THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE GIPSY KING AND OTHER POEMS. BY RICHARD IIOWITT. LONDON : THOMAS ARNOLD, PATERNOSTER ROW DEARDEN, NOTTINGHAM. 1840. H ^H TO WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT, £f)ts Folunu IS INSCRIBED, BY THEIR AFFECTIONATE BROTHER, THE AUTHOR. ]7v: CONTENTS >::.*■ PAGE I'llORM vv. — ™ — — "■ "~ ! Thk Gipsy King — — -~> — Sonnet to Mary Howitt ™ «» — ~» — The Life Canoe «- ~- -- — — «"" 59 To the Bee ~~ •-- — — ™ "• — • ' National Sonnets— England — — — Liberty ~~ -~~ ~~ -~> ^~ ~" - l0 The Reformation «- ~ ~» — — 69 Andrew Man-ell — — «•» <~ — 61 Paradise Lost, and its Author ~~ ~, «, ~» 62 Izaak Walton ~- -v. — — ~~ 63 Sir Thomas More ™ ™ ™ «- ~- 64 Church Ornaments ™ «- — ~~ — 65 The Rainbow of Life ~~ ™ -~ ~» -~ ~~ 66 Ideal Prospects ~~ ~~ ~~> — -~< — 68 Away with thee, Old Year ~ — — -~ «~ 70 England, England ! — — ~~ — »« 71 Alas upon a reed I leant ™ — «• ~-~ "- 72 The Mystery of Life ~. «- ~- -~ «~< «~ 74 To a Skylark ~~ -~ — — — "7 The Land of Song -~ ~« ~ ~~ «- ™ 79 Daybreak in June — — — -~ — — 81 The Poet's Quest — — — — «~ — 82 Napoleon and Washington — »~ — — « — ' c 3 Sonnet written in Liverpool ™ ~- ~ «•* — 84 »~ In Burns' Mausoleum «. «~ — — 85 «, In the same — ~~ ™ — «~ >~ 86 ~. On visiting Rydal Mount «. ~- -- -« 87 VI CONTENTS. The Woodman ... ... ... ... ... ... 88 Fancy — *v> — ... ... — — 96 Song — Soft light o'er the hills is breaking ~. — — 98 Sabbath Pilgrimage ... ... — ... — ... 99 Sonnet written in Colwick Woods ... ... ... ... 106 An Italian Scene — — ~« ... ... ~v 107 To Venice «. ». v» — — ... 108 Sonnet to Mrs. Jameson ~~ ~. «»» ~~ ~v. 109 Sonnet to a Portrait of Lady Jane Grey — — ... 110 We met, but were till then unknown ™ ~~ — 111 Church Goers ... — ... — ™ ...112 Poets ... — — — — — — 118 World Weariness ... ...... ™ ™ ... 120 Wilhelm's Return ... .~ — — .w — 121 Aspiration ~~ ... — — — — ... 124 Sleep and Death ™ ... ™ ™ — ~v. 125 The Strange Preacher — — ... — «. 126 Address to Scotland — ... «, ,~- 128 Natural Piety, ... «. — 131 Sleep's Phantasy — — — »~ ««. a~ ; *v. 132 Human Flowers ™ ~~ ... — ™ ... 134 Cupid and the Harp ™- ... ... 136 To Ephraim Browne ... ... ... ... 137 A Forest Colloquy ... ™ , 139 The Vintage — — ... ~, ™ 143 On Leaving England .w, ... ... ... 144 With Christ ... ... ... ... ... ™ ... 145 Hope and Memory — »», .„ ... 147 Flawford Churchyard — ... ... ... 150 The Indian Maid ... ... ... .... 151 The Forest Spring ^. ^ ™ .„ ... 154 On the Death of Helen Maria H. .... ... ... 150 > orth American Indians ... ... „, 157 She looks upon the Ping ... ... .^ 159 The Welcome Visitor ™ ™ ... ™ ... 161 Fading Snowdrops ... .... „. ^, .„ 103 The beautiful Dead ^. ... ... 164 Where is the Muse ? ... ... ... „. .^ 165 On the vanishing of good Old Customs ... 107 O, were I but a drop of dew — ... ... ... ... 108 Genius Driumphanl ... ... ... 169 CONTENTS. Vll Sonnet written in Winchester Cathedral ,~ ~« — - 171 On a November Sunrise ™ -" — «~- — 172 To an old English Village .~ ™ ~~ ™ ~ 173 Sonnet written in May ~. — ~~ «* ~~ 175 The same continued ™ — ™ — "~« 176 O Rosy Twilight Star ™ ™ -v. ™ ™ 177 The Hermit of Dale ™ ~. ~~ «- ™ 178 Natural Praise — ™ ~- — ~~ — 191 Stanzas — , ™ -v. «« ««• ««» ~<" 192 The Vanished Seasons — «. ~ -~> — 193 The Woodland Well ~ ~ — ™ 195 The Hunter of the Glen «~. ~« ~~, ™ ™ 196 A Moving Shadow ~~ ™ — ~~ ~» — 203 Childhood -~ — „» «»« — ~~> 20i PROEM A.ll hail ! ye British Buccaneers ! Ye English Ishmaelites, all hail ! A jovial and marauding band, Against the goodliest of the land Ye go— and ye prevail. Man's cultured Eden casts ye forth, Where'er ye list to wander wide, Wild heaths, and wilder glens to tread, The spacious earth before you spread, Your hearts your only guide. Like clouds that move about the heavens, Still varying to the winds their forms, Erratic through the earth ye go, Companions of the sleet and snow, And mists and mountain storms. PROEM. Companions of all lovely weather Ye are no less : Spring's earliest traces Insensibly into you melt ; And summer's charms by you are felt In earth's most desert places. The Indian in old forests far, By Mississippi's wandering floods, With his small hut of cane or reeds, A life of smiling pleasure leads In his ancestral woods. And there, e'en there, ye roving tribe, Ye meet the red man in the wild, Ye camp beside those giant floods, And share the fortunes of the woods With Nature's tameless child. Hence - hence it is ye look with scorn On the poor peasant's endless toil ; Pressed down with rents and taxes;— rents Nor taxes pay you for your tents, Nor till for lords the soil. The wind that blows where'er it lists — A wave that dances on the sea — A reinless steed — a gushing spring - A falcon soaring on free wing — Are not more free than ye. THE GIPSY KING. PART I. Wild blew the keen November blast Through naked fields and woods forlorn ; Where, in the sighing of the sedge, Beneath the leafless hawthorn hedge, The hero of mv tale was born. Wild as the season was the scene — For they were camped by Harlow Wood ; Whence a vast heath lay in the view, Immensity of coldest blue, Enough to freeze the blood. B 2 THE GIPSY KING. Yet cared not Boswell Kemp for cold, Who scorned the dwelling fixed and warm Daily he trod in danger's track, And never yet had turned his back Upon the fiercest storm. As little cared he for that mother, As little for that new-born child ; More keenly yet the wind might blow, The sleet descend, and drifting snow Enwrap the forest wild. For Boswell Kemp of life was weary, And sought in strife his thoughts to lose : In scorn of life the man was brave, And gladly would have found a grave In conflict with his foes. Within him was the desperate strife - A struggle stern from day to day ; Pride — with remorse that never dies — Yet thoughts which were his enemies, Had not the power to slay. That day had I a sportsman been, And wander d o'er the heath afar, When in the evening"^ frosty haze Far off I saw their camp fire blaze As tranquil as a star. THE GIPSY KING. The moorcock sprang up at my feet, And blundering through the darkness flew, And when he closed his whizzing wing, Shrill came, as from some woful thing, The pipe of the curlew. " Scape, scape," screamed out the rising snipe When pressed my feet the bordering marsh ; And sudden, starting up behind, The Avimbrel whistled down the wind, And boomed the bittern harsh. Onward for Harlow-wood I held, Driving along o'er dry and damp ; Guided and cheered along the night, As by a friendly beacon light, To reach the gipsies' camp. I met no troops of asses loosed — And but one tent before me stood ; Distinctly in the darkness seen ; Where in past years had many been, Beneath the sheltering wood. Yet pleased was I old Kemp to see, Who wandering through the country went : Who home had none on nature's face, Still moving on from place to place, An Arab with his tent. THE GIPSY KIMi. Some years had passed since last we met, And then a jovial man was he ; But where was now his good wife Ann, The loveliest dame of all the clan, Whom there I wont to see. I too had asked of little Grace, But something check'd my utterance bold ; For soon I missed the father's pet, With flowing locks and eyes of jet — A maiden four years old. I saw that father's face grow dark — That mother's cheek grow yet more wan : " How's this," said I, " you used to be A large and jovial company, A bold and thriving clan ? " "The clan to hell," he sternly growled, " I loathe them as I loathe my life : They shared my youth, ray pride of soul, They shared my purse and shared my bowl. Then vanished with my wife. ' A silence crept o'er all the tent, And sadness o'er that silence crept, Till 1 could scarcely deem 'twas In Who with that merry company Had there such revel kept. THE GIPSY KING. I saw the darkness of his soul, I saw that mother s painful plight ; All further question I forbore, — And turning promptly to the door, I bade the pair " goodnight ! " I heard that new-born infant's wail, And marked the mother's looks forlorn, Where in the sighing of the sedge, Beneath the leafless hawthorn hedge, The hero of my tale was born. Said I, " if Boswell's wife has left him, To wander with some roving brother, Whate'er he felt, the case is clear That still to him is woman dear, Who soon has found another." ' w In Britain, circled by the sea, A thousand hearths are warm and bright, Where mothers on their infants smile, New-born, in this delightful isle, On this November night. '&' " The thankful father stands apart, And cannot half suppress his pleasure ; The nurse is cross, yet inly pleased, To be by many gigglers teased, Who first shall nurse the treasure. THE GIPSY KING. " And this poor wretch, this outcast thing, Has nothing on the earth to cheer her ; Has nought the painful couch to smoothe ; And when she looks for love to soothe, Dark hate is standing near her. " Alas ! how changed a scene is this, Since Eve, untended in her pain, Lay, though cast out from Eden's bowers, Where first upon her couch of flowers, She smiled on infant Cain. " Soft was the gloom of shadowy houghs, — Soft were the cooings of the dove ; The wandering breezes warmly press 'd To pour their sweets upon her breast, — All sights, all sounds were love. " The stream that murmured at her feet Had not a lulling sound in vain ; Nor waterfall far distant heard ; Nor singing of the summer bird, To charm away her pain. " Alas ! " I sighed, and homeward hied, — The heavens were high, and darkly bright ; And lower seemed unto the eye The stars let down amid the sky, On that November night. THE GIPSY KING. PART II. " Tis May, 'tis May, all things confess it, — The heavens above, the earth beneath ; A thousand primrose stars are out, And loud I hear the cuckoo shout, Far on the open heath. " Yet never were the skies so blue, Nor were the clouds so filled with, light ; Such blossoms never yet were seen, Nor ever was the earth so green, And tender on the sight. " Still louder shout, 0, cuckoo bold, Lark, rain thy music without measure ; As though I were again a boy, I will this blessed time enjoy, O'erflowed with nature's pleasure." 10 THE GIPSY KING. Thus, in my buoyancy of spirit, I cried unto myself aloud ; Out in the morning, dewy, bright : And seemed unto myself as light As is a summer cloud. Proud was I that my lot was cast Where I could roam the forest hoary, By Fountain-dale and Harlow-wood, The haunts of brave old Robin Hood, With his romantic story. And there was freedom for the soul In that unbounded range of vision, Dreamt I or not of Robin Hood, Where slept the heath like ocean's flood, Through summer days elysian. Delightful roamed I, till, surprised, Another vision on me broke : With horses, asses, near me grazing, I on the Gipsies' camp was gazing, Beneath the forest oak. There met my sight a scene grotesque — Blent with the dogs in playful quarrel, Small heads in hats capacious drowned — And long coat laps trailed on the ground Lads dressed in men's apparel. THE GIPSY KING. 11 Forth from the tents a woman stept, As swarthy as a dusk Hindoo, Who on me looked with feigned surprise — Then fixed on me her raven eyes, As she would look me through. She knew me, and the lines of life Along my hands had shrewdly eyed : And with a wink and nodded head, Had promised me that I should wed A rich and blooming bride. And these were they with whom had dwelt Stern Boswell Kemp from earliest life ; The villainous intriguing clan, Seducers of the peerless Ann, The Gipsy's charming wife. Yet vainly asking for the dame, Did I from tent to tent proceed : I only marked the nod profound ; Or caught dark whispers circling round, Of some mysterious deed. From them I learnt, the mother sad, Whom I with Boswell Kemp had seen In that November forest wild, Was one, whom his fair words beguiled Away from Emsley-Green. 12 THE GIPSY KINCJ. He could not love, the time was past : He only lived to hate his kind : Yet whilst he wooed the village maid He felt the torturing power allayed, That preyed upon his mind. And hers had been a blessed lot, With one fair babe alone to tend ; And well, the Vicar's wife, 'twas known, Had in confiding goodness grown, To treat her as her friend. But from that wTetched day she never One moment's calm or comfort knew ; For soon his frenzied moods returned ; And more and more she inly mourned, As her affection grew. Whence were his nightly feverish starts, The glaring eye, the clenched hand, The clammy forehead, damp and chill ? Strange signs of some invisible ill, She did not understand. And out he went in widest nights, When dreadful was the rocking din ; He to the tempest gave his form, As he would struggle with the storm, A little ease to win. THE GIPSY KIN THE GIPSY KING. Thus to and fro about the heath He wandered, aimless in his awe : With a strange whirling of the brain ; Despair and dread remorse, through pain, Creating what he saw. Thence through the land alone he roamed,- And camped in many a lonely place, Where seldom human foot had been, Where never human face was seen, The farthest from his race. Nor until solitude had calmed The raging fever of his mind, And given composure to his cheek, Did he again consent to seek The haunts of humankind. Thus much did he to Amy Lee In half-delirious moods confess : With many a vacant pause and start — But not as would a weary heart Unburthen its distress. Murmur he did not — could not weep — Perish he might — but could not bend — As he was in his earliest years, Unawed by threats, unmoved by tears, He quailed not to his end. THE GIPSY KIN'i. IT He something spake of little Grace — Dark hints, but vaguely understood, Of perjured wives, and faithless mothers ; And that he knew she was another's, And that he shed her blood. And yet more vague became his speech — He talked of past as present hours ; Of primrose buds, and dying Grace, And saw, as in some present place, Blood mingled with sweet flowers. Alas, for thee, poor Amy Lee ! — When Boswell Kemp had lost his reason. The fairy frostwork in the tree Was then no glorious sight for thee, In that inclement season. Then with the baby at thy bosom, A woe of dreadful power was thine ; A mother wert thou, not a wife, — And in that babe thou hadst a life, Which thou couldst not resign. The winds were all too rough ; the heavens Had little mercy ; night and day More keenly cruel grew the weather, Where Woe and Winter met together, A dire and double sway. IS THE GIPSY KING. Her heart beat coldly in her breast : Her love of life with hope was gone : Yet when she looked upon her child, She on the gathering darkness smiled, And in its life lived on. She dared not meet her poor old father, Nor look her mother in the face, Who such a vicious life had led, "Wandering with Boswell Kemp unwed, Despised, from place to place. But when the Gipsy died, she went, Their aid in that dark hour to borrow ; Yet long she needed not their aid — For quickly in the grave she laid Her load of mortal sorrow. A touching sight it was to see Poor Amy, when the village Pastor Knelt by her, in her dying day, He, who, before she went away, Long time had been her master. Her mistress then was in her heart, With all her care, and all her kindness- Goodness she learned too late to prize — Whilst hazy tears suffused her eyes, And wrapt the room in blindness. • THE GIPSY KINt;. 19 She felt her parents' grief — and feared How much her babe would them encumber : Then gazed on its unconscious sleep — And gazing thus, sank in a deep And everlasting slumber. She erred, she sorrowed, and she slept, — And Pity on her bier attended : And Youth was sad, and Beauty pale, When listening to the woful tale Of life thus sadly ended. THE GIPSY KING PART III. The harvest moon is in the sky, The fullest moon of all the year : And where it yet unreaped doth stand In golden patches on the land, The corn is rustling sere. Now groan and rock the loaded wains, And tinkle gears on hill and dale : Stout I.aliour triumphs on the earth, But with his labour mingles mirth, Inspired by nut-brown ale. It is a time of large delight, And Plenty fills her ample horn How jovially the time doth pass ; Tbe reaper eyes the reaping lass, The farmer eyes his corn. HIE GIPSY KING. 21 " The stars are out," cried Ellen Brooke, " The moon is up and fair to see ; And I will pace our shrubbery walk, And with my buried mother talk, In pensive reverie. " How pleasantly, and with what calm Fills all the earth this silver flood : 'Tis day — but with a softer shade — A time for Love, and Memory made — To charm the fair and good. " How do I love these moonlight nights, How love the mingled light and gloom ; When on me in the dusk alone, By sighing winds is softly blown, The breath of fading bloom." And ever thus alone she walked, As fair as in her Eden, Eve ; With lightsome step, and pensive brow, Beneath the beech, or linden bough, Her lonely thoughts to weave. And there was one those haunts who loved, Who comes this night old scenes to see ; Who had her early playmate been, But whom for years she had not seen, The son of Amy Lee : c 3 22 in l: <;ii'-y king. Of Bos well Kemp's despair, the son : That Orphan-hoy, misfortune's heir ; Whom, for their servant Amy's sake, The Vicar and his wife did take, Their Ellen's sports to share. Twelve years beneath the Vicar's roof The smooth stream of his life had run ; He there a sister found, and mother — And unto all who knew no other, Had seemed the Vicar's son. He had his father's raven hair — His father's dark and piercing eyes — Bold front, and sinews firmly knit, Which early marked him out as fit For hardy enterprise. To run, to wrestle, or to leap ; To climb the forest's topmost tree ; To dart along the stream, to dive, Or with the torrent's might to strive. Brave equal, none had he. And soon he felt his father's blood, < >n, through his veins more strongly flow Desires intense had he to roam, Like birds which seek a foreign home. Unknowing why they go. THE GIPSY KIN THE GIPSY KING. And lucky was the Farmer thought Who had the fortune to compound : Nahal's good hap did he possess, When David in the wilderness With safety hedged him round. Thenceforth what of their king hecame ? He had the fate of other kings — To his last gasp his power he kept- He reigned his time — then soundly slept Amongst forgotten things. Yet was not totally forgot — Amongst his trihe he left a name. With stains of deepest dye defaced, Yet with some traits that would have graced The greatest in their fame. POEMS POEMS. SONNET TO MARY HOWTTT Oh, my loved Sister ! from the wise and good What wealth you gather of applauses rare, At Esher, breathing the delicious air Of a song-memorable neighbourhood : With books, with leisure, lane, and heath, and wood : With One, in all you prize the most, to share, Children at once intelligent and fair — And by the world your worth — part understood ! May song, which you have honoured, heap on you Perpetual blessings : light, that light procures, The life of mind, the splendour which endures, More love you cannot have than is your due, — More worship of the many, or the few — God prosper you in Fortune ! Fame is your's ! E POEMS. THE LIFE CANOE Merrily, cheerily, down the stream Our life canoe sails on, Till the pleasant wealth of youth and health All unperceived is gone. And many a barque of tiny sail Is finally upset, Where many a whirl and many a toss Amongst the rocks we get. But broad, and broader grows the stream, The wrecks too many, though few ; As back we look to the haunts of youth, Dim in the distance blue. Around the east the orange and rose Fade into common day, As in our merry life canoe The laughter dies away And sweetest flowers, dear life canoe ! The fairest flowers of spring, Fade round thee fast — around thee, blithe, The birds no longer sing. POEMS. 51 The pleasant stream, the happy dream Of youth is left for ever : And onwards speeds our life canoe DoAvn Time's impetuous river. Still broad, and broader grows the stream, And fast it flows, and free ; And now our human life canoe Is on the open sea. Our human life, O God of Love ! It is a sacred thing ; Over it spread, Almighty Dove ! The shelter of thy wing. Vast is the sea of human life, An ocean dread and dim ; And upwards from our life canoe Ascends a holy hymn. O ! need there is God's eye should mark, The eye unclosed by sleep, Our course, now that the human soul Is on the dangerous deep. His wonders in the deep we see, The agony, the strife, And all the pleasant interchange Of various human life. e 2 52 poems. Gaunt Death before us in his barque Is dimly seen to glide, And life before his spectral prow Falls starlike to the tide. Yet pleasant islands round are spread ; On every hand we see The isles of Love, the isles of Bliss, Gems in our human sea. We touch on many a lovely strand, Through wondrous realms we pace, Where God is seen in many a scent •. In many a form and face. We enter mighty cities — there On princely grandeur gaze ; And marvel at the skill of man — And his Creator praise. And still we voyage, — voyage on — And seriously go we ; For many are the ways to Death Our eyes can never see. 'Tis a mysterious thing, O God ! This life's precarious spark- Should cross the dread abyss of years In such a fragile barque. POEMS. 53 This atom life, this grain of sand ! That would as nothing be, Against His anger, in His hand, Who framed Time's wondrous sea. Still on we voyage, — voyage on — Through storm and shine we go : With the gates of Death around, above — And the rocks of Death below. Sweet music greets us : whence that strain, From mermaid of the rock ? Or from some shepherd of the hills, Piping to his flock ? music ! — thou should'st not be heard, Thou soul of dulcet breath ! A sound of mockery dost thou seem In such a world of death. There comes a wail upon the gale, The cry of human ill ; And now the sound yet fainter comes — We listen — all is still. The wrecks arc here, the wrecks arc then — There's never a passing wave But unto us the hillock seems, That marks a human grave. .54 POEMS. Where are our youthful voyagers ? — I marvel where they be ! The many that were, Hie few that are — How silent grows the sea ! Still on we sail before the gale, The unknown to explore : Knowing our voyage is but one — That we return no more. Hour after hour a slumberous power Has wildly clothed the west ; The winds have died away — the waves Have rippled into rest. The dreamy monsters of the deep No longer round us play : The sun is gone, the stars are wan — The mist is still and gray. How beautiful is youth — how brief ! Unlovely is the grave ; Alas ! our lifeless life canoe Rocks oarless on the wave ! Our sheltering ark through tempests stark, Our palace — home of pride ! And must we leave thee, life canoe ! To perish on the tide '. POEMS. 55 A leaf upon a stagnant lake — A reed upon the shore — We touch upon the land of Death- Our Indian voyage is o'er. TO THE BEE. Odorous reveller in clover, Happy hummer, England over : Blossom kisser ! wing thy way Where the breeze keeps holiday : Thou art like the Poet, free ; All sweet flowers have sweets for thee, Insect minstrel ! blessed Bee. Sunburnt labourer, brisk and brown, Everywhere o'er dale and down : Spring's blithe pursuivant, and page ; Hermit holy, Druid sage : Pattering in a Foxglove-bell ; Cloistered snug as in a cell ; — Fairy of the lonely dell. Sometimes a small spot of shade By the dappling maple made, Do I think thee, and thy note Hum of cities heard remote ; .-><; poems. Here and there, now more, now less, .Seems thy droning to express Noontide lazy weariness. What sweet traffic dost thou driv Endless nature is thy hive ! Pasture after pasture roam — Vagrant ! everywhere at home ! We but see thy gorgeous bowers, Whilst thou spendest all thy hours, In the very heart of flowers. Freshest feeling hast thou wrought In me, of old homebred thought : Of dear homesteads flower-o'ergrown. Well in blessed boyhood known ; In thy warm familiar sound Years of summer youth are found, .Sabbath, sunshine, without bound ! Temples, nobler none, are thine, Where each flower thou mak'st a shrine Nor may any pilgrim bow .More devotedly than thou : Grate-like petals open-blown, Wide for thee, and thee alone, Where thou com'sl as to a throne. POEMS. 57 Ah ! how sleepy — thou 1 ween In the poppies' bloom hast been ; Or art drunken with the wine Of Hushed rose or eglantine : Boundless revel dost thou keep Till o'ercorae with golden sleep — Tiny Bacchus, drinking deep. Cheery Pilgrim, sportive Fay ! Sing and wing thy life away ! Never pang thy course attends, Lack of love, nor feigning friends In a blossom thou art blest, And canst sink to sweetest rest, Homed where'er thou likest best. NATIONAL SONNETS. ENGLAND 1 England ! my native land, O loved the most Not for thy wealth, that could not make thee great ; Nor power, though now a thousand years elate, Walled round hy love with valour's peerless host ; But that thou art of every land the boast For glorious charters of an ancient date, Through which from time to time regenerate, Thou shed'st new light on every distant coast. Whence had America the soul she prizes, But from thine institutions famed of old ? And if in her more bright our phoenix rises, [f from her ore more pure flows freedom's gold. We hail the light that cheers and that surprises, England, thy first-born, beautiful and bold ! NATIONAL SONNETS. 59 LIBERTY. Amongst the highest mountains did I meet A lovely creature in her native home, Faker than sunset in the ocean foam, Yet whose white robes flowed blood-stained to her feet, Whilst shone her eyes with love benignly sweet : One seemed she framed not land or sea to roam, Her robes the tempests, and the heavens her dome, A constant star, no meteor wildly fleet. " Whence is this blood," I cried, " O being fair ?" " They that adore me shed it for my sake." Sadly she spake, and sighed, " Nor is it rare, Yet love and truth alone my temple make ; These are the pillars that no storm can shake Of Liberty, that loves the mountains bare." K(l NATIONAL SONNETS. THE REFORMATION. To fields remote, through many a vale it wound, To grange and hamlet the glad tidings went ; The shout of cities raised with one consent To heaven : and smitten by that ecstatic sound Rome's sceptre broken fell unto the ground ; And cowl and sackcloth were asunder rent, — Widely through British hearts was breathed con- tent, And cheerful faith, and thankfulness profound. No more religion, hopeless as a nun Vested in cerements of the sullen tomb, Taught the pure air and face of heaven to shun, Was wedded to the cell's sepulchral gloom : Joy flushed her veins, joy touch'd her cheeks with bloom, All penances and monkish mummeries done. NATIONAL SONNETS. <> 1 ANDREW MARVELL. In what fair temple of this famous land, Sacred to freedom and primeval truth, Whose honoured priesthood is perpetual youth ; Where, Andrew Marvell, does thy statue stand ? Genius, and Love, and Virtue, with firm hand, There wreathe a flowery glory for thy head ; And at thy feet flowers of all seasons shed, And shelter thee with their immortal band. Statue none hast thou ; and unto what end Should local monument thy ashes grace, Who better knew'st true honour to extend, Wider than statue, cenotaph, or vase, Who wert thy country's and wast Milton's friend, And hast a place in hearts where these have place. 62 NATIONAL SONNETS. ON PARADISE LOST, AND ITS AUTHOR. In hall, and bower, and at the peasant's door, The song divine from age to age is read : It was the charm of generations dead ; Still, like a river, flows it evermore, Flows strongly on to Time's unbounded shore. And still we quaff it at the fountain's head ; And caught up by the poet firmly tread, On air, hell's pavement, and heaven's starry floor. What, for such wealth of mind, can we repay, Which makes us happy seasons in all years ? Most bitter payment found he in his day, In his ungrateful country's taunts and jeers ; And our's is (are we framed of noble clay ?) Love, and deep reverence, extacies, and tears ! NATIONAL SONNETS. 63 IZAAK WALTON. Under the honeysuckle hedge I see The meek old Angler teaching his compeer, Making his art, with its nice mysteries, clear : Meanwhile the April shower on bush and tree, Patters with silvery footing pleasantly. Anon he tells him of the beggars near, Whom overheard he, and their jovial cheer ; And of the master gipsy's knavery. Happy old man ! in his own temper blest ; And blest with noble friendships many a one, Men chos'n from his whole age, the wisest, best ; The lively Wotton, and the zealous Donne : And they who gave his life its happiest zest Herbert, and Hooker, Jewel, Sanderson. 6 1 NATTOXAI. SONNF.TS. SIK THOMAS MOEE. He was a persecutor, it is said : He was a noble martyr we must say, Who could a tyrant's dictates disobey ; And now we name bim with the famous dead. Was it for nothing that he lost his head ? Are conscience, honour, self-respect, but clay ? He felt they were not, and the cheerless way Cheerfully took to dreary death that led. " Love you," his lady ask'd, " these dungeon glooms ? Barred from your wife and children, are these dear ? For these forsake you your own pleasant rooms, Your books, your friends, — or wherefore stay you here ? " " My fate," quoth he, " I know — his will who dooms, And find this place, though sad, to heaven is near !" NATIONAL SONNETS. 65 CHURCH ORNAMENTS. The Virgin-mother from her niche was thrown In the grey toAver, and in her arms her child, The Son of God, the meek, the undefiled, Which stood for ages piously in stone ; And now with ivy is the place o'ergrown. Time, who beheld the ravage, sternly smiled, And Nature shuddered — yet, soon reconciled, Embraced the desolation as her own. Thus many a symbol of the painful cross, And many a sculptured saintly form and face, False zeal fanatic added to our loss. O Time ! with soft and reverent touch erase, Sad, lingeringly, what ruin must engross, And the rude spare not — types of inner grace. CG POEMS. THE RAINBOW OF LIFE. Hope, through youth's sweet April tears, Has the wondrous power to throw O'er the fields of future years, Her many-coloured how. Only in the dewy time Of our heing's morning march, May we huild with joy suhlime, Life's triumphal arch. One hy one the colours show In the landscape warm and wet. Till complete the glory glow On the clouds' far-travelling jet. River, rock, and tower, and plain, See ! the gorgeous how embrace, Glorious pageant ! look again, All is empty space. The poet's eye delights Some inward vision fair, The pen he seizes and he writes, Then looks — it is not there. POEMS. The heavenly bow his fancy made, Has left no trace behind ; Gone are the chords whereon was played That music of the mind. The painter in some happy hour, Sees in the earth and sky, Glimpses of glory and of power, And holds them in his eye. But when to give them lasting life, He toils from day to day, He finds from that laborious strife, The glory pass away. The graces of the morning hour Fade into common light ; The sunset, with its gorgeous power, Dies down into the night. Alas ! all beauty that has birth, All splendour that is given, To cheer, to glorify the earth, Is but a gleam from heaven. 67 F 2 68 POEMS. IDEAL PROSPECTS. SONSET. Far was I in a region of bare peaks, An Alpine region, sternly desolate ; And on the highest of those peaks I sat, Watching the sunset. Half, beyond the sea, The broad red sun had sunk, around diffusing, From thence rose up to the centre of the sky, A glow, as of the burning of a world. Ranges of clouds like Alps, unto one point. Were gathered from all quarters of the winds, As there to witness that sublime ascent ; — Temples and towers, on mountains of huge bulk. Immovable, though based upon the air, Glowing, and sleeping in that ruddy light. The earth, the ocean, and the clouds of heaven, In perfect harmony divinely blent, Were with one radiant glow imbued and clad. One ruby seemed the ocean, tremulous, The earth like solid gold. I gazed, and gazed, With wonder filled, and filled with ecstasy ; And thanked my God, emphatically thanked him, I lived to look on that magnificence ! Thus in my mind from earth divinely raised, HOEMS. 69 Thought I had none of what I was, or whence ; Mortality forgot itself, as dead : And the free soul triumphing as a spirit, Was for the time immortal. In that hour, Thus to have died were blessed ; to have breathed The free soul forth thus on that mountain-height, As on the altar of the universe. SUNRISK. What thankfulness, and lowliness of heart, Were mine, when from that airy eminence, In the faint dawn I looked along the hills ; Then on the sun, new-risen ; and saw the light Go down into the vales, slope after slope. Silently gazing as the gradual orb Up through the circle of the heavens arose, Where on the sky was laid no crimson bar, Nor thin-blown fleeces of far-scattered gold, Till all the lakes and lowest glens were filled With one o'erflowing splendour ; and on high, Still on the sabbath depths of those clear heavens. Rested the sun, as once his Maker rested, With Godlike calmness of creative might, From that illumination. I did move Enlarged by what I looked on, till I seemed Full in the presence of the Deity ! What were the mountains, — what the lakes, ami streams — F 3 ?<) POEMS. The mountain-torrents, and the cataracts — On the embracing ocean ? On the earth, Shaped to new heing by the vision new, In the reflected greatness of the Great, And the Eternal, I did live and breathe, By power to childlike gentleness subdued : A human speck, high in the eye of heaven, Ennobled into fellowship with God ! AWAY WITH THEE, OLB YEAR The pleasant, pleasant spring time, The summer's gorgeous dyes ; The bright, the solemn autumn, Have faded from all eyes. I look upon thy features, The furrowed and the sere, Where lingers now no beauty, — Away with thee, old year ! How wearily thou movest — I would thy days were o'er — For I have looked on some I loved- To look on them no more. Time's snows are on thy temples — The desolate, the drear ; And a shadow on the future, Is cast from thee, old year POEMS. 1 1 Too radiant was thy coming, Thy promise all too fair : But waned away from day to day, To leave us nought hut care. Where are the bright, the buoyant, The beautiful, the dear ? Like blossoms of the spring-time, The prompt to disappear ! The dust of death has fallen On locks of brightest gold ; And hearts of sunny temper Have changed to mortal cold. The bloom, the bliss is over, — The smile, the sigh, the tear : — The lover is no lover, — Away with thee, old year ! ENGLAND ! ENGLAND ! England ! England ! glorious name, Home of freedom, star of fame ; Light o'er ocean widely sent, Empress of the element ; Gorgeous sea-encircled gem Of the world — bright diadem ; Nations, nations to command, Who but points admiring hand To thee, to thee, our own dear land ! ?2 POE.M>. Wisdom spake, and thou hadst birth, Throne and sceptre of the earth ; Heaven's own beacon in the deeps, Eye of soul that never sleeps : Altar of the world, whose fire Brightly burns, nor may expire : Built in adamant, to stand, God is in thee, heart and hand, England ! England ! glorious land ! STANZAS. Alas ! upon a reed I leant As on a staff of sure support : A broken reed that through me went ; I am of winds become the sport, Which soon will drive me into a foreign port. I am a leaf torn from the bough, All heedless where it may be blown : The future has no promise now ; And I could wish the past unknown, Who find no golden light from youth before me strewn. POEMS. 73 There is so little seen And felt, of what was mine in early years, Transformed upon the way I must have been. In my whole path no youthful flower appears : Now that life's bloom is set,' its fruit is fruitless tears. Oh ! why was I endowed ! Why was this frame so nerved with feelings fine ? I who must struggle with the crowd — And sigh for many things, aspire, and pine, — Wbo gather grapes from thorns, and feel each guard- ing spine. Now do I envy those Who look upon their dead without a tear : Whose hearts are touched not by acutest woes : With whose calm moods nought sad may inter- fere : Whose path is always bright, whose sky is always clear ! Open ! perpetual cloud — That I above an azure cape may see : ! be some little space to me allowed To feel thy warmth, O heaven ! a season free From memory's pangs — and these — and what un- known must be. 74 POEMS. THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. Mysterious oft it seems to me, How I a being came to be, Since through the myriad years gone by, Suns rose and set, yet lived not I. Streams flowed, birds sung — the earth, the sea Were in their motions fixed, or free , Each part was portion of a whole — Yet I was not a living soul. Of countless millions that have been, No record lives, nor trace is seen ; Yet earth is green, the heavens are blue, As they with death had nought to do. And now I live, and breathe, and move — Life with its woudrous powers to prove ; Awake to knowledge of things past, In life — a life not long to last. All natures since the world began, Are subject to the mind of man : Knowledge in insect, flower, and stone — 1 learn all natures but my own. POEMS. The undiscovered, undefined, In regions of the heart and mind ; Where wing of thought has never soared, Realms by the poet unexplored. Revolving these — to ear, heart, eye, Mysterious seems it man should die ; ' So like a God, in soul supreme, Yet evanescent as a dream. Days, years pass on, and I am not, — Like myriads heretofore forgot ; A speck of life, a mound of earth, Extinct as I had never birth. A leaf, now green, now dark, now sere, A drop of dew, a human tear ; A wandering wind that moans, then sleeps, A rain-drop in the boundless deeps. Ages in light sweet flowers will blow Above, whilst I am dust below ; And 'joy and beauty hand in hand' Make Eden of the living land. O God ! and wilt thou never more, This fife, resumed, again restore ? Can that which knows there is a God, Again be nothing but a clod ? ?ti POEMS. Great Animater of this dust ! O breathe in me sublimer trust Than that which, grovelling, sinks to sleep, Thus ending life in endless sleep ! My bed in dust and deepest night Thy word can fill with heavenly light ; And make the flowers about my grave With a triumphant beauty wave. Thy word can wake heaven's bow, to span With radiant arch the grave of man ; Can fill with promise bright the void — The doubt, the dread, to be destroyed. This flesh may crumble, and this bone In dust on wildest winds be strewn, But at thy call shall wing its way — Death shall be life, and darkness day. POEMS. ?? TO A SKYLARK, SINGING OUT OF SIGHT. Whence art thou, bold heaven-hunting bird ? I saw thee not ascend, Yet o'er the clouds I hear thy song As it would never end. What bubbling ectacies of bliss, What flutterings of glad sound, Are thine, O soul of love intense ! In melody unbound. Descendest thou from heaven, O bird ! Blithe spirit of the cloud ? I long have looked, yet see thee not, Where thou art singing loud. The nightingale may shroud the deep In darkness of the night, But like thee is no other bird, Thou singest hid in light. As from some fountain infinite, Dost thou thy strains prolong : Or as a chain let down from heaven, A golden chain of song. 1 POEMS. The dew drops scattered from thy wings Are lost not on the wind ; The poet sees them, and they turn To diamonds in his mind. My eyeballs ache with vacant search Thy happy form to see, All heaven-o'er-flowing bliss ! too blithe From mortal bird to be. I hear thee, 'till thy strains no more Seem modulated breath ; I cannot deem thou art allied To dust-resolving death. It must be that thou comest down, And hoverest there to sing, When earth a vision is of heaven. And life is love in spring. THE LAND OF SONG. A FRAGMENT. ! joy divine ! what realm is this I tread, — Vast is the leafy temple overhead ; With here and there a break of silver sky. And light direct from heaven upon the eye : Near me the water gushes, warbling sweet, From an old fount, and murmurs round my feei 1 feel like one in some enchanter's lay, Whose mortal frame has been dissolved away ; 80 poems. And stand expectant past some bloss'my tree, Some sister-spirit of old Greece to see, Sweet Ariadne with woe-shaded face, Or Dian flushing with meek light the place. The eglantine fair arch above me makes — And woodbines twine and blossom in the brakes. Near me there is a rustle in the leaves, Some stir of life or fancy so deceives : Methinks it might be Pan just come to see, Who the new comer is in Arcady. All birds of richest note around me sing — And there is music in each flitting wing : Violets Avith lilies blent the ground imbed :— ! joy divine ! what realm is this I tread ! There was a promise in my youthful mind One day when I had pray'd that I might bind Eternal bays round my unhonoured head, 1 the old realms of poesy should tread : That past some guardian-thicket I should find Way to the temple of immortal mind : Where reigns blind Homer chief, no longer blind. That there quaint-masking Spenser I should see With wond'rous Shakspeare 'neath some hoary tree ; And with them, in mind's sovereignty allied, Bold, sightless Milton, gravely dignified. O ! joy divine ! it is that land I tread ! The land of song but rarely visited. POEMS. SI Xor is it, as dull mortals might misdeem, A casual glance, a transitory gleam. Before me, rich in splendour, I behold, Awed, yet elate, the land and age of gold. SONNET. DAYBREAK IN .TUNE. All nature is impatient for the day : The misty hills rise up to meet the sun : Even the cuckoo has to shout begun, And high the lark is heavenward on his way. Eastward, I look, yet all is saddest grey, — No crimson lines along the horizon run; No silver edgings fringe the fleeces dun. Caught from the coming sun's far-travelling ray Again I look, and the light grows more strong ; Again, the gold and silver mingled lie ; And myriad birds are bursting into song, As if they caught their music from the sky : The very leaves seem to have found a tongue, And all is animation to the eye. 82 POEM.s. THE POETS QUEST. What seeks the Poet ? To be known Far as his country's fame extends — To make the world of mind his own — To make remotest men his friends. His skill he counts but as a bird, Though wronged, though sad, redressing wrongs ; In every clime and season heard, And breathing solace in his songs. A beacon on a dangerous shore — Over Time's sea a guiding star A date-tree in the desert — more — A fountain in the desert far. A stately tree, a generous leaf — A noonday temple, green and fair : That weariness, that pain, and grief May shelter find and solace there. 'Tis well ! but seeks he nothing more ( Inspired at Truth and Beauty's springs, His soul with goodness flowing o'er, He would be that which well he sings ! '»'• By the world's flatteries unmoved, To vice, to guilt, no sad ally : Through life of his own soul approved, Of God and man approved to die. POEMS. 83 SONNET. NAPOLEON AND WASHINGTON. Dense clouds were gathered on the earth : more dense Than clouds in heaven — resolved to bloody rain : Myriads to mutual slaughter doomed in vain : The old legitimates dull slaves of sense ; The modern innovator with pretence Mocking the hope of Freedom. Hence with pain Upon old thrones we see old tyrants reign, — Of impious aims the righteous consequence. For ever, Washington, a natural glory Encircles thee, on thy paternal farm : No cataract with mock-rainbows tells thy story : A river art thou, broad and deep, and calm : The earth is fruitful near thee : never gory Dost thou appear — but patriotic, warm. a 2 84 poems. SONNET. WRITTEN IN LIVERPOOL JULY 1838. Calm worshipper of Nature, seek the wood, There think alone, — I love to pace this street, Where as in one, all nations seem to meet, Linked by the sea in common brotherhood : A vein is this of brisk commercial blood ; Here strongly doth the pulse of traffic beat. Large portion of the world's wealth at my feet Lies here — such harvest of the ocean flood. A graceful spirit of voluptuous ease Is visible in column and in dome : Full opulence, just taste the stranger sees : The spirit which once in Venice had its home. That now in fable seems it, seeing these, Of beauty rising from the ocean-foam. POEMS. SONNET. IN BURNS' MAUSOLEUM, DUMFRIES. Breathe I above his dust, who now has long Ceased with his musical breath to charm this air, Sleeps Burns within this mausoleum fair, The peasant-minstrel of the heaven-taught tongue ! It must be so, for fancy here grows strong, So strong we feel him present every where, — The sod his recent impress seems to bear ; And we yet hear him in yon skylark's song. Methinks I hear him whistling at the plough ; And from the Nith I catch his manly voice, Where unto song he breathed the eternal vow : Oh Nith ! where oft to wander was his choice, The very light seems beaming from his brow In which these scenes must evermore rejoice. 86 POEMS. SONNET IN THE SAME Alone in intellect — oft he withdrew From his blithe fellows, and afar would stray, On by the Nith, in the dim close of day : And there would murmur, 'midst the falling dew, Strains that all mirth could sadden and subdue, Whilst marvelled much his comrades, lightly gay, He should be sad whose wit woke mirth alway. — He who could find not "audience fit though few." The tide subsides, the tumult and the stir : The stream flows on and slumbers in its bed, We look around us still, for things that ire re : TIic clouds are rosy, though the sun is fled : For they with whom we think, and would confer. Prove oftentimes the distant, or the dead. POEMS SONNET, ON VISITING RYDAL MOUNT Long sought, and late discovered, rapt is he Who stands where springs the Niger or the Nile ; And I, like wearily, who many a mile Have voyaged and have travelled, proudly see, Of this famed Mount, the living Castalie : Cheered by the Poet's hospitable smile, I breathe the air of the song-hallowed pile, With but half faith what is can really be. Flow on, O, holiest river ! even like Time, Till both your waters in one ocean end : Flow on, and with refreshment many a clime Copiously visit, mountain stream sublime ! Thankful, these moments at your source I spend — Not without awe, as though it were a crime. 88 POEMS. THE WOODMAN. The love within us doth create — And fear, remorse, and mortal pain Have wrought such shapes before the sight As live but in the brain. And thus it is that minds o'erwrought With phantoms crowd the midnight gloom, And even face the front of day, Strange intimations from the tomb. Seated beside the Christmas fire, In cheerful mood, in converse free, Whilst raged the wintry winds without, My sire this story told to me. He could not say that it was false, He could not say that it was true ; And as he told the tale to me I tell it unto you. ( )ld Stephen Helm is with the dead, And Stephen's wife is in her grave ; Their sons arc slaughtered in the wars, Or whelmed beneath the ocean wave. POEMS. 89 But wherefore do I talk of death. Of wars, or of the ocean tide, When I of Stephen Helm should tell, And how he lived and died. There is a kind of moody man, Mysterious from the birth, You wonder if by nature framed, In madness or in mirth : Who, living in himself, retired, Bequeathes no lasting trace, However from the mass distinct, To mark him from his race. And such a one was Stephen Helm, Who, when he went away, Or good or bad above his grave, One word could no man say. There was a thought but nothing more, That he had some one slain, And thence was bound by strong remorse, To silence and to pain. His wife oft questioned if his blood The common course of nature ran, For be, or in his ways or words, Was like no other man. 90 POEMS. There was no kindness in his eye Though very strong it shone and clear, And as his words were harsh and rude, His silence was severe. Ever with aspect cold or stern He eyed his children three ; He never took them by the hand, Or set them on his knee. It would have done the mother good To see them cheered, or chid, For gentle or for evil deeds, — A thing he never did. She would have thought he would have cared If one of them had died, She might have thought had in him dwelt A father's love or pride. Nor rich, nor poor, when him they met, Got ever passing word from Stephen, Who never said to any man, " Good morrow," or "good even." Right onward ever did he walk, Nor spoke, nor loitering stood Nor with another man would work. Hut lonely in the wood. POEMS. 91 Forth with the morning light he went, Home with the dark he came, One day was as another day And all his year the same. AVhen from the cottages and farms The people flocked with one consent To church, as chimed the sahbath bells, He met them as they went : For he, by habit led or swayed, To his old woodland haunts was bound, AVhere, for his sad and dreamy life, Fit loneliness was found. From Stephen in the summer's noon, Where in the solemn hush he stood, From him the silence seemed diffused Intensely through the wood. You thought that neither bird nor beast Dared on that quiet to intrude, And deemed the solitary man The heart of solitude. The little boy his meals who took, Who whistling went, devoid of care, And whistled all the way he, went, Stood sad and silent there. !*2 POEMS. Till starting from that dull restraint, As from a brief mysterious sleep, He, like tlie vaulting grasshoppers, Took many a joyful leap. Bushes he beat the birds to scare, And carefully looked each nest to find ; — Or plucked the wild-flowers everywhere, As playful as the wind. One night when Stephen home returned, On entering at the door, His wife perceived that he was not As he had been before. The firm quick step with which he went Was then relaxed and slow, Nor was his look his common look, But why she did not know. And she had fears, yet day by day Did she her fears subdue, As daily she perceived in him More kindly spirit grew. Sometimes she tbought the woodland flowers, Which to him through the seasons came, Had with their gentle influence wrought And sunk into liis frame. POEMS. !C3 And it was not to her unknown, How even the note of smallest bird, Had with strange sympathetic power Man's better feelings stirred. Yet sometimes did she feel and fear, Such sudden change and strong, From the whole current of his life, Would do the man some wrong. Still evil came not unto him, His life was still the same ; Forth with the morning light he went, Home with the dark he came. But from the night of Stephen's change Went whispers of mysterious awe, From villager to villager, Of something that he saw : In that peculiar hour of eve, Between the shadowy and the clear, When objects grow upon the sight And things far off seem near. Up in the dusk before him rose Four men, who moved before, Who on their shoulders solemnly A naked coffin bore. 94 POEMS. Fix'd by astonishment he stood, And saw them slowly pace The circle of the field, and come. And vanish in that place. And by degrees into his mind The clear remembrance came, Of who, and what, and Avhence was each, The nature and the name. As up before his sight they rose, Without the smallest sound, Again without the smallest noise, They sank into the ground. " And can it be," cried Stephen, moved, " Can they whom long we miss Come from the quiet of the grave On mission such as this ? " 'Tis clear, most clear, I to the dust, From whence I came, return, And as no mourner followed them, No soul for me will mourn ! " Still Death, if he had doomed, delayed To touch old Stephen's frame ; Forth with the morning light he went, Home with the night he came. POEMS. 95 And round him in the woodlands still : Where silently he wrought, The seasons with perpetual change Perpetual beauty brought. The Spring with its exuberant bloom : Summer with wealth o'er dale and hill : And Autumn with its solemn gloom : And Winter, cold and still. And in his mind, and on his heart, Had these an influence long unfelt, To daunt with fear, to raise with hope, To chasten, and to melt. Soft sounds of streams, and waving woods, Soft glimpses of the azure skies, — These, blent with thoughts of what he was, Brought tears into his eyes. One most delightful summer's day, The sweetest in its odorous breath, A neighbour wandering through the wood, And dreaming not of death : When passing by the Woodman's haunt, He, gazing on that lonely man, Spake, and when Stephen moveless stood, Chill horror through him ran. 96 POEMS. For Death, who like the Indian, links. Intent to spring upon the spoil, Had aimed at Stephen one sure hlow, And ended all his toil. There, with the axe upraised, he stood, With that familiar air, A Woodman seeming at his work, But fixed and lifeless there. FANCY My wings are light as gossamer — my way Is with the sunbeam of the summer's day ; My pleasant car among the stars I drive, And moonlight is the food whereon I thrive. With a light sail I skim the azure deep, The sea, the sky, and have a world in sleep. Sometimes I clasp me in a girl's pure zone, And feel all beauty like a flower full-blown, Rest in her lap, or bask within her eyes, As in the only real paradise. The poet feels me kindling in his eye, And in his brain, both which T glorify : I make the poet's glance a glorious thing, Which, like the primrose-footstep of the Spring, POEMS. Leaves light where'er it rests. But who can tell My palace home, the region where I dwell, My airy habitation ? Ts't where rise Quick-spreading smiles round infant lips and eyes ; Or on the breezy forehead of the dawn, Pale-orange tinted, dappled like the fawn : Or is't where leaps and flashes the free stream, Or in the rainbow's skiey-tinctured beam ; Or in the diamond dewdrop ? Is it found Still stretching on through space's blue profound, Till, wearied with the vastness of the dome, In a small flower I make my restful home ? These do I visit glad, with frequent wing, But dwell not in them, to them do not cling, Mine is a temple anciently divine, The heart of man, God's dwelling once, as mine ; Fairies my ministers — who to me bring, In dewy censers, all the sweets of Spring ; Crown me with liquid brilliants from the thorn, And make me regal as the spicy morn. I too sport round God's throne — but draw not near, Awed by Imagination's eye severe — Imagination, Wisdom's holy-one — Dark as the night, majestic as the sun, Might dwell in her fair locks, — her piercing eye Sees at a glance whichever way I fly, — Imagination's playful sister I. H !IN POEMS. SONG. Soft light o'er the hills is breaking, A mild and pensive light ; And the moon her tranquil course is taking Amongst the stars of night. Her snowy light is streaming On meadow, cliff, and tree : But a lovelier brow is beaming A dearer light on me. The moonlight woods around me Are whispering fancies dear ; But a dearer charm has found me, A softer voice I hear. There's bliss from the heavens descending, On the earth is boundless glee : But a form by mine attending Is earth, is heaven to me. POEMS. 99 A SABBATH PILGRIMAGE. A pleasant pilgrimage to me, A happier never can there be, Though weary is the length of miles, With little new that space beguiles ; For pleasant thoughts in places green, Companions of my way have been. I joy among the flowers have found, And love in every sight and sound. The time is June, the scene is May, Through the long winter's lingering stay : Such pranks have March and April played Sweet May, our flowery-kirtled maid : Such Parthian darts behind them cast, Of arrowy sleet, and icy blast, That she, from their too rude alarms, Seeks refuge in June's fervid arms : Culling from every bank and bough Fair wreaths for his majestic brow. Why, Poet, early leave your bed ? Wished you to see the sun arise, When sleep had filled your dreaming head With visions of the earth and skies, H 2 100 POEMS. Dearer than meet your waking eyes ? Why do you tread with early feet These scenes with morning fragrance sweet, When you had had in dreamy ease Glimpses of fairer things than these ? Question me not : a novel name Long known to worth, but new to fame, By a chance breeze was to me brought, With all the freshness of new thought. SAveet as some nightingale unseen Source of the melody had been ; Came a low chime, like far-off bells : " Poet, a poet near you dwells : " A man whose heart goes with his mind ; " Who knows himself, and loves his kind. " A poet, dear to you the name, " A Christian, stronger yet the claim ; " A labourer in Christ's vineyard he, — " Arise, go hear the man and see I" I heard, and left the Trent behind, With eager feet and glowing mind ; Forth set in the peculiar hour Of the mind's meditative power, When heaven and earth, the cool, the still, Seem vassals of the human will. On, in that clearness of the mind, Pure as the dawn and unconfined, POEMS. 101 I walked, — scarce conscious of the dawn, From my own breast my pleasures drawn. 0, thoughts ! where lie your sources, where, Ye, who to man this life endear ? That seem to start up from the ground, — That seem to come from heaven's profound ; Or scattered through the earth and sky, In ready forms that seem to lie, Eager with lightning speed to dart Your radiant gladness through the heart ; That come uncalled for, ever come And make the human heart your home ? But see, my journey's aim attained — The village and the church-yard gained. Near is the church, of old grey stone, Within the village — yet alone. Such place as Christ had sought, desired, When from the multitude retired, He, on Mount Olivet, apart Communed with God, or his own heart. And now the graves around me lie — The trancpuil treasures of the sky. Christ's mortal garden, till the doom — When He, like Spring, shall hurst the tomb — And earthly germs in heaven shall bloom. h 3 102 POEMS. And now the sacred floor I tread — I )ome of the living and the dead ! Above — how fair of life the array, — Beneath — what darkness and decay ! I enter in — and visions bright Grow on me in the chequered light : Like Jacob, who at Bethel kept His state with angels whilst he slept. Christ from the dead arisen I see, Glad angels, and the mourners three : Death and the cross beneath him thrown, The crown of thorns, and rolled stone : See his fair robes far flowing down ; His brows -which heaven's own splendours crown; See on those robes the crimson stain, But trace not in his eyes the pain. Changed is the scene. With steadfast eyes I look through newly-opened skies ; Up-charioted on heavenly flame, See Christ ascend from whence he came : See glories mortals may not paint : Catch far-off signs of harpings faint : Then close the heavens — the vision o'er, — Whilst gaze his followers as before, — Who look as they would look for evermore ! Gone is the momentary trance. Again the persons and the place POEMS. 103 With conscious gaze do I retrace. And now o'er many a countenance Wander my eyes — till they hehold The pastor of the gathered fold. Tis he. Is expectation fed ? Is vainly " Yarrow visited ?" Not visited in vain. The face I s such as fancy loved to trace : The open brow, the manly air ; Nor cant, nor narrowness is there. A face well meant to shew a mind, As one embracing all mankind. Such church in youth my father sought, As he from infancy was taught : Round which from immemorial day His father's fathers' ashes lay ; But different was the pastor there, A Priest who made his heart despair, Then turned my sire with pain away, In alien domes to praise or pray ; Thence in brick walls of formal square, Silent his aspirations were. The die was cast ~ and I can see What might have been what hence must be. Taught silently to worship — I My temple make the earth and sky : 104 POEMS. Hence rise my altars in the wood : Hence on the mountain- tops have stood : Hence find I by the river's brim, High, leafy-domed, cathedrals dim : On fells, in dells, by waters wide, With natural choristers supplied. Like flowers with heaven's own incense wet, Not in set times nor places set, Do I my thanks to heaven impart, — The fragrance af a faithful heart. Yet, Alford, gladly do I hear Your voice though serious not austere : See glimpses of a soul benign ; And in your " human face divine," Meanings that chasten and refine : And gather from your lips the lore Divinely taught by Christ before : The cheerful faith, the healthful zeal, The words that smite, the words that heal. Hush'd is each voice— and from the dome Widely the people scatter home : And silence closes on each tread, — The happy quiet of the dead. As homeward through the fields I pass, More radiant is the noontide hour: There's fresher greenness in the grass, There's added beauty in the flower : l'OKMS. 105 Whate'er I look on seems more fair, And softer breathes the summer air. Make I the pleasures that I find, Or flow they from another's mind ? Something that I have heard or seen, And with me brought whence I have been ? It must be so. Some spell is cast Upon the present from the past : Some light not wholly nature's own, Round me as by enchantment thrown ; Such as fell on me, when a boy, " I walked in glory and in joy." Hence, should I never more r3trace With pilgrim feet that hallowed place ; A region, though by nature kind, More bright with blossoms of the mind ; Yet from this day through many a year Will memory scatter light to cheer. The Poet's home in rosy light Will come as now, into my sight : And still, through linden branches green, The grey old village church be seen. And here one wish I frame, alone Prompted by kindred feeling strong, — That far the Poet's worth be known — Attendant on his fame in song. 106 POEMS. SONNET. WKITTEN IN COLWICK WOODS. The veil'd stars through the breezy darkness shine, Mild as the glow-worms at my feet. Now sing, O Nightingale ! and make the heaven of spring More heavenly ! The night, the woods are thine ; The earth, the heavens attend thee ; sleep, supine, Will start up at thy voice, a living thing ; The May-bloom will grow sweeter ; the breeze its wing Hush ; and the darkness take a shape divine. Sing, Poet-bird ! and I, by fancy led, Among the leaves listening, good Pan shall see, Listening to thine, his own brave ditties dead. All the wood-gods thy auditors shall be ; And in this woody temple lightly tread Lest they disturb its sanctity and thee. POEMS. 1 0? SONNET. AN ITALIAN SCENE. WRITTKN TO A 1'ICTURF. Of Keats, who early died, and Shelley's tomb, Remembrance cometh with a scene like this, Whose names are wreathed with an Italian bloom, The dead immortal whom in song we miss ; Of Petrarch, Tasso, Milton,— all who gave Life that will last to scenes and creatures fair, — Dante, and Byron, Rogers — names which brave The touch of Time, who both can waste and spare. Who would not, if he might, thy air respire, Land of ethereal beauty, radiant clime ! For feminine softness and the heart of fire Renowned throughout all regions and all time ; For fallen grandeur famous, — with a name In intellectual greatness that is Fame. 108 POEMS. SONNET. TO VENICE. City of palaces and dungeons dread, Venice ! of patriots the living tomb : Thy Bridge of Sighs in me may stir not gloom ; Nor yet the memory of thy glory dead, As when of Silvio Pellico I read The rigorous and most unnatural doom, Who in the strength of manhood and the bloom, Suffered— until at times his reason fled. Gorgeously desolate, old ocean-queen ! Men such as he thy freedom must restore, If ever thou mayst be as thou hast been, Great with rich argosies on every shore ; Such pangs, such blood, and tears as thou hast seen, Sink not to perish in a dungeon floor ! POKMS. ] 0!> SONNET. TO MRS. JAMESON, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HER "CHARACTERISTICS OF WOMEN." As one who looks on some old classic land — Seen with a new delight when seen anew, Paphos, with whitest swans on waters blue, Have I now felt swayed by your magic hand : Purer in your pure mind before me stand, All the divinest creatures Sbakspeare drew, To him, to Nature admirably true, — Lady ! the wand you wield is Prospero's wand. Days, days have come and gone, and I am yet Lost to all out-door pleasures I might find : All glories of the season I forget, To what you bring me happily resigned — Charmed to behold the gem of Shakspcare set In the rich casket of another's mind. 110 POEMS. SONNET. ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY JANE GREY, ISY HANS HOLBKIN. Most beautiful ! how from the inner mind Grace is diffused to every outward part ! A queen indeed, of love a queen thou art : What feminine soul is through those eyes divin'd. What tenderness is in that breast enshrin'd ! Alas ! not framed ambition's schemes to thwart, Thy fitting empire were the human heart — To heal, to soothe, to soften, and unbind. Yet better than a world of weary rule Were thy ten days of sovereignty : thence back Sad pace we from fresh air and violets cool, Into the old and beaten royal track ; Unto a real queen of blood, of gold — The hard, the dull, the cruel, and the cold. POEMS. Ill STANZAS. We met— but were till then unknown, For our free lives had flowed apart, Yet both unconsciously had grown Alike in age and heart. Our lives were like two cheerful brooks, Which singing through the valleys go Which flow not near to mingle looks, Nor hear each other flow. Yet each some hidden charm obeys — The wide apart are now the nigh : We meet, we linger, and we gaze Nor coldly wander by. The loved are met no more to part— The loneliness of life is gone, And hope to hope, and heart to heart, Are mingled into one. CHURCH GOERS. How sweetly wide this sabbath morn, The chime of village bells is sent O'er the hamlets, o'er the fields, With sabbath sunshine blent. The noble hears and quits his hall — The peasant quits his eottage-home : All cheerfully, all pleasantly, To church the people come. They come from far off heathy moors, From lonely farms, from quiet dells, Led strongly, irresistibly, By the sweet chime of sabbath bells. POEMS. 1 I 3 Across the fields, across the green, From shades emerge they to the light ; And seen in groups, or singly seen, It is a cheering sight. And who are these, this homely pair, Who slowly come, yet come not late ; Who now have nearly reached, and now Are entering at the churchyard gate ? The feeblest she of ancient dames, And he the greyest of old men : They've had, I trow, long, long ago, Their " three-score years and ten ?" Well are they known, old Charles and Ruth, And kindly greetings do they get, As they by earlier comers there Are in the churchyard met. The pastor — will he, Levite-like, Pass by them on the other side ? Not he — the venerable man, Untouched by human pride. Their faces brighten in his smile, — A recognition that accords From spirit unto spirit there, Far more than passing words. i 114 POEMS. Tis but three fields unto their home — Three narrow fields, the young would say ; But unto them, in their old age, It is a long and toilsome way. Two years it is since last together This well-known sabbath walk they tried ; And since, though wooed by loveliest weather, They have not left their own fire-side. It was for them a grievous time, For they were then in sables drest, And followed one, the last of nine, Their son, to his eternal rest. They see his grave, their parents' graves, Their children's, where themselves shall lie ; For they have fixed, and see the place With no repugnant eye. Why toil the aged pair to church, This bright and breezy summer's day, AVhen they have reasons manifold In ease at home to stay ? Come they their sorrows to renew ? For the sad place must still be passed, Where all their earthly hopes are laid, The earliest and the last. POEMS 1 1 •"' It may be, e'er life's taper closes Its flickering light, and all is o'er, It sends up strongly from the socket A flame more brilliant than before. It may be, that youth's buoyant feeling, Till death that is not wholly dead, Has urged them, with one final impulse, For the last time this path to tread. The shepherd goes his usual rounds, The labourer eyes his resting team ; The ploughboy laid beside the brook Throws grass upon the stream. All in SAveet indolence enjoy Animal life in summer weather ; And seem to care not if their breath And being end together. Not so our old and honoured pair ; They three-score years and more have trod Duly this path ; to them this house Indeed has been the house of God ! And that they now this path retrace Good reason have old Charles and Ruth, For to then minds this day recur Sweet memories of their youth. i 2 1 1 6 POEMS. It was their wedding-day. It was, Like this, a sweet and flowery time ; And strongly brings it back to them, The presence of their prime. To church they move, a tittering group About their knees their children climb ; How full of bliss and pain art thou, Old backward-looking Time ! How hush'd is now their cottage hearth ; Its stillness gives the heart a shock : Tis silent as a hermit's cave, Far in the desert rock. There was a time that clock's loud tick, In life's familiar stir was drown'd : But Death has left such quiet there, Disturbing is the sound. Yet of their lives, the bright, the dark, The deepest shades, have past away : This day they dwell upon the bright — It was their wedding-day. The flittering by of household birds, And leaves that fluttered round the door, In the rich flood of summer light Flung sbadows on the floor. POEMS. 11' Cried Charles, " It is a holy time, "When nothing may conflicting strive ; The fields with happy life are stirred — The village is alive !" So strong in youthful thoughts they grew, To stay at home had heen a sin : Then thinking of old neighbours here, They could not, might not, rest within. And blessings on them ! here they come, Moving in kind observant eyes Thus tottering on, firm place have they In all deep human sympathies. Age honours them — they honour age, Each mutually exalting each : And if they yet would something learn, Their lives, well spent, have much to teach. By suffering have they been refined — And now around their path is strown, Peace, passing far all earthly peace, More fresh and sweet than roses blown. 1 :5 I I 8 POEMS. POETS. The elements are poets, when they build Clouds in the azure vacancy of heaven, Touched by the sun with spiritual grace ; The rain-cloud is a poet, when it flings Arch over arch, all hued, the aerial bow : These frame their happy music to the eye — Their harmonies of colour and of form. The winds, itinerant minstrels, to the ear, Piped low or loud, sing ever, blithe or sad. What a wild soul of melancholy streams At midnight through dark aisles of abbeys old, Through arches rent, and cloisters tenantless — To Time, to Old Religion, and Decay Giving a voice of quaint solemnity ! Then may the winds peculiarly be styled, The poets of the past. Not less the Spring A poet is, mantling the earth with green, And all the living poetry of flowers — A young Apollo, with voluptuous lip, Laughing at hoary Winter's harp of reeds. And his thin sedgy music, cold and sharp. () sweet elysian dream ! () Summer! bright With songs at morn, and even, and still noon ; And voice of woods, and rivers' stately march ; POEMS. 1 1 9 And charm of pastoral pipes, and waterfalls — Who shall take from thee thy majestic crown, Of all fresh things and fair divinely woven, Strong-minded poet, of our manhood chief ! And Autumn, verging upon heaven, has strains As from the harp of Judah's shepherd-king, That blend with its peculiar golden light. Ethereal-hearted Autumn ! poet-sage ! Soul of the seasons ! depth of sabbath-calm ! Sweet time, when the sad earth is Eden ever — When angel visitants are in the woods Present, although unseen ! * * * * * 120 poems. WORLD-WEABINESS. Come, death, and leave the couch of beauty, Spread horror through no region blest : Here do thy seasonable duty : — A grave for this old man were best. Compelled unwillingly to linger, Unloved, a tree with branches sere, Come, and with sweet oblivious finger, Death ! do thine office here. For gone are all with whom he mated, Nor wife nor child now o'er him bend, Though unto many long related, Thou art his only friend. Thick grows the film upon his vision ; Cold flows the blood his veins within : Pale porter of the gates Elysian ! Thou art his next of kin. Around him grows the seen more dreary, Darker the clouds come o'er his west : Hard is thy bed, but he is weary, And sound will be his rest. POEMS. 121 WILH ELM'S RETURN. When Wilhelm left his native place, With sad and ofi-reverted lace, ' He said, to scenes through tears dim seen, " i g — the sea must flow between." Of England had he heard the fame ; Wealth had he seen from thence that came, By an ingenious kinsman won : And thus that alien thirst begun. Thence from those haunts beloved so well, Full forty years did AVilhelm dwell ; And every day, through all that space, His heart was in his native place. Through all that weary lapse of years He saw his mother's parting tears ; The very dress — the look she wore, Sad, standing at their cottage-door. Whate'er he knew from earliest youth, And traced with more of love than truth, As in a map, within his mind, Was pictured all he left behind. 122 POEMS. Oft Wilhelm, with confirming hand, Said, " I will see my native land ! " A thousand times he fixed the day : That came — hut came to pass away. Gold on him grew ; and habits, long Good subjects, grew to tyrants strong ; And cares, from which he could not fly ; And added, too, love's stronger tie. Yet now, at length, disclosed through trees, Wilhelm the one loved village sees : What he had left with tear-wet cheeks, In that dear fatherland, he seeks. He knows not all is overcharged, Through absence and grown mind enlarged ; That fancy warms the sterile, cold, And love has touched them into gold. Wondering, he cries, " And can it he The selfsame village that I see ? These houses small, and dingy gray — And their old inmates, where are they ?" The gravest of assured replies, The new churchyard then met his eyes : " Our garden-croft — strange ! " Wilhelm said, " Become the haven of the dead ! POEMS. 12.3 That dearest plot our garden-croft, A grave-yard ! where we played so oft ! " 'Twas stranger still when Wilhelm found Those playmates slumbering in that ground. He raised himself — there seemed to lie A weight upon him from the sky : Backward he tossed his temples hare, More free to breathe the oppressive air. To church with gathering groups he went, To see the dead's best monument ; To trace in every living face Memorials of the parent race. There, of the many, very few By such resemblance faint he knew ; Whilst all the elder race were gone, And of his own — survived but one. Strange light on Wilhelm fell. He said, " I might be come back from the dead : Thus age breathes on, with casual breath, To learn — how merciful is death ! England ! adopted land ! dear bourne ! To thee thy alien must return : The dead died not alone — I crave Thy succour from this general grave." 124 POEMS. ASPIRATIOX. O ! for the thoughts, which unexpress 'd Awake and die within the hreast : The fount of joyful feeling stirred, The music of the soul, unheard. O ! for the flowers which die unseen, Where never human foot has been : In stilly cave, and woodland gloom, With angel purity that bloom. O ! for some isle far in the sea, From turmoil of all traffic free : Where never keel has touched the sand, Some breezy, bloomy summer land. My spirit pines to dwell apart ; To live alone for mind and heart : To feel and think — but not the less To love, and beautify, and bless. ! to be something more than fair : More than the secret and the rare : To be, what God's own creature should, Sweet fountain of perpetual good ! POEMS. 12") SONNET. SLEEP AND DEATH. O Sleep ! delicious closer of sad eyes, Thou that dost make Care's heavy burden light ; Sorrow's calm haven ; that dost clear the sight To see fresh glory in the morning skies : Did I not love thee I should be unwise ; For when I start from thee in the still night, Thou watchest near me like an angel bright, Divine, and endless in sweet mysteries. Death, were thy bed as pleasant, I would steep My aching temples in thy slumbers, Death ! In that thy rest is dreamless and more deep. But then thou breathest not morn's odorous breath, Joyous, and oft-recurring — when from sleep Lightly we rise — glad hours I fain would keep. 126 POEMS. THE STRANGE PREACHER. " Wherever I went, the rumour spread through t lie place before me, ' the man in the leather suit is come.' " George Fox's Journal An old man there came to the market-place, With a strong and a bold, yet a cheerful face ; And one after one people drew to the spot, Who lingered, and lingered, unknowing for what. In the looks of the stranger, who stationed was there, By the market-cross in the open air, Was something thev were not accustomed to see — So they questioned each other of what it could he. Some said 'twas his dress, which of leather was made, Some spoke of his features' peculiar shade : Whatever it might be, the folks grew to a crowd, And questions were getting impatient and loud. With one word of his mouth they were silent as death : When he stretch'd forth his hand was a pause in each breath ; And a feeling like thought through each bosom there ran, That the being they heard might he more than a man. POEMS. 127 In his words were such fervour, and fulness, and grace, And the truth of his heart lent such truth to his face, Had he urged them to pluck down the town, they had tried, Although in the effort they vainly had died. Had he spoken of wrongs which the people endured, Of evils the people themselves should have cured ; Had he told them of tyrants and tyrannous laws, They had risen to shed their heart's blood in his cause. But his words were of peace, and of truth, and of love, And of One once on earth who came down from above ; Who, that peace might abound, in good will to man, Had endured all the pangs that humanity can. Much spoke he of temples that were but of stone, And priests clothed in purple whom Christ did not own, Of merciless pastors, whom Christ had foretold Should seem to protect, while they ravaged the fold. Such a picture of Christ and his people he drew— Of the chosen and simple, the faithful and few— That, absorbed in the vision, they saw Avhat he said. And it seemed that his words gave new life to the dead. 128 POEMS. They were chained by his spirit, they could not de- part ; Conviction, like lightning, he flashed on the heart ; Though powerful his language, his aspect was mild ; And their thoughts were at once of a king and a child. Ere he ceased, all the strongholds of pride were o'er- thrown ; And natures were softened, though harder than stone : When he ceased, in dim eyes were aifectionate tears ; And in hearts a remembrance deep graven for years. ADDRESS TO SCOTLAND. Prepare the ship, I'll take a trip, Brisk summer winds prevailing ; To Scotland, realm of old renown, It will be pleasant sailing. The ship is trimm'd, the sea is skimmM, AVith an ecstatic motion ; And I in fancy's bark am bome, Across the mental ocean. POEMS. 129 Grey Albyn ! do I see thee rise, Where Ossian long has slumbered ? Land of brave chiefs and mighty bards ! The greatest earth has numbered. Land of the Wallace and the Bruce ! The Tells of northern story ; A pilgrim from the Farthest AVest Comes, kindled by thy glory. From out his mighty forests old, From prairies wild and weary, He comes to see thy mountains stern, Thou ancient regal aerie ! Past Altrive Lake his way to take In tributary sadness ; To pause where death has cast a gloom LTpon her poet's gladness. To gaze on grandeur — on decay — In Staffa and Iona ; To muse on Morven's woody heights, Where sang the bard of Cona ; Awhile to fare by saddest Ayr, Where freedom yet is weeping ; Where beauty mourns o'er mouldering Bums, And love sad state is keeping. Wherever Scott has made the spot Most famous, proud to ponder K 130 POEMS. By fair Tweedale, by Katrine's lake, In pilgrim-guise I wander. O Scott ! who knows and loves thee not, An alien is to feeling, Tn palace-dome, in cottage-home, In temple or in shieling. Scotland! realm of old renown, Thou land of later wonder, Pilgrims shall come to hail thy light, Whom widest oceans sunder. And they who see thee but in thought, With music in its motion, Thy wealth of mind, on every wind, Shall bless them o'er the ocean. 1 love to shape thy martial air When the foil'd Roman found thee, But dearer art thou to the soul With song's broad halo round thee. Time-honour d line, for song divine, Thy sons' inherent charter : Land of the heath-flower and the pine, The patriot and the martyr ! POEMS. 131 NATURAL PIETY A little boy in thoughtful mood. Alone, a woodland path pursued. Beneath the evening's tranquil sky, He thought not where, he knew not why. He watch'd the sunset fade away, Leaving the hills with summits grey ; He saw the first faint stars appear, And the far river's sound came near, The birds were hush'd, the flowers were closed, The kine along the ground reposed ; All active life to gentle rest, Sank down, as on a mother's breast. All sounds, all sights, of earth and sky, Came to his ear, and to his eye, Until from these absorbed, forgot They were, and he perceived them not. Though from his home and friends apart, No sense of fear disturb'd his heart ; Though round him were dark shadows thrown. He did not feel himself alone : k 2 132 POEMS. Touch'd by an influence and a power He never felt until that hour, The language of his eyes was meek, And the warm tears were on his cheek. He did not kneel, he did not pray, Xo thought through utterance found its way ; I lis feelings could no language find — For God was present in his mind. SLEEP'S PHANTASY. I had a deep and pleasant sleep, And such a dream of joy I dreamt, If I such mood awake could keep, My life would be from pain exempt ; And this dull land of weary hours, Would be a paradise of flowers An aged man with hoary hair, Beside a cheerful hearth was seated, With children sporting round his chair, Whose rosy cheeks with play were heated ; And one had climb'd, and on his knee Was placed, as pleased as child could be. POEMS. 1 33 I thought I knew that old man's face, Yet marvell'd he should seem so old, And deem'd I in the child could trace Something that of resemblance told : Yet seemed a lady, near him placed, With yet a stronger likeness graced. Methought ten years had posted by, For two the eldest boy seem'd ten ; The fire had left the old man's eye, Nor was his frame so stout as then ; I look'd on him and on the child, And knew the grandsire when he smiled. He was a frank, warm-hearted man, And I that smile had often met ; Nor, though he now was weak and wan, Could I what he had been forget ; For I his only girl had woo'd, And won — and then sad change ensued. Methought the lady's face was glad, And one that, years gone by, I knew ; The children all her features had, — Her vermeil cheeks, and eyes of blue, And I was startled — for one came And called me sire, and named my name. L34 poems. Then look'd I on the brow of each, And could, in part, my likeness see ; And in their hair, and in their speech, I thought they all resembled me ; Then to the mother's eye I tum'd, And knew the one — loved — lost — and mourn'd. HUMAN FLOWERS. Sweet Lucy has chosen the lily, as pale, And as lowly as she, still the pride of the vale ; An emblem more fitting, so fair and retired, Heart could not have chosen, nor fancy desired. And Ellen, gay Ellen, a symbol as true, In the hare-bell has found, and its delicate blue : For ever the blossoms are fresh in her eyes, As dewy, as sweet, and more soft than the skies. And Jane, in her thoughtfulness, conscious of power, Has gazed in her fervour on many a flower : Has chosen, rejected, then many combined To blazen her graces of person and mind. Whilst Isabel's face, like the dawn, is one flush — Far need she not wander to bank and to bush ; AVell the tint of her cheek the young Isabel knows. For the blossom of health is the beautiful rose. POEMS. 1 35 And Mary the pensive, who loves in the dusk Of the garden, to muse when the air is all musk ; Will leave all its beauties, and many they are, To gaze, meek in thought, on the jessamine star. And Kate, the light butterfly Kate, ever gay, Will choose the first blossom that comes in her way ; -The cistus will please her a moment, and then ' Away will she flutter, and settle again. But Julia for me, with her heart in her eyes, The child of the summer, too warm to be wisa : Is the passion-flower near her, with tendrils close curled, She can smile whilst she suffers, 'tis hers for the world. All are lovely, all blossoms of heart and of mind ; All true to their natures, as Nature designed ; To cheer and to solace, to strengthen, caress, And with love that can die not, to buoy and to bless. With gentleness might, and with weakness what grace ! Revelations from heaven in form and in face : Like the bow in the cloud, like the flower on the sod : They ascend and descend in my dreams as from God. 136 POEMS. CUPID AND THE HARP. The harp, on which Apollo played, Stood near him in- the myrtle shade, For a hrief season unessayed, Whilst he reclined, And through it in soft eddies strayed The warbling wind. Young Love came there by chance, and saw, And touched it, forth sweet sounds to draw, And starting back with pretty awe, Again advanced, and smiled : And looking on the poet-king, As, grown more bold, he touched the string, When chancing forth fresh strains to bring, He danced with rapture wild. There was a tempest in his blood : Till then within his heart the flood Of melody had slept ; But now the boy, for very joy, He waked it, — till he wept. He smiled like heaven — and like its rain lie wept — his tears mysterious pain To pleasure wed : POEMS 1.3? Then first 'twas his true power to know — Then first he saw heaven's luminous bow Bright overhead. Away in scorn his bow he threw, Away the doubtful shaft he drew, Away the ample quiver too, Trembling with bliss : He felt his own song's empire wide, " No more my power shall be defied — Henceforth I'll sway all hearts," he cried, " By this, and only this ! " TO EPHRAIM BROWNE. The summer rose no longer blows The nightingale has vanished : The flower is dead, the sweets are shed, The happy bird is banished, The very quietude of death On cot and field reposes ; And dull and naked scenes have we For nightingales and roses. Yet Browne ! we will not mourn for them,- But their true value knowing, 18.K POEMS. We'll shed the bloom about our hearths, We gathered from the growing, Each summer sweet about our feet Shall spring : as there is reason, The inner mind can make or find Here in the saddest season. The nightingale may tell her tale Of sorrow, or of gladness ; Mid Roman fanes, where giant Time, Dark, deepens into sadness. O'er many a tomb the rose may bloom, And shed sweet dews about them ; The flower, the bird, unseen, unheard, We well can do without them. [n Cowper's garden will we walk, Tbe haunt of learned leisure ; In Paradise with Raphael talk, A more celestial pleasure. The wind may beat, — the snow, the sleet,- But — thanks to the Creator, — The mind has its own summer world, — The richer, and the greater ! POEMS. 1 -'}!) A FOREST COLLOQUY. Poet. — Author of all sweet songs and solemn, thou, To whom was paid my fond and earliest vow, Glad universal spirit, child of light, • Thou com'st as thou wast wont unto my sight, When here in happy youth I took my way, Pleased thus to roam through many a summer's day ; Here, in old Sherwood Forest, by the streams Of Man, and Rainworth, haunted with thy dreams ; For thou wast with me in those pleasant days, When shunning man's pursuits I sung thy praise ; Renouncing all things, seeking but to be In these wild haunts with nature, and with thee. Poesy. — And what has been thy guerdon, year by year Midst changing seasons, solitary here ? A lonely dreamer without hope or aim In boyhood, and in manhood stdl the same ; 'Tis thine to think, not act, to see and hear, But have no portion in man's hope or fear ; A form of life without one tie to bind Thee by strong kindred feeling to thy kind : A wind-blown leaf, a desert-tree, or spring, As man's existence were a worthless thing, Diverging widely from wise 1 nature's plan, At home, abroad, a solitary man. 141) POEMS. Poet. — And thou, dost thou accuse me —thou the cause, If I have warred with nature's stedfast laws ; Thou that didst frame my mind and fix my mood, And madest my life one thoughtful solitude ? When first I wandered in my infant hours Out in the spring midst Spring's first coming flowers, And with light heart a childish song I sung, Ere words were framed to music on my tongue, Thou then wast present, fair, but undefined, And made'st that early twilight of the mind, By thee in that sweet season was I found, Thou wast within me there and wast around. And when with grudging heart and gloomy face, On the school form I took my daily place ; And felt that check upon life's free delight, Where the first tyrant had the power to smite, With thee in thought I sought each shady nook, Poring with eyes that saw not, on the book ; Warm violet-banks, and primrose-scented dells, Wild glimmering heaths, and tinkling mossy wells, For these, for thee 'twas mine harsh words to earn, And blows for dulness when I did not learn. And called by thee, before the school began, From field to field, from hedge to hedge I ran, Shunning all comrades ; there alone to see The earliest nest in bank, and bush, and tree. Tbese rudest lads might seek, and with quick eves, v\nd clamourous shouts discern the bidden prize ; POEMS. I 4 I But Avas for them the morning's breath as sweet, As bright for them the dews beneath their feet ; As pure and free the early clouds in light, And flushed their eyes with rapture at the sight ? Yet, these they saw, but as they did not see, For their dull spirits were not touched by thee. They sought thee not, out in the dewy prime, Ranging the pastures of the moorland thyme, Before the lark his matin song had sung, Upon the rosy skirts of darkness hung ; Nor came they here thy gentle lore to learn, Companionless among the heath and fern. Led early forth I saw thy lustrous eyes In starry flowers, and in the starry skies ; And heard thy voice in every waving wood, In winds, and in the murmurs of the flood ; In sigh of leaves, and in the gush of springs, And felt thy present spirit in all things. Fair are the dewy leaves, the blossoms fan, And bright the skies, and sweet the vernal air : Beauty and joy at every turn we meet, Yet without thee is nothing fair or sweet. What pride was mine, what triumph, and what joy To roam the earth with thee when but a boy ; When earth, by Spring created, seemed anew, In green, fresh green, in blossoms and in dew, Or like the sight to tranced Peter given; When all I saw seemed new "let down from heaven :" 142 POEMS. For thou to nature givest diviner grace, As soul adds beauty to the fairest face. But many years have o'er me pass'd, and now Mine is a duller frame and sadder brow ; And I have felt of manhood's cares the stress, But may not, cannot, do not love thee less ; For thou to me hast dearest forms supplied. My mother, and my sister, and my bride. To thee, I ever fly in care and strife, And living not in thee, I have no life. I have not sought for wealth, nor sighed for sway, But loathed alike to rule or to obey : Nor sought precedence, form, nor idle state, Which may be found in small things, as in great. These loved I not, nor aught, save here to be, Midst these wild haunts with nature and with thee. At home, abroad, with man, or in the wild, Whate'er esteemed I still was all thy child. Poesy. — Enough — and I have loved thee, thou hast known That I for thee like constant love have shown ; And I have warmed thy heart with views sublime, With views eternal borrowing wings of Time : And I have shown thee stedfast life and bliss, In other regions — never found in this : And so have tilled thy soul with love and power That thou liast known no solitary hour. POEMS. 143 SONNET. THE VINTAGE. WRITTEN TO A 1MCTURE. Fair being, glad as fair, thus moving free Beneath the pressure of a burden light ; Sweet creature of the vintage, breathes round thee The spirit of thy region warm and bright. All that is sung of soft Italian skies, And sunny hearts and lips, — all that is sung By poets of beauty, lives within thine eyes, And in thy bosom — beautiful, and young ! I have not, when I gaze on thee, one thought Left for old Bacchus, and his mirth and wine ; I see thee only with ripe clusters, caught Fondly and freely from the blushing vine ; See thy glad graceful step, thy living eye, And wish thy life as radiant as thy sky. i 1 ) POEMS. o\ LEAVING ENGLAND. Here rugged lives our fathers led, Age after age of toil and care ; Now, like a garden round us spread, The land we look upon is fair. Our eyes delicious visions fill, The Sage's thought, the Poet's dream Where Art exhausts her utmost skill, Vet Nature reigns o'er all supreme. Old England ! though I leave thee far, More of thee shall I feel and know ; Thy soul burns in me like a star ; Thy greatness yet will on me grow. I see thee, mountain, forest, vale ; I breathe the freshness of thy downs : 1 see thy ships of endless sail ; I hear the hum of all thy towns. ( ), native isle ! O, famous land ! Mother of nations great and free ; When I nor love, nor understand Thy glory, 1 must erase to !>e ! poems. 14-5 WITH CHK1ST. There is such life in all his words, As o'er from page to page we turn — Such truth, such eloquence and power, Our hearts within us burn. It cannot be the time is gone — "We cannot think the era past, Nor deem that in another clime And age our lot is cast. As on we move, from field to field, From village unto village on, He, with the following multitude, Seems thence before us gone. We press to see whom thousands seek ; We hear the glowing words they hear ; — Knowledge as boundless as the skies, And wisdom's language clear. Him, when alone, we find alone, Left in the desert place, "Whence his pervading eye and mind Speed through all time and space. But how can he apart be left, Whom from man's haunts a space we hud : L 14f> POEMS. Who, in liis comprehensive heart, Clasps all of human kind ? " Entering the proud Jerusalem, We see him when he deigned to ride, By an immeasurahle stream Of people deified." We think upon the health, the strength, The light, the life, he gave ; We see him conquering the wind, And walking on the wave. And in the dread and trying hour, A\ r hen shameful death was near, AVhen the two spirits of the earth Were agony and fear ; When night came down upon the day, And death, as from a throne, Seemed for a little space to rule The universe alone ; — We see him bursting from the tomb. Whom mortals thought to slay, Superior to the common bands Which fetter lifeless clay. And in the sad, yet glorious time, Followed by mournful eyes, We see him, till we see him not, Ascending through the skies. HOPE AND MEMORY. In early youth before us walked An aiigel through the land ; Who of the radiant future talked, And beckoned with white hand ; " < > follow ! round my path," she cried, " Life's fairest Mowers appear : Sweets by glad fingers scattered wide — Felicity is here ! " i. 2 148 POEMS. Alas ! too happily unwise, We took bright hope for truth — And overpassed with heedless eyes The paradise of youth Whatever good to man could fall Seemed, in the coming time, As by some spell, concentred all In manhood's kingly prime. To manhood grown — we look around, Expecting to rejoice, And there the first, surprised, we found, The Past had then a voice. We turned to the departed days, Bewildered and aghast, And saw through memory's purple haze, The Angel of the Past. On that high eminence we felt From manhood's summit cold, Away the gorgeous visions melt Youth gloried to behold. Whilst all youth's region, far below Shone out, to wondering eyes, More bright than with Hope's heavenly bow. All rich with orient dyes. How black and dreary was that mount, Willi far-off promise sweet, POEMS. 149 Nor flowers were found, nor bubbling fount, Nor track of angel feet. Whatever it could boast of bright On desolation cast ; The heavenly light which gilt that height, Fell on it from the past. Far round we looked, behind, before, Thus high in manhood's prime ; With sad regrets for seasons o'er — Strange fears for coming time. To faded Hope were added now Yet other pilgrims twain, Bright Memory, with saddening brow, And sorrow-breathing Pain. The past, with dews of sorrow wet, Clear-seen, or undefined, The mighty empire of regret, Possessed the pensive mind. By Hope deluded — this alone Remained to us at last, Through Memory we were wiser grown, That Angel of the Past. L 3 150 POEMS. FLAWFORD CHURCHYARD. "Abont five miles from Nottingham, a liltle way from the Lon- don Road a little way from the fret and bustle of ' People that do pass In travel to and fro,' is a solitary field, differing little from others about it, save by its few grave-stones in the midst." Nature goes ever calmly on forgetting — Death and Decay, true servants, work her will ; Whilst man, who still would live, himself is fretting, That youth should fade, and years have power to kill. Over his dust, a monument he raises, Oblivion's doom for ever to arrest ; And, loving still himself, himself he praises For virtues which in life he deemed the best. Come unto Flawford ! — see how frail such anchor, Cast in the perishing soil by mortal hope ! See here how with the elemental rancour Most fruitlessly strong human wishes cope ! Here a few headstones, in a field, decaying, Stand, of the church, gone long ago, bereft, Strange sense of mutability displaying ; Nor of the village is there vestige left. POEMS. 151 Gone is the winged cherub's full-cheeked breath ; Nor cross-bones gilt, nor trumpet we behold. Death has made free with types of life in death, And Time has breathed strange dimness on the gold. I have beheld the churchyard by the ocean, Where blend with beating waves the graven stone ; And here the waves of time, with ceaseless motion, With ebb and flow, give Nature back her own. Nature reveres no hindrance of her measures — She to o'ergrow or waste the stone is seen ; For she is busied with recurring pleasures, And clothes forgetfulness in freshest green. THE INDIAN MAID. Beneath a spreading cedar-tree Sat a ruddy Indian maid ; Her dark hair round her flowing free, In tresses wildly disarrayed : And sadly to herself she said, In a sweet and pensive tone, " My kindred one by one are dead, And T am left alone. 1.52 POEMS. " Too happy was my youth — too bright ! My hunter-brother here has rest ; My father, gory from the fight, Here, too, is slumbering in earth's breast ; And she who saw with grief severe, With steadfast eye that shed no tear, — My mother, too, is near them laid, — Last sleeper in the cedar-shade. " And where shall I myself betake, The Indian's solitary child ? We've no canoe upon the lake : Our home has perished in the wild ! Our woods are felled ; our game is slain ; And I, last of my tribe, remain ! O, whither, whither shall I flee ? Of loveless being weary grown : Here lingering 'neath our burial-tree — Near all I loved — alone ! " How gloriously here I sped the chase ! How full of triumph from the fight Returned our warriors to this place ! And round the ruddy fires of night, Danced and sung with stern delight. Those sounds I hear, now all is still : This blank with Avaving woods I fill. Alas ! in vain would I recall The light, the life, the soul of all ! POEMS. 1 .53 " These birds have now a plaintive tone — A mournful murmur fills the tree : Have they some sorrow of their own, Or do they sympathise with me ? Even the flutter of a leaf, A throbbing seems, instinct with grief. " I know that I, a huntress bold, Must wander hence from year to year : Too young to mingle with the mould — With mine who soundly slumber here, The life in me is all too strong, And I must live, and surfer wrong : Must live an alien to the place, Old heritage of all our race ! Another home must find or make, By some far undiscovered lake. But this I feel where'er I be, As to its nest returns the dove, That I shall die beneath this tree, And mingle with the forms I love — Shall wearily wander, and be laid At length in this old hallowed shade ! " 1 ">4 POEMS. THE FOREST SPRING. AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO HIS LITTLE NEPHEW J. J. H. I saw within the forest deep a very pleasant place, Where Spring had entered with a smile, and looked it into grace ; And there amid the hlossoms sweet out-gushed a current clear, That filled the eye with joyful light, with murmurs soft the ear : " Thou art," I cried unto myself, " a fountain of deep joy, And dost remind me by thy grace of one beloved boy." Luxuriantly from sheltering boughs in that delight- ful nook The foliage drooped, and kept aloof the sun's con- suming look : In the fierce summer, when the birds were all too faint to sing, Leaping and sparkling on its course sang ever more that spring ; Clasped round as by a mother's arms, preserved from all annoy, " 0, Spring ! " I cried, " how art thou like to one beloved boy ! " POEMS. 1 55 With nature wandering hand in hand, I never yet had seen Such gentle drooping of the boughs, and sueh delici- ous green ; Such graceful tendrils, interlaced with blossoms danc- ing light, As there above that little spring waved freshly on the sight ; My heart beat quick, I felt a pride which nothing could destroy, For more than ever did I think of one beloved boy. Gush from the rock in joyful strength, and sing thou on thy way, Sweet fountain of the quiet dell, bright creature of the day ! Yet not more lightly wilt thou leap, nor murmur with more glee, Thou flitting butterfly of brooks, thou pasture-huiu- ming bee, Than one whom lately I beheld, a being made of joy, Nor can'st thou steal into the heart like that beloved boy. 156 POEMS. ON THE DEATH OF HELEN MARIA H. In the deep summer thou dost sink to slumber ; Thou liest down to thine eternal rest ; Thou goest hence to join that happy number Who, pure like thee, like thee are ever blest. Go, loved-one ! to the bosom of thy mother, Meet there the smile in infancy thy own ; Meet there thy infant sister and thy brother, Knowing in heaven whom thou on earth hast known. Yet quit us not for ever, oft descending Visit thy native haunts, these walks, these flowers ; Come with thy mother, some blest moments spending, As God himself once walked in Eden's bowers. For thou art now more like thy Maker, holy, Now that frail form has perished, thou art now, Above these haunts of mortal melancholy, A thing of light, with love-encircled brow. Love, and pure joy attend thee— thou dost gather Flowers in the fields of Paradise— thou art Where goodness dwells with the eternal Father, Of Love and Joy eternally a part. POEMS. 1 57 AVe do not weep — we would not bring thee hither — We would not wrong thee — happiness is thine ! For looking on all earthly flowers that wither, AVe learn the lore that fits us to resign ! A name hast thou bequeathed us, and a vision ! And thoughts that ever more will on thee dwell : And hopes that onward speed to realms elysian, Blent with regrets, and many a fond farewell ! NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN See the free-footed Indian, with his bow, Apollo-like, forth issuing to the light Of green savannas, where the buffalo And elk in herds repose, far on the sight, Half seen through mist, touched by the morning bright. Mark well the bearing of the warrior bold ! The nervous tread, the arm of sinewy might : And in that frame and in that face behold The knee yet never bowed, the spirit ne'er controlled. AVhat is the marshy swamp across his path, Broad stream, or endless stretch of forest wild, Before him set as barriers to his wrath ? AVhat are the craggy mountains, heavenward piled, 158 POEMS To him, the wood's and war's and danger's child. Whose life's blood is revenge — who, in one blow, Given, or received — who can endure all woe, Tracking a hundred leagues to spring upon his foe ? Yet, beautiful ! with that unconquered air, Neath trees coeval with creation's dawn, To see the eagle-warrior bowed in prayer, To the Great Spirit ! gentle as the fawn, Subdued ; then rising cheerful as the morn, Vigorous as noon, war kindling in his eye — What power may tame his glance of fiery scorn, Whose greatest honour firmly is to die, And to life's latest ebb his tortures to defy ! Still, with the bow, free-w r andering like thy floods, Beneath the giant trees thy way pursue ! Still freely in the illimitable woods, To the One Spirit be thy worship true ! Shun the cold looks and crimes of comers new — The war of steel, the death of sulphurous fire : Brave as thou art, canst thou such foes subdue ? Thy bow will yield thee all thou canst desire ! Far, far unto the west, son of the woods, retire ! Soon will the European axe be laid Unto thine ancient forests ; hoariest trees, Ol ample ami <>t" venerable shade, POEMS. 1 •'».') Groan, and foil groaning. By the steady breeze Blown on, the white men cross the severing seas, The natural temple of thy worship fades, As fades the scene some northern pilot sees — Illusive isles, and towers, and forest glades : — Retire, free Indian, fai*, to thine untrodden shades ! Yet triumph, Freedom ! in that region free, With Truth, and Peace, and Love, thy children, there, Sublime, will raise a temple meet for thee ! Bold as the forest lion in his lair Will be thy sons, as in the boundless air, Free is the eagle from Canadian hills ; And Europe's sons, will crowd thy soil to share, Where'er despotic rule man's nature chills, Till glory fills the land thine ancient spirit fills ! SHE LOOKS UPON THE KING. She looks upon the ring, In a dream of happiest days, When the lips of one now dead and gone, Were opened but to praise. AV T lien life o'erflowed with promise ( >t" happy, happy years, In one dread day that passed away To torture and to tears. lo'O POEMS. She looks upon the ring, In the bloom of purest youth, And can recall, remembering all His tenderness and truth. The flowers he fondly gathered, And in her bosom laid, Have never lost their summer bloom, — Those flowers will never fade. She looks upon the ring, And the winter melts away, — The very air is golden — It is the prime of May. The fields through which they walked to churcl She sees, — the bloom, the sky, — And of the beauty of that day The sense can never die. She looks upon the ring, And her cheek a moment glows, — Again seem blending in her hair The lily and the rose. She sees a bridal party — Of maiden white a gleam — And the merry chime of village bells Is mingling with her dream. She looks upon the ring. And her native home she sees. POEMS. ' () 1 As last she took a lingering look. Beyond the village trees. She hears her father's blessing — She feels her mother's tears — And in one moment knows again The bliss and woes of years. THE WELCOME VISITOR. WRITTEN WHliN PASSING THE C&PE VBB.D ISLES. When weary, weary winter Had melted from the air, And April leaf and blossom Had clothed the branches bare, Came round our English dwelling A voice of Summer cheer, 'Twas thine, returning Swallow ! The welcome, and the dear. We heard amid the day-break Thy twitter blithe and sweet : In life's auspicious morning The precious and the fleet. 162 POEMS. We saw thee lightly skimming O'er fields of summer flowers ; And heard thy song of inward blis- Through evening's golden hours. Far on the billowy ocean A thousand leagues are we, Yet here, sad hovering o'er our hark, What is it that we see ? Dear old familiar Swallow ! What gladness dost thou bring ! Here rest upon our flying sail Thy weary wandering wing. What glimpses of our native homes, And homesteads dost thou bring : Here rest upon our quivering mast Thy welcome, weary wing. To see thee, and to hear thee, Amid the ocean's foam — Again we see the loved, the left — We feel at home, at home ! POEMS. 163 SONNET. FADING SNOWDROPS. When ye, sweet apparitions, quit the earth, I to old hilly crofts shall take my way, And search warm southern hanks from day to day, Where whitest violets first have odorous birth : But with no eager school-boy's clamorous mirth Rudely shall I to pluck them thence essay ; Though pleased even like a school-boy. I obey A holier impulse — better know their worth. I feel the vernal freshness of the time Even now, — the blending of the cold and bright : The first relentings of a vigorous clime : See the yeaned lamb : mark the rook's noisy flight ; And of the primrose — rose of the sweet prime — Catch a sly glimpse — copse-hidden from the sight. M 2 [64 POEMS. THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD. From the twilight we borrow Fit solace for sorrow, When the aged and weary lie down in their west : And the sunset in splendour Is touching and tender, Where the dews of our sorrow fall warm on their rest. But mighty's the anguish Where beauty must languish, And the young from the young in life's morning are riven ; When the dear spell is broken Of vows fondly spoken, And the form is recalled that in rapture was given. Oh ! vainly we linger Where Silence her finger Has laid upon lips that no more may unclose : Where sad leaves are sighing. Where blossoms are dying, O'er the young and the lovely in mortal repose. POEMS. 165 The form that came lightly, Like morn breaking brightly, With hopes as from Eden, all faded and o'er : The presence endearing, The smile that was cheering, And step that was music, are with us no more WHERE IS THE MUSE ? Now the heavens have lost their blue, And the brightness bursting through, Now the earth has lost its bloom In the ever-hanging gloom ; Now the foliage, tempest-strewn, Wildly through the woods is blown ; And the rivers rough and wide Roll a dark and stormy tide ; Now the woodman's cottage-smoke Curls not lightly from the oak ; And the moping cattle stand Lumps of dulness on the land ; Lost to cheerful sounds and hues, Whither wanders now the Muse ? Has she with the swallow flown To some region fair unknown, Past the flush and rosy dyes Of the soft Italian skies ? m 3 66 POEMS. Has she made her winter-home 'Midst some blossoms white us foam, Shielded by some maiden fair From the shrewdness of the air, In some pleasant room, apart, Warm and secret as her heart ? Does she to the violets cling, Ready to start up with spring ? Be she wheresoe'er she may She will startle us some day With a sweetly-sudden sound That will make us look around. Thinking spirits on the wind All the heaven of song unbind. AVhen the lark as up he springs Scatters brightness from his wings ; When the earth is softly green And the bursting buds are seen. When the school-boy cannot rest Out to find the sparrow's nest, Warmly bedded in the sedge Of the yet unleafed hedge ; When the rook high in the tree Clamours o'er her masonry ; And the pastures spotting wide Youngest lambs like snow are spied, Then on hill, in dell and brake, Then, O, then will song awake. POEMS. 167 ON THE VANISHING OF GOOD OLD CUSTOMS. Day after day we linger in the past ; Yet whatsoe'er is ours of good or old, We look upon with aspect stern or cold, As we of what remains would mar the last : At our own doings we should stand aghast, AVho deem our sires in innovation bold : Home-lights are quenched — home-rites more dear than gold, And by degrees is sameness round us cast. Time ! in thy records, often to us show Happy old England ! in the passed time, Where blazing hearths forgot the winter- snow, Masquing with merry Christinas in her prime ! Ere Love and Joy had lost their honest glow, Through Pride and Change, our country's curse and crime. Note. — The above Sonnet was published in Dearden's Miscellany for January in in, about three months after Richard Howitt set sail for Australia In the number for February, the following Sonnet, by Sidney < i ilis , appeared in reply. On ! deem it nut our country's curse and crime, That customs which our fathers well did keep Are suffered in oblivion now to sleep ! 'Twas well for England in the passed time, To "masque with merry Christmas in her prime ;" Bui think not thou, or I, could pleasure reap, From draining horns of ale a fathom deep, < >r shouting ballads in outlandish rhyme Lei all such vanish, there are pleasures y '. When, round our table in due order, we Have Wordsworth, Shelley, Southey, Coleridgi And join their souls in flights of poel 1 1 . Loss of but one good custom / regret: And that is, reading side bj side w itb tin; ' 1 <)8 POEMS. STANZAS Oh, were I but a drop of dew, A pearl upon the snowdrop small : Suspended o'er one bosom true — I know where I would love to fall. Were I a moonbeam of the night, That wanders through the silent air : With kisses white would I alight Upon one sleeping forehead fair. Were I a rose, had I the power, Yet sweeter roses would I seek, And there would wave from hour to hour, And dash the dews upon her cheek. POEMS. 1(i!J GENIUS TRIUMPHANT. It matters not where'er it be, nor what strong powers array Themselves against it, genius will brighten into day. The mountain rivulet, impeded by many a granite rock, O'erflows all hinderance, and leaps in beauty from the rock. The eaglet from the eyry, unused through heaven to sweep, Shoots forth with wing unfearing above the dizzy steep : He buffets the fierce tempest with all his inborn might, And strengthens thus his pinions for the far adven- turous flight. The poet in the wilds of life with poverty girt round, Whom in that deep seclusion true light from heaven has found ; He hears aerial music — he feels his happy skill — He sings a bold triumphant song, and all the world is still. I /U POEMS. ( ) ! sad and thoughtful painter, and dream'st thou too of fame, Where, save thy kindred, very few have ever breathed thy name ? Amongst thy fellow men, a weary lot is thine ; To glory and to suffer — to toil, and yet to pine. Go ! sit beside the village spring, Avhere cool fresb waters start — There watch them throb and flutter, as doth the human heart : Tbence trace their course, the rivulet, and then the stately river — There, Genius, fcA thyself a stream, that flows and shines for ever ! SONNET. WRITTEN ON ATTENDING THE MATIN-SERVICE IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL, September 22, 1839. A sweet religious sadness, like a dove, Broods o'er this place. The clustered pillars high Are rosed over by the morning sky ; And from the heaven-hued windows Far above, Intense as adoration, warm as love, A purple glory deep is seen to lie. 1 72 POEMS. Turn, Poet, Christian, now the serious eye, Where in white vests, a meek and youthful band, Chanting God's praise, in graceful order stand. O hear that music swell far up, and die ! Old temple, thy vast centuries seem but years — Where sages, kings, and saints lie glorified ! Our hearts are full, our souls are occupied, And piety has birth in quiet tears ! SONNET. ON A NOVEMBER SUNRISE. Around the east the dull retiring night Leaves softest clouds of silver and of grey ; And earth is gladdened by the coming light, And small birds sing, though cheerless is the day. Now on the horizon rest long crimson lines ; And now the grey and silver glow with gold, As more and more the level radiance shines Along the dull and comfortless and cold. Now through the skies broad ways of light are driven Paths by the feet of Seraphs only trod — Such glimpses of the vast are rarely given To mortal mover on the lowly sod ; These, these are glimpses of the boundless heaven — Remotest splendours of the unseen God. POEMS. 173 TO AN OLD ENGLISH VILLAGE. What unto thee are cities vast, Small village here, among these elms ? The care that eats, the show that cheats, The noise that overwhelms ? Few sounds are thine, and clearly heard : The whimple of one only brook — The woodman's axe that distant sounds — Dog's bay, or cawing rook. How filled with quiet are these fields ! Far off is heard the peasant's tread ! How clothed with peace is human life ! How tranquil seem the dead ! Here Time and Nature are at strife — The only strife that here is seen : Whate'er decay has tinged with grey, Nature has touched with green. The market-cross, o'ergrown with moss, All quaintly carved, still lingers on, And dreams, even in this hoary place, Of ages longer gone. 174 POEMS. The Maypole, hung with garlands sore, Thou fondly dost retain as yet, All good old pastimes of this land Unwilling to forget. The Gothic church, the manor hall, And cottages low-roofed with stone, With Waving grass and lichens all Are grayly overgrown. Haunt for the meditative mind ! Some hermit long has near thee dwelt, And hreathed his soul forth on the air In quiet that is felt. I round me look some monk to see, Some stately old monastic fane : Nor should I start, were I to meet The Norman or the Dane. Here, as to all the world unknown, A sage seclusion dost thou keep : And here Antiquity enjoys A deep and mossy sleep. Across the moors far have I sped, Intent upon a glowing theme : And here the first time round me look. Awake, as in a dream. POEMS. 175 Thy name I know not, nor would know : No common name would I be told : Yet often shall I seek thee now, Thou village quaint and old. SONNET, WRITTEN IN MAY. The heart of nature is a glad one now — High in the heavens are songs above the day ; And love and gladness live on every bough, In this clear morning of delightful May. The swallow do I see, the cuckoo hear — Blithe twitter, and bold voice, ye please me well ! make the heart of man, like Nature's, clear, Throughout the summer where ye come to dwell. AVIiat poet can behold this, and forget — What heart, that loveth God and man behold The seal of heaven in earthly beauty set, And walk the earth with spirit dead and cold ? Freshness beneath, and splendour all above, The world in light, is Beauty, Joy, and Love. 176 POEMS. SONNET THE SAME CONTINUED. What delicate freshness in the foliage green, What graceful drooping dwells with every spray. Now in the rosy light of sunrise seen, In this clear morning of the joyful May. ( )f thy own song and nature's gladness proud, O, blackbird ! singing in love's sweet excess, Thus, in thy secret thicket, piping loud, Thou canst not more than / do feel express. I think of Christ, now I do hear the dove — Of his ascension, now the lark I hear — Of Virtue triumphing — Eternal Love — Immortal Hope — and feel no mortal fear. Can Nature give me more than she doth give ? God ! I thank thee, I have lived — and live ! POEMS. 1 71 ii ROSY TWILIGHT STAB. rosy twilight star, 1 behold thee shine afar, Xow clouds near the sun are crimson and yellow : And the golden autumn light, With the shadows of the night, Is blent, and with the sounds of eve soft and mellow. O ! bliss-diffusing star, O ! memory-hallowed liar, 'Twixt the night and the day sweet division : Tbou art purpling all about, Thou art wooing lovers out ; And the world, in thy smile, grows elysian. Now quiet with spread wings Is descending on all things, And clews, blent with sleep, are wept from the willow, And the sun has bade " good night," With a trail of glorious light, As he sank from the sight to sleep on the billow. N 178 POEMS. THE HKRMIT OF DALE. PART I. In Derby once a baker dwelt, A shrewd, observant man, Who well the best of fortune's flour Had sifted from the bran. Who had such store of golden ore, Of silver and of brass, That up and down " Old Money Bags,' His current name did pass. His looks were sharp as Christmas air, His eye quick as the hawk, That even when his lips were closed, His features seem'd to talk. And thus it fell to buy and sell His being did engross, As he the only heaven and hell Accounted gain and loss. POEMS. 179 Old palmers who in Marie's name, Asked alms from door to door, Just glancing at the baker's house, To linger there forehore. To linger there forbore, because As plain as house could speak, It said fair charity was dead, There dead and buried eke. Moreover in the baker's heart There lived, and on his tongue, Hard words for all the wandering race, Contempt, and bitter wrong. Dark was his house ; a dusty gloom About it ever hung ; Whence fell a deep mysterious awe. On strangers old and young. It was the spider's hall, the bat There loved to shun the light : Ah, me ! it was a doleful place For home of living wight. The haker was a bachelor, His love died in her spring ; And thence through all his weary life He loved no living thing. 180 POEMS. He loved no living thing ; his heart Was hollow, dead, and cold ; As was the heart of her he loved Deep in the churchyard mould ; And thence he strove its hollowness To fill with hungry gold. It was not filled. An angel came Unto him in his sleep ; And then that man of iron frame. Did moan, and groan, and weep. O wherefore was the baker moved. To moan, and groan, and weep ? lie knew his morning star of love Beamed on him in his sleep. He knew that gleam of golden hair, Those eyes intensely bright ; Tbe air, the shape, that charmed his youth, Though robed in heavenly light. Out from the heaven of love there came, Out from domestic joy, A spirit fair, the baker's peace To torture and destroy. All he had loved in early life Were with him in his sleep : POEMS. 181 His parents, brothers, sisters, till — Well might the miser weep. Uprising from those blessed dreams, How drear his hearth and cold ! He felt his house become a hell, And cursed his hoarded gold. He lost his rest, he loathed his food, He joyed not day nor night ; Sweet memories of his boyhood came Upon him like a blight. Drv grew his eyes, and hot : no more Sweet tears refreshing ran ; He moved about the house, or stood — A melancholy man. Unto the virgin-mother, then Unused to pray, he prayed In agony of mind, that she His life would end or aid. PART II. strange, strange ! < > wondrous change, The baker's robes are fine : His house is filled with pleasant light, He quail's the rosy wine. N ••; 182 POEMS. And can it be that doleful place, The miser's drear abode ? AV r ith gleesome guest, with merry jest The house is overflowed. All they who pass along the street, Perplexed sorely seem ; And rub their eyes, in wild surprise, As walking in a dream. And can the music flow from thence, Midst gay robes fluttering light ? They see it is, it is the same — And gazing bless the sight. All things of nice and rare device, Are by the baker bought ; Silver and gold with gems inlaid, By cunning workmen wrought. Of each degree, the fair and free, Unto the baker's come ; Of gracefulness and nobleness It is the joyous home. With cates the board is richly stored, The board is crowned with flowers ; They laugh at pain ; in purple rain The wine amongst them showers. POEMS. 1. 83 Ah, me ! the baker's heart is sad ; Amidst that noisy glee, He strives his miseries to drown — A woful man is he ! AVhenee throng these beggars all the street, Up to the baker's door ? The baker has a gentle heart, lie feeds and clothes the poor. He fills the hungry, soothes the sad, He makes the sick his care ; His fare is very good, — his words Are better than his fare. If pious deeds may aught bestead The melancholy mind, The baker now should be at ease — His heart should solace find. It is the midnight still — how still ! The revellers are away ; And the Abbot of the Black Friars Is come with him to pray. Is come with him to pray, for he Is sorely tossed in mind ; Xor in his hospitable mirth ( \\n consolation find. 184 POEMS. The Abbot sees the iron chest, With locks, or six or seven, And though his lips are moved in prayer, His thoughts are not in heaven. Away the Abbot bears with him A goodly abbey gift ; Yet no whit lighter is his heart : More gold than he could lift Would scarcely seem to him to be Fit guerdon for that shrift. And from the priory there comes, All smiles, like suit to press, With sharpest talons, sheathed in fur, lake gentle leopardess — And she bears back a gift with her - The Lady Prioress. To rich and poor he opes the door Of the house which is his hell, That happiness may enter in, That with him will not dwell. Again there comes a change, strange ! That house is still and cold As in those days of misery Wherein he hugged his gold. POEMS. The beggar sees it with a curse, Forgetting what he had ; And like an owl, the monk in his cowl, He sees it and is sad. Never an eye that moves that Avay Beholding it, is glad. Whither he's gone, there knows not one Of friends that were his foes ; And through the region round about The wonder grows and grows. PART III. Deepdale ! lovely is thy land, With pasturing herd and flock ; And lovely is thine Hermitage Cut in the solid rock. A cheerful place of healthful life — A spot of Nature's love ; With greenest grass up to the door, And crowned with trees above. With that one arch before thee set — That one old abbey window fair ; The only wreck of the rich fane That restless Time would spare. 18-6 POEMS. Hither, when Hermitage was none, The Derby baker came, Deep in these wild and tangled woods His lone abode to frame. Here, in the hollow oak, he made His dwelling night and day, Whilst he, with unrelenting hands, The hard rock cut away. For him, thus occupied, to cheer, The flowers wore looks of love ; For him the nightingale sung sweet, The thrush, and amorous dove. And, though unnoted, on his mind The changes of each passing hour, With all sweet hues and harmonies, Had salutary power. And much was missed, through cheerful toil, That long had weighed upon his frame ; And joy and health, as from a fount, Gushed from his cherished aim. Nor was it till through labour long, Perfected was tins fair recess, He felt, of his unworldly lite, The (piiet weariness. POEMS. 187 But by degrees whate'er he sees, And hears, hath power to please him less ; And deeper, heavier, on him grows That quiet weariness. For him who in the town had dwelt, In daily sound of passing feet, The still intensity of woods Had an oppressive weight. But, shaking off that heaviness, Ofttimes he sought the village near, With cheerful sight of human life His moody mind to cheer. Serlo de Grendou, where is he, The owner of this Ancle domain ? In Ockbrooke woods he comes to hunt, And with him conies a noble train. The stag has crossed the Derwent river ; Has also crossed the broader Trent ; And worn with that most desperate chase, In Deepdale now is spent. Old Hermit, quick, put out your fire, Allow no white and dancing smoke To rise for Lord de Grendon's eyes Above the forest oak. 188 poems: Wroth is the noble hunter — rage Fiercely possesses him : he sees That light blue wreath curl up to heaven From out his forest trees. " Audacious wretch ! " the noble cries : " The villain, whosoe'er he be, Who thus presumptuously hath dared, Shall hang on the first tree ! " Tremble not, Hermit, be thou calm Howe'er the angry lord may chafe : The cross that stands before thy door He sees — and thou art safe. He sees that other image fair, Poor dweller of the woodlands lone ! The Virgin, whom thy hands have carved, Religiously in stone. 1 1c sees, he pities thee, nor can Thy prayer to linger there gainsay : And of his mill of Borrowash He grants thee tythe ahvay. Now happier had the Hermit been, Would but that Evil Spirit rest, That vexed him there, that tries him here, With various arts unblest. POEMS. 189 That Spirit, him wlio hither sent, hi likeness of the Virgin Mother, Appearing to him in a dream, Was Satan, and no other. For hither by a gracious vision The baker deemed he had been sent, In fasting and in prayer to pass His last days penitent. Again the Evil Spirit toils To work the Hermit more displeasure, To make him doubt his stedfast faith, And loathe his too much leisure. Again he in luxurious dreams Is with most dainty viands cheated ; With wine, with beauty, and with song, His fancy strongly heated : All his late joyous banquetings Are o'er and o'er repeated. Alas ! poor Hermit, to thy crust How sadly didst thou waken ; And from thy tasteless Avater turn To what thou hadst forsaken ! The Hermit prayed, the Hermit slept : And like a phoenix from his dust 190 POEMS. Arose the pride of ages thence, Dale Abbey's dome august. Uprose it, as by magic, fair, In this secluded valley, still With gorgeous images of power The peasant's mind to fill. One arch alone remains —fair wreck ! Fit emanation from the soul Of architectural grace, to show The grandeur of the whole. But thou, old Hermitage, art here — Outlasting long the Abbey's glory Memento graven in the rock, To keep alive the Hermit's story. POEMS. 1 ft I NATURAL PRAISE. High in the dawn the lark will sing, O'er mountain, and o'er river : Wafting that worship on free Aving To the all-hounteous Giver. The thrush at eve, as sweet as loud, Of joy like large partaker, Will sing amid the singing crowd, Yet louder to his Maker. Wood unto wood, and stream to stream, In melody replying, Till with the quiet of a dream, All sounds from earth are dying. Nor will the nightingale forget, When darkness doth await her, Sweetly to pay love's thankful debt To the adored Creator. Whilst man, who cannot breathe in vain The breath of all things vernal, Will too a joyful part sustain In song to the Eternal. 192 POEMS. .STANZAS. O, Boyhood is a mountain brook, That starts, and leaps, and curls, and foams, That frets through many a flowery nook, To find a thousand homes. Youth is a torrent, from the rocks That leaps, and shouts along the vales, With glassy sheets and stunning shocks That thunders and prevails. And manhood is a powerful source, Of ampler depth, a graceful tide, Which in their daily gathering course Spreads health and plenty wide. Old age — it is a iranquil pool, A haven of reflection clear ; A stilly place of shadows cool, And loneliness austere. POEMS. l.'*3 THE VANISHED SEASONS. When first the snowdrop told of flowers Of Spring, what busy hopes were ours, Whilst yet fair nature's folded powers Were silver-cold : Of April-sweets in sun-bow showers, And May's flower-gold. The violet and the primrose fleet, In their old stations did we meet, As travellers, passing by who greet, Just seen and fled : And then Avas Spring, that maiden sweet, A beauty dead. Then summer came, a matron fair, Showering June's roses on the air ; With field-flowers waving everywhere, In meadows bright ; With blissful sounds, with visions rare, A large delight. How rich the woods ! how loud with song ! How glad was nature's heart and strong ! With beams that might not linger long, The summer shone : A scythe was heard — a sound of Avrong — And she was gone, o 194 POEMS. Next sunburnt Autumn trod the plain, With ruddy fruits, and rustling grain ; And labouring steed, and loaded wain ; And mirthful cheer : Then vanished she with all her train, From stubbles sere. The light upspringing from the ground, The light of flowers no more is found ; Nor song of birds, nor stream's glad sound, May longer flow : Now Winter with dead leaves is crowned, Where shall we go ? Where gleams the fire on Milton's bust, Gold-bronzing Time's insidious rust ; And in strong Shakespeare's light we must Our joyance take : And, to the past and present just, Fresh summer make. It shall not be a time of fdoom \ Gathered from nature's endless bloom, With happy light will we illume The season sad : And nightly make our winter-room An Eden glad ! poems. 19; THE WOODLAND WELL. Oh ! the pleasant woodland well, Gemmed about with roses ; Sweetest spot in dale or dell — Bright when evening closes : Sparkling, gushing clearly, There it was first love begun, And, amidst eve's shadows dun, There it was I wooed and won Her I loved most dearly. O ! the lovely woodland well — Unto it is given, Fairest lights that ever fell Full of bliss from heaven. There both late and early Ever do I love to be, Through sad memory's tears to see, Lost to love, and lost to me, Her I loved most dearly. o 2 196 POEMS. THE HUNTER OF THE (.I.K.V. In a lone glen from the white man Afar, in forests brown, From age to age stood peacefully The pleasant Indian town. Part hid in woods, in waters part Brightly encircled round ; A safest field, a silver shield For freedom's hallowed ground. Where grew up in the light of heaven The pride of ancient men, The love of Indian maidens fair, The Hunter of the Glen. One never slow the buffalo Or stately elk to kill ; lint chiefly in the strife of men, Renowned for fatal skill. By prowess known, for valor shown, In many a conflict tried, The noblest chief his dauehti 1-1 :er g;>\< — Fair Leila was his bride, POEMS. 191 Though old in deeds, too young in years The counselling voice to raise ; Yet early at the council-fire His father heard his praise. Beyond the wide Missouri tide He caught his desert steed, And the strong-pinioned prairie-hawk Might scarce outfly his speed. Red morning flames along the skies — The hunter is awake : And far into the wilds he goes, An early prey to take. Broad in his path the river flows — Slight harrier unto him : He gives his noble steed free rein, — No pause — they plunge and swim. lie threads the woods, o'ertops the hills, And like a vessel steers, Where round him free, and like a sea The wide savanna clears. And down he brings the noble game, The fleet of font and wing: And rests him oft by shady creek, And cooling forest spring o 3 1 98 POEMS. The pines are sighing mournfully — Throughout the woods around, As the wind sways the branches high, Comes a low dirge-like sound. Along the vale the waters wail — A motion and a breath Are with the heavy silence blent, That prophesies of death. Return, O Hunter-chief ! return — Thy foes are in the break : The eagle of the tribe is there, The panther and the snake. Far off they saw thy coming ; knew The comer by instinctive hate : And like the things whose names they bear, Thy presence grimly wait. Their dead call unto them in dreams — " When will our tribe awake ? — Our wounds are sore, our death-canoes Are many on the lake. " And still the Hunter-chief survives, By whom your friends were slain ; And still upon the lake of death We linger in our pain. POEMS. 199 " And to and fro, and round we go The melancholy bounds — Nor ever unavenged may reach The happy hunting-grounds." Thrice seized in war, the Hunter-chief His doom eluded thrice ; But now, once more within their power, His life must pay the price. They know it were in vain to seize The wise, the close, the still ; The chief who seldom speaks — but acts With energetic will. They know that were they now to meet The hero face to face, In desperate stand, and hand to hand, Their blood must stain the place. Their foreheads wrinkle hard with hate — Their bloodless lips compress — Their teeth like iron crunch — their eyes Flash lightning merciless. A rifle-shot — the mid-birds scream — The Hunter bleeding lies, And the loud war-whoop in his ear Sounds faintly as he dies. 200 POEMS. Off from his head the Weeding scalp Exultingly they tore : And left the corse to hungry wolves And vultures hovering o'er. Alas, for Leila ! his fair bride ! And will she pine away ? No ! like a phoenix from his dust, The deed will she repay. Love's eye is quick, and she will track Each savage to his den : And, many deaths for one, avenge Her Hunter of the Glen. AVhose hand unloosed him, when by night Betwixt his foeman bound ; And slew the watchers at his side, And half the sleepers round ? [t was his tried, bis faithful bride. And now she comes, O grief! To bear the fatal rifle sound, And find her slaughtered chief. With pleasant images her mind Slit 1 fed along the way, To meet her home-returning lord, Rich-laden with the prey. POEMS. 201 But she will track the foemcn back, Will haunt them late and long ; And prove, in secret blows of hate, That woman's love is strong. Joyfully rose the morning sun, O'er the fair Indian town, But on it settled saddest shades Before the sun went down. Since went exulting forth in joy, Not to return again To those who sent him forth in love — The Hunter of the Glen. 202 POEMS. A MOVING SHADOW The miser has his anguish, The merchant weary pain ; The lover long may languish, Yet none their end obtain. The toiling farmer soweth, The reaper reaps the grain— The traveller forward goeth — Yet none their end obtain. The miser leaves his money, The merchant all his care, — The lover — gall and honey — For thus it is they fare. The farmer in death's farrow Is buried like his grain ; Tlie labourer on the morrow From labour doth refrain ; All pay the life they borrow, For all thai end obtain. POEMS 20. "5 They lie them down to slumber Beneath the churchyard stone, With all the woes they number, Their destiny unknown. And what thus could they follow, With such an anxious quest ? What flitting dream and hollow Thus robbed them of their rest ? Power, wealth, or love, or pleasure, Could not be ever sought ? Beyond must lie some treasure, Some phantom of the thought ? They sought — thus truth confesseth — Sought long, but failed to find, What heaven alone possesseth — " The calm and happy mind." CHILDHOOD. AVe come to being from the night As cometh forth the morning light ; The world is beautiful and new ; The earth is filled with flowers and dew ; Birds loudly sing on wing and spray, And we — more merrily than they. We gather strength, we run, Ave leap, Find joy iii everything, and sleep. Willi mirth and beauty hand in hand We take possession of the land : Life surely then is not a breath — What then has life to do with death ? 20G POEMS. 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