^lllBRARY^/ ^i!fOJIlV3JO^ ^ ^OFCAllfOfl"^ ,\V\EUNIVERy/A fiQ "^J^iUDNVSOl^ A\\EUNIVERS/A -n «_» %a3AIN(13WV^ ^lOSANCElfj^ o "^ CO 39 ^^Anvnani^ ^J3i3DNvsoi^ "^AaaAiNfl-awv j^lOSANCElfj> '%Ja3A!Nfl3WV' akIOSANCEI^ -^tUBRARY<9/^ ^lUBRARYQ^ ^OFCAlIFOff,)^ i 1^ "^/saaAiNiiai^ ^ T O Q U. ?3 O "^/saaAiNnawv 5^lllBRAKY^/r ^ 30 %oi\mi^'^ 'Aiir 0/?^, t o rrfil ^OFCA1IFO% .^ \\\1-IINIVER% < =? f V O ^J?H3KVS01^ ^lOSANCflfJ-^ %a3AINfl-3V\V ^lOSANCnf- %a3AiNa3v. == .< 39 "^/saaAiNQ-aftv^ ■^/^aaAiNnawv^ ^IUBRARY(7a, ^jjMUBRARYO/ ("i ^lOSAHCnfj^ ^OFCAllFOff^ ^OF-CALIFOIK^ ^ ^ >&A«V« •'in-iv5 1^1 iLinrl ll^'G ..... 97 HONOUR WOTTON HOUSE . 99 THE world's sad JOYS . 102 UPON A SU.\ DIAL . . . 104 TWILIGHT ..... 10-5 HEREAFTER . . . 10.5 BOX HILL BRIDGE .... 106 FROM THE ITALIAN OF ZAMPIERI . 107 THE BUTTERFLY . . . . . 108 SUDDEX DEATH . . . . . 109 PART THE SECOND. PREFACE . OBSERVATION AUTHORSHIP FAIRY LAND ON KEMBLE'S readings OF SHAKESPEARE "TO THE FRIENDS, BEHIND OUR BACK" THE MARCH OF INTELLECT SONG A GOOD SORT OF MAN BENEVOLENT WISHES — DENBIES THE WIFE . THE lodger's PETITION SONG NONSENSE, A FAMILY GROUP THE SINGLE LADY'S LAMENT SPRING 11.5 117 120 121 124 126 128 129 131 132 134 136 138 143 146 INDEX. SONG A BALLAD A LOTTERY THE HOLLY BURFOKD BRIDGE . SHAKESPEARE A KNOCK AT THE DOOR A PIC-NIC DOMESTIC DITTY AN ECLOGUE THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH DOUBTS THE ELEPHANT AND THE GIRAFFE PRESERVES FROM NINEVEH THE MOURNER TO A COUSIN IN AUSTRALIA AN ALLEGORY THE ROSE AND THE THORN — PIGNOTTI A DREAM . A FABLE — PIGNOTTI A FABLE PIGNOTTI THE FIREFLY PIGNOTTI . A FABLE PIGNOTTI RANMOEE COMMON SHRUB HILL REMINISCENCES AN INVITATION TO DORKING THE SIGNATURE, " LILY " A POET'S EXCUSE. Sensations throng my loaded heart. Which cannot be supprest : And feelings I would fain impart, Are swelling in my breast. Thoughts crowd upon my restless Mind, Increasing with delay ; They must a written outlet find. Ere Peace resume her sway. Whence comes this tumult of the Soul, This Fever of the Brain ? Content its fury to control. To seek the cause were vain. The trackless passage of the Bird, That wings its way in air : The viewless Echo of the word, That strikes upon the ear : A POET S EXCUSE. The Path upon the waters wide. Cut by the rudder's way : The Bonds in which the Light is tied, Ere the first dawn of Day : The Sea-caves, whence the breezes spring. That, now, are playing round : The Vapours, which the rain-drops bring. To fertilise the ground : The Furnace, where the Golden Sun, Forges his vivid gleams : And, when the Moon her course has run, Where she conceals her beams : These, to discover, were a task, Not harder, than to tell. How best to answer, those who ask. Where Fancy's shadows dwell. Unask'd, unsought, her Day-dreams come. Unseen to mortal eye ; If pure and holy, then their Home Must be, beyond the Sky. The Giver of all Good sends down His benefits to Man : Riches to some, to some a Crown, As suits His gracious plan. A poet's excuse. On others. He bestows the power, (Best, highest boon of all). To scan the World— Bird— Insect— Flower, Instruction thence to call. Let him, who boasts that rich award. Raise up the humble prayer. That such a prize, his soul may guard, From each debasing snare. That all, which by his Pen is writ, May innocently charm. And nought be construed into Wit, Morality could harm. We plant, we sow, we Fields possess. Yet is no Harvest stor'd. Till Heavenly dews descend to bless, Its increase from the Lojjd ! Dorking, September, 1857. ON THE STATUE OF JASON, BY TIIORWALDSEN, IN DEEPDENE. Genius ! imperishable gift ! Thy treasures ne'er decay ! Thy triumphs serve, the Soul to lift, Above this sordid clay ! No matter, what the age, or time. Thou, still, art found the same ; Nor boots it, of the land, or clime. Where shines thy glorious flame. For far or near, in ev'ry part. The same result we find : The Poet's, Painter's, Sculptor's art, Embody forth the Mind ! Yet, Gems, deep buried in the mine, Must be brought forth to day, The Sun must on their surface shine. Ere they emit a ray. Their beauties, then, to all appear. They sparkle in the beam, And grateful, for a boon so dear, Return a double gleam. B ON THE STATUE OF JASON. Diamonds by diamonds must be wrought, Be polish' d by their dust ; And hearts, with fellow-talent fraught, Will kindred-talent trust. Tho' praise can Genius ne'er create, It lends a fostering hand ; Nor fears to see it emulate. And, as a rival, stand. Then, thankful Merit loves to tell. Of kindly aid bestow'd, And would affectionately swell, The source from whence it flow'd. THE RAIXBOW OF THE SOUL. See ! midst the darkness of the storm, The rainbow arch arise ! It is the Sun, which paints its form, Upon the blacken' d skies. That lovely wonder were unknown, Did clouds not intervene, On which the various tints are shewn, Hid, else, in Nature's screen. The gathering vapours congregate, And turn the day to night ; Yet, by their aid, we penetrate, The secrets of the light. What, else, were dull and colourless. Takes dyes of many hue. And, in another gorgeous dress, Creation stands in view. May not a parallel be found, Whence Wisdom can be learn'd ? In facts, like these, that lie around, Fresh lessons are discern' d; Prosperity, with dazzling glare, Obscures the Christian mind. Till Grief and Sorrow, Pain and Care. Its virtues have refin'd. b2 THE RAIXBOW OF THE SOUL. Distinctly, then, each Grace appears, Meek Patience, trusting Love, Contentment, smiling through her tears. Faith gazing, aye, above. With Hope, whose torch is blazing still. Beyond the open grave. And Constancy, that bears each ill, As humble, as 'tis brave ! Behold ! a glorious arch of light, Is, by their union, given ! It breaks the gloom of sorrow's night ! It stretches up to Heaven. Though cloud and tempest, thence, must flee, Since light pervades the whole. Yet, Mercy's self shall joy to see, That Rainbow of the Soul ! LINES SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN THE BOOK OF JOB. Go ! bid the cataract restore. The clouds of feath'ry spray, That, as its torrents downward pour, In mimic rainbows play : Beseech the tree, with leaves to deck. The bough thine hand hath shred, Ask of the sea, to yield the wreck, Hid in its liquid bed : Command the rose-bud, to repair The petals, it hath shed. And re-unite the odours rare, That, from its breast, have fled : Bid the blest Sun, his beams recall. Since first the world was made ; Tell Night, to fold her sable pall, And day, no more invade : Or, piercing through yon sombre track, Of melancholy gloom. Entreat the grave, to give thee back, The tenant of the tomb. LINES ON A PASSAGE IN JOB. " Impossible !" then, finite, own, Thy powers are doomed to be : Why should Omnipotence make known Its purposes to thee ? " Impossible !" vain Mortal, boAv Beneath the chast'ning rod ! Weak, erring, feeble, blind, art thou : Omniscient is thy God ! EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. Alas ! dear child ! thy early fate, Draws forth thy Parents' tears, Yet, Envy must thy death create, In all of riper years ; Since, taken from an earthly home. Ere Sin thy soul defiled. To Him, " God suffered thee to come," Whilst, yet, " a Little Child !" TEARS. Tears are the luxury of woe : The holiday of grief : The only joys the wretched know : The sad heart's sole relief. They give the weary mourner rest, They calm the throbbing smart ; Soothing the soul, by pain opprest, And sorrow's piercing dart. Tlie fountain in the sandy plain, The rain-drops in the heat, Long-parted friends come back again, Old fellowships to greet. The sight of land, to sailor's eyes, To weary travellers, sleep ; Oh ! these are not a greater prize, Than, to the sad, to weep ! Then let me weep ! thus let me make The mourner's blessing mine. Weeping, the hope I still partake. Of promises Divine ! Mourning is but of mortal birth. With mortals, it must die ! In Heav'n the tears that spring on earth, Are wiped from every eye ! LIGHT IN DARKNESS. Psalm 119. A wilderness of thorn and brier, A dreary, toilsome, up-hill way. Where fainting souls with wand'ring tire. And weary limbs will scarce obey : No resting-place, no friendly 'care, To cheer them in those savage parts ; No voice, to lure them from despair. And " Courage " cry, to drooping hearts A roaring sea, with hidden rocks. Without a pilot's skill to guide, Exposed to rude, unlock' d-for shocks, At mercy of a foaming tide ; Yet not a star to mark their course. Or steer their fragile bark along ; In peril of the whirlpool's force. Whilst hope is weak, and fear is strong : A cavern dark, no ray of light. To point out precipice and crag, But one unbroken, hideous night. Where stoutest spirits droop and flag. With rushing torrent, thund'ring near, A.S seeking to engulph its prey, Terrors arising ev'rywhere. Afraid to go, afraid to stay : LIGHT IN DARKNESS. Who would not bless the friendly arm. That led through dangers such as these, Seeming, as by a magic charm, To give our fright' ned spirits ease ? Bidding the desert's sand bring forth, The blossoms of the summer rose ; Giving the vine and fig-tree birth. In lands of everlasting snows : Stilling the fury of the storm. Hushing the angry winds to sleep. Casting a sunshine, clear and warm. Upon the surface of the deep ; And stretching forth a steady hand. To lead us from that noisome cave ; The Hand that first Creation plann'd. And, still, Omnipotent to save : Bestowing, in a world of woe, A Lamp to guide our erring feet. Showing where Living Waters flow. Than earthly fountains, far more sweet ! That Lamp shall still our beacon be. Directing us the Heav'n-ward way ; Till we, at length, the radiance see, Around the Throne of Endless Day ! 10 LINES IN "THE GLORY WOOD," DORKING. Westward, now, the Sun declining. Throws its golden beams around ; On the trees in lustre shining, Tracks of radiance mark the ground. Lines of gossamer suspended. Quiver in the flood of light, As though Angels there descended, All too pure for mortal sight ! Out of view the skylark singing. Fills with tuneful notes the air. Whilst at hand the sheep-bells ringing. Chime melodiously clear. Further off the cuckoo seated, Like a hermit all alone, Channs us by her oft-repeated. Never-varying, homely tone. Clouds, like tapestry palls extended, Hang the East with shrouding veil, Purple dyes, with crimson blended, Fling themselves o'er hill and dale. Gorgeous chariots seem careering, Heaven's azure vault to fill, As the Sun, fast disappearing, Sinks behind yon distant hill. LINES IN "THE GLORY WOOD." 11 Does it SINK? No! we are certain. It immovable remains ; Knowledge has undrawn the curtain, And the mystery explains : But, in words that suit our powers, Thus familiarly we say, Though we know, this world of ours, Brings, revolving, night and day. So we speak of friends departing, Mourning over them as dead. When to Life Immortal starting, They, their earthly vesture shed : Yet we know, all sorrows ceasing. They have entered into rest, As the hidden Church increasing. They are numbered with the Blest. We, meanwhile, on earth remaining. Must endure pain and woe ; Sternest warfare still maintaining, With our strong and subtle foe ; Fearful lest some sin enticing, Should beguile us in its snare, Let our hearts, to God arising. Hymn the chant, and breathe the prayer. 12 LINES IN "the glory WOOD." " In all time of tribulation, " When our souls are drooping low ; " Or, 'mid earthly gratulation, "'When our minds with gladness glow ; " At the solemn hour of dying, " When our day of Grace is done ; * " In the hour of final trying, "When the Judgment is begun ; " Good Lord, deliver us." 13 AN EASTER OFFEEING. " All things must fade I the blossoms fall. From off the parent shoot." Have patience ! ere the Autumn, all Shall ripen into fruit. " All things decay ! the lightning stroke Hath cleft yon noble tree." Yet look ! this acorn may an Oak Of equal beauty be. " All things must change ! the wither' d corn Bows down its shrivell'd head." Behold ! from seed which it has borne, An hundred-fold 'tis spread. " All things must mourn ! grief, pain, and fears, These are our lot the while." But recollect ! a Sinner's tears Awake an Angel's smile. " All things must die ! Night buries Day; Oh ! sorrowful reflection." Be comforted ! the Morning's ray Depicts the Resurrection! 14 THE HARVEST-CART. HOLMWOOD. The Harvest-cart is driven home, "With many a joyful sound, And peals of merry laughter come, To wake the echoes round. Whilst cheerful notes are raised on high. In sign the work is done ; So let all voices join the cry, And bless the srlorious Sun ! b* Without his aid, how vain the hope. To reap the ruddy corn. But, now, behold ! each fertile slope The full-ear' d sheaves adorn ; Plenty and riches from his beams. We've by our labour won. And thankful hearts, it well beseems, To bless the glorious Sun ! Nor are his benefits, alone, Bestow'd on this, our land : O'er all the earth his gifts are strown, Heap'd with unsparing hand. His lustre girds the world about. And is denied to none ; Then, who'll refuse to join the shout, And bless the glorious Sun ! THE HAKVEST-CART. 15 Our neighbours train the graceful vine, The juicy grape they press. And draw from it, the sparkling wine. Ordain' d man's toil to bless ; And, as the luscious stream runs forth, To fill the gaping tun, With lively song and rustic mirth, They bless the glorious Sun ! Oh ! what a dreary world were ours. Without his cheering rays ! Nor mellow fruit, nor fragrant flowers. Nor bright and balmy days ! Then, let us end our Harvest-strain, As 'twas at first begun, In chorus, let us join again. To bless the glorious Sun ! 16 INGRATITUDE. SUGGESTED BY AX ARABIAN AUTHOR. How many blessings we possess, Which pass unheeded by, Because we slight, in thoughtlessness. Their regularity. Our daily food, our nightly sleep, Freedom from care and pain ; How few a constant record keep, Lest these should fall in vain. But, let some sickness bring us low, By sorrow, are we crost ? Then former benefits we know. And value what we've lost. The bird, that sits on yonder tree, Is scarcely notic'd now ; We hardly heed it, whilst we see 'Tis resting on the bough. But let him ope his wings to fly, Unfold his plumage gay. And all his beauties we descry, Just when he flies away ! 17 THE WATER-LILY River Mole. The emblem of a Christian heart, In yonder Lily, see ! Disclos'd to Heaven, devoid of art, In modest purity. It rests, securely, on the tide. Its snowy petals deck ; In confidence, but not in pride. It fears nor storm, nor wreck. Safe rooted in its parent bed. Though rude the tempests blow. In faithful trust, it rears its head. Its anchor is below. Thus, Lord ! upon the stream of life Thy servants should repose : Calm, amid trial, care, and strife. Unbent by worldly woes. Confiding in a Father's care. Though rude the trial be, Grief shall not sink us in despair ; Our anchor is in Thee ! 18 SLEEP. There is a giant overpowers, The strongest of his foes : He steals on their unguarded hours, When they no force oppose : He binds them in his weighty chains, Whilst they no watchguard keep : O'er soul and body tyrant reigns, Unconquerable sleep ! There is a friend, of friends the best, To hearts o'ercharg'd with sadness, Who brings back to them, moments blest. And hours of long-past gladness ; He bids the weary eye-lids close, That only ope to weep ; He gives the broken heart repose. Sleep ! enviable sleep ! No fickle benefactor, thou. Who art more constant found, Perch' d upon Labour's rugged brow, Than where all joys abound : The Hungry and the Poor, by thee. Taste pleasures, long and deep ; The captive Slave, thou canst set free. Sleep ! charitable sleep ! SLEEP. 19 Wizard! all Conjurors before : Thou giv'st the Soldier fame, To Miser's eyes, thou bringest more Of wealth than he can name. Thy magic bids the Lover's fears All boundaries o'erleap ; Dries the forsaken Maiden's tears. Sleep ! visionary sleep ! By all belov'd, by each one sought, Yet often sought in vain ; By neither gold, nor jewels bought, To me thy favours deign : Wrapped in thy mantle, let me lie, Till daylight forth doth peep ; Shut up the portals of mine eye, Invigorating sleep ! c2 20 THE MOON ON COTMANDENE. Oh ! lovely Moon 1 full many a rhyme Has been address' d to thee, Yet Poets all commit a crime, To be expos' d by me. " Inconstant " is the odious name, Men dare to call thee by ; Thou, who art evermore the same. In strict fidelity ! The self-same face w^e still behold. No other dost thou show ; Unlike those false ones, who unfold Fresh looks, where'er they go. That face we may not always see, Thou hidest it from view ; Yet, to the Sun, thy Deity, Thou turnest, ever true. We call thee " New," we call thee " Old," The Waning, or the Full ; As though, thou wert a thing to scold. For being bright, or dull. THE MOON ON COTMANDENE. 21 We hide from thee, the Sun's bright rays, "Eclips'd" we term thee then; Thus, Envy hinders, Merit's praise. Amidst our fellow men. So, when thou'rt hidden from our sight, Thy lustre has not fled ; No ! turning to the source of Light. New beams are on thee shed. Thus when the Good, from earth depart, (Though lost to us awhile} Leaving on earth their grosser part. They bask in Heav'n's own smile. When we beheld them day by day. This world's dark paths they trode, But now advanc'd upon their way. They nearer are, to God ! 22 "STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS." Strangers, on a foreign soil, Wearily we roam ; Hard the labour, dull the toil, Till we reach our home : Many sorrows we must bear. Heavy burthens caiTy ; Yet, although worn out with care, Here we may not tarry. Pilgrims to a distant Shrine, Here we may not linger ; Faith points out, the road Divine, With uplifted finger : True, it is a thorny way ; Let us do our best ! Labour lasts, but for a day. It will lead to Rest ! 23 ON AN OAK TREE, CUT DOWN NEAR THE COAST. Tliey have cut down the Oak, in the height of its glory. They have levell'd the Tree, in its Beauty and Pride ! Oh I why could they not wait till its branches were hoary. With storm and with tempest, long bravely defied r 'Twas the shelter of Flocks, which around it were feeding, 'Twas a screen from the Sun, and a covert from rain ; 'Twas a landmark at Sea, which the Pilot kept heeding. But, now, long will he look for his Beacon in vain. Shame ! oh ! shame for the cause of its grandeur departed, Foul dishonour has sharpen'd the axe for its doom, Cold and dull must the breast be of him, the false-hearted, Who might have averted this dark day of gloom. For thou art not condemned in thy vigour to perish. The Outcast to rescue from Slavery's curse ; Nor the Orphan and Widow in sorrow, to cherish : Thou art doom'd to replenish, a Gambler's purse ! 24 ON AN OAK TREE. But the Rook and the Raven, around thee are wheeling, Whilst the Squirrel is mourning his favourite Tree, And the eyes of rough men, unaccustom'd to feeling. Are moisten'd with tear-drops, lamenting for thee. All thy branches are sever'd, thy trunk is dismember'd. And thy relics, in numbers, are lying around : But thy form, so majestic, shall long be remember'd, "Whilst thy name shall still linger, to hallow the ground. He who own'd thee, unworthy his Name and his Station, From his place in our hearts, by his conduct is hurl'd. But thou shalt proceed, type and joy of our Nation, Or her Commerce, or Power, to bear through the world. Should Peace bless our Island, go forth then and nourish. Her Colonies, plac'd on a far distant strand ! May thy Banner, if War come, triumphantly flourish. O'er the brave band of Heroes, defending our Land ! 25 WOTTON WOODS. Wand' ring midst Evelyn's groves and trees. Fancy produced these similes ; Comparing all their varied features, With the whole world of human creatures. The Oaks are Admirals, stern and brave. Victorious on the Ocean's wave. • The Beech are Statesmen : such as would Seek nothing but their Country's good. The Elms are Merchants, who have made A store of wealth by honest trade. The gi-aceful Ash appears design' d. To represent a Scholar's mind. The Spanish-chestnut's polish' d leaf. High in the peerage stands, a Chief. Whilst the Horse-chestnut's solid size, The English Farmer's place supplies. The delicate Acacia tree, A Painter must, or Sculptor be. The Weeping-willow — all may know it. The picture of a sighing Poet ! The Birch are idols of the world. With silken hose, and ringlets curl'd. The Cedar which so gravely shines. Depicts our Reverend Divines, Whilst from the tribe of Firs, may be An Army-list, made readily. 26 AVOTTON WOODS. From old Scotch Colonels at the head, To regiments, by Spruce Captains led, Down to the Privates in the lines, Row after row, of formal Pines. The Fruit-trees are our Tradesmen, whence. We all procure our sustenance. The Yew-trees, Undertakers each. With mournful face, and solemn speech. Tall Poplars are the Force-police, Set to espy the other trees. That Aspen's ever- talking leaves. My conscience very well perceives, Are giving me a gentle hint, My lucubrations, here, to stint, And act the Hazel, which keeps shut The Kernel, close within the Nut. 27 TO A HAREBELL. Chart Park, August, 1856. Thine is a meek and drooping flower, Thou slender, little Beauty ! And Fanc-y feigns thee to perform, A melancholy duty. Thy modest bell of tender grey. No bridal chime is ringing ; For Summer's fading fast away. And Autumn is beginning. The Nightingale has ceas'd to sing. The Swallow has departed, And stretching forth his width of wing, For warmer climes has started. The Glow-worm rarely shews its light. The Harvest's nearly done ; And Hare and Partridge, in affright. Now dread the Sportsman's gun. Clad in that garb of mournful hue. Does not thy trembling bell. Toll, for thy playmates' graves in view. The monitory Knell r 28 " HAVE MYNDE." WOKDS INSERTED IN THE PaVEMENT OF THE ChURCH, AT THE Hospital of St. Cross, Winchester. Have Mtnde ! have myncle ! in Godly fear, A Christian Brother sleepeth here ; Christ died, his soul and thine, to save ; Have mynde, in passing o'er his Grave! • Have Mynde ! it is the hour of Prayer, Dismiss each worldly thought and care. Restrain thine eyes, and bow thy knee ; God should be worshipp'd rev'rently. Have Mynde, thy duties to fulfil. To guard thy heart, and curb thy will, Deny thyself, the Cross embrace, It is the surest path to Grace. Have Mynde, whatever ills befall, God's loving Hand is in them all ; In ev'ry sorrow, pain, and loss. Have mynde, upon the Holy Cross ! Have Mynde of Alms, of this be sure, Christ suffers, in His sufF'ring Poor ; Give for his Church, who there hath mynde, A Shelter, and a P'riend, may find. " HAVE MYNDE." 29 Hate Mynde, of all, which God hath made ; Of Earth, where all things quickly fade ; Of Heaven, where God and Angels dwell : Have mynde of Sin, which leads to Hell. Go now thy way, and wiser go, For all, that thou hast read below ; About thy heart the precept bind : Henceforth, in all thy works. Have Mynde ! BETCHWORTH CASTLE. As the gay Sunbeam, brightly falls, On some old ruin'd Tower, Life, giving, on its crumbling walls, To many a wind-sown flower : So falls Religion, on the Heart, All wither'd and decay'd; Awak'ning Virtue, from the smart, Adversity had made. 30 ON SOME POEMS. BY A LADY AT MICKLEHAM, BEING PRINTED AFTER HER Embalm'd by Egypt's wondrous art, We see the human frame, Its form preserv'd, and ev'ry part. In shape remains the same. Two thousand years, or more, have past, Since Death his victim slew ; And thousands longer it may last, Exposed to public view. Some mighty Warrior we see, Or Sage for wisdom known, A mark for curiosity. To gaping idlers shewn. But, is it kindness to expose. These shrivell'd limbs to Day, And all the hideousness expose, Of Nature in decay ? No ! rather let their parent Earth, Our friends' last relics hide ; But, the remembrance of their worth, With those they lov'd abide. ON SOME POEMS. And let the relics we retain, Be of their heart and mind, Which may for ages yet remain. Their " Dust, to Dust " consign'd. The brilliant Thought, the Proverb true. The wisdom of their speech. Their likeness shall recall to view, And unborn children teach. Each scatter' d fragment we collect. Each trace of Mind discern. Embalming them, with fond respect, As in a Funeral Urn. 31 32 St. John, iii., 8. "THE WIND BLOWETH WHERE IT LISTETH." Leith Hill. The wintry Wind is howling by, In angiy blasts across the Sky. And, wildly shrieking, seems to say ; " Yield to my undisputed sway. A vengeful minister, I'm sent. An instrument of punishment ! Who dares oppose my furious course, Will fall a victim to my force. The Sailor on the madden' d sea. Now, rues his wild temerity. Rough, rude, unconquer'd, unconfin'd. None can control, the mighty wind !" The Day is calm, the Sky is clear, And gentle Zephyr rustles near ; The soft tones of his murm'ring voice, In tender whispers, say, " Rejoice ! Health, to poor mortals, do I bring, Plenty, on Earth's wide lap, I fling, Who, at my call, renews her powers, Refresh'd by fertilising showers. And from her rich productive soil. Repays the Husbandman his toil. Who in his labours sooth'd by me. Rejoices in my liberty." THE WIND. — LEITIl IITLL. 33 Dark storms of Passion, like the first, Upon the Soul, in fury burst, When Reason yields in wild alarm. Nor seeks the Tyrant to disarm, And ev'ry feeling of the heart. Is, by their fierceness, rent apart : Then, all unequal to the fight. The Mind resigns its boasted might. And pow'rless sinks before the foes. It has not courage to oppose : Unfetter'd by Religion's chain. There are no bounds to Passion's reign ! But, where the Heavenly Spirit dwells. In some meek hearts' contented cells ; There, like the gently-breathing gales, Its unseen influence prevails ; Helping to penitential tears. To pious hopes, and holy fears : Tears, for past sins (we trust, forgiven) Fears, which shall be dispell' d in Heaven : Hopes, that above this Being soar. And in Eternity adore, In that New World, where all may come. And find a Father, and a Home ! 34 A MIRROR. Sighing for what we have not got, When wishing is in vain : Mourning the hardships of our lot, Delighting to complain : Missing the joys, that round us spring Because we close our eyes : Some newer bliss imagining, Gain'd only to despise : Suspecting Friendship of deceit, Or taxing Love with art : Converting ev'ry smile we meet, Into an acted part : Refusing each domestic joy. But making much of grief ; Wishing for good without alloy. Yet, making good, more brief : Envying delight, we do'nt possess. Despising, that we do ; And of the means we have to bless. Making the scarce, more few : A MIBROR. 35 Wishing for time to mend our life, Yet, wasting ev'ry day : Complaining of our worldly strife. But, kneeling not to pray : Sneering at good, we have not done, Yet, knowing it is right : Condemning all, respecting none, Though fearing men of might : Despising all Religious truth. Because 'tis taught in Schools : And, dreading to be dup'd, forsooth. Disdaining Wisdom's rules : Oh ! who, that in his inmost heart, This portraiture shall scan, But must the likeness know, in part, And own — himself — the Man ? d2 36 THE SONG OF THE FRENCH REFUGEE. Juniper Hall. An Exile from my Father's Halls, A Banish' d man I roam ! How hea\-ily, the footstep falls, Of one, without a Home ! More lonely, then, the prospect seems. Excluded from his eyes. Which, still, shall haunt him in his dreams. When nightly visions rise. The stately Tower, my Fathers built, Will hold another race. Whilst, stamp'd by Tyranny, with guilt, I wander, in disgrace I The lofty trees, which, saplings then. Were planted by my care. Shall cast their shade o'er other men. But, not the rightful Heir I How fondly does my mind retrace. My early childhood's years'. Again, my Mother's Angel-face. In tender smiles appears : Again, my Father's noble form. In martial garb, I see : They have escap'd the blighting storm, "Whose fury falls on me THE SONG OF THE FRENCH REFUGEE. 37 Niime, lands, and fortune, all are lost — Death were a milder doom, Than to be wreck'd, and tempest-tost, Upon a sea of gloom ! My Country, e'en the boon denies. Accorded to the Slave, And, when its injur' d victim dies. Refuses him a Grave ! Away ! foul thoughts ! my Father's pride, Is swelling in my breast ! My Father's sword is at my side — God fights for the opprest ! In Honour's cause, I'll draw the brand, And hope, in days to come, My name shall echo through the Land, Where I've no more a Home ! 38 CONSOLATION. It is enough ! God wills it so ! Let this my comfort be ! My privilege, it is to know, The trial is from Thee ! This shall, each selfish thought, destroy, "Whilst counting grief, or loss ; We cannot enter in Thy joy. Till we have borne thy Cross ! Let others tell their worldly gains ; Unenvious of their lot. In secret, I review the pains. That prove me, not forgot. He, who no suffering will bear. The blest example scorns. Of Him, who deign' d no crown to wear, Except a Crown of Thorns ! Life's keenest sorrows, thus, appear, To be in Mercy sent ; Ordain' d to be our safe-guard here, And for protection meant. CONSOLATION. 39 To med'cines which the taste displease, In sickness we've recourse. To stem the progress of disease. And mitigate its force. So, to the fever of the heart. Suits Sorrow's stern control ; And thus. Thou shew'st Thy healing art, Physician of the Soul ! Relying on Thy gracious skill, I supplicate of Thee, Contentment, underneath Thy Will, Whate'er that Will may be ! 40 A MILD CHRISTMAS. There is no fall of chilling snow, The keen north-wind forgets to blow, The fields are drest in mantle green, Such as in summer-time is seen. No icy armour, binds the Pond, Nor holds the Brook, in captive bond, Few signs appear of Winter's reign, Yet, by the Almanac, 'tis plain, That Christmas is come round again ! He comes, but with. such youthful grace. We scarce his character could trace, If 'twere not, for the berries red. Wreath' d, in a chaplet, round his head. The Yule-log's aid, we don't require, To renovate the needless fire. Instead of crowding round the blaze. Emitted by its genial rays. Rejoice we then ! the Poor and Old, Are thus preserved from pinching cold, And half the Winter's course is done. Ere we perceive, it is begun ! A happy Christmas, then, to all , To Rich and Poor, to great and small ! A MILD CHRISTMAS. 41 To those who at this season try, Their needy neighbours to supply, With warmer clothes, or better cheer, Such as befits the closing year ; Not reck'ning such a blessing, least, 'Mongst those, that grace their Christmas feast! To those, who now, with grateful sense. Accept the gifts of Providence ; And who, with wishes kind, repay. The bounties brought, by Christmas Day ! May all be free, from care and sorrow, "Without forebodings for the morrow. And may they, on the morrow, find. The peace of a contented mind ! Let all enjoy, with merry hearts, Whatever good their lot imparts. But, as the Time so quickly flies, Though " merry," let us still be " wise," And so to all, both far and near. May the next prove, a happy Year ! 42 THE BLIND GIRL, TO HER MOTHER. Oh I Mother ! dear Mother ! why, why dost thou weep ? Thy hot tears fall on me, and wake me from sleep ; Through the day-time, thy sorrows thou triest to restrain, But I know, when I slumber, they break forth again. God hath struck me with blindness, but well do I know, Compensation of some sort, on me He'll bestow ; And oh ! can I grieve, although doom'd to be blind. If still, I enjoy the blest light of the Mind. Though I do not behold, the bright beams of the Sun, Yet, I miss not his rays, when the day- light is done ; No terrors, to me, does the darkness unfold. But, I wander a heroine, fearless and bold. If I cannot admire the Moon at her birth, 1 know not the time, when she's hidden from Earth; And, though I ne'er gaze, on her orb, at the Full, I see not the clouds make her countenance dull. True, I never can Avitness the flow'rs in bloom. Yet, still, I inhale their sweet, fragrant perfume ; I see not the beauty, their presence has made, And grieve not observing them, wither and fade. THE BLIND GIKL, TO HEB MOTHER. 43 Ilf the eye of affection, I may not behold, JI am spar'd from the look, that's averted and cold ; llf I see not the smiles, that belov'd ones impart, II escape from the frown, that would wither my heart. If not with the Eye, I can see with the Ear ; I know, if thou'rt absent, I know if thou'rt near — I can tell, when in sadness, or dost thou rejoice. When sick, or when well, by the sound of thy voice. Even now, dearest Mother ! I've hold of thy hand. Thy feelings, no longer, are under command, I am clasp'd to thy breast ! oh ! when there I'm reclin'd. Then, then, dearest Mother ! no longer' I'm blind ! 44 Galatians, vi., v. 7. '•WHATSOEVER A MAX SOWETH, THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP." Fridley Farm. When the Husbandman, with toll, Scatters seed into the soil. In his mind, he still must keep, " As he soweth, he shall reap." Scanty crops, to niggard hand, Will be render' d by the land : Fruitful sheaves will not proceed. From the germ of baleful weed : If he wait, too late, to sow, Corn will have no time to grow : Should the land be unprepar'd, All his sowing may be spar'd : But, if carefully around. He have broken up the ground, Then have put his seed to test. Using but the very best ; Throwing lib'rally, and wide. That it fall on ev'ry side : Choosing well, his sowing-time, Ere the year has past its prime ; Humbly trusting that the dew From Heav'n shall enrich it, too : SOWING AND REAPING. 45 Then, in safety, he may stay. Waiting for the Harvest-day : Plenteous loads, he then will find. In his store-houses to bind, And to all, it shall be knoAvn, He has reap'd, as he had sown ! Can we read no lesson here ? Does a warning, not appear ? Will the Sons of men disdain. Hence to take, instruction plain ? Having read the Inspir'd Word, Shall its sayings be unheard, Which declare, the self-same plan, God adopts, with fallen Man r In our Heart, we find the plain, Where we must prepare the grain. And the World, the soil, where, now, We abundantly must sow; AVhilst we have, both time and light. Ere comes Death's o'er whelming night ! When the Last Great Day shall rise. They who have been timely wise. Will, with joy, their works behold, Bringing forth an hundred-fold I Plant we, then, as best we may. Seed against the Judgment Day ! 46 SOWING AND HEAPING. Deeds of mercy, none ere knew, Angels then shall bring to view. Virtuous actions, now belied. Then, shall shine forth glorified. Charities the Right hand did, But Avhich from the Left were hid. Long forgotten, we shall find, God has ever borne in mind. Angry words, the Meek supprest. Pent within the outrag'd breast. These shall turn, with great increase, To our everlasting Peace. Suff'erings in Patience borne, Pains of Body, — Mind forlorn : Prayer, in secret, to the Ear, That is never deaf to hear ; Praises, we to His Arm gave. Who is "Mighty," still, "to save:" All shall in proportion bear, To their sowing-time a share : And, in this the second birth. Of the former fruits of Earth, Trespasses, by us forgiven. Shall unlock the Gates of Heaven : By the aid of Him, who died, That we might be justified, And who rose again, to prove. All the fulness of His love ; SOWING ANU KEAPING. 47 Then ascended high in air, That a Place, He might prepare. Where his favoured flock should be, With Him through Eternity, After having, on His Throne, Reap'd the fruits. Himself had sown ! HOPE. Hope ! thy likeness is the leaf, Bursting forth in Spring ; Fearing not, the canker Grief, Nor its blighting sting. Turning into mellow fruit, Hope is hope, no longer ; Other seeds, though, from it, shoot, Than their Parent stronger. So, until our latest day, Hope will, in us, rise : Gratified, it melts away ; In fulfilment, dies ! 48 THE SAVOYARD. 'Tis weary, through the streets to roam, Without a friend, without a home. Where a fond parent's loving voice, Bids ev'ry child, in turn, rejoice ! 'Tis sad to feel, no friendly eye. E'er looks on us, in sympathy Have pity on a fate so hard, And cheer the little Savoyard ! Ye know not, what it is to trace. No look of welcome in the face : Nor how the Stranger's heart is wrung, That never hears its Native-tongue ; Condemn'd a lonely lot to bear. Without one human being's care : This fate is mine ! then don't discard The little, wand'ring Savoyard ! Why did I come ? why did I stray. Far from my native Hills away ? My Father dead — my Mother poor, I labour'd to increase her store : Few, there, are rich, and no employ. Was met with by a helpless Boy. Oh ! with no scornful eye regard. The wretched, weary Savoyard ! THE SAVOYARD. 49' But, have ye wealth at your command — Love ye, to roam my native land — Scaling the rugged mountains' side. That form its glory, and its pride. To feast upon the prospects rare. By bounteous Nature scatter'd there ? From such lov'd scenes and sights debarr'd, Have pity on the Savoyard ! , Oh ! could I hear that fav'rite song, Its well-known, plaintive notes prolong. With which each happy, rustic swain. Calls forth his herds upon the plain — It seems, as though my heart would break. Again such pleasure to partake — Home of my Fathers ! 'tis regard. For thee, sustains the Savoyard ! Ye children, innocent and gay. Too long, I've stopt your frolic play. Whilst wonder fills each little eye, To think " the Organ-boy " can cry ; Resume your dance ! too long my tears. Have fallen o'er my earlier years : By me your sport shall not be marr'd, Though you forget, the Savoyard ! 50 TEMrXATION. St. Matthew, ch. iv., v. 9. 'all these things will 1 GIVE THEE, IF THOU WILT FALL DOWN AND WORSHIP ME." Away ! false Tempter ! take thine own ! I scorn thy luring art ! I will not, at thy word, bow down, Nor give thee up, my heart ! What couldst thou give me in exchange, For all thou'dst take away ? The world's wide wealth, in farthest range. Could ill my loss repay ! The love of kindred, and of friends, These are not thine to give ; When heart, with heart, together blends, And both, united, live: The pow'r to soothe the Mourner's grief, To list the woe-fraught tale ; To give, the Suffering, relief. Or, with their pains bewail : The joy, in ev'ry precept pure. That fills the Book Divine : The Avonders, that in night obscure, From Revelation shine : TEMPTATION. 51 The hope, that springs in darkest gloom, Of Mercy's cheering ray, When Heav'nly radiance shall illume. The Everlasting-day : All these are mine ! of these possest, Take back thy gems, thy gold ! Beyond their power I am blest, Yet still have wealth untold. Then hence ! false Tempter ! to thy throne, I will not bend the knee ! God bids me worship Him alone — How can I worship thee ? E 2 52 ON A BOUQUET. GATHERED NOVEMBER 6tH. The flowers, which we love the most. Are not the buds of Spring ; We still keep reckoning the Host, That Summer-time will bring. o* When Summer comes, its brilliant dyes, Are scatter'd all around ; Such heaps of treasure we despise : Too freely they abound ! But, in the dim and fading year. Each poor, pale bud we see, • Is cherish' d, because Winter's near, That time of poverty ! We gather them, with gentle touch — Nurse them with tender care — We prize them well, and heed them much. More precious, being rare. And thus in Life : through early youth, We value not our friends : Eager for Manhood's joys, forsooth. When our submission ends. ON A BOUQUET. 53 New friends, perhaps, throng round us then : The world is smooth and fair : "We love, and arc belov'd again — Friends have we, and to spare. But, when prosperity is o'er, And sorrow's storm sweeps by, We cling to those, who love us more ; 'Tis such a rarity ! We reckon up, what friends are left, The kindness they have done : We number, each, by Death bereft. And mourn for those, are gone ! 54 REFLECTIOXS IX A LIBRARY. They are not dead, who seem to die, Their thoughts are with us still ; Each kindred mind, and memory. Is glowing with their skill : Authors of many years ago, Are old, familiar friends, Whose words are quoted, to and fro. When mind, with mind unbends. They are not dead, who pass away. Here having labour' d well ; Who toiling, through the weary day, In moral warfare fell : The influence of their worth we prove, Averting many an ill : The good effected, by their love, Is hov'ring round us still. The Dead are those, who idly live, By Self alone possest ; Who thankless take, who meanly give, Unblessing and unblest : Who God's best gifts, in vain receive, Regardless of their worth ; Who their neglected Talent leave. Deep buried in the earth ! 55 OX SEEING THE CROSS, REPLACED OX A CHURCH. Oh ! much-loved symbol of our holy faith, Our strength in Life, our only hope in Death, Degraded once, in stern fanatics' reign. Resume on high, thine honour' d place again ! Thence, to the contrite, speak of sins forgiven, And, to the mourner, point the road to Heaven : Still, to the weak, who dread to suffer more. Tell of the sorrows, which their Saviour bore ; Still, to the sinful, raise thy speechless cry. And call on them, their sins to crucify ; Till guilty souls, in penitence sincere. With trembling awe, thine admonitions hear, Awaken to the terrors of remorse. Lay do^^^l their vices, and take up the Cross ; Thankful, content, the precious load to bear. Whether its form be earthly pain and care. Or bitter anguish of the aching heart. From this world's treasures doom'd, at once, to part ; With loss of all, that makes our being blest. Wealth, reputation, honour, peace, and rest — Each in its turn, resigned, without a groan. Until the Cross have made us all its own ; Patient, submissive to each bitter pain. Till Life is martyrdom, and Death were gain ! 56 THE CROSS. But, still, the Christian sees, thy holy form, Shine through the mist, the darkness, and the storm : Xor dares to thee, his eyes, in anguish raise. Save, with the voice of gratitude and praise ; Knowing, that when his Saviour rose on high, He left on earth. His Cross of agony : Left it, a legacy and pledge to those, \Vho share His sorrows, and partake His woes : Pledge, that on earth our tribulations cease — Pledge, of a Future World, of love and peace — Pledge, of the glory, all may hope to share, Who faithful here, His Cross, in meekness, bear. Baptismal sign I upon my forehead set. Thy holy presence, may I ne'er forget ! So when, at length, my life is on the wing, To thy fond shelter, firmly, will I cling, Over my Death-bed, let thy banner wave. And throw thy sacred shadow, on my Grave ! 0/ THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER. Behold ! the image of Innocence fair, Is the Infant child, that lies sleeping there ! 'Tis cradled, in peace, on its Mother's knee, And slumbers in tranquil serenity ; Whilst she bends above it, in trembling, lest The sound, or the light, should disturb its rest. And 'tis folded close to her bosom, now. As she prints a kiss, on its placid brow, (Oh ! none, but a Mother, can know the bliss. That springs, from that tender, maternal kiss !) Yet, e'en whilst she gives it, a gushing tear. Shows Joy is still mix'd in her heart, with Fear. 'Tis Pride to her cheek, that such lustre gives, Ilejoicing to think, such a Being lives ; But, Fear, soon chases the colour away, Rememb'ring the frailty of Mortal-clay ; And the glitt'ring mist bedims her eye. When the thought comes o'er, that her Babe may die ! But, the Christian Mother does not despair. To the God of Mercy, she lifts her prayer : That through coming years, in weal, or in woe. He will, to her infant, His Goodness show. That it, for a buckler and shield, may have, The arm of Him, that is " mighty to save !" 58 THE CHRISTIAN MOTHER. What, though like a flower, her dear one fade. And its budding beauties be all decay'd, Yet, she knows by that Word, that ne'er can err, Its life but begins, when it parts from her. That it goes in an Angel's form to see. The face of its God, through Eternity ! THE SQUIRREL. Bury Hill. Mark, yonder Squirrels' airy grace — Almost it seems to fly ! Then, quick ! they one another chace, In active rivalry. Note one, descending from the Bough— A hole is quickly cut ; Provisions are in plenty, now, And Winter needs its Nut ! Let Man, then, take a lesson hence, Whilst youth and strength abound — Waste not, the gifts of Providence, Though they lie scatter'd round ! 59 TO A BLACKBIRD, OX ROSE HILL. Harmonious, since the break of morn, I've heard thy constant song — Thou hast not ceas'd, from early dawn. To carol clear and strong ! Perch'd safe, upon a neighb'ring spray. Thy never-tiring throat, Thy mate's affection doth repay. With blithe, and jocund note. Where didst thou learn, to warble forth. Such a melodious strain ? Who fill'd thy feather'd breast, with mirth. Too pow'rful to restrain ? 'Twas He, who bidsthe Thunder roll, Along the stormy sky : Beneath whose merciful control. The vivid lightnings fly ! Who rides upon the mighty wind, Whilst Angels round rejoice ! Who Avhispers, to the humble Soul, Conscience ! in thy small voice ! 60 TO THE WIDOW OF A YOUXG OFFICER, KILLED IX THE CRIMEA. I saw thee, in thy Bridal dress ! In Widow's weeds, I see thee, now, More lovely, in thy wretchedness, Than when gay wreaths adorn' d thy brow ! I mark'd thee, in those joyous days. With him, thy Husband, by thy side, When ev'ry tongue ordain' d thy praise, A young, a fair, a happy Bride ! But, when Affliction rent thy soul. When War, that Husband's life had taken, I marv^ell'd at thy self-control — Admir'd thy fortitude unshaken; Then was Religion's strength confest, That aided thee to bear the blow. Awaken' d Faith within thy breast, And bade a Heav'n-fraught Hope to glow. Hadst thou been born of Hindoo race, The fun'ral-pile thou hadst ascended, Nor ask'd, nor wish'd, for the disgrace. Of living, when that life was ended : But, nurtur'd in a Christian Land, To thee a harder task is giv'n : To bow, beneath the chast'ning Hand, And yield thee, to the Will of Heav'n. TO THE WIDOAV OF AN OFFICER. 61 Joy to thee, Sufferer ! the Dead, To thee, indeed, cannot return ; Yet, Joy to thee ! Thy God hath said, A Blessing waits for those who mourn : A few short years will soon he past — Thy weary pilgrimage be o'er. That Blessing shall be thine, at last. Where Sorrow can be felt, no more ! ON THE EUIN OF A TOMB. Frasment of a ruin'd Tomb, Whom didst thou contain r Wrapt in mystery and gloom, Some instruction, deign ! Fractur'd is the image rude. That upon thee lies ; Yet, the Sculptor must have hew'd, One of mighty size. Armour, on his form, he wears. As a warlike Knight ; And the stone, memorial bears, Of triumphant fight ! Name and story, all are gone ! Thou, but serv'st to say, " When Man's little course is run. Glory fades away !" 62 A H T M N Lord ! when the waves of sorrow roll, In ragmg fury o'er my soul ; And, when the storms of worldly care, Threaten my mind with dark despair ; Then, if it suit thy Gracious Will, Say, to the tempest, " Peace ! be still !" Or, should the leprosy of Sin, Extend its taint, my soul, within ; Then Lord ! exert Thy saving power. Be near me, in that dang'rous hour ; Give me Repentance, strong, and keen, And grant forgiveness ! Say, " Be clean !" Then, when the Grave yields up its prey. Remember me in that great Day : Shew forth. Thy mighty strength to save — R.elease from Death, a captive-slave. Recall me, from my Parent-earth, And, as to Lazarus, say, " Come forth !" And, when I there, in trembling stand. Deserving Justice at Thy Hand, Show, that Thy precious Blood did flow. To purify me, white as Snow ; And let me hear a voice from Heaven, Saying, " My Son ! thy Sin's forgiven !" 63 A KAINBOW, OVER BOX-HILL. 'The Rainbow of Morning breaks forth to deceive, Its beauty 'twere folly to trust, Foretelling the storm, which shall break ere the Eve, To crush Spring's fair promise, in dust: Fit emblem of Pleasure, seducing the Heart, In time of our early, bright Youth, To be follow'd, by anguish, and sorrow's keen smart, For loss, of both Virtue and Truth. The Kainbow, at Night, is a Herald more sure, Proclaiming the dawn shall appear. Alike, both from cloud, and from tempest secure. With an aspect unruffled, and clear : The type of the comfort, bestow' d upon Age, When Life has, in Virtue, been past; Which gives by its lustre, a cheerful presage. Of that Light, which, for Ever, shall last ! 64 ADDRESS TO THE SWALLOW, IN MARCH. D O R K. I K G . Come ! Swallow, come! the Winter's o'er, The Frost is nearly gone ; Return unto Old England's shore, And greet the Northern Sun : Thy nest remains upon the wall, Oh ! seek it once again ! Rest in thine old, accustom' d Hall, Untenanted till then ! Come ! Swallow, come I I long to hear. Thy note at early day, As hither, thither, thou dost veer, In search of insect prey : Deserted, now, appears the Sky, Until the time come back, When, thou shalt, past our windows, fly. In thy familiar track. Come ! Swallow, come ! no grudge we owe, That thou didst fly away. And ledve us, through the wintry Snow, And dark December day. Truth ! had we wings, as well as thou, We should have done the same ; So, fear not ! in returning now, That we shall give thee blame. THE SWALLOW. Come ! and with thee the Cuckoo bring. That welcome Harbinger of Spring, Telling, that Hawthorn buds will bloom, To glad us with their sweet perfume ; That scented Violets are near — That Primroses will soon appear — That Beech, and Oak, and Chestnut tree, Shall bright again in beauty be — That Ash, and Birch, and Elm, and Lime, Are only sleeping for a time — That Thrush, and Blackbird's joyous note, Upon the breeze will shortly float — That Nightingales, their throats will tune, Beneath the radiance of the Moon — That Glow-worms, with their fiery eyes. Shall nightly give us glad surprise — That distant Friends will seek us here, Our hearts to renovate, and cheer ; (Friends, still alike, in Sorrow's blast. When all the Light is overcast, Yet, loving to enhance our glee. If Heav'n bestow Prosperity). Yes ! Swallow ! listen to our song. Do not delay, thy coming long ! Come ! is the burthen of our strain. Where'er thou art, come back again ! 65 66 THE SWALLOW'S RETURN, APRIL. Dorking. I am come ! I am come ! though I linger' d I know, For, I dreaded the North Wind, the Frost, and the Snow, So, I loiter'd awhile, with the Sunbeams to play, Till I found them too hot, when I hasten' d away. I am come ! I am come ! I am taking my rest, On the side of thy house, in my former old Nest ; Thou hast guarded it well, and my thanks for thy care, Shall be heard, as I twitter around in the air. I am come ! I am come ! and oh ! do not complain. If 1 fled far away, in the cold Winter's reign, Hadst thou, but had wings, and been able to fly, Thou, too, wouldst have sought, a more genial Sky. Then, cheer thee up ! Mourner ! with patience await, Till the Portals fly ope of the Heav'nly Gate ; Though the darkness of Sorrow, around thee is cast, The "Dayspring on high," will arise at the last. A little more trial, a little more pain, Whilst here upon Earth, thou art doom'd to remain, Then bursting thy bonds, of encircling clay, To Summer Eternal, thou'lt hasten away ! 67 "A LITTLE WHILE." " A little while !" " a little while !" Oh ! Mourner ! lift thy head, and smile ; That " little while " will soon be o'er, And thou shalt join thy lost, once more. Thou child of Woe, and heir of Pain, Whose life is death, whose death were gain ; Let this thine agony beguile, It is but for " a little while !" Ye Captives, in a distant clime. When counting o'er the weary time, Let this your consolation be, " A little while " shall set ye free ! Ye sons, of Penury and Want, Whose daily bread is dry and scant, Whose house is cold, and raiment vile. It is but for " a little while !" Mortals ! who revel now in Sin, At once, another life begin — Dare not your Maker to revile ! Judgment will come " in little while !" F 2 68 " A LITTLE AVHILE." Let all reflect, ere Grace is past, That earthly pleasures cannot last, And, ceasing conscience to defile, Seize on the present, " little while." Brief is the period left to all ; Neglect it not, because so small. But, seek to win a Saviour's smile, Returning in " a little while !" ON A BLANK LEAF IN A BOOK. The Page of Life is pure as mine, When issuing from the Hand Divine ; But Negligence, or Folly there, Too soon, the lustre may impair : And then alas ! we seek in vain, To wipe away the blot, or stain. And sole resource, in both, discover. Is, quick ! to turn a new Leaf over ! 69 EVENING. NoRBURY Park. The Sun descends, in waves of light — The West shines radiantly bright ; And ruby clouds appear as Cars, With fiery steeds for Fairy wars ; Whilst Iris lends her varied dyes. To tint the pavement of the Skies, Where brilliant streaks of sloping rays, Seem golden paths, to Heav'nly ways. The Crescent Moon ! Behold it float ! For Ariel 'tis a fitting Boat ! The Stars bestud the Heav'ns o'er, And dot with gold their azure floor : Are ye more worlds, like this of ours. The homes of high celestial Powers, Or dwellings, where our lost ones rest — A haven safe, for Spirits blest ? The Owl flits round the moss-grown tree ; Its Hive receives the weary Bee — The Cuckoo ends her lonely song — Their chants, the Birds, no more prolong — The Nightingale takes up her lay, (A Requiem for the death of Day !) And Nature yields to needed sleep, Till the first beam of Morning peep. 70 EVENING. At such a season, Thought will fly, To bring back Time, now long gone by ! "We think of him, whose classic fame. And literary merits claim, The highest rank, among the Band, Who, as our English worthies stand ; INIorals, with Scholarship, combin'd. In Johnson, of the Giant-mind ! We, next, retrace his kindness shewn. To a young Girl, then scarcely known. And, how he prais'd the grace and wit. Of all that, by her Pen, was writ. The Lion's part, with some he play'd. But, ne'er to her a harsh thing said, And Burney could his friendship quote. Whene'er to Norbury she wrote. So, oft, the Woodbine we may see. Dependent from a rugged Tree ; Around whose branches, it will climb. And deck them, at the self-same time. That from the crooked trunk it gains, A prop, its fragile stem, sustains : And thus ill-match' d, the Pair agree. From sheer dissimilarity ! 71 "GOOD NIGHT." Good Night ! it is a solemn sound, Though gaily oft it echoes round : Yet, is no admonition slight, Convey'd in that brief wish, " Good Night." Does it not breathe a solemn Prayer, Committing us to Heav'nly care, That, safely we may rest from harm, Protected by God's Mighty Arm? Is it not couch'd, in hopeful phrase, That innocence have mark'd our ways, And so, no evil thoughts may keep, From our worn spirits, needful sleep ? Reminds it not, if we have err'd. In thought or wish, in act or word. Repentance must make conscience bright. Ere we can wish ourselves, " Good Night !" Expressively, it seems to hope. Should restlessness, our eyelids ope, That holy thoughts, our minds may light. And wakeful hours, still yield " Good Night." Warns it not, too, that we should try. To live, as we would wish to die. So, when our Souls, from Earth take flight. Our friends, in Faith, may say, "Good Night !' 72 " STOP THIEF." Written for a Ragged School. Behold, that miserable Man ! Look on his guilty face ! Remark his features pale and wan, All quiv'ring with disgrace ! The terror, long, of all around, His injur'd neighbours' Fear; Yet, innocent he, once, was found, From crime and outrage clear. Though, harden'd, profligate, and vile. Even devoid of shame ; Condemn him not ! Beware the while. Lest you have been to blame. Vain are your efforts, now, to teach. That proud, obdurate heart ; With jest profane, and scoffing speech. He scorns the better part. 'Tis useless quite, and all too late, To curb his passions wild, Yet oh ! what might have been his fate That Man was, once, a Child ! "stop thief." 73 A Child neglected, then, by all, Untaught, unwatch'd, unknown ; Temptation great, instruction small — How could he stand alone ? That time is gone. Redeem the Past ! Each little one you see, If not preserv'd, may at the last, An equal Culprit be. To God bring Children, in their Youth : Well is the work begun ! Instruct them, in His Sacred Truth ; Well will the work be done ! Nor ends it here ! The Judgment Day, Alone the fruits shall see ; Bestow' d on them, your Loed may say, • " Ye did it unto me !" 74 FEIENDSHIP The Rookery. The Stream returns the flashing rays, Emitted by the Sun ; And dances, in the dazzling blaze, From its effulgence won. The Lake gives back the Picture fair, That on its margin grows. So that, we trace each object there, The neighb'ring banks disclose. The polish'd glass reflects, with truth, The form we, thither, bring ; Old age, or Infancy, or Youth — Life's Winter, or its Spring. Like these, we find, a faithful Friend, With us in union whole. Whose thoughts, with ours, in concord, blend, And Soul replies, to Soul. 75 TIME. Time ! laggard Time ! the weary hours, Move heavily along ; Dull is the day, and dim the flowers. And mute the voice of song. "When will the happy minute come, Which I so much desire. Bringing, again, those dear ones home. Whose presence ne'er can tire r Time ! fleeting Time ! how quickly pass. The Joy-encumber' d days! They vanish, like the sunburnt grass, In a too vivid blaze ! We tremble, even in delight. Knowing it cannot last ; We would arrest thy rapid flight — Already thou art past ! Time ! wasted Time ! too late we learn, What thou art worth, in truth. And in the close of Life, discern, The sin of wasted Youth. Oh I could we call thee back again, By any magic spell, We'd bind thee, in a captive -chain, And try to use thee well. 76 TIME. Time ! precious Time ! a moment wait ! Bestow one minute's breath ! Repentance may not be too late — Suspend thy stroke, oh ! Death ! Ages appear to pass anew, In this appalling strife ; Long buried years rise up to view, And scare my fleeting life ! Time heeds not ! still he passes on, And keeps an even pace : Yet, those, who all their work have done. Outstrip him in the race ! Time ! conquer' d Time ! with folded wings. Must, in submission Avait — Expiring, when an Angel flings. Wide ope th'Eternal Gate ! ON THE EVE OF A MUTINY. Such dreadful deeds shall be perform'd to-night, That Darkness fears t' approach, in terror dire, Of all the pond'rous weight of wickedness. Which shall be laid, upon her Ebon Car ! 77 VICISSITUDES. There's not a Grief that round us lours, But has its sister Joy : And Joy, in its most blissful hours, Is not without alloy. • The darkness, that stern "Winter brings. Is time for merry meetings ; And all the happiness that springs. From Friendship's kindly greetings. We count upon a Summer's Day, It is by clouds o'erspread ; Or else, so bright its scorching ray. All exercise we dread. We long to see an absent Friend ! Scarce have we welcome falter'd, Ere to Distress, our feelings tend. He is so sadly alter'd ! The Idol of the world, behold ! A prey to discontent ; Possess'd of friends, of fame, and gold. Yet, on new honours bent. 78 TICISSITUDE. See ! Genius, shrinking from Display, With unask'd Laurels crown'd ; Yet, vex'd with everything to-day, Since Folly at him frown' d. What does it prove, but Heav'nly care. Nought here should perfect be ? Leading us on by Faith and Prayer, Into Futurity ! ON SOUND. St. Matthew, c. 13, v. xvi. " BLESSED ARE YOUR EARS, FOR THEY HEAR." How blest to taste, that pure delight, To range the woods and hills, And, hearken, from some rocky height. The murm'ring of the rills ! To list the birds' melodious song. Make musical the air — Each answering each, their notes prolong. As rivals might compare. But, far more blest, if Learners meek, God's messages we hear. And, when He condescends to speak. We lend, a willing Ear ! CARELESSNESS. In June's bright month, how many a Day, We pass unheeded by ; No tribute for the Sunshine pay, Nor for the cloudless Sky ! But, when December's fogs appear, And melancholy rain ; When scarce a gleam is left to cheer, Stern Winter's gloomy reign. Oh ! then with grateful hearts we view, The faint and partial ray. Piercing the mists and vapours, through. In that brief, foggy day. So, in Joy's self-supported hour, Within a happy home, We oft forget the Gracious Pow'r, From whom the blessings come. But let the touch of sorrow chill, O'er all our feelings roll ; Numbing, with paralytic thrill. The pulses of the Soul : Does, then, an evanescent gleam. Of former gladness shine ? We gratefully the gift receive. And bless its Source Divine ! 80 DYING WISHES. DoRKixG Cemetery. When Death has seiz'd this mortal clay, And " Dust to Dust " must pass away ; Let not my Funeral be borne, When brightly shines the Eye of Morn, When flow'rs unclose their tinted bells. And bees forsake their waxen cells — When birds pour forth, their cheerful lay — When happy children are at play — Return me not, again, to Earth, When the whole world is full of mirth ! But, when the Sun in clouds descends — When Night, with Day, together, blends — When flow'rs their sleepy petals close. And birds are settling to repose. When tir'd Labour stops its toil, And bees bring home their golden spoil — When children droop the weary head : Then place me, in Earth's final bed. Thy mourning, hush ! forbear to w^eep I Nature has sunk, with me, to sleep ! 81 FAILURE. There are, who fight, and win the day, Receiving due reward : Admiring crowds their homage pay, And well-earn'd praise accord! And there are those, who know the pain. Of having fought, and fought in vain ! They stood before a mighty Foe, Determin'd not to yield. Till they receiv'd the deadly blow, Which stretch' d them on the field ! Their wounds were nought, but great the pain. Of having fought, and fought in vain ! And can there be to Man decreed, So direful a lot : To toil and suffer, writhe, and bleed, For all to be forgot — Courage by Cowardice be slain. And Bravery have fought in vain ? No ! whether in the deadly fray. Beneath War's flag, unfurl' d. Or, in Life's conflict, ev'ry day. With a contending world. One thing is to our spirits plain : We do not fight, and fight in vain ! 82 FAILURE. Yes ! wheresoe'er our suffering lie, In fortune, body, mind, Let Faith look up into the Sky, And, there, this record find : " Fight on ! the struggle still maintain ! Ye fight, but do not fight in vain !" THE RECLUSE Abinger Common. 'Tis mine, a pencil in my hand. To mimic Nature's Face ; And rocks or ruins, in our Land, "With pleas' d attention trace. 'Tis mine, to read each varied word, That Hist'ry's page can tell, Or tale from ancient Minstrel heard- The Poet's magic spell ! I gaze upon the Stars above — Are they not Angels' Eyes, Bestowing on us looks of Love, When we are good and wise ? Then waste no Pity on my lot, Since I, contented, own, I've never better comrades got. Than, when I am alone ! 83 THE VOICE OF DAYS GONE BY. Beech Tree, Box-Hill. There is a voice, that sounds at Eve, When all is still around, Unheard amidst the sounds, that weave, In brighter light, around. It whispers in the silent hour. And breathes a gentle sigh : I love its melancholy power ! It speaks of days gone by ! It brings us back departed years. And bids them live again ; Their joys and sorrows, hopes and fears. Their pleasures, and their pains. It wakes the feelings, that have slept, Unknown to mortal eye, And thoughts, that in our hearts we've kept. Since days, now, all gone by ! It leads us, through the fav'rite walk, Where we have stray' d before. And joins us, in familiar talk. With lov'd ones, now no more. It cheers us in our present strife : Uplifts our Souls on high : Arousing to a better life, By thoughts of Days gone by ! G 2 84 THE VOICE OF DAYS GOKE BY. It warns us, not to dream away, The quickly passing time, Which, since its pace we cannot stay, To waste must be a crime. It bids us look through coming years. Futurity descry, Lest we should weep, with bitter tears, O'er days, then all gone by ! COURT FAVOUR. Thine unkind treatment does but serve the more, To strengthen his defiance. So, the keen, And cutting wind of Winter fixes firm. The, else, unstable Water, as a Rock ; Which thus, resists the pow'rful weapon's stroke, That, in the laxity of Summer-heat, It had no strength t'oppose. Then, rather, let The sunshine of thy Favour serve to thaw. The rigour of his opposition ; Which, all insensibly, will melt away. As the last snow-wreath, on the Mountain's side ; Leaving refreshing verdure, in the place Of icy desolation ! 85 THE CHURCH BELLS. Dorking. The Bells ring out a merry peal, As though to bid their hearers feel, They should at times be gay : Grief casts aside its many cares. Labour, awhile, for rest prepares. And Poverty, with Affluence shares, A mutual Holiday ! The Bells ring out a cheerful chime, Proclaiming it is Service-time, A time for Prayer and Praise ; Praise for the Good we have receiv'd, Though with some evil interweav'd — Prayer by no Sin to be deceiv'd. No snare the Tempter lays. The Bell goes out, with solemn Toll, Declaring an Immortal Soul, From Earth hath taken flight. God help us, in that hour of need ! Whatever else may be decreed. Oh ! may He then our Spirits speed. To realms of Heav'nly Light ! 86 OX THE ANXn'ERSARY OF A BEOTHER'S DEATH. 1856. I see thee in the azure Sky, I meet thee on the Hill ; Thy form is where the Rainbows lie. Thy voice is in the Rill ; Whene'er I pluck a fav'rite Leaf, It thy remembrance brings ; Each warbling Bird, in cadence brief. Of thee, melodious, sings. When Sunsets bright, in crimson glow. Thine image, there, I find ; Nor can a Cloud, its shadow throw. But calls thee to my mind ; The Orescent Moon appears a Car, Where thou mayst nightly ride. Whilst yon lone' Planet's lustrous Star, Acts Torch-light at its side. Does Winter's Snow-wreath Avhitely fall. And cover up the ground ? It seems a fitting Funeral-Pall, To wrap thy Bier around ! When Spring its velvet robe renews. Of emerald and gold, I love to think, its vivid hues. Are, round thy Grave, unroll'd. ON A bkothee's death. 87 When Summer flowrets gaily bloom, They speak in language plain, Declaring, from a transient tomb. Thou shalt arise again ! Whilst Autumn's fruits, the truth show forth, That, nurs'd in storm and rain. The time will come, when sterling worth. Due recompense shall gain. If Friends affectionately speak, I grieve thou art away. For then thy Spirit, mild and meek. Had lov'd its part to play ; And thou wouldst have replied again, In words of kindly glee ; So then, although the wish is vain, I often wish for thee ! But, should Deceit, and Guile appear, The Profligate or Proud — Are those ^bout me insincere, A false, unfeeling crowd ? Oh ! then I, secretly, rejoice, And kiss the Chast'ning Rod — Thou dost not hear Man's jarring voice. For thou art with Thy God ! 88 " LORD ! TO WHOM SHALL WE GO ?" St. John, c. vi., v. 68. Where shall we turn, Lord ! whither flee, If we withdraw ourselves from Thee ? The World ? with heartless, mocking taunt, It would reject our helpless Avant ; Its pleasures cannot give relief, To hearts, that sicken in their grief! To Learning ? all its teaching goes. To prove, the little that it knows. To Science ? By thy wise decree, Science, but leads us, up to Thee. To Nature ? all her hidden laws, Admonish of a Great First Cause, To Death ? it hath no pow'r to save, Since Thou hast overcome the Grave Then take us, Lord ! we cannot flee. We have no place, to hide from Thee ! Our Sins are with us — By Thy Grace, Do Thou, their blackness. Lord ! efiace : Kepentant hearts, alone, we bring : Thou wilt not scorn the ofiering ! 89 AN ALLEGORY. The Chestnut-Road, Betchwokth. The Present Time's a living Tree, With good and comely stem ; Its Roots are all a mystery, The Past hath hidden them. Its Branches, o'er the Futuke bend ; But, dimly pictur'd, now, We cannot tell, where may extend. The Shadow of each Bough ! Those Roots, which we so little heed, What has their life supplied ? They sprang, perhaps, from erring Deed, In Passion, or in Pride : Or Pleasure was the barren Soil, Whence they began to grow ; Or fruitful Traffic, weary Toil, Pain, Poverty, or Woe ! Not all alike the sap they give. Nor all alike the Growth ; Our Lives, from them, in vigour live. Or die in canker' d Sloth ! 90 AN ALLEGORY. The angry thought, the word unkind — The selfish love of ease — The hidden vices of the Mind — From sources such as these. No wholesome nourishment could spring, No inward strength be spread : We stand, a specious-looking thing, All hollow and decay'd ! But, did the Roots more firmly strike. In Sorrow or in Care ; Did Self-denial aid, alike, With Penitence and Prayer : Then, though the World may pass us by. As common, coarse, and rude, We feel within. Vitality, Which cannot be subdued : And whether, that our Branches spread, To be our Coimtry's boast. Shewing a verdant, tufted head. Or scarr'd and tempest-tost ; In Heav'n, our gamer' d Fruit shall lie, Where there is no Decay, Stor'd up, beneath our Father's Eye, Against the Judgment-Day ! 91 A WALK AT FOLKESTOXE. Oh ! what a privilege is theirs, Who Nature's works may scan. And trace each varied form she wears. Through all her wondrous plan ! Whether, it be a mde extent, Of agitated Sea, Whose waves seem on destruction bent. In angry majesty : Or the same scene, when calm and mild, Blue Ocean's depths appear, As tranquil, as a sleeping Child, Untroubled by a fear. The passing breeze, in dimples sweet. The surface ruffles o'er. And lines of rainbow-colours meBt, With kisses soft, the shore. The rosy tints of Ev'ning, light The snow-white cliffs around. And ev'ry crag and rocky height, With radiance is crown'd: 92 A WALK AT FOLKSTONE, Yet, who can mount those ridges high, Without a sense of awe ? With swimming head, and dizzy eye. In terror, I withdraw. Downward, I cast one hasty glance. And fearfully admire. Whilst, Wonder tempts me to advance, But Prudence cries " Retire !" GRIEF. Sorrow's a subtle Alchymist, and oft 'Tis seen, base, worldly minds, submitted to The Crucible of Grief, part with their dross. And by the potent agency of Tears, Produce effulgent Gold ! 93 TRIBULATION. My Heart is dull, my Soul is sad, My Spirit vex'd and low ! In vain, you urge me to be glad, Or, try to make me so ! I look around the world, and see. Each has his private grief; Some secret source of misery, From which, there's no relief. The pangs of hunger, some must bear, And want their daily bread ; Or, ill-supplied with scanty fare, Scarce know, that they are fed ! Some faint with fierce attacks of pain, Without a chance of cure ; Who living still, must still complain. And hopelessly endure. Others, a difi''rent fate attends, Possessing health and gold, They mourn the loss of valued friends. With love, that can't grow cold : The Parent, Sister, Brother, Friend — A Child— a Husband— Wife ; With whom their Being seem'd to blend, Whilst they remain' d in life. 94 TRIBULATION, And Hearts there are, that deeply feel, Stern Disappointment's blow. Cast doAvn, by Fortune's giddy wheel, Or laid by Falsehood, low : They walk alone, amidst a host. Of busy, fellow-men ; Betray'd by those, they trusted most. How can they trust again ? See, Vice triumphant look around ! Deceit enthron'd in state ! See Virtue sinking to the ground, Oppress'd by Scorn and Hate ! Whilst scenes, like these, are passing by, Grief suits with Feeling best : Laughter were heartless revelry ; Joy an unwelcome guest. Yet, deem not, but a soothing thought. From very sadness comes. Since, by it, we're the lesson taught, Not here, to build our homes ! Our Master trode, the self-same road, That we arc, now, upon ; It leads us to the Blest Abode, Where He, Himself, is gone ! 95 TO THE FIELD SCORPION GRASS. Myosotis Arvensis. Why do men call thee " Scorpion Grass," Thou lovely little flower ? As fair, as any of thy class. That bloom in Flora's Bower. There is no poison in thy root. No venom in thy leaves ; No odour rank, in stem or root. The finest sense perceives. Thy favoured Sister of the Brook,* May boast a happier lot ; How eagerly, all eyes will look, For the " Forget me not !" Would I possest a Poet's fame, That I might right, thy wrong ; And wed thee to a better name. Made musical in song ! * Myosotis Palustris. 96 TO THE FIELD SCORPION GRASS. Too long, hast thou been doom'd to bear, A hideous appellation ! A prettier ought to be thy share, In just retaliation ! 'Tis good to vindicate the weak, And shield them, from their foes ; The facts of garbled truth to speak, And crafty wiles expose. 'Tis justice to the virtuous heart. If Friendship, faithful, prove. Healing the pain of Slander's smart. By Charity and Love ! Linking a moral to my lay, To show my zeal, in deed. Whene'er I see thee, I shall say, " There stands a Friend — in need!" 97 WATCHING. We sit by some lov'd SufF'rer's side, Through all the dreary night, Fearing the worst, that may betide, Before the morning's light : We listen, with attentive ear. To catch the faintest breath, Whilst Hope is giving way, to Fear, Lest Sleep should herald. Death. Or, we expect a Friend again. We have not seen for years, With Joy, not quite unmix' d with Pain, And Smiles, half-drown'd in Tears ; How eagerly, we scan the road. With fond, impatient eye ; Or start, when near to our abode. Some footstep passes by ! From distant climes, do we return? On deck we take our stand : (For home-sick Hearts impatient burn. To see their native Land) So many clouds deceive our sight. Before the cliffs appear, We scarcely think we can be right, When they at last are near. H 98 WATCHING. The ship-wreck' d Sailor, who is cast, Upon a desert shore, In spite of all his perils past, Yet, clings to Hope, once more : "With eagerness he climbs the rocks. Though Constancy might fail, So oft the snowy Sea-bird mocks, With semblance of a Sail ! Our earthly eyes, for earthly things. Thus, anxious, look around ; Whilst drowsily, with folded wings, Our souls, in sleep, are bound : W"e will not heed the warning plain. Repeated, day by day — To us, the admonition's vain. Which bids us, " Watch and Pray." 99 HONOUR. ■WoTTON House. " Honour ! what art thou, but a Shade- A Spectre that affrights — A bleeding Idol, to be paid, False, senseless, savage Rites ? Mysterious influence ! that leads. To Danger and to Death ; Whose cabalistic spells, and creeds, Proclaim an erring Faith. Still, tempting Man, to needless woes- Encountering them alone ; Rushing against a host of foes. Though, sure, to be o'erthrown." Indignant Honour, heard me speak, And, thus, the charge denied : " Cease, Mortal ! ignorant and weak. Thy egotistic pride ! They scarce exist, who only fill, A certain term of days ; Who neither have the heart, or will. To tread in Honour's way's H 2 100 HOXOUR. My pow'r infus'd, into their frame, New energies brings forth : With vital strength bursts out, the flame. Of emulative worth ! In valiant acts, by others done, Men, bright examples, see ; Ancestral triumphs, spur the Son To ^-irtuous rivalry. In antiquated days, untrue. Sense, may my lessons deem ; Actions, which, then glow'd bright in view. Now, shine, with dubious gleam : For more instructed, better-taught, Man sees his way, aright. Scorning all compromise, with Thought, Beneath Religion's Light. Honour impels him, in the cause. Of Land, or Laws, to fight; And glories to uphold those Laws, From injury, and slight. 'Twas Honour, which, in years ago, Led gallant Evelyn on. To shut upon the furious Foe, The Gates of Ilougoumont I HONOUR. 101 Full dear, that act, the Hero, cost, Yet, little did he rue — The Arm, that he so nobly lost, Is link'd, with Wateuloo ! But, Honour, may be, likewise, won, In far more humble ways ; Though, Observation it may shun, And never covet Praise ! Bad passions, Honour may subdue — With selfish feelings fight ; It leads us, Evil to eschew. And love, the Good, and Right. For Honour, in the Cottage dwells. As in the Tented Field — Guards Learning's Students, in their Cells, And is the Statesman's Shield. It shelter'd him, of " Sylvan " fame, In a corrupted age. And brought him, here, to gain a name, On loving Nature's Page ! " Evelyn !" The trees soft murm'ring round, Responsive echoes give ! " Evelyn ! whilst English hearts are found, That Name shall honour' d live !" 102 "THE WORLD'S SAD JOYS. Quoted from a Sermon. Upon the ear of early Youth, These words may, vainly, fall — It counts on Joy, as certain Truth, And Pleasure, stor'd for all ; The joy of Friendship's sober mood. And Love's far brighter flame — The joy of living to do good. And \\an a noble Name : The keen excitement of the Chase — The stirring, lively Dance — The rapid move, from place to place. Which Health and Taste enhance ; The knowledge, to be gain'd from Books, Or gather' d amongst Men — Admiring plaudits, eager looks. Won by a skilful Pen ! And many other springs of Joy, Which Youth would drink in haste. Unheeding, that the Draught will cloy. And vitiate the taste : But, Youth has into Manhood past. And Manhood into Age, And Sorrow, now, comes forth, at last. In combat to engage. THE WOKLD's sad JOYS. 103 Our old Allies desert us here — We're standing quite alone, And there remains, to prop and cheer, Of all our Joys — not one ! Love died, perhaps, ere fully born — Friendship has felt decay ; Whilst Admiration, turn'd to Scorn, Scoffs at our waning Day ! Health has departed! feeble, old, Slow lags the dreary hour ! How weary is, " the tale twice-told" — Our Books have loSt their power. "The World's sad Joys!" 'Tis strangely true — Our Hearts, the fact, respond ; Whilst bitter Recollections too. Would tempt us to despond. But, yield not. Christian ! shun the snare — Beat back the sinful thought ! For purer Joys, thy Soul prepare. Than any, Earth has brought ; Let Tribulation work thy cure — Gain shall arise from loss ; Henceforward, happily, endure. Thy Saviour's daily Cross ! 104 UPON A SUX-DIAL. Unless the brilliant Sunbeam fall, Upon the Dial's face, 'Tis useless on the Turret-wall, The time, we cannot trace ; A mockery the figures seem. We pass them heedless by — The hours away, we idly dream, Xor mark, how quick they fly ! So, unless Wisdom's living ray. Upon our Souls has shin'd. Inspiring, what the Tongue may say, (That Dial of the Mixd) Speech seems, a mocking Witness, sent. Disclosing only Dross ; And what was for our Profit meant, Betrays a grievous Loss. 105 TWILIGHT. 'Tis the hour of Meditation — Duty for the day is done ; Sacred time for Contemplation, As descends the setting Sun. Sunset, into Twilight mellows — Thought assumes a calmer tone ; Feelings, in our bosoms, tell us, Secrets, all before unknown : Let us listen to their voices. They may prove Instructors true. Leading us, from worldly choices — Lifting, Heav'nward, our view ! HEREAFTER. To the Forgotten, and Forlorn, How welcome is the tear-drop, born. In loving Pity's eye — How gratefully, does Sorrow hear, The sound, its woe, best serves to cheer, A sympathetic sigh ! Whilst Exiles, in a foreign land. Delighted grasp, the faithful hand. Fresh, from their native plain : Then, oh ! how great that bliss to come, Admitted to our Heav'nly Home, To join lost Friends again ! 106 BOX-HILL BRIDGE. St. John, c. iv., V. 11. " From whence then, hast thou that Living Water." The rushing River's rapid course — The gently gliding Stream — The rude, rough voice of Torrents hoarse, In twilight's doubtful beam : ^o' The sparkling Cataract, that leaps, Some Cliff's tremendous side, And, then, in foaming eddies, sweeps, Into the black'ned tide : The Ocean's ever-restless waves, When on the shore they break : The gurgling Fountains, hid in Caves, Which echoing murmurs make : Are they not Types and Symbols, each, Set in this world below, That by their likeness they may teach, Whence "Living Watees" flow? 107 FROM THE ITALIAN OF ZAMPIERI. To the Skies, her place of birth, Scorn'd Astrea fled, from Earth ; Pleasure, who did with her dwell. Thither would return, as well : Love and Virtue strove in vain. Their companion to retain ; Swift, she mounted, out of sight, And her mantle, dropp'd in flight ; Found by Grief, he, in her stead. Cast the garment, o'er his head ; Thus the Cheat, her name obtain' d. And, from many, welcome gain'd. Those deceiving, who would be, Here, from ev'ry sorrow free ; Since, alas ! what Joy appears, Often, is the source of tears ! 108 THE BUTTERFLY. Translated from De Lamaetine. Floating on the Zephyr's wing, In the early days of Spring — Born so soon, to fade away, Even, ere the rose decay — Hov'ring, o'er each flo%vret fair. Drinking up, the perfume there — Shaking off the dazzling dies, As, with painted wings, he flies — Scorning, here, a longer stay, Mounting on his hea^^l'ly way — In the Butterfly, we scan. But the type, of Mortal Man — Ev'ry pleasure having tried, And by all unsatisfied — Learning Wisdom from the Past, He aspires above at last — Soars, with eager wing, on high, Seeking refuge in the Sky ! 109 SUDDEN DEATH. Lady. Oh ! gentle Leech ! Is there no potent Spell, Can rouse again the current of his blood, And, to these pale and ashy cheeks, restore The rosy tints of life ? Canst thou not find, Some hidden mystery, some panacea. Which, in this instance, prov'd available. Should heap thy coffers with uncounted Gold, And pass thy name down to Posterity, As Wisdom's noblest Son ? Physician. No! Lady! No! 'Tis vain ! To stem the secret progress of Disease — to stop the blight insidious. Ere too far has spread its tainted venom — To still the fiery beating of the heart. Or raise to energy the feeble Pulse — To dull the sharp attacks of gnamng pain ; And bring the gentle influence of sleep. To soothe the throbbing of the aching nerve — These are the lawful province of mine art : But, to restore the Vital-spirit, fled ; To re-connect the Body and the Soul, Belongs to God alone ! 110 sudden death. Lady. His will be done : Darkly perplexing ! awfully reveal'd ! Physiciax. Yet, never doubt, some Good inscrutable. Shall spring from direst evil. The carnage Of the Battle-field is, by the working Of our Mother-earth, turn'd to luxuriant Fruitfulness. The Shipwreck, where a thousand Lives were lost, has sav'd each Suflferer from A ling'ring death. The Thunder-bolt, that falls Upon some guiltless Child, carries, in haste, A prize to Heaven, which had been lost beyond Redemption's reach, in the hot turmoil of This wicked world ! All Glory be to God ! PART THE SECOND. PREFACE ECCLESIASTES, c. iii., v. 4. A TIME TO ■WTEEP, AND A TIME TO LAUGH. The Hand, that bounteously spread, All Earth, with wonders rare, Has deign' d the Hues of Heav'n to shed, On Mortal toil, and care. Not only does the Harvest yield, A hundred-fold of Corn, But, there are Flowers, in the Field, That Harvest to adorn. Creation's Lord, Man stands erect. Amidst all living things — Some to destroy, and some protect. As need, around him springs. If beast and bird are doom'd to bleed. His being to prolong, Others, to help him are decreed, Or cheer him, with their song. In mellow fruits, the tinted hue, A Painter's eye delights ; The fragrance adds a pleasure, too, And appetite invites. PKEFACE. Thus we should useless, nothing deem, That we in Nature find — Pleasure and profit, sometimes seem. To be at once combin'd. So, in the sphere of higher things, Let ornament appear ; Nor scorn the aid, amusement brings, Our weary hearts to cheer. The Mind, when with employment tir'd. May be relax'd by song ; And notes, that Heav'n has inspir'd, Shall harmony prolong. Thus Life's embellishments will prove An aid, on Virtue's side ; Soothing the soul to works of love, \\Tien spent and mortified. "For ev'rything, give thanks," 'tis said : And so, for Harmless Mirth, To Thee, be gratitude repaid. Creator of the Earth ! 115 OBSERVATIOX. Why deary me ! 'tis very odd, But there goes Mrs. Gay, I'm sure 'tis she ! I saw her nod, From t'other side the way. Her Husband's not been dead a year — Her weeds are all thrown by : So, she has got, 'tis very clear, Another in her eye ! There's company to Mrs. Price ! She grows so very fine — The Baker's boy has been there twice. So, p'rhaps they stay to dine. Well, people, really, rich should be, To spend such sums of money : Had her poor Father liv'd to see, He'd think it very funny ! Why ! Mrs. Jones ! I never saw — You've got another Bonnet ; This makes the third — two silk, one straw. With a blue ribbon on it ! How will your Husband like the Bill, When 'tis the time to pay ? But he does look, extremely ill. Just about Quarter Day I i2 116 OBSERVATI0>-. There's Mrs. Bell, now, passing by : They say she's very stingy, And I must own, that, certainly. Her shawl looks old, and dingy. The last time, she had friends to Tea, (A sort of little Rout), No sit-down Supper offered she — Just Trays, and hand-about. Three times this morning, to that Shop, I've watched Miss Pinnock's Maid ! From what my Servant, once, let drop, She gossips, I'm afraid! Now, gossiping, is, what I hate, And never will permit; "Whole days, sometimes, for news, I wait. But never get a bit. I could not be, like Mrs. Kew, Who sits there, all day long ; Watching what other people do, Which is so very wrong ! I never like to stare about. It seems so unrefin'd, So, if I ever do look out, I keep— Behind the Blind ! 117 AUTHORSHIP. I've often wish'd to write a book : What must it be about ? In vain, I for a subject look — I find them, all, worn out : Love ? why 'tis still, the self-same plan, Nought new, the plot discovers ; Two Ladies love one Gentleman, One Lady has two Lovers. Or, else, there's an ambitious Mother, Our Heroine is her child ; In love with one, she weds another. And, then, goes, nearly wild ! The Husband plays Othello's part. Is jealous on presumption : She talks, about a broken Heart, And dies of a Consumption ! Or, in a cot, remov'd from Town, Some Beauty wastes her youth ; Till a Lord Geokge, by chance, comes down. And vows eternal truth ! He swears, he'll soon return again ; His absence hard to bear is : When, oh ! the fickleness of Men ! He weds a handsome Heiress ! 118 AUTHOKSHIP. You'll say, perhaps, that History, Might furnish me a hint ; Or a strange tale of mystery. With a nice Murder in't ! Alas ! I am not Walter Scott, Nor, Mrs. Radcliff, neither, And so, I think, I'd better not. Be meddling with either. I know, 'tis very much in vogue. To take the Newgate Calendar, And picking out, a desp'rate Rogue, Set him to flirt and Philander. Romantic Highwaymen are found, A fertile source of feeling ; Whose honourable acts abound. Though rather giv'n to Stealing ! Authors have travers'd Sea and Land, And search' d, each Nation, o'er, Hunting, with Pen and Ink in hand. For Legendary Lore ; Hence, Monsters dire, of German birth. Are, now, amongst us stalking ; Made up of Fire, Water, Earth, But, very fond of Talking I AUTHORSHIP. Some take Joe Miller, for a Guide, And of him make a Manual ; And others, swimming with the Tide, Produce a silk-bound Annual. If I, in print, am ever seen, I hope it may be said. The work is not, in Blue, or Green, For it is always Red (read). 120 FAIRY LAND. " Fairy Elves ! Fairy Elves ! where have ye been ?" •' Seeking for treasures to bring to our Queen." •' I have brought Moonbeams to brighten her Hall." " I bring a Rainbow, to hang on the Wall." " I, from a Rosebud, have robb'd the perfume, And stole the bright colour, that painted its bloom." " I listen'd to catch, the first Nightingale's note, Ere it, on the still air, had found time, to float." " I sought for Young ZephjT, whom Pris'ner I keep. Till Titania require him, to fan her to sleep." " All last night, 1 watch'd for this bright falling Star, Which will serve, for a Flambeau, attach' d to her Car." " From a raindrop, that caught in the Sun, brilliant rays, I extracted these Jewels, around her to blaze." " And I, for a Flag, to wave o'er her in fight, From the Pole, snatch'd this Banner-Electric, of Light." " Fairy Elves ! Fairy Elves ! right have ye been ! " Presents like these, are meet gifts for our Queen ! " See ! her Guards, now approaching, her presence disclose, " Her Glow-worms are marching, in brilliant-lit rows, " Her Humming-Bird Band tells her presence is near, " Bid Echo, be ready, to welcome her here ! 121 ON THE EEADINGS OF SHAKESPEARE, Given by the late Charles Kemble. Is it illusion ? is it truth ? Reality or dreams ? A picture merely, or forsooth, The very thing it seems ? Seeing, in former days, was thought, To be, indeed, believing ; But, seeing thee, we're, rather, taught. That seeing is deceiving. The wondrous visions pass us by — Distinctly each appears ; We smile, to hear thy humour sly, And then, dissolve in tears. The Tragic Muse her face reveals — Who can her laughter blame ? Whilst Comedy's, a Mask conceals — She thinks, her crying, shame ! So mingled the sensations are, Thy Readings have created. That Admiration lends her ear. With ardour unabated. 122 CHAELES KEMBLE. All ! all, in quick succession pass, Like tints by Rainbows thrown — Like Shadows, in a Magic-Glass, Beheld, but quickly flown. Then, prythee ! tell me, which is true ? Something, thou must be, sure. Yet, ever, changing to my view. No image will endure. Great Caesar's majesty and might, No sooner was discern'd, Than stubborn Casca's angry spite, To gentle Lucius turn'd. Next, wily Antony appears — Our hearts responsive throb ; When, echoing a hundred cheers. One Man becomes a Mob ! Then, in Macbeth, thy mimic power Arose, to such a pitch, In dumb amaze, for half an hour, I fear'd thee, as a Witch ! I look'd upon thee in alarm, A thing my sight to scare ; I heard thee weave, thy fiendish charm- I saw thee melt in Air ! CHARLES KEMBLE. X23 It is in vain to find thee out, I from the task retreat ! Be still a mystery, a doubt, A fascinating cheat I A Microscopic Glass one takes, Nature's fine works to view, Which, more distinct, each wonder makes, Yet, shows, each blenush too. Thou art, that Microscopic Glass, Through which, we Shakespeare eye ; But, whilst the beauties clearer pass, We no defects descry ! 124 "TO THE FRIENDS, BEHIXD OUR BACK.' A "Welsh Toast. Here's a Health to the Friends, who are with us to-day — A Health to all those, that are near ; And a Health, too, to those, who are far, far away. Though we wish that we had them here. Here's a Health to the Friends, who have known us long. And have shar'd our Sorrow and Pain — Who have stood by our side, when we suffer' d wrong. And are ready to do so again ! There are many, who love us before our face, With a smile, and a fiatt'ring word ; But few, who will venture, in time of disgrace. For the Absent, in praise, to be heard : So here's Health to the Friend, who's a Friend in need. Whose courage is never slack — A Health to the Friends, who are Friends indeed, To the Friends, Behind our Back ! A WELSH TOAST. 125 Then, give honour to Wales, for its noble Toast — 'Tis a lesson for all to learn ! Let us, henceforth, in Friendship, each try to boast. We endeavour this praise to earn. Let us speak the Truth, or of Friend, or of Foe, And so may we never lack, A Friend to stand by us, in weal, or in woe, And befriend us — Behind our Back, 126 THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. We're grown so wise, so wondrous wise, In these improving days, That, what our Fathers deign' d to prize, Our Children cease to praise : We used to like a Fairy-Tale, They, only what is true, And Truth's become, so very stale — What are we all to do ? The Nursery, disdainful, burns. The Books, we fondly read ; To Scientific works, it turns, Which fill, with Facts, the head. No gaping crowds run after Punch — ■ None care for Colombine ; One never hears of Mother Bunch, We're grown, so very fine ! Marbles and Balls are thrown aside, The Hoop is scarcely known, Dolls, " their diminish'd heads must hide," The Magic-Lantern's fiown ! We cannot a Teetotum spin. Unless by Electricity ; Backgammon is, almost, a Sin — Cards, quite an eccentricity ! THE MARCH OF INTELLECT. 127 Dancing will, soon, be out of date, Both Polka, and Quadrille : And what, in the decrees of Fate, Is doom'd, their place, to fill ? Perhaps, some Youth, who comes to woo, Will thus, his Fair, address ; " Walk one of Euclid's problems through, Or waltz a Game of Chess ?" They say, "the Schoolmaster's abroad " — I wish he there would stay ! We've been enough, with Knowledge bor'd — Do, let us have, some Play ! To Learning, we have been the Slave, Oh ! grant us Relaxation ! A Holiday is, what we crave, For our Imagination. *o* I'll go and read " th' Arabian Nights," As, once, I us'd to do. So, Betty ! bring me in the Lights, And shut the Shutters to. But, lest a Friend, by chance drop in, (For fear I should be caught,) Give me, to hide my secret sin, " Philosophy in Sport." 128 SONG. The Cloud, that hides the Sun's bright face, Just as he's going down, And, to his beauty, adds a grace. Oh ! that is like thy Frown ! The Golden Ray, that falls so bright. On yonder wooded Isle, And brings forth, all its charms, to light. Oh ! that is like thy Smile ! The low tones of the cooing Dove, Bidding its mate rejoice, Revealing all its tender love, Oh ! that is like thy Voice ! The Dew-drop, that will not endure, When sultry noon is near. Transparent, liquid, bright, and pure, Oh ! that is like thy Tear ! The placid Lake, in which the Skies, Their own resemblance find. Calm, e'en when Tempests, round it rise, Oh ! that is like thy Mind ! But, to describe, thy perfect whole, Nature, at fault, would be, For to my fond, and loving Soul, Nought can compare with thee ! 129 "A GOOD SORT OF MAN." I really am terribly vex'd, To hear you abuse Mr. Q,. ! His merits, some take for a Text, Who know him, far better, than you. He will, soon, be a Person of fame — He'll be Knighted as soon as he can — So you, really^ are greatly to blame, Not to like, such a Good sort of Man ! If to Church, he does not often go, It need not your feelings so shock, For that he's religious, we know — He subscrib'd, to repairing the Clock ! Such Dinners, I'm told, as he gives — His Cook follows Soyer's own plan : In Taste most recherche he lives, Which shews, he's a Good sort of Man ! Then in dress he's remarkably neat — Employs the first Tailor in Town ; He mixes with all the elite. And is, sometimes, the Guest of the Crown ! 'Tis hinted he loses at Play, But, one must not too rigidly scan. The amusements, and things in that way, Of a really Good sort of a Man. 130 "a good sokt of man.' They say, he neglected his Mother, Yet nohody heard her complain ; He's not an affectionate Brother, But his Sisters are terribly plain ! At College, 'tis true, he was gay, And through many thousands, then ran. But, you know, that is done ev'ry day. By many a Good sort of Man ! He's of very old family race — With the Normans his ancestors came. But the Pedigree hard is to trace, And he's puzzled to make out his claim : Still, his Land's unincumber'd and clear, His House on an excellent plan — He has four, or five thousand a year — He must be a Good sort of Man ! He rides the best Horse in the County, And always keeps up with the Hounds ; And, though he's not famed for his bounty, Yet, Charity, must have its bounds. He's remarkably clever and funny — Sings duets, with Sophia and Ann — They don't care a bit for his money. But they bo like, a Good sort of Man. 131 BENEVOLENT WISHES. DeNB IBS. sir Sydney Smith, in by-gone days, By an old Friend attended. Exploring Surrey's lovely ways, Up Denbies Hill ascended. The Hero made a sudden stand, And seem'd absorb'd in thought — " Ah !" said his Friend, " the view is grand. One feels, with rapture fraught !" " 'Tis true," the Soldier cried, " for lo ! See, hence, straight looking down ; How very nicely, one could throw A Shell, in Dorking Town !" k2 132 THE WIFE. Oh ! those were Times, most happy Times, When you and I were young ; When we used to dance to the Village-chimes, As merrily they rung I When you rifled the hedges, to get me flowers. And brought home, such loads of Berries ; When you built me the best of all possible bowers, And we sat in it, eating Cherries ! Then oh ! what Times, what dismal Times, When you and I were parted — When they sent you away, to distant Climes, And you left me, broken-hearted ! When they cruelly said, you perhaps would die. Of a Black, or a Yellow, Fever ; Or might have your Head, else, exalted on high. On the Lance, of some " True Believer." And those were Times, too, wretched Times, When they intercepted your letter ; And hinted, that worst of all horrible crimes, That you might love another better ! When they whisper'd a Maiden, with coal-black eyes. Had made you prove untrue : And I wept, from Sunset to Sunrise, To think my eyes were Blue I THE WIFE. 133 But, those were Times, were happy Times, When you came back again ; And, walking, under the Beeches and Limes, You prov'd the truest of Men ; Declaring you lov'd me, better than Life, And, almost as well, as Glory ; And ended with asking my hand, as a Wife, Just like, a true Lover in Story ! And, this is a Time, a joyful Time, Now, we are both grown older ; But, though our years have past their prime. Love is, not a whit, the colder ; Yet, Time goes on, as fast as he can. And has done, what is very naughty — He has tum'd you, into a grey-hair'd man. And has made me — five and forty ! 134 THE LODGER'S PETITIOX. Dear Madam! I'm a wretched Man ! Do listen to my plaint, Whilst I endeavour, if I can. My miseries to paint ! A Lodger, at Miss Trim's, I've been, (Whose house you're, now, about,) And she declares, when you come in. That you will turn me out ! Why should you not, permit my stay ? Indeed, I'm very quiet ; I'd never get into your way, Nor make the smallest riot. Your friends could not, unjustly, blame- Discreet, I'm knoAvn to be ; And why be frightcn'd at my Name, Though it is Beverley ? I do not cough, I cannot smoke — I very seldom sneeze ; I ne'er was guilty of a joke. That might another teaze. The walls, you know, are very thick — I don't believe I snore : And quite abhor, the vulgar trick. Of banging, loud, the Door ! THE lodger's petition. 135 My Shoes are thin, and do not creak, Unless, when very new ; My Voice is gentle-ton'd, and weak; My Visitors are few : I never play'd the Violin; I've giv'n up the Flute : Sometimes I whistle, but to win Your favour, would be mute. Then, Lady ! pray permit my stay ! Grant me, the Second-floor ! And, I, on ev'ry Quarter-Day, Will pay, of pounds, a score. I've no objection to a Cat, I'm very fond of Flowers, Oh ! bless me, with the hope, then, that, YotiE House, may soon be oues. 136 SONG. I would, I were the sunny ray, To cheer thee with my light : And serve thee, till the vanquish'd Day, Gave place, to murky Night ! I would, I were the liquid air. To mingle with thy breath ; And press those lips, whose rubies rare. The roses put to death ! I would, I were the calm still shade, When heat makes \"igour fail, To watch, where'er thy footsteps stray'd. And shield thee, with my veil ! Or, might I be the Water-fall, To murmur in thine ear ; Then, I might dare to whisper all, That now to speak, I fear ! SONG. 137 But, didst thou grant one cheering smile, One look of kind reply, Not to be Lord of Britain's Isle, Would I, such bliss, deny. I would not change, with Prince or Peer- With Fairy, or with Elf : I'd be, thro' ev'ry coming year, Too happily, myself ! 138 NONSENSE. A Family Group. Stand back ! stand back ! how can you see, Your path, unless you're led by me ? If I should fail to guide you, pray, Who would you get, to lead the way ? Take warning then, and give me, hence. Priority o'er ev'ry Sense, And regal majesty descry, In the bright glances of the EYe. None can oppose, this righteous claim. Without incurring, justly, blame. Ask Man, what yields him most delight ? He'll answer, " 'tis the gift of Sight." By this, he gazes on the form. Whose beauty is a graceful charm ; By this, he views the glorious Sky, And starry wonders spread on high ; Or scans the landscape, rich and wide. By Nature spread on ev'ry side ; By this, he reads, each truthful line, Contain'd, within the Book Divine ; NONSENSE. And ponders, o'er the learned pages, That tell the tale, of former ages ; Or sees, the rare productions glow, That deck the Artist's Studio, Who, with a cunning hand, pourtrays, All objects that the world displays, And, on the Canvas, lets him see, Nature, in painted mimicry ! 139 Stay ! Sister, stay ! one little word. Should, surely, for the Eak be heard ! 'Tis I that bid Man's heart rejoice. When list'ning, to Affection's voice : Think, how poor Mortals would repine, Deprived of such a help, as mine ! How tedious Life were doom'd to be. Had Man, no cheering aid, from me ! See the Musician's kindling soul, Who scarce his rapture can control, When Harmony's melodious sound Is pour'd, through all the air, around. What pleasure, too, to listen told. The stories of the great, of old. And hear the Poet's tuneful strain. Bring, bygone years, to life again ! No, Sister, Man, if ask'd, 'tis clear. Would give his preference, to the Ear. 140 NONSENSE. 'Tis idle thus your time to waste, The first of Senses is the Taste ; Since Blind and Deaf, together, meet, Agreed, in happiness, to eat ! What were the good of luscious Fruit, The varied taste of Herb and Root ; The diff'rent flavours, that a Glutton, Discerns in Ven'son, Beef, and Mutton : The grateful sweets of Plum, or Fig, The sav'ry excellence of Pig : The Grape's fermented cheering juice : Thy glories, Michaelmas ! of Goose, With many others, I could mention. Of foreign import, and invention, Unless my power, the diff' rence teach, Between these delicacies each. Age gives up Eyesight, loses Hearing, Yet, Taste, each day, is more endearing ! So, let Experience decide. And give the verdict, on my side. Silence ! thou gross, terrestrial Elf, The first of Senses is myself; And all will be agreed, full well. No Sense, so needed, as the Smell ! 'Tis hence, the Poets praise the Rose, Which doth such fragrance rich disclose. NONSENSE. 141 Lost, were the Violet's modest bloom, Did I not trace the sweet perfume : And Age will sing my praise enough. Partaking of its fav'rite Snuff ; Which plainly, thus, the justice shews Of yielding honour to the Nose. I grieve at this disturbance, much — Does no one recollect the Touch ? How could the Minstrel sound the Lyre, Did he not skill, from me, acquire ? Or how, the Painter hope to trace. The features of the human face. Did I not guide, each shade and hue, To form, at length, resemblance true ? Ask of the poor, afflicted Blind, How he contrives, his way to find ; Or how, M'ith almost magic speed. His fingers have been taught to read ? He will not fail to own my worth. Were you all banish' d from the earth ! Pre-eminence, from me, you're stealing. Unless you yield the palm, to Feeling. Triflers ! why will ye thus dispute, No longer, dare I, to be mute, Lest you should work each other harm, Instead of joining, all, to charm. 142 NONSENSE. Why quarrel, which should greatest be. Insisting on Priority ? Struggle, no more, for place and right — In mutual friendliness unite : Let Sight to Hearing, lend her aid : So neither shall be e'er betray' d — Let appetite, no longer waste. But be supplied by Smell and Taste : "Whilst Feeling shall the finer grow. If he ne'er strike an angry blow ! A Friend from Heav'n, I come to prove, 'Tis best, to foremost be, in Love ; And not, vdth angry passion, try Alone, to gain the mastery ! A Stranger, I appear, I know. But, fain, a Helpmate, I would grow ; Content to have no home assign' d, I lodge, in ev'ry well-taught Mind — Ask you my name ? -without pretence, I answer, 'tis plain Common Sense ! 143 THE SINGLE LADY'S LAMENT. I've learnt to dance, I've learnt to sing — Of course, I've learnt to play ; And on a Callisthenic swing, Strange antics can display ; I've all the newest systems right, Yet, Fortune treats me ill ; For, is it not, a wonder, quite. That I am Single still ? I, often, drive to Hampstead Heath, And sit down, sketching, there ; With London, stretched out wide, beneath. Oh ! why should I despair ? I botanising, walk along. Quite on to High gate Hill : Yet, something, surely, must go wrong, For, I am Single still ! I had a touch at Chemistry, Could mingle Gases, grand ! Then wrote an English History — An Epic Poem plann'd ; Geologist, I since have turned. Of Strata talk with skill ; But, all that I have by it earn'd, Is, to be Single still ! 144 THE SIXGLE LADT's LAMENT. I'm very deeply versed in Ferns — Quite idolize Conchology ; A Scholar, soon, my taste discerns, For Heathenish Mythology : Both Greek and Latin I indite — Philosophize at will ; Sermons, on any subject, write — Why am I Single still ? I've taken, now, to Hebrew Roots, (Do'nt ask me, what they mean), "Work Logarithms, when it suits — To Egypt, I have been ! The Photographic Art I tried. That answer' d very ill ! Man's ugliness, I could not hide, So I am Single still I In "Tableaux Vivants," I'm admir'd — I've acted in a Play ; And at the Fancy Fair, tho' tir'd, I kept my stall all day : The Beaux throng' d round, and each with Grace, Discharg'd his little Bill, But, though they star'd me in the face. They left me Single still I THE SINGLE LADY's LAMENT. 145 I ride on horse-back ; sometimes hunt ; Each Archery-fete I try — 1 go out angling, in a Punt, I've learn' d to throw a Fly ! I like to row an eight-oar'd Boat, (Assist me ! those who will) — I would do anything of note, Not to be single still ! I really must begin again. And very gravely try. If better luck, I can attain. By sweet simplicity. Hark ! hark ! there's some one knocking loud — 'Tis only Dr. Pill! Yet, Maids like me, must not be proud, And HE is single, still ! 146 SPRING. ISIITATED FROM AN OLD FRE^-CH SoXG. The Weather doflFs his "Wintry vest, Of wind, and hail, and rain. And, in a gay embroid'ry drest, Comes forth, of Sun-shine, vain : With diamond-drops, the trees are hung, The brooks, in silver glide. Whilst em'rald fields, and daisies young. Shine rich in jewell'd pride. The icicles, now, stow'd away, In Winter's store-house lie ; And killing Frost's afraid to stay, Lest he himself should die : Each warbling Bird, upon its nest. Repeats the self-same tale, " The weather doffs its wintry vest. Of rain, and wind, and hail." The Storms march back, to regions north, Retreating with the snow ; The Summer air steals, gently, forth, And murm'ring breezes blow : With joy, all Nature seems possest. And sings, in cheerful kind, " The weather's doff'd his wintry vest, Of hail, and rain, and wind." 14: SONG. I saw thee fair, I thought thee true, I lov'd thee, all too well ; On Hope's hright wings, I gaily flew, In fancied bliss to dwell. Thy brow appear' d a regal throne. Where Constancy should reign ; I dreamt, thou wouldst be all mine own, But all my dreams were vain I In silver tones, I heard thee speak. Ah ! who could think of guile ? Who but must deem thee, mild and meek. To see thee, sweetly, smile ? Endow'd with ev'ry courtly grace, Enhancing Nature's charms. There was a magic, in thy face. That banish' d all alarms ! But, fickle as the changeful Wind, And treach'rous, as the Sea ; Unlike to all, I hop'd to find, I tear myself from thee ! Take back the oaths, thou hast forsworn, Return the pledge, I gave ! Death for thy sake, I'd gladly borne, But cannot live thy slave ! l2 148 A BALLAD, A Pussy-cat liv'd, in a Farmer's Barn, And a very good Cat was she ; She serv'd all the Mice, from its walls to Avarn, Catching ev'ry one, she could see. They fear'd the glance of her fiery eye, And the pounce of her vengeful paw ; There was not a Mousling, who dar'd come nigh, The scratch of her deadly claw. As, proudly, she stalk'd up and down the floor, The Mice, in their holes, grew pale ; And, even the Rats felt insecure. When she switch' d her terrible Tail ! The Kittens, her children, were all brought up, In a very uncommon way ; On a slaughter'd Mouse, she would nightly sup, And give them the bones, for play ! This Cat, she met with a horrible fate ; And does it not plainly shew. When 1, her untimely end, relate. That Vanity laid her low ? A BALLAD. 149 A little Dog, whom she knew in youth. Was settled, now, in Town ; And a letter from him, one day, forsooth. To her, by the Post, came down. He told of the wonders, he daily view'd, Lamenting her cruel lot. To live, in a dismal solitude. Forgetting, and forgot ! She thought, what he said, extremely true, Tho' it had not struck her before ; To her Native-home, she bade " Adieu," And set out, the world to explore. She arriv'd in London, very faint, And look'd about for a House, In a street, new-built, all stucco and paint, Without the sign of a Mouse ! Weaker and weaker, she grew, at length. For want of a slight repast, And, daily, losing her boasted strength. Of Hunger died, at last. I have heard it said, in Regent Street, Her Ghost may be often seen, Where in Winter you the Spectre meet. In a Sable Pelerine ! 150 A LOTTERY. Once, in a Garden, rich and gay, I saw a group of Girls, at play. Seated in a shady bower, Each, assum'd a fav'rite flower : "I choose the Lily," some one cried, " I love its stateliness and pride " — " Rather, let me a Rose be bright. Where scent and colour both unite " — " The Honeysuckle's made for me, 'Tis worshipp'd, by the busy Bee" — " A modest Violet be my share. Whose perfume scents the Morning-air "- " And I would, to a Primrose, change, Nor ever, from my Birth-place range " — " An Aloe, I prefer to shine. Once in a Century divine" — " An Orange-blossom on a Bride, In my own Carriage soon to ride " — Whilst a Companion, fond of show. Chose, a large Peony in blow ; And ridicul'd her Neighbour's lot, _ Content, with a Forget-me-not ! A LOTTERY. 151 Years past away : I met again, One of that blooming Maiden-train, And ask'd the fate of each fair child, Upon whose frolics I had smil'd. " The Lily has become ' your Grace,' Foremost in precedence, and place — The Rose is, now, a Poet's Queen, Her portrait, in his verse is seen — The Woodbine leads a cheerful life, And is an honest Tradesman's wife — The Violet blesses all around, The helpmate of a Curate found — The Primrose, to a Farmer wed. Lives on the Land, where she was bred — So long the Aloe's waiting staid, We set her down for an Old Maid — The Orange-wreath to India went, 'Midst Slaves and Palanquins content — The Peony is very rich, Her Husband, Lord of half Shoreditch " — "Yet one," I said, " is missing here," When, in her eye, arose a tear, " Her Grave is in a sacred spot, Mark'd with the words, " Forget-me-not 1" 152 THE HOLLY, Many sing the Rose's praise, Others vaunt the Lily ; Yet, they last not many days, So their love is silly. Jessamine with mjTtle t%\T.n'd, Is but youthful folly ; Give me grace and strength combin'd. As are in the Holly ! Holly-boughs, at Christmas-time, Bright, and green, and glowing ; Scarlet berries, in their prime, Rich in clusters growing ; See ! suspended from the wall. How its leaves are shining. Whilst the Old-folks, in the Hall, Underneath are dining ! Let us seek it m the field, Mark, how it is guarded ! All below, a prickly shield — Thus, its foes are warded ; But above, and out of reach, It is undefended ; May it not, a lesson teach, If we will attend it ? THE HOLLY. 153 Whilst we sojourn here below, Many Arms are needed ; Weapons to drive back the Foe, Should he come unheeded ; But, when we have reach' d the Sky, -Armour we may banish — We shall be secure on high, Enemies will vanish ! BURFORD BRIDGE. See ! along the dusty road, What strange shape appears ? 'Tis a venerable load. Left from by-gone years ! Years, when Railroads were unknown. Of which Age discourses, And when travelling, alone. Was perform'd, with Horses ! Nursemaids their Propellers stay — Children point in wonder — Ladies get out of the way, At the mimic Thunder. I'm an Antiquarian, now, And at its approach. Hat in hand, with rev'rence bow, To the Brighton Coach ! 154 SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare ! more great thy might appears, After the lapse of many years ! The world, we view around us now, In all its variegated show — The men we see on ev'ry side, In virtue, wisdom, crime, or pride — The female heart in ev'ry form. Whether in sunshine or in storm — The child, that in its eager play. Deems Life, but one long holiday — - The young, the middle-aged, the old. The coward false, or hero bold — The passions, which our being sway. Fierce, angry, gentle, grave, or gay — The Father's hopes, the Mother's fears, The Lover's prayers, the Maiden's tears — Combin'd with Nature's speechless scene, Of lofty cliff, or woodland green ; The Summer gay or Winter drear, The Spring, or Autumn of the year — SHAKESPEAKE. 155 What, ev'rywhere, around we see, How faithfully pourtray'd by thee ! Possest of that most touchiug grace. The human heart, with truth, to trace — Shewing, how Comedy and Woe, Are link'd together, as they go ; The fruits of most consummate art, Of simple Nature seem a part. The forms, thy fancy doth unfold, We as a looking-glass behold — Trace out the lines, thy pencil drew. And blush, as we believe them true ; And, when the darker tint prevails, Confess, in shame, what self-love veils, Acknowledging, the fatal scene, If it ne'er was, yet might have been ! Thus, wholesome diet for the mind, Hid, in thy mysteries, we find, " Sermons," indeed, "in stones," whilst "trees " Rustle their mute soliloquies ! 156 A KXOCK AT THE DOOR. London Lodgings. Was it a " Double," or was it a " Single r" Was it the Postman, or some one to call ; Or did a Carriage, thus make the sounds mingle ? Would we'd a window, look'd out from the Hall ! Was it the Butcher, or was it the Baker ? Was it the Doctor, or only the Pill ? That Girl is asleep, surely nothing will wake her ! Perhaps, after all, it was somebody's Bill . Better the plan, far, they have in Belgravia, " Servants " and " Visitors " ranged on each side, Giving one time, for one's pretty behaviour. Allowing a moment the litter to hide. Living in Lodgings, what can I discover ? The second-floor, sometimes, has knocks of its own, Miss D. in the parlour has, doubtless, a Lover — I know it is dull, to be all day alone ! Was it a Servant, sent round to enquire ? Was it the Pastrycook's Boy, with the Tartr Ls it Louisa, or is it Sophia, Or is it the Parcels-Delivery cart r A KNOCK AT THE DOOK. 157 [s it Game ! is it Ven'son ? a Turkey or Chine ? Such good things, oft, still, to my portion may fall, [f so, I must really ask some one to dine — " No ! Ma'am I 'tis a runaway rap after all." A PI C -N I C Box-Hill — Leith-Hill — which you please- Donkies, Ponies, Carriages — Hampers pack'd with ev'rything, Which for Dinner you can bring : One presents cold Leg of Lamb, From another comes a Ham, Some prefer a Pigeon-pie — Fruits in all variety — As the weather is so hot, Soda-water's not forgot ; And nobody will complain, If they get some iced Champagne. Not too many forks and knives — Not too many men and wives — Some small lack of plates and glasses, Half a dozen pretty lasses — Gentlemen the same to match — Any artist you can catch — Sit upon the Grass to eat — And the Pic-nic is complete ! 158 A DOMESTIC DITTY. My keys are lost ! what shall I do ? Go, Richard, if you please, Ask Thomas, Mary, Betsy, Sue, If they have seen my keys. Just after breakfast, by my hand, I know, 1 saw them lie, And, really, cannot understand, Where I have put them by. I've been upstairs, and down below, And in the Garden, too ; Yet, nobody appears to know. Where they are hid from view. I've open'd every box and book, I've hunted couch and chair, Each drawer, each closet, ev'ry nook- I'm really in despair ! That Basket, which I pack'd to-day, And to my Sister sent ; Perhaps, they slipp'd into the hay. And up to London went ! I've peep'd in ev'ry China Jar, Lest they might be inside — The Harp, Piano, and Guitar, Have all been mov'd aside. A DOMESTIC DITTY. 159 There's Mr. Cross will soon be back, No wine is out for Dinner ! Of scolding, I shall get no lack, Poor, miserable sinner ! The sideboard has a Bramah-key, No other will unlock it — But oh ! my gracious ! goodness me ! I've found them, in my pocket ! APRIL. An Eclogue, Says the Pip to the Mole, To the Thames as they roll, " We shall shortly be living in clover !" Says the Mole to the Pip, " Those Lambs, as they skip, Proclaim that the Winter is over !" Says Edward to John, " Now, the cold weather's gone. Our friends will be giving us greeting !" Says John, to his chum, "When those Londoners come. That Lamb will be excellent eating !" 160 THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. Most wondrous specimen of Art, With Nature's laws combin'd, Thou actest an Enchanter's part, Unrivall'd in its kind ! The fabled wonders, that of old, Our childhood lov'd to read, Have scarcely equal marvels told. To match thy magic speed. United, at a moment's date. Two distant spots appear ; Whilst, Time and Space annihilate, Remotest regions, hear. O'er miles and miles the message flies - No sooner is it said. The far-off" listener replies. Before a moment's fled ! « Thus, Science, in these modern days, This toilsome world is bright'ning : A Thunder-cloud, the Mail conveys — The Post's a Flash of Lightning ! 161 DOUBTS. "Doubt Truth to he a Liar." — Hamlbt. There is no fact in History, Which is not controverted — The plainest truth's a mystery, The simplest tale perverted. Wise Canute, seated in his chair, Ne'er reason'd with the Sea, Whilst Courtiers round, in mute despair. Remark' d his irony. Alfred the Great, from female Scold, No angry lecture earn'd. Because, forgetting w^hat she told. He let the Cakes be bum'd ! From Edward's arm, no faithful wife Suck'd forth the poison dire ; And Ca?ur de Lion owed not life. To Blondel's minstrel-lyre. 162 DOUBTS. King Richard ne'er a Crook-back grew, Nor us'd a T5Tant's power ; They slander him, who say he slew His Nephews in the Tower ! Henry the Eighth was mild and kind, By some it has been said ; Only to spoil his Wives inclin'd, When he cut off their head ! That Charles ^vithin the Oak was hid, Some contradict quite flat ; Whilst others, confident, forbid, The calling Falstaff fat : And, what can one with writers do, Who hint at their intention. To prove Gunpowder-plot untrue — Guy Fawkes a mere invention ! Then Whittington, some sceptics say. When all his hopes were undone. Heard not, the Bells, distinctly, say, " Return, Lord Mayor of London." Whilst others venture to maintain, (But none will credit that), Though Fortune loaded him with gain, He never had a Cat ! DOUBIS. 163 People will doubt the best known fact, Declaring it a Joke : Witness, Sir Walter Raleigh's act. Of laying down his Cloak ! Our dearest tales are, thus, purloin' d, Yet, certain-sure there are things. For instance, that Queen Anne ne'er coin'd, Above a brace of Farthings ! It would be different, if, now. We deem'd some facts a fable — Witness that great Sea-serpent show — The Transatlantic Cable I Surely the Fishes will suspect, On seeing the Machine, Their Mother Ocean's being deck'd, '' In Fashion's Crinoline ! m2 164 THE ELEPHANT AND THE GIRAFFE. A Fable. Once, on a time — in distant lands — I think, on Afric's burning sands, A very handsome, tall Giraffe, Chose, at an Elephant, to laugh ; And cried, " Oh ! most deform'd in feature, Thou refuse of the works of Nature ! Upon my soul, it grieves me quite. To see you such a horrid fright ! Those crooked legs, that wrinkled skin — Those eyes, no bigger than a pin — That trunk, which one might well suppose, A Serpent, dangling, from your nose — Poor fellow ! you must really be, Half dead of Envy, viewing me ! Behold my graceful, pliant neck — The turrets, that my forehead deck — The polish' d sleekness of my side — The colours of my dappled hide ; Mark well, my ambling, easy pace. All lightness, elegance, and grace ! Yet, should some urgent wish, or need. Require me to put forth my speed, I fly, and swiftly as the wind. Scarce touch the plains, I leave behind ; THE ELEPHANT AND THE GIRAFFE. 165 Whilst you, with solemn step, and slow, Shake the firm earth, where'er you go." More had he said, but some alarm Arose, of an approaching storm. And well he knew, the dreadful doom, Of being caught in the Simoom ! Vainly, he look'd for shelter round — Nor tree, nor rock was, near him found ! By direful thoughts his mind was crost, He gave himself quite \ip for lost ! 'Twas then the Elephant was heard ; " Harsh is your speech, and rude your word. And did I to resentment yield, Your death would meet you on the field ; But, it is noble to forgive. And by my aid, you yet may live : My heavy form may meet the blast, And shelter you, till it have past." Then kneeling down upon the ground. He curl'd his Trunk, the Giraffe round ; The storm rush'd on its dreadful course. All Nature yielded to its force. And sad had been the Girafi'e's end. But for his kind, and faithful friend ! The evil hour, at length, was o'er, The two stood, where they stood before ; 166 THE ELEPHANT AND THE GIEAFFE. But oil ! how difF'rent, now, was he, Who first begun the Colloquy ! Tears were fast rolling from his eyes, Whilst, from his Chest, hurst heavy sighs ; " Forgive me, oh ! forgive," he cried, My sinful vanity and pride, Nor scorn me, if I now confess. How sunk I feel in wretchedness ! Henceforward, let it he my part. To imitate thy virtuous heart, And study how to make amends. To the most generous of friends !" 167 ON A YOUNG LADY, TASTING PRESERVES FROM NINEVEH, IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM, 1856. " Sweets to the Sweet." — H.\.mlet. 'Tis not easy to say, how my Fancy is tickled, Hearing Laura has eaten Sennacherib pickled ; Nothing suits her, but what's many thousand years old, So her Lozenge is sweeten'd with Nimrod the Bold, And 'tis whisper'd, she uses, for clearing her throat. Mighty Nebuchadnezzar, boil'd down " en compote^ She would doctor her friends too, did anything ail us, With a calcin'd deposit of Sardanapalus ! Should a Cough teaze Papa, or a Cold does her Mammy di-ee. She will give, each, a Pill of preserv'd Semiramide, But, Fd best hold my tongue — keep the peace whilst I'm able. Lest, I'm sent off, in chains, to the Tower of Babel ! 168 "THE MOURNER." A Group, by Lough. Hurriedly, hurriedly over the plain, She hath her Avild way taken, For there lies her Husband, among the Slain, By all of his Band forsaken ! So wearily, wearily on she goes, Midst sights might her courage quail. As downwards, in anguish, her glance she throws. Till Reason begins to fail. Mournfully, mournfully, now, at the last. She hath in Death descried him ; With his broken sword, away from him cast — His faithful Steed beside him. Then, silently, silently down she kneels, O'crcome by gigantic sorrow ; And to the dumb creature her look appeals. Its firmness and strength to borrow. Tearfully, tearfully turn we away, The Artist indeed is a Master ! We weep the fate of a Lady in Clay — Shed tears o'er a Model in Plaster ! 169 TO A COUSIN IN AUSTRALIA. On his Birthday. Though 16000 miles away, We're in some sense united — Our thoughts are greeting you to-day, Whilst yours to us are plighted. 'Tis the same Sun, that lights us all, Tho' here he mildly gleams. Whilst upon you, in fierceness fall, His Equatorial beams. 'Tis the same Moon, whose tender ray Illumes the Ev'ning Sky ; Then hearts turn most to those away. Half deeming they are nigh ! 'Tis true, with you, the day is bright. Whilst we, asleep, are dreaming ; And, when your world is wrapt in night, The Dawn on us is gleaming. We lose the Sun, that you may see — Your absence is our pain — In both, let's hope, the truth to be. Our loss shall prove your gain ! 170 AN ALLEGORY. Old Time has a Library — see ! how grand, Arrang'd in long rows, the huge Volumes stand ! Ev'ry Volume is counted a Year, And Centuries form the compartments here ; Whilst the Months lie ready, all folded, round, For the Current Year, which is still unbound. This Week is wide open, awaiting still, For the present Day's sheet, of Good or 111. A Sentence distinct, each Hour completes. And each separate Word, as a Minute metes ; Whilst the Stops are put, by the striking Chime, That warns of the rapidly-passing Time. Man is the Printer — Oh ! let him beware. Of ev'ry Fact, that's recorded there ! 171 THE ROSE AND THE THORN From the Italian of Pignotti. Conceal' d within a Hawthorn bower, A Rose, put forth its loveliest flower, A Maiden fair, who scorn'd to dwell, Within that dark and narrow cell, Where scarce the Light an entrance found. The boughs so thickly twin'd around : Yet, midst the odoriferous shade, That by the scented leaves was made. She liv'd within her home obscure. Invisible, and thence secure. A tinge of Pink, at length, was seen. Peeping from out her vest of Green, And of her beauty, somewhat proud. She griev'd so close her charms to shroud. Wishing aside her veil to fling. Midst the bright Daughters of the Spring, In angry terms, the simple Maid, Would oft her Guardian-thorn upbraid. Say, it was cruel and uncouth, To tyrannise o'er tender Youth, And thus wear out her brightest age. In such a dreary Hermitage ! " Peace !" cried the Thorn, in tones severe. Let me no more such folly hear ! 172 THE EOSE AND THE THOEN. Henceforward, speak with greater sense, And learn, to value your defence ! If the meridian heat of day, Offend not, by its fervent ray, 'Tis I, a cooling screen oppose. To shield thee, silly, froward Rose ! "Who guards thee from the browsing flock, And in the elemental shock, Of Hail, or Rain, or blighting Wind, Where else couldst thou a shelter find r Be still ! and learn to love thy Home, Thy day of Glory is not come ! Thou knowest not the ills that bear, On tender plants, in open air !" Silent she stood, but not content — On Liberty her heart was bent ; And many a wayward thought was there. And many an impatient prayer. That Frost, or Thunderstorm, or Snow, Might lay her rigid Guardian low. And leave her, all the joys to prove. Of Freedom, Conquest, Power, and Love ! A Gardener next appear'd, whose care. With neatness trimm'd the gay Parterre ; Arm'd with a glitt'ring blade, he threw His glance, to where the Briar grew. THE ROSE AND THE THORN. \7''> And stretching forth his cruel knife, Depriv'd the Guardian-thorn of life ! Alone the rosy Fair was left, Of her old faithful Friend bereft ; But she, with Hope and Joy elate, Had witness'd her Protector's fate — She shed no tear, she felt no pain, Rejoic'd her liberty to gain ! The Sun upon her beauties shone, For all concealment, now, was gone : With haughty look, and scornful mien, She stood confess'd — the Garden-Queen ! The Dew at Dawn, impearl'd her hair — Around her play'd the Morning-air, Whilst ev'ry feather' d Minstrel strove. To win her praise, and gain her love ! But Pleasure flies, too quickly past, And Fortune's favours seldom last ; Since though To-day be clear and bright, The Clouds may dim, To-morrow's light, And Exaltation oft we see, Prophetic but of Misery ! A hungry Caterpillar, soon, Remember' d, 'twas the hour of Noon ; He always din'd at twelve, but, where Might he expect to find good cheer ? The Epicure turn'd round about. And soon the blooming Rose spied out : 174 THE ROSE AND THE THORN. " A Meal," he cried, is spread for me, What delicacies, here, I see ! The Gods might at my Table dine, And envy such a feast as mine ! " Insidiously, he crept along. Nor found his expectation wrong. He ate, till he could eat no more. Yet coveted a larger store. Being, for thus the saying ran, A Caterpillar- Alderman ! A passing Snail devour'd the rest, And relish' d much the savoury zest. The hapless Rose, with failing breath, Pray'd, but for welcome, speedy Death ! Parch'd by the Sun's excessive heat. Before her days were half complete, Without a Friend in her distress. To mitigate her wretchedness. Conscience recall'd, when thus forlorn, The fate of her Protector-thorn : " Thy words, alas ! were true," she cried, Then droop' d her weary head, and died. Ye Children, that in safety live. Beneath a Parent's tender care. One thought unto the Moral give, And of the Rose's fate — Beware ! THE KOSE AND THE THOEN. 175 A DREAM, Worn out, upon a Summer-day, when heat caus'd inactivity, I fell asleep, and thought I stray'd up Helicon's acclivity, But, soon, I fancied, I, the route, hy some chance had evaded, For from the shrubs that grew thereon, the blossoms all were faded. The Bay-trees, too, were wither'd, and the Laurel- leaves were shrivelled. Whilst Hippocrene's deep fount was turn'd, into a puny rivulet — The Muses' Temple ruin'd lay, as by an earthquake shaken sore. Their Harps thrown down unstrung, as though their tones should never waken more. In horror and amazement lost, with solemn adjuration, I begg'd Apollo to vouchsafe some sort of explanation; " Alas ! I cried, I ventur'd here, soliciting assistance. But I am like to find, I might as well have kept my distance, A trifling aid, from Charity, I'd thankfully receive. Yet fancy, by appearances, you've nothing left to give ! 176 A DREAM. Still, ere I, backward, turn my steps, to seek the land of Prose, Be pleas'd to tell your votary, the cause of all these woes." Scarce had I ceas'd, when close at hand, I heard a hideous groan. And turning round, Apollo saw, reclining on a stone ; His Bow was loose, his Lyre broke, his frame emaciated. And all the woes of Niobe, seem'd here retaliated. But, struggling with his feelings, he, at last, began to speak. His voice had lost its harmony, its tones were low and weak : " Good Friend !" he cried, " 1 much regret, this seeming incivility, But, to assist you, on my oath, I have not the ability ! Yet, 'tis so long, since I have heard such humble supplication. That fain I would, to you narrate, my piteous situation ; No longer, now, expectant crowds around my Altars throng. And wait my inspiration, ere they break forth into song; My glorious reign is nearly o'er, mypower annihilated, And all my sacred precincts, by rude hands are violated. A DEEAM. 177 These days of Liberty, alas ! engender strange opinions, And hosts of would-be poets, are dividing my dominions : No longer will they suffer, what they deem my usurpation. But, with unruly violence, demand emancipation ! 'Then, arm'd with Pens, they hither rush, ne'er asking my permission, .And join with one another, in the work of demolition. 'They've turn'd the Muses out of doors, to seek a new employment. Though, truth to tell, there's nothing left, to yield them, much enjoyment. A Poet-company would here erect a Brain-distillery, And Intellectual-marching-troops, seek fields for their Artillery. -Some sacrilegious wretches, too, would impiously dream, 3f raising up an Engine, to make Poetry by Steam ; And forming next a Railroad hence, to send it to the Press, Excursion-trains, will doubtless soon add more to my distress ; vVhilst Members of the Author-tribe are getting a Petition, ^y an Electric-telegraph to make more expedition. N 178 A DREAM. I dare not on Olympus' Height, midst other Gods appear, Lest they, and saucy Goddesses, at my misfortunes sneer, And ask, in these degenerate days, which all distinctions level. If poor Apollo had not best, start fresh as ' Printer's Devil?' One consolation, I have left, the sweetest, and the last ; 'Tis thinking over days gone by, and times, for ever' past, Years before Annuals came out, when Albums ne'er were heard of, And had they been, which many, then, could not have read a word of ; When I, enthron'd in clouds of state, now bade a Pindar thunder. Now sent a casual Sappho forth, an universal wonder ; For writing Poetry was then, esteem'd an Art mysterious. But ev'ry idle fellow, now sends forth his rhymes to weary us ; Each foolish damsel, too, presumes to string her thoughts in metre. And school-boy Bards esteem their Odes, than Horace's much neater. X DREAM. 179 The Newspapers amidst Debates, both Songs and Sonnets mingle, And Charlatans can't puff their goods save in poetic jingle. So, now, of all my miseries, I'll give o'er the recounting, And, if you'll take advice from me, you'll quick, descend this Mountain. Take Pen and Ink, and from you far, immediately throw it. Be what you will, but do not be, that horrid thing, A Poet!" n2 180 THE ROSE, THE JESSAMINE, AND THE OAK. P I G X O T T I . Upon a Streamlet's grassy side, Two Flowers bloom'd, in beauty's pride : A lovely Rose, round which did twine, A sweetly scented Jessamine. With rapture, in the water clear. They saw their mutual charms appear. And, of their merits, somewhat vain, Discours'd in a complacent strain. The Rose, began in flippant tone, Prais'd her Friend's graces, and her own, " We both are flowers, gay and bright, Who to soft Zephyr yield delight ; From us Man steals the garlands rare. He offers to his favourite Fair : Not all the family of flowers, Can boast of charms to rival ours — Few, with our radiance, can compare, And none surpass, in beauty rare. We please, at once, the raptur'd sight, And, with a fragrant scent, delight. A FABLE. 181 How many a Nymph has long'd, to view, On her pale cheeks, my vivid hue. When in her faithful Mirror seen, She quite abhors her pallid mien ! It is our lot, the Hair to deck. That falls around, some snow-white neck. Where, Avhen enthron'd, we often hear. Love's secrets, whisper'd in the ear ; So that amongst the floral race, We take, by right, the foremost place !" With joy and pride, each flatt'ring word. Was by the star-like flowret heard. In scornful laughter, then she spoke : " Just \iew yon antiquated Oak ! The jagged Leaves, I pray thee mark. The crooked Limbs and rugged Bark. What villain's hand placed such a Tree, In our refin'd vicinity? Its gloomy look, quite makes me sad, And sorrow for the health is bad ! The only friend, 'twill ever find. Must be some Boor, or rustic Hind — An error 'twas, in Madam Nature, To fashion such a hideous creature ; Instead of Oak, and Elm, and Pine, Long live the Rose and Jessamine !" 182 A FABLE. The proud Oak shook its lofty head. And bending to the Babblers, said, " Peace ! silly couple ! silent be ! To-morrow's Sun you may not see ; So many in a Season's space, Fade of your evanescent race — So unimportant is your birth. So quickly you return to earth — I scarcely notice, towering high. When you are born, or when you die ! For useless show, alone, you live, And mingled care and scorn receive. But I, a grateful shelter yield, To Flocks and Shepherds, in the field ; For centuries, these arms of mine Have furnished food to fatten Swine : And when grim Death approaches near. That enemy, I need not fear ; Kiding upon the foaming wave. The briny Sea, my sides shall lave ; Until, my stormy voyages o'er, I turn, triumphant, to the shore. Laden with many a precious spoil. To cheer Man in his daily toil : Whilst you, who, for an hour are priz'd, Will very shortly be despis'd — A FABLE. 183 Trode underfoot by those, who now, In short-liv'd adoration bow !" More the sagacious tree had said. But the vain triflers soon decay' d, And dropping to their parent earth, Disclos'd their slight intrinsic worth. Conceit, will Men of Sense despise. And outward-seeming, only, prize. Appearance, oftentimes, deceives ; Virtue, alone, true Merit gives. 184 THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT. PiGNOTTI. Beneath the Sun's o'erpow'ring ray. Hard toiling on a sultry day, With no small cost of toil and pains, An Ant drew home some heavy grains ; His wise forethought, and anxious care, Bade him for Winter-time prepare. A Grasshopper, who sported by. With chirrup loud, and clicking cry. Forthwith was heard to scoff and sneer. At labours for a future year ! But when the Frost and Snow began, Famish'd and nipp'd with cold, he ran. And tapping loud, where dwelt the Ant, Implor'd assistance for his want. The Ant replied : " I'm sorely vex'd. To see you look so much perplex'd ; But Winter's long, and newly come, And Charity begins at home !" Idlers ! reflect, ere 'tis too late, Or dread, this slothful insect's fate ! 185 THE FIRE-FLY. PiGNOTTI. The Sun had set — on Ebon wing. Night, to her throne, was hastening ; Her dusky mantle's shadow fell, O'er tree and herb, o'er hill and dell, And Twilight's sober tint of grey, Veil'd the last golden hues of Day. The Zephyrs, wakeful vigil, kept. Whilst weary Mortals peaceful slept ; And dewy vapours fell around. To renovate the arid ground. Beneath the friendly veil of Night, A Fire-fly wing'd his rapid flight ; Now, evenly, he sail'd along — Now, hover'd the dark trees among — Now, with a Meteor's brilliant glare, lUumin'd all the sombre air, Kindling a momentary blaze — Mocking the next the dazzled gaze. Some village children, still awake, Watch'd the bright track, o'er thorn and brake And all, most vehemently swore, The like, had ne'er been seen, before. 186 THE FIEE FLY- They e'en declar'd, no Bird, though rare, With their new Fav'rite, could compare. In vain. Canaries might uphold, The splendour of their coats of gold ; And vainly too, his brilliant throat. The Bullfinch might have bade them note. The Pheasant's coat of changing rays, Had lost, its wonted claim to Praise — Forgotten were the gorgeous dyes. That deck the Peacock's thousand Eyes. But, when the Insect heard, how loud. He was admir'd by the crowd. He thus address'd the little Band, That they his worth should understand. " Think not I spring from sordid Earth — I boast of more than mortal birth, For know, that Heaven's ethereal rays, Compose the beams, which round me blaze ! Those glitt'ring spots, that Stars you name, But emulate my wondrous flame ; To ornament the Skies, they're meant. The Fire-flies of the Firmament ! With borrow'd lustre glows the Gem, That sparkles in the Diadem ; For Diamonds only brightly shine, To imitate this light of mine." THE FIRE FLY. 187 The Children watch'd till daylight shone, Whilst the vain Insect boasted on. But now, the Eastern Gates unfold, Phoebus drives forth his Car of gold, The clouds disperse — the vapours fly, Proclaiming that the Sun is nigh. The Stars fade one by one away. Before the coming Dawn of Day; The haughty Firefly's pride was o'er, Transform'd, from what he was before, A paltry insect vile and mean, That needs the darkness to be seen. Let those, who make of what they know, A fruitless and vainglorious show, Causing the Ignorant to stare, The Light of Learning's Sun, beware! 188 THE APE, THE ASS, AND THE MOLE. PlGNOTTl. When discontent obscures the Mind, And makes us to our comforts blind, 'Twill help to cure this wretched state, If we, our neighbours, contemplate ; Should they, still greater evils* bear. We, patiently, must take our share. And, blessing Providence, observe, We suffer less, than we deserve. An Ape exclaim'd : " 'Tis very hard, Our race are all of Tails debarr'd ; They greatly err, who say that Nature, Is bountiful to ev'ry creature ! E'en Rats and Mice can boast a Tail, And hence presume, at us, to rail, And grin whene'er they pass us by, Perceiving our deformity." " Oh ! say not so, an Ass replied, My Tail no subject is of pride ; For wicked boys play many a trick. And beat me with a thorny stick ; A thousand insults, I endure, From which, you're perfectly secure ! THE APE, THE ASS, AND THE MOLE. 189 Far greater, is, the dire disgrace, To bear no Horns above my face ! See them majestically spread. Above the Cow's, and Bullock's head ; The silly Sheep, can boast, with pride, Of ornaments to me denied — Life is become a burthen, quite. Since first I learn'd, my wretched plight!" Their conversation was o'erheard — A Mole ask'd leave to say a word : " What sinful grumblings are these, Call me a SufF'rer, if you please ! Both Horns and Tails, I could despise, If gifted with a pair of Eyes, So learn to think your losses slight, Compar'd to mine — depriv'd of Sight ! 190 RANMOEE COMMON. Jenny was no vulgar Steed, But of first-rate Spanish breed — Not a Donkey " to be Let," But, a real, domestic Pet, Taking up a high degree. In a Private Family ; Though, on Ranmore, sent to stray. Sometimes for a holiday : Till, a thieving, Gipsy Band, Drove her from her native land, And her owners, for a year, Could, no tidings, of her, hear. Now, again from Town arriving, Over Clapham- common driving, "Jenny!" was the Coachman's C17 — " Jenny !" was the Boy's reply — Jenny gave a friendly bray. As she'd, to her Master, say, " By the star upon my side. By the streaks upon my hide, You may prove me for your own, Take me with you !" — It was done ! To the carriage, she was tied, Trotting after it, in pride. Henceforth, watch'd with double care, Gypsies view'd her in despair ! 191 SHRUB HILL. Perch'd in yonder lofty Trees, One, a busy City sees ; Or, more likely, 'tis a College, Rather noisy in its knowledge ; Sending forth a Deputation, Sometimes on a Visitation — Turning up, with glances keen, Soil and grass on Cotmandene ; As Geologists are known — Peering into Rock and Stone ! Each a Bird of Learning looks, 'Mongst that sable band of Rooks ; And of great importance each, By their solemn gait and speech ; Whilst grave sentinels around. Watch, with care, the neighb'ring ground. Till, at length, a warning cry. Bids them seek the safer sky. And they disappear from sight, With a steady, heavy flight ! Not long absent, they remain. Seeking soon their nests again. As if Sharers in the Place, With its old Ancestral Race ! 192 REMINISCENCES. " Nous avons change tout cela. — Moliire. Memory, some call a gift, But I don't agree ; Time flies by, and very swift. Goes half a Century ! For, I recollect events. Young folk scarce believe. And they fancy one invents, Only to deceive. Hardly can they deem it true. That in former days, Things wore, quite another hue. From our difierent ways. Steam-Boats — now familiar grown- When the tidings came, Of the first one, ever known. People cried, " For shame I" Vowing it a wicked act. To control the Sea ; And that some terrific fact. Would its guerdon be ! REMINISCENCES. 193 Then, ere Gas came, shining bright, "What was London's gloom r Little, seedling rows of Light, Blinking in a Tomb ! With that antiquated Band, Who were " Watchmen" call'd : Each a Lanthorn in his hand, As the hour he bawl'd. Hackney Coaches, I describe — Cabs then uncreated, And of Omnibus, the tribe, Unanticipated. Then the Dates, that pop out, too, (Grey hairs will appear), I remember Waterloo — Eight years old, that Year ! And the previous Season grand. When the Sov' reigns came — From a window, in the Strand, I beheld the same ! Worse, it grows the more one tells ! Quite disgrac'd I shall be — I remember Sadler's-wells, With funny Joe Grimaldi ! 194 AN INVITATION. To the air of " Scots wha hae." Friends, whom I in childhood knew, Who have prov'd in trial true, Who the Country love to view. Come and stay with me ! All round Dorking, we will roam, Visit Wotton, Evelyn's home, Back by Westcott we shall come, Sweet locality ! Through the Rookery, let's stray. Pass at Bury Hill a day, Visit Milton, old and grey, From antiquity I Into Deepdene entrance gain. And explore its rich domain — Art and Nature there maintain. Friendly rivalry ! Next, our way to Betchworth wend. Where the stately Limes extend — Like Cathedral Aisles, they blend, Light with Mystery ! AN INVITATION. . 195 Thence, the Chestnut-road, we'll trace — Giants writhing in grimace, Crooked limbs — contorted face, Peeping from each Tree ! To Fridley Farm, we must repair. Conversation Sharpe liv'd there — Rogers lov'd its tranquil air. Bard of Memory ! Over Norbury, we'll go. Gaze upon the vale below. Where fam'd D'Arblay wrote, you know, Camilla's History ! Then, ascending Denbies' height, Ranmore Common comes in sight — Polesden, too, where Wit grew bright. At Sheridan's decree ! Box-Hill, we'll delighted climb— Leith-Hill, with its view sublime — Far too wonderful, for rhyme, Is such scenery ! Sunsets bright with glory crown'd, Rainbows rising from the ground. Panoramas all around. Come yourselves, and see I 196 THE SIGNATURE. Some may deem it very silly, To adopt the name of " Lily ;" Yet, does there, a meaning lie, Hidden in the mystery ! Still, I am not, I confess, Rob'd in any Lily's dress. I am not that flowret pale. Scented fav'rite of the Vale ! Nor, that Regal Maid of France, With a brilliant, dazzling glance, Whom the Bourbons, on their Shield, Carried in the Battle-field ! Neither, in a snowy Boat, . Do L on the Water, float ; But, the Heralds all agree, (Tracing out my Pedigree), I have an undoubted claim. To adopt the Lily's name — Let me hope, that no disgrace, I have brought upon the race ! CO so > so , -< -j^t LIBRARY Qr ^Wt•UNIVtKV/^ o ^ "^aaMNiuv^^ ^^UIBRARYQc. %a3AINn-3\^^ '^^OJITVOJO'^ '^itfOJIWDJO^ vvlOS ANCElfx> .^;OFCAIIFO% .^.OFCAlIFOff^fj, f -^lllBRARYO/' iJUlTI .\WElJNIVERS/A vvlOSANCnfj> >- < o I University ot Cahtorni, la, Los Angeles L 007 190 854 5 f » iSi^OJ^E™ WGIOrjAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 378 539 i ■^/jasAiNnj' ^lOSANCfl, Z3 u» J < \m^ *^