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 m''':":\r.i::
 
 MANCHESTER POETRY 
 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 EDITED BY JAMES W H E E L E K . 
 
 "He that recalls the attention of maiiliiiicl to any pint i.f learning which time lia^ Idi 
 hehind it, may lie truly said to advance the literature ot his age."— Johnson. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 CHARLES TILT, FLEET- STREET. 
 
 MANCHESTER: ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 1838.
 
 MANCHESTER: 
 C. -n-BFItLEn A.ND SC.N, ST. AN^ •s-STKBKT.
 
 TK 
 
 TO 
 
 LORD FRANCIS EGERTON 
 
 A PATRON AND ORNAMENT OF ENGLISFI LITERATURE, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS DEDICATED BV 
 
 'HE EDITOR. 

 
 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 
 
 The task of writing an introductory essay, at no time very 
 
 attractive, is one of peculiar difficulty and delicacy when 
 
 the work to be ushered into the world consists of the 
 
 productions of townsmen, and those townsmen "poets." 
 
 On the one hand an editor's reserve will be cavilled at if he 
 
 say too little ; on the other his assurance will be chastised if 
 
 he talk too largely; so that between the two extremes 
 
 some prudence is requisite to guide him safely to the goal. 
 
 "Manchester Poetry!" exclaim doubtless the majority of 
 
 those who may chance to bestow a passing glance upon 
 
 the book — 
 
 " Bless us ! what a word on 
 A titie-page is this !" — 
 
 and, as if satisfied in their own minds that this same town 
 
 cannot produce any good thing save only such as emanates
 
 VI. 
 
 from the spindle or the power-loom, they indulge, it may be, 
 in a slight laugh at the presumption of the editor, and go on 
 their way rejoicing. 
 
 It is, indeed, unfortunately the fact that, except in 
 rare instances, the few scientific and literary men whom 
 Manchester could boast have been content to hide their 
 light under a bushel, passing from the stage of life without 
 recording their title to any degree of fame beyond the 
 immediate precincts of their own homesteads. As for 
 poi)ularity, " poor and content was rich and rich enough ;" 
 they sought not the applause of the multitude ; they knew 
 that a venal criticism might be purchased; and aware of 
 the worthlessness of fame so procured, they had, too, the 
 philosophy to disregard it. 
 
 Thus it is that strangers have weekly and daily visited 
 the town, nay are even yet visiting it, only as a great 
 manufacturing depot. They have heard of its skilfulness in all 
 manner of handicraft ; rumour has spoken of its inhabitants 
 as a people " whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers 
 the honourable of the earth," and they have come up in a 
 spirit of curiosity to inspect its spinning-jennies and power- 
 looms, to take note of this apparatus or of that cog-wheel.
 
 vu. 
 
 and, exclaiming "wondeiful" at every turn, have departed at 
 last with the impression that Manchester is indeed the most 
 mechanical of boroughs ! But for any qualities intellectual or 
 imaginative, not having dreamed of the possibility, they have 
 not paused to inquire into the fact, of their existence. 
 
 Nor can we wonder. The antipathy of men of trade 
 to the pursuits of literature is as ancient as the hills, and 
 seems likely to endure as long. In the early days of 
 commerce men rose from their beds at day-break, j)artook 
 with their apprentices and workmen the homely meal of 
 porridge from a common platter set in the midst of a 
 deal table — betook them to their toil till nightfall — then 
 hied to the tobacco-clouded atmosphere of a tavern for their 
 glass and gossip — and by nine o'clock were laid a-bed, 
 dieaming off the fumes of their carousal. In such a 
 state of society, literature was of course a luxury unknown 
 and disregarded. But it is strange that in these later 
 days, when the learned professions are crowded with the 
 aspiring scions of commerce, and the senate too often 
 groans under the inflictions of counting-house eloquence, 
 instead of finding an elevation of men's tastes correspondent 
 with the growth of their means, the aversion to literary
 
 VIH. 
 
 pursuits should have lost so little of its force. It is to be 
 feared, indeed, that there are even yet men — and those among 
 the most prosperous in the class of old-fashioned traders — 
 who deem the coarse vulgarity and narrow apprehension 
 of a mind uncultivated to be the best materiel whereof 
 to frame a good tradesman ; and though generally it is not 
 now, as once, that the pilgrims of trade enter on their 
 career without education, it yet seems to be deemed for 
 the most part that the education of books should begin 
 and end at school, or at least that " Tooke on prices," or 
 the "city article" of a daily paper, is the only literature 
 cognizable by a disciple of the counting-house. 
 
 It is a curious phenomenon, too, in the history of the 
 commercial communities of modern days, that the literary 
 taste discouraged in the outset of life, seldom gives any sign 
 of vitahty in the maturer days of men of this class. It 
 is common to find those who, after a life of laborious 
 industry, the latter part spent perhaps in sighing for " a few 
 short years between the grave and the desk," retire at 
 length to enjoy their dechne with some httle splendour, 
 rearing stately mansions, and surrounding themselves with 
 costly works of art, paintings, sculpture, and bijouterie j
 
 IX. 
 
 others may be seen working themselves slowly into the 
 dignity of local potentates, and surmounting the arduous 
 summits of parochial oratory; whilst with not a few the spirit 
 of philanthropy and Christian beneficence, pent up in early 
 life, bursts forth in its sunset to fertiUze and adorn the field 
 of their respective neighbourhoods. But, among this class, 
 literature, if it have patrons — and it has a few — finds no 
 disciples. There may be those who browse in half-awakened 
 ease upon the sunny side of Parnassus ; but there are none 
 who in the spirit of humble pilgrimage attempt the arduous 
 and barren heights whose pinnacle is the retreat of the 
 Muses. With these fair ladies, indeed, even the higher 
 faculties of mind which trade and manufactures call into 
 exercise seem to have no sympathy. Manchester has 
 been the nursery of all those wonderful mechanists whose 
 discoveries gave birth to modern commerce, and are now 
 enriching the world; and yet, so far as our knowledge goes, 
 none of these giant intellects ever alUed themselves with 
 other — and shall we say loftier — studies. .Mechanical genius 
 stands alone in the field of intellect ; — and so likewise the 
 pecuHar properties which characterize a " Manchester Man " 
 whilst they exist not in other spheres, are rarely found 
 linked with other high mental qualities.
 
 Despite all this, however — inalyre the impression which 
 smoke and machinerj^ may be supposed to have upon the 
 brain — it is with no little pride that we can count over 
 the names of those eminent men who in a former age have 
 arisen from our population — who have enlightened the world 
 with their genius — and who sank into their honored rest 
 with the sweet lullaby of fame upon their dying ear. It 
 needs not that they should be enumerated. Suffice it that 
 the renowned in science will not blush to enrol the name of 
 a Henry among their archives — that the immortal in art will 
 be only too proud to find the inspired Liverseege of their 
 number ! And if it were compatible with the design of this 
 essay to speak of those who are yet walking in our streets, 
 and with whom we have yet the privilege of holding earthly 
 converse, we would whisper into the ear of philosophy the 
 name of Dalton, and demand if it be a shght thing to make 
 boast of Urns — we would call a council of the poets, and 
 present Charles Swain to the proudest in their ranks, — and 
 if there be any that are still sceptical, we would ask them to 
 listen to his reception there ! 
 
 In some respects, therefore, Manchester may have little or 
 no ground for complaint or lasting despondency. Great 
 progress has been made since the days when Arkwright
 
 Xi. 
 
 lirst accumulated a princely fortune, and then, in the maturity 
 of life, set himself to learn to write; — and hope, "the 
 immortal child of imagination and desire," sees in these 
 tardy stages of cultivation bright harbingers of the future. 
 x\t this time, indeed, Manchester owns, besides the parent 
 society,* various associations for the encouragement of 
 philosophy, Uterature, and the arts, which give promise 
 of a prolonged existence. Music, also, is worshipped here 
 with a true devotion; — painting has many friends; — and 
 sculpture is entering on the field of popularity. Among 
 the members of the learned professions, too, Manchester 
 may rank men worthy of taking a high station with 
 their countrymen engaged in corresponding pui'suits; so 
 that there can be nothing in her dingy atmosphere inimical 
 to the growth of intelligence.f Ifj then, in the processes 
 of nature, each developement is but the foundation of 
 some higher stage of organization, so these evidences of 
 awakening in one sphere of the intellect may be fairly 
 regarded as the germs of other and loftier capacities. To 
 
 * The Litei-ary and Philosophical Society: Dr. Dalton President. 
 
 t The names of Dr. Whittaker, the historian (and a poet too, though none 
 ot his works appear here), of I'crrii'r and White, need only to be mentioned 
 to rnnfirni thcse^ statements.
 
 Xll. 
 
 this progression everything which tends to bring congenial 
 minds together cannot but be ancillary; and thus this 
 humble book, designed to draw into friendly union the 
 members of our little republic of letters, by first making 
 them conscious of each other's existence, (knowledge new to 
 some of them,) may not be without its lasting value. 
 
 It is true that works concocted as it were from the brains 
 of other men rarely rank very high; nor in ordinary cases 
 can that literary reputation be said to have a very sure 
 foundation which is based upon the "wise saws" of our 
 neighbours. In plain words, books of "selections," "gems," 
 " beauties," aut quocunque alio nomine vocantur. are usually 
 sneered at by the world. The editor, however, hopes to 
 protect huBself from illiberal criticism under the plea — and 
 it has the merit of truth to uphold it — that " Manchester 
 Poetry" needed selection and reproduction to place the 
 town fairly in the world's eye ; and that such a view, not 
 the dishonest one of decking himself out in the gay colours 
 of his friends' genius, prompted him to this undertaking. 
 
 Perhaps of the Poetry of Manchester, until these later 
 years, little that is favourable could be said. It would seem 
 as if, in this respect, the atmosphere had impaited somewhat
 
 Xlll. 
 
 of its dulness to the imagination of those who inhaled it. 
 Hence, though Byrom wrote somewhat voluminously, and 
 was highly esteemed by Addison and Steele as a scholar 
 and a poet, it is only in the nineteenth century, within 
 some dozen or twenty years of the present time, that any 
 pretensions have been made by Manchester writers to rank 
 among the gifted of the earth. And even those claims — 
 modest and well-founded as it is conceived they have been — 
 are met at this day, as already has been shewn, only with a 
 contemptuous smile, by most of the crowd of gentlemen 
 whose genius hes rather in the detection of an imperfect fabric 
 than in the right appreciation of perfect poetry. In Byrom's 
 days the smiles of the Muses were monopoHzed by those 
 who, having received a classical education, were thus enabled 
 to write original verses with some degree of fluency, and to 
 translate with considerably more. Rhymes became as 
 plentiful as blackberries, and so that the ear was not 
 oiFended by false metre, tolerable verses were considered 
 tolerable poetry. The ephemeral reputation of an occasional 
 scribbler in the newspapers or magazines of the present day 
 would then have achieved for a man at least a ten years' 
 celebrity; and to have written such stanzas as are now
 
 XIV. 
 
 weekly rejected by the editor of even a pro>ancial journal 
 ■would have gained their author the patronage of a duke 
 and the admiration of "the town." Byrom, it must be 
 confessed, was not much superior to the class of elegant 
 imitators ; but if his verses were not at all times poetical, 
 they had at least this advantage — that their vein was always 
 one of instruction and moraUty. The same praise, but of a 
 loftier character, is due to Miss Jewsbury, or rather Mrs. 
 Fletcher. Like Mrs. Heraans she was a domestic poet, her 
 hand transcribing only what her heart composed. In all 
 her poems there is a moral ; and though, in some instances, 
 a too near approximation to the style of her friend may be 
 observable, yet her compositions breathe a spirit of deep 
 religious feeling, unaccompanied by aught either of gloom or 
 unnatural melancholy. The highest and truest eulogium 
 which could be passed upon her writings, whether of prose 
 or verse, would be to say that they gave a history of her 
 life and of her feelings — the one was but a reflection of the 
 other. It was, as she has herself said, her heart's earliest 
 wish one day to become a poet ; how that wish has been 
 gratified let the world tell ! She passed from amongst us 
 ere we had yet learned to appreciate her genius ; and it was
 
 XV. 
 
 only when she had ceased to «ing that the world— and 
 mainly her own townsmen and women — discovered how 
 really musical were the warbhngs of her lyre. 
 
 Of the other writers whose productions comprise a portion 
 of the following pages the editor would gladly prate awhile, 
 but it is a delicate matter to eulogise men with many of 
 whom we are in close alliance ; and to speak in other terms 
 than those of praise would be painful and unjust. Such of 
 them as are already before the world are independent alike 
 of praise and censure — those who are not will perhaps 
 thank us if we allow them and their works to stand upon 
 their merits. 
 
 One of the brotherhood, however, it would be a fault to 
 pass by without mention. Reared in the rude lap of humble 
 and laborious life, with fortune, it is to be feared, frowning 
 upon him even from his youth, the tide of circumstances has 
 so rolled on as to afford the individual to whom the editor 
 is referring little reason to " love the world or the world's 
 laws." Without trenching upon memorials now the earlier 
 blotted out the better, it may wound no prejudice to state, 
 that in the troublous times of twenty years ago this gifted 
 person acted a conspicuous part, boldly avowing opinions
 
 XVI. 
 
 honestly formed if not wisely founded, and attesting his zeal 
 and sincerity in the cause he espoused, not less by the 
 firmness with which he suffered, than by his entire freedom 
 from the mercenary and self-elevating aims which character- 
 ized too many of that day's reformers, and by the philosophy 
 with which, when dangers were passed and punishment had 
 been patiently endured, he afterwards bore up against that 
 last sad trial, "worse than the bitterness of death," the 
 insrratitude and cold-heartedness of his former associates. 
 Whether or not time, which has cast some hoar-frost upon 
 his locks, has also cooled the fervour of his well-meant 
 patriotism, it is not for the editor to inquire — it concerns 
 him not, save that as the arena of political controversy is 
 one overgrown with thorns, and thick strewn with records 
 of the dire workings of human passion, it is a happy thing 
 to think that those who were born for higher objects and 
 with nobler capacities have fled from its desolate domains. 
 Beyond this, neither the editor nor his readers have any 
 concern with the politics of poets. Let the world, then, 
 inquiring no further, be content to know that among the 
 few whom Lancashire claims as her poets, none deserve a 
 fairer garland than the lowly-minded Samuel Bamford.
 
 XVll. 
 
 The editor has another and an equally grateful task to 
 perform in the acknowledgment of obhgation to the 
 gentlemen whose writings constitute the bulk of this 
 volume, for the courtesy with which they allowed him to 
 levy contributions from their stores : it is his regret that 
 the levies are necessarily so small, and that the limits of 
 his book compel him to pass, without even mention, the 
 names of many persons, as yet little known to the world, 
 whose productions would have adorned this publication 
 and done credit to the town. In one instance only, that of 
 Mr. T. K. Hervey, who may rank perhaps with the 
 Manchester Poets, though none of his writings, the editor 
 believes, date during his residence here, has the courtesy he 
 otherwise has to be grateful for been forgotten. 
 
 Out of evil, however, good springs : the editor has devoted 
 some of the pages originally designed for Mr. Hervey's 
 poetry, to a few stanzas — all that he could glean — from the 
 pen of a master spirit just passed from amongst us. To 
 the editor the exchange is a satisfactory, as to his readers it 
 will be a profitable one. He would have been happy if 
 the efforts he has made to obtain some fragments of a more 
 finished performance, which Dr. Mc. All is understood to
 
 xvm. 
 
 have left behind him, had been successful ; but obstacles 
 were found in the objection felt by the friends of the 
 deceased to violate his strongly expressed desire that the 
 production should not go forth. If report speak sooth, 
 the loss to the woild will not be slight should this injunction 
 be permanently observed. 
 
 Prkstwicii, Deck.mbek 4, 183K,
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 John Byrom. 
 
 A Pastoral 3 
 
 A Farewell to the World 7 
 
 St. Philip Neri and the Youth 9 
 
 Mrs. Fletcher. 
 
 The Sea Boy and his Sister 13 
 
 The Sylvan Brook 16 
 
 Passing Away 19 
 
 The Aspen Leaf 21 
 
 Stanzas written by the Sea Shore .... 24 
 Dirge for a Dead Painter . . • . • • .27 
 
 The Flight of Xerxes 30 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 The Mind 35 
 
 Hope 39 
 
 Give me the Night 40 
 
 To the Evening Breeze ...... 41 
 
 The Dream 42 
 
 First Love . . , 43 
 
 Good Fortune 45 
 
 Forgive and Forget 46 
 
 The Prince of the Storm 47 
 
 The British Bow 49 
 
 Dryburgh Abbey 52 
 
 The Dying Minstrel 59
 
 XX. 
 
 PACE 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 The Lyre . 
 
 The Schooner 
 
 The Temple of Victory 
 
 Boyhood 
 Rev. Dr. Mc. All. 
 
 Christ's Second Coming 
 
 The Stars . 
 
 Consolation in Death 
 
 W. H. AlNSWORTH. 
 
 Yolande 
 
 The Coffin 
 
 The ChurchyanI Yew 
 
 La Gitanilla 
 
 Dedica[tory Stanzas 
 
 The Mandrake 
 
 The Crow . 
 
 Rev. R. Parkinson. 
 
 Saint Bega's Abbey 
 
 Lines written in a Boat 
 J. RiDDAL Wood. 
 
 Angel Visits 
 
 Oh ! beautiful Star 
 
 Twilight 
 
 Stanzas 
 William Mort. 
 
 Life's Progress 
 
 The Bride . 
 
 The Old Year 
 
 The Mourners 
 
 The Pride of Life 
 
 The Lost Brother 
 
 Malibran 
 
 My Likes 
 
 Fragment
 
 XXI. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Samuel Bamford. 
 
 Lines on the Death of Lord Byron .... 1 17 
 
 Hymn to Spring 149 
 
 God help the Poor 152 
 
 The Pass of Death 155 
 
 Ode to Death 158 
 
 The Wind Unbound 159 
 
 Ner Gardiner. 
 
 The Ruin 163 
 
 Sonnet 166 
 
 The Spirit of Sound 167 
 
 The Women at the Cross 168 
 
 True Wisdom 169 
 
 Sonnet 170 
 
 Oh! forth to Roam 171 
 
 Sympathy 172 
 
 MISCELLANY. 
 
 James Everett. — Etna 175 
 
 Rev. Hugh Stowell. — Pleasures of Religion . . . 181 
 
 Rev. E. D. Jackson. — Earthly Vanities .... 185 
 
 Rest 188 
 
 Henry Wheeler. — Ode to the Manchester Free Grammar 
 
 School 189 
 
 Rev. W. Gaskell. — Death and Sleep .... 193 
 
 Come and Pray .... 196 
 
 William Harper. — Cceur de Lion 197 
 
 Kenil worth 199
 
 JOHN BYROM.
 
 BYROM. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent. 
 When Phoebe went with me wherever I went ; 
 Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast — 
 Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest ! 
 But now she is gone, and has left me behind. 
 What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! 
 When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
 I thought 'twas the Spring, but alas ! it was she. 
 
 With such a companion to tend a few sheep. 
 
 To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep ; 
 
 I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay. 
 
 My heart was as light as a feather all day — 
 
 But now I so cross and so peevish am gro^vn, 
 
 So strangely uneasy as never was known. 
 
 My fair one is gone, and my joys are aU drowned. 
 
 And my heart — I am sure it weighs more than a pound.
 
 BYROM. 
 
 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, 
 
 And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among — 
 
 Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 
 
 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear. 
 
 But now she is absent I walk by its side, 
 
 And still, as it miirmurs, do nothing but chide ; 
 
 Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain ? 
 
 Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. 
 
 My lambkins around me would oftentimes play. 
 
 And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ; 
 
 How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time. 
 
 When Spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime ! 
 
 But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, 
 
 I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass ; 
 
 Be still, then I cry, for it makes me quite mad 
 
 To see you so merry while I am so sad. 
 
 My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
 Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me ; 
 And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said. 
 Come hither, poor fellow — and patted his head. 
 But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look 
 Cry, Sirrah, and give him a blow with my crook — 
 And I'll give him another, for why should not Tray 
 Be as dull as his Master when Phoebe's away ?
 
 BYROM. 
 
 When walking with Phoebe what sights have I seen ! 
 How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green ! 
 What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, 
 The corn-fields and hedges, and every thing made ! 
 But now she has left me, though all are still there, 
 They none of them now so delightful appear ; 
 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes. 
 Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 
 
 Sweet music went with us both all the wood through. 
 The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ; 
 Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, 
 And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. 
 But now she is absent, though still they sing on. 
 The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone ; 
 Her voice in the concert, as now I have found. 
 Gave every thing else its agreeable sound. 
 
 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue ? 
 
 And where is the violet's beautiful blue ? 
 
 Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile ? 
 
 That meadow — those daisies — why do they not smile ? 
 
 Ah ! rivals, I see what it was that you dressed, 
 
 And made yourselves fine for — a place in her breast ! 
 
 You put on your colours to pleasure her eye. 
 
 To be plucked by her hand — on her bosom to die.
 
 6 BYROM, 
 
 How slowly time creeps till my Phoebe retui'n ! 
 
 While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool breezes I burnj 
 
 Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread, 
 
 I could breathe on his wings and 'twould melt down the lead. 
 
 Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear. 
 
 And rest so much longer for't when she is here. 
 
 Ah, Colin ! old Time is full of delay. 
 
 Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. 
 
 Will no pitying power that hears me complain. 
 Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain ? 
 To be cured thou must, CoUn, thy passion remove — 
 But what swain is so silly to live without love ? 
 No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return. 
 For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
 Ah ! what shall I do ? — I shall die with despair; 
 Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair !
 
 BYROM. 
 
 A FAREWELL TO THE WORLD. 
 
 World, adieu, thou real cheat ! 
 » Oft have thy deceitful charms 
 Filled my heart with fond conceit. 
 Foolish hopes and false alarms ;- 
 Now I see as clear as day 
 How thy follies pass away. 
 
 Vain thy entertaining sights ; 
 
 False thy promises renewed ; 
 All the pomp of thy delights 
 
 Does but flatter and delude. 
 Thee I quit for heaven above. 
 Object of the noblest love. 
 
 Farewell, honour's empty pride ! 
 
 Thy own nice, uncertain gust. 
 If the least mischance betide. 
 
 Lays thee lower than the dust. 
 Worldly honours end in gall. 
 Rise to-day, to-morrow fall.
 
 BYROM. 
 
 Foolish vanity, farewell ! 
 
 More inconstant than the wave ; 
 Where thy soothing fancies dwell 
 
 Purest tempers they deprave. 
 He, to whom I fly from thee, 
 Jesus Christ, shall set me free. 
 
 Never shall my wandering mind 
 Follow after fleeting toys. 
 
 Since in God alone I find 
 Solid and substantial joys ; 
 
 Joys that, never overpassed. 
 
 Through eternity shall last.
 
 BYROM. 
 
 ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH. 
 
 St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, 
 
 Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day ; 
 
 And being ever courteously inclined 
 
 To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 
 
 He fell into discourse mth him, and thus 
 
 The dialogue they held comes do^vn to us. 
 
 "Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?" 
 
 " To make myself a scholar, Su-, I come." 
 
 "And when you are one what do you intend ?" 
 
 " To be a Priest, I hope. Sir, in the end." 
 
 " Suppose it so — what have you next in view ? " 
 
 "That I may get to be a Canon too." 
 
 " Well, and how then ? " " Wliy then, for aught I know, 
 
 I may be made a Bishop." " Be it so — 
 
 "What then?" "Why, Cardinal's a high degree. 
 
 And yet my lot it possibly may be."
 
 10 BYROM. 
 
 \ 
 
 " Suppose it was — what then ? " " Why, who can say 
 
 But I've a chance for being Pope one day ? " 
 
 " Well — having worn the mitre and red hat, 
 
 And triple crown, what follows after that ? " 
 
 " Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure. 
 
 Upon this earth, that wishing can procure ; 
 
 When I've enjoyed a dignity so high. 
 
 As long as God shall please, then — I must die." 
 
 " What ! must you die, fond youth ? and at the best |l 
 
 But wish and hope, and may be all the rest ? 
 Take my advice — whatever may betide. 
 For that which must be, first of aU provide. 
 Then think of that which may bej and, indeed. 
 When well prepared who knows what may succeed ? — 
 But you may be, as you are pleased to hope. 
 Priest, Canon, Bishop, Cardinal, and Pope !"
 
 MRS. FLETCHEU.
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 13 
 
 THE SEA-BOY AND HIS SISTER. 
 
 " What shall I bring thee from the isles 
 
 Whither our vessel goes ? 
 Bright are the sea-shells scattered there. 
 
 More bright than the English rose ; 
 And dust of gold, and diamond. 
 
 May be bought where points our prow ; 
 Some shall be thine and mine, ere death. 
 
 But what shall I bring thee now, sweet girl ? 
 
 But what shall I bring thee now ? 
 
 " Fear not the sea, thou timid one. 
 
 My master and king is he. 
 And I brook not a word of treason heard. 
 
 Not a word, though it come from thee ; 
 Nine weeks and a day have I dwelt on land. 
 
 Summer sports and labour seen ; 
 I am sick of the flowers, I am tired of the trees, 
 
 I long for the shadows on ocean's green. 
 
 For the smell and the foam of the seas.
 
 14 MRS. FLETCHER, 
 
 " Let me go, for my heart beats thickly here. 
 
 Not more drowsy thy wheel than I, 
 But one touch of the ropes, one breath of the gales. 
 
 And less light shall the dolphin ply : 
 I am weary to death of landsmen's talk. 
 
 My friends all tread the deck; 
 But I love thee, sister, and ere I go, 
 
 Say, what shall I bring thee back, sweet girl ? 
 
 Say, what shall I bring thee back ? " 
 
 " Ay, go, my brother ; first and last 
 
 That ever bore such name to me ; 
 Go, while the courage, ebbing fast. 
 
 Remains to bid farewell to thee. 
 I've watched thy boyish years unfold, 
 
 I love thee as a mother now. 
 Yet go, for restless dreams have scroU'd 
 
 The name of rover on thy brow. 
 
 "Think not I blame thee ; — thou art kind — 
 
 Hast left me in this cot at ease — 
 But oh ! thou canst not make me blind 
 
 To the deep perils of the seas ! 
 Tliou speak' St of them with pleasant tongue — 
 
 Thou say'st thy heart and home are there ; 
 But oft I think, with spirit ^vrung, 
 
 Thou would'st not, if I were not here.
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 15 
 
 " An orphan with a pallid cheek ; 
 
 A frame, too, somewhat overworn ; 
 Enough — the heart is slow to break. 
 
 And sorrow comes but to be borne ; 
 The hardest is to see thee go 
 
 Tlius in thy youth, time after time ; 
 To live upon thy toils, and know 
 
 For me thou wearest out thy prime ! 
 
 " Yet I must think thou lov'st the sea, 
 
 'Twould madden me to doubt it long " — 
 " Love I the deep ? — now credit me, 
 
 I love it with a love as strong 
 As thou myself ;— it is my joy. 
 
 Has been my home, shall be my grave ; 
 I tell thee, tempest scarce alloys 
 
 The bliss, the triumph of the wave ! 
 So what shall I bring thee back, dear friend 
 So what shall I bring thee back ?" 
 
 " Bring back to me," said the gentle one, 
 " That which no caves may hide ; 
 
 That which the deep sea cannot quench ; 
 Thy love,— no gift beside ! "
 
 16 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 THE SYLVAN BROOK. 
 
 Whence comest thou, O Sylvan Brook r 
 And whither flows thy Usping wave ? 
 From yonder mountain's heathery nook ; 
 And many a mossy bank to lave ; 
 Small, yet embracing smaller rills 
 The dancing daughter of the hills. 
 
 Nameless to me, yet not unnamed 
 
 By others as thou leap'st along. 
 
 But sweeter far the accents framed 
 
 By thine own wild and murmuring tongue ; 
 
 For fancy on thy pebbled beach 
 
 Hears lovely legends in that speech. 
 
 Young look' St thou, as if born to-day. 
 Yet tell'st thou immemorial tales 
 Of deeds and manners past away 
 From these dark hills and bloomy vales : 
 Yon church, and yew, that old appear. 
 Have risen both since thou wert here.
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 17 
 
 Old peasants pass thee with a staft' — 
 Old peasants with long silver hair ; 
 Long since thy waters heard their laugh. 
 And knew their feet as children fair ; 
 Yet here hath age but seeming sway, 
 'Tis thou art old, bright thing, not they. 
 
 The shadowing oak, whose turf-clad root 
 Hath been so long the angler's haunt, 
 And village minstrel's, with his Hute 
 Preparing for the Sabbath-chaunt ; — 
 That aged oak — that patriarch tree — 
 Is but a child in years, to thee. 
 
 The fields and banks that bound thy path, 
 They of the ancient earth have changed ; 
 The landmark, and the harvest, hath, 
 The lord and serf, been oft estranged ; — 
 The memory of most is gone, 
 Thou, as of old, art smiling on. 
 
 The sighs of grieving hearts are fled ; 
 The hopes and vows of lovers — where r 
 I see the household of the dead 
 Lie near me, and I answer — there; 
 Forgotten there a thousand lives : — 
 The tiny rivulet sur^'ives !
 
 18 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 Yet be it so, dear Sylvan Brook, 
 
 And flow along as heretofore ; 
 
 And let each heart, as in a book. 
 
 Read in thy bosom tales of yore ; 
 
 And sing thou on, till sun and moon 
 
 Fall from the Heavens, — thy own sweet tune. 
 
 Flow on, and bathe each wilding flower 
 That lives, and dies, and lives again ; 
 Flow on, blessed by the vernal shower, 
 And morning dew, and summer rain, 
 A little emblem of that river 
 Which flows in Paradise for ever !
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 19 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 'the things we ENJOV are PAS5IXC, AND WE ARE PA*«IXG WHO ENJOT THEM,' 
 
 All]). Lcighton. 
 
 I ASKED the stars in the pomp of night, 
 ending its blackness with crowns of light, 
 Bright ^vith beauty and girt with power. 
 Whether eternity were not their dower ; 
 And dirge-like mvisic stole from their spheres. 
 Bearing this message to mortal ears : — 
 
 " We have no light that hath not been given. 
 We have no strength but shall soon be riven, 
 We have no power wherein man may trust. 
 Like him are we, things of time and dust ; 
 And the legend we blazon with beam and ray, 
 And the song of our silence is — Passing away.
 
 20 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 " We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright. 
 Like lamps that have served for a festal night ; 
 We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong, 
 Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along ; 
 The worshipped as gods in the olden day. 
 We shall be like a vain dream — Passing away." 
 
 From the stars of Heaven, and the flowers of earth, 
 From the pageant of power, and the voice of mirth. 
 From the mists of morn on the mountain's brow. 
 From childhood's song, and affection's vow. 
 From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway. 
 Breathes but one record — Passing away ! 
 
 Passing away, sing the breeze and rill, 
 
 As they sweep on their course by. vale and hill ; — 
 
 Tlirough the varpng scenes of each earthly clime, 
 
 'Tis the lesson of nature — the voice of time — 
 
 And man at last, like his fathers grey. 
 
 Writes in his own dust — Passing away 1
 
 MRS. FLKTCHEK. 21 
 
 THE ASPEN LEAF. 
 
 1 WOULD some iustructiou draw. 
 And raise pleasure to the height. 
 Through the meanest object's sight; 
 By tlie murmur of a spring. 
 Or the least bough's rustelling, 
 
 G. WiTUKH. 
 
 I would not be 
 
 A leaf on yonder aspen tree ; 
 
 In every fickle breeze to play. 
 
 Wildly, weakly, idly, gay, — 
 
 So feebly framed, so lightly hung, 
 
 By the wing of an insect stirred and swung ; 
 
 Thrilling e'en to a redbreast's note. 
 
 Drooping if only a light mist float. 
 
 Brightened and dimmed like a varying glass 
 
 As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass ; 
 
 I would not be 
 
 A leaf on yonder aspen tree. 
 
 It is not because the autumn sere 
 
 Would change my merry guise and cheer, — 
 
 That soon, full soon, nor leaf nor stem. 
 
 Sunlight would gladden, or dew-drop gem, —
 
 22 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 That I, with my fellows, must fall to earth. 
 Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth. 
 Or else on the bough, where all had grown. 
 Must linger on, and linger alone; — 
 Might life be an endless summer's day. 
 And I be for ever green and gay, 
 I would not be, I would not be, 
 A leaf on yonder aspen tree ! 
 
 Proudly spoken heart of mine. 
 
 Yet weakness and change perchance are thine. 
 
 More, and darker, and sadder to see. 
 
 Than befaU the leaves of yonder tree ! 
 
 What if they flutter — their life is a dance ; 
 
 Or toy with the sunbeam — they live in his glance ; 
 
 To bird, breeze, and insect, rustle and thrill. 
 
 Never the same, never mute, never still, — 
 
 Emblems of aU that is fickle and gay. 
 
 But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay — 
 
 Chide them not — heed them not — spirit, away ! 
 
 In to thyself, to thine own hidden shrine. 
 
 What there dost thou worship ? what deem'st thou divine ? 
 
 Thy hopes, — are they stedfast, and holy, and high ? 
 
 Are they built on a rock ? are they raised to the sky ? 
 
 Thy deep secret yearnings, — oh ! whither point they. 
 
 To the triumphs of earth, to the toys of a day ? — 
 
 Thy friendships and feelings, — doth impulse prevail. 
 
 To make them and mar them, as wind swells the sail ? 
 
 Thy life's ruhng passion — thy being's first aim —
 
 MRS. FLETCHER, 23 
 
 What are they ? and yield they contentment or shame ? 
 
 Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state, 
 
 If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate; 
 
 It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die. 
 
 And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh ! 
 
 But for thee, the immortal, no Avinter may throw 
 
 Eternal repose on thy joy or thy woe ; 
 
 Thou must live, and live ever, in glory or gloom. 
 
 Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb. 
 
 Look to thyself then, ere past is Hope's reign. 
 
 And looking and longing alike are in vain ; 
 
 Lest thou deem it a bhss to have been, or to be. 
 
 But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree !
 
 24 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN BY THE SEA SHORE. 
 
 One evening, as the sun went down. 
 Gilding the mountains bare and brown, 
 
 I wandered on the shore ; 
 And such a blaze o'er ocean spread. 
 And beauty on the meek earth shed, 
 
 I never saw before. 
 
 I was not lonely — dwellings fair 
 
 Were scattered round and shining there ;- 
 
 Gay groups were on the green. 
 Of children wild with reckless glee, 
 And parents that could child-hke be 
 
 With them and in that scene. 
 
 I 
 
 i
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 25 
 
 And on the sea, that looked of gold. 
 Each toy-like skiff and vessel bold 
 
 Glided, and yet seemed still ; 
 While sounds rose in the quiet air, 
 That mingling made sweet music there, 
 
 Surpassing minstrels' skill ! 
 
 The breezy murmur from the shore — 
 Joy's laugh re-echoed o'er and o'er. 
 
 Alike by sire and child, — 
 The whistle shrill, — the broken song,- 
 The far-off flute-notes Ungering long,- 
 
 The lark's strain rich and wild. 
 
 I looked, I listened — and the spell 
 Of music and of beaixty fell 
 
 So radiant on my heart, — 
 That scarcely durst I really deem 
 What yet I would not own a dream. 
 
 Lest dream-like it depart. 
 
 'Twas sunset in the world around. 
 And, looking inwards, so I found 
 
 'Twas sunset in the soul ; 
 Nor grief, nor mirth, were burning there. 
 But musings sweet, and visions fair. 
 
 In placid beauty stole.
 
 26 MRS. FLETCHER, 
 
 But moods like these, the human mind 
 Though seeking oft may seldom find. 
 
 Or, finding, force to stay ; — 
 As dews upon the drooping flower. 
 That ha^-ing shone their little hour. 
 
 Dry up — or fall away. 
 
 But though all pleasures take their flight. 
 Yet some will leave memorials bright 
 
 For many an after year ; — 
 This sunset, that dull night will shade, 
 These visions, which must quickly fade. 
 Will half-immortal memory braid 
 
 For me, when far from here !
 
 MRS, FLETCHER. 27 
 
 DIRGE FOR A DEAD PAINTER. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE HENRY LIVERSEEOE. 
 
 Death, grim death, when shall we see 
 
 This broad earth no more thy city ? 
 Grave, deep grave, when shall it be 
 Thou wilt close thy Hps in pity ? 
 When shall love's svibduing prayer. 
 When shall genius, yet more rare. 
 Mind and worth in blended beauty, 
 Woo ye from your cold stern duty ? 
 When shall sweetness win back one ? 
 Never, never — he is gone ! 
 
 Yet, swift hunter, could'st not give 
 Summons ere the hart was stricken ? 
 
 Grave, that on death's prey dost live. 
 Could thy hungry silence quicken 
 
 Into no foreboding knell 
 
 Ei"e the unconscious victim fell ?
 
 28 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 Could ye not give leave to plight 
 Farewell, ere his day grew night ? 
 Might not sorrow's need have one ? 
 Ye were ruthless ! he is gone ! 
 
 Yesterday, scarce yesterday, 
 
 Bright dreams through his brain were flowing, 
 And his hand with cunning play 
 
 To the world those dreams was showing. 
 Yesterday — and in his eye 
 Fame had writ her prophecy ; 
 Sealed it on his flexUe lips. 
 Now in dark and mute eclipse ; 
 Could not genius save her son ? 
 
 Wherefore question ? He is gone! 
 
 Speak not of his fragile form. 
 
 And his often painful pillow — 
 What may longer bide the storm 
 
 Than the delicate drooping willow ? 
 He was lov'd, and love can do 
 Feats physicians never knew. 
 With its boundlessness of care. 
 Mighty hope, and fervent prayer : 
 Hush, O hush — love's power is none — 
 It is weeping ! he is gone !
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 29 
 
 Dust to dust ; now, dust to dust, 
 And we leave his dwelling lowly ; 
 
 Not another sigh we must. 
 If it be not meek and holy ; 
 
 Whose the arm that smote him down ? 
 
 Whose the hand took off his crown ? 
 
 God, alone omnipotent, 
 
 Calling back what he had lent — 
 
 Come then, friends, and be each one 
 Better Christian now he's gone !
 
 30 MRS. FLETCHER. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF XERXES. 
 
 I SAW him on the battle eve. 
 
 When Uke a king he bore him ! 
 Proud hosts in ghttering hehn and greave, 
 
 And prouder chiefs before him : 
 The warrior, and the warrior's deeds. 
 The morrow, and the morrow's meeds, — 
 
 No daunting thoughts came o'er him ; — 
 He looked around him, and his eye 
 Defiance flashed to earth and sky ! 
 
 He looked on ocean, — its broad breast 
 
 Was covered with his fleet ; 
 On ejirth, — and saw from east to west 
 
 His bannered millions meet : 
 While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast, 
 Shook with the war-cry of that host, — 
 
 The thunder of their feet ! 
 He heard the imperial echoes ring — 
 He heard, and felt himself a king ?
 
 MRS. FLETCHER. 31 
 
 I saw him next alone ; — nor camp, 
 
 Nor chief his steps attended. 
 Nor banners' blaze, nor coursers' tramp 
 
 With war-cries proudly blended : — 
 He stood alone, whom fortune high 
 So lately seemed to deify, 
 
 He, who with heaven contended. 
 Fled, like a fugitive and slave ; 
 Behind, the foe, — before, the wave ! 
 
 He stood, — fleet, army, treasure gone. 
 
 Alone and in despair ! 
 "While wave and \vind swept ruthless on, 
 
 For they were monarchs there ; 
 And Xerxes in a single bark. 
 Where late his thousand ships were dark. 
 
 Must all their fury dare ; — 
 Thy glorious revenge was this. 
 Thy trophy, deathless Salamis !
 
 CHARLES SWAIN. 
 
 D
 
 SWAIN. 35 
 
 THE MIND. 
 
 X. 
 
 Thine are, oh mind ! the colours which delight 
 The artist in his visionary mood ! — 
 Thou art the inspiration and the might — 
 The deep enchantment of his soUtude ! 
 What time nor breath, nor sounds of hfe intrude- 
 Where Alps on Alps eternally seem piled — 
 Then is thy best — thy holiest impulse wooed ! 
 Amid the grand, the wonderful, the wild. 
 For ever have thy loftiest revelations smiled. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Wresting from death and darkness undecayed 
 The kindred hneaments we honoured here ; 
 The breast on which our infant brow had laid — 
 The lips that kissed away our first brief tear — 
 The all we lost ere yet the funeral bier 
 Conveyed to our young souls how great a blow 
 Laid desolate the homes we loved so dear. 
 Oh heart ! — too early wert thou doom'd to know 
 The grave that held thy sire held all thy hopes below !
 
 36 SWA IX, 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then all ! — for ever sacred be the Art 
 Which gave me all the grave had left of mine ! 
 I gaze upon this portrait till my heart 
 Remembers every touch and every line ; 
 And almost do I deem the gift divine. 
 Direct from heaven, and not from human skill : — 
 Instinct with love those noble features shine — 
 The eyes some new expression seem to fill — 
 And half I know thee dead — half hope thee living still ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Through all the orphan lonehness of years 
 The lyre breathed first to glad my silent way ; 
 Dispelled the gathering night of doubts and fears. 
 And, lil* Aurora, ^vreathed the wings of day ! — 
 No longer drooped my heart to gloom a prey : — 
 That charm smiled o'er me, even in my dreams — 
 The source and spirit of all harmony — 
 Touching the future with romantic beams. 
 And pouring freshness forth as from exhaustless streams. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Spirit of Poesy ! whom love first sought 
 Beside the founts of truth — the living springs 
 Of beauty infinite : — Spirit of thought. 
 Of youth, hope, joy ! Angels arrayed thy wngs
 
 SWAIN. 3/ 
 
 111 glory, and endowed thy harp's bright strings 
 With power, with music, and subUmity — 
 Emvreathed thee with immortal offerings — 
 Stretched out the heavens before thee far and free, 
 And sent thy genius forth through all immensity ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 First from the mount thou saw'st the sea launch'd wide 
 Through the unfathomed channels of the earth ; 
 Thou saw'st the hght flash from Jehovah's side — 
 The primal wonders of the world burst forth ; 
 Thou heard'st the word that called the skies to birth. 
 And woke the planets to their watch of years ; — 
 Thou heard'st creation sing his boundless worth, 
 While like the flashing of ten thousand spears 
 Out sprung the blazing sun amidst the heavenly spheres ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 For ever hast thou been a gift of light — 
 A voice in the eternity of days — 
 A presence in the everlasting sight, 
 Soaring where even seraphs fear to gaze — 
 Snatching the secret fire of heav'ns own rays — 
 Wielding the thunders in thy fearless hold ; 
 The awful hand alone, that made thee, stays 
 Thy vast ambition — thine aspirings bold, — 
 And with its touch of might bids thy wild pinions fold.
 
 38 SAVAIN. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thou art, oh Poesy !— the heart that speaks, 
 And will speak on for ever — whilst one chord 
 Holds true to feeling,— and ere that charm breaks, 
 The rose shall perish, ne'er to be restored, — 
 The lark soar hence in silence — the fond word 
 Of love and early friendship be unknown — 
 All harmonies of beauty be unheard — 
 All holy inspirations lose their tone — 
 And man forsake his home to fall and fall alone !
 
 SWAIN. 39 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 What is Hope ? — ^The beauteous sun. 
 Which colours all it shines upon ; 
 The beacon of life's dreary sea. 
 The star of immortality !-^ 
 Fountain of feelings young and warm ; 
 A day-beam bursting through the storm ; 
 A tone of melody, whose birth 
 Is, oh ! too sweet, too pure for earth ! 
 A blossom of that radiant tree 
 Whose fruit the angels only see ! 
 A beauty and a charm, whose power 
 Is seen — enjoyed — confessed — each hour ! 
 A portion of that world to come. 
 When earth and ocean meet the last o'erwhelming doom.
 
 40 SWAIN. 
 
 GIVE ME THE NIGHT. 
 
 Give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night ! 
 When the stars in the heavens are ghttering bright ; 
 When the flowers are asleep on their pillow of leaves, 
 And no murmur is near, save the sigh the heart heaves ; 
 WTien the spirit of tenderness hallows each scene. 
 And Memory turns fondly to days that have been. 
 When the valley's sweet waters reflect the moonhght — 
 Oh ! give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night ! 
 
 Give me the Night, be it starless and long, 
 When the gay hall is sounding with music and song, — 
 When the genius of poetry breathes her deep power ! 
 And, oh ! Love itself is more lovely that hour, — 
 When the dark curls of beauty more gracefully shine. 
 And the eyes bright by day are at evening divine ! 
 When all is enchantment that blesses the sight — 
 Oh ! give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night !
 
 SWAIN. 
 
 41 
 
 TO THE EVENING BREEZE. 
 
 Aet thou a lover, wandering the green lanes, 
 
 And murmuring to thyself some legend old. 
 
 Strange tale of knight, from dungeon, tower, and chains. 
 
 Led by some spirit from the vaulted mould : 
 
 Art thou a lover, through the moon's fond hours 
 
 Fancying thy bride's cheek in the blushing flowers ? 
 
 Or moum'st thou now some faithful heart and dear. 
 
 That in the churchyard grey thou stay'st so long ? 
 
 Leaving upon the tall rank grass a tear, 
 
 Sighing thy wild and melancholy song ; 
 
 Art thou a mourner — thou mysterious wind — 
 
 O'er beauty lost ? — aflfections left behind ? 
 
 All things of earth are radiant with romance, 
 
 A spiritual language breathes around ; 
 
 Even thou — lone wind — that touchest few perchance. 
 
 Art stiU the very poetry of sound ; 
 
 From thy weak rising to thy wildest hour 
 
 Thou sing'st of Life, Eternity, and Power.
 
 42 SWAIN. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I dream — ^but my mind waketh yet ; 
 
 I speak — but my lips may not move ; 
 Alone — yet appear to have met 
 
 With the one only being I love ! 
 Turn — turn thy fond eyes from my soul — 
 
 Their beauty o'ercomes me in sleep ! 
 A feeling — 'twere pain to control ! 
 A bhss — over vv^hich I could weep ! 
 
 Still lead me, dear vision, to-night. 
 
 Where the \ines and the pomegranates bloom. 
 Oh, the Garden of Dreams is more bright 
 
 Than Sharon's own shrine of perfume : 
 Where the fount's li\'ing waters still flow 
 
 Let us wander and drink 'mid the flowers ; 
 Soul in soul — heart in heart — let us grow. 
 And love be immortally ours !
 
 SWAIN. 43 
 
 FIRST LOVE, 
 
 Love? — I will tell thee what it is to love ! 
 
 It is to build with human thoughts a shrine. 
 
 Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove ; 
 
 Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine. 
 
 All tastes — all pleasures — all desires combine 
 
 To consecrate this sanctuary of bhss ; 
 
 Above — the stars in shroudless beauty shine ; 
 
 Around — the streams their flowery margins kiss — 
 
 And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this ! 
 
 Yes, this is Love — the stedfast and the true — 
 
 The immortal glory which hath never set ; 
 
 The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew;— 
 
 Of all hfe's sweets the very siveetest yet ! 
 
 Oh ! who but can recall the eve they met 
 
 To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow. 
 
 While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet. 
 
 And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow — 
 
 And all was rapture then— which is but memory now !
 
 44 SWAIN. 
 
 Honour may wreathe the victor's brow with bays. 
 
 And gloiy pour her treasures at his feet ; 
 
 The statesman win his country's honest praise — 
 
 Fortune and commerce in our cities meet ; 
 
 But when — oh ! when were earth's possessions sweet — 
 
 Unblest \vith one fond friend those gifts to share ? 
 
 The lowhest peasant in his calm retreat. 
 
 Finds more of happiness, and less of care, 
 
 Than hearts unwarmed by Love 'mid palace halls must bear !
 
 SWAIN. 45 
 
 GOOD FORTUNE. 
 
 Good Fortune's hard to overtake. 
 
 And then 'tis coy to greet us ; 
 But Ill-luck every turn we make 
 
 Runs half the way to meet us ! 
 Then let us fence ourselves around 
 
 With friends whose smiles may cheer us ; 
 For Son'ow ne'er so keen is found. 
 
 When Friendship's hand is near us ! 
 Oh, Good Fortune's hard to overtake, &c. 
 
 That Power which gave the sun its plan, 
 
 Its laws to light and warm us. 
 Fixed in the breast the heart of man. 
 
 Like Nature's sun, to charm us ; 
 Then let us bask beneath its light, 
 ' Its warmest rays of feeUng ; 
 And prove no orb of day nor night 
 
 Hath beams like these revealing. 
 For oh. Good Fortune's hard to overtake, &c.
 
 46 SWAIN. 
 
 FORGIVE AND FORGET. 
 
 Forgive and Forget ! why the world would be lonely, 
 
 The garden a wilderness left to defonn ; 
 If the flowers but remember'd the chilling winds only. 
 
 And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storai ! 
 Oh, still in thy lovehness emblem the flower. 
 
 Give the fragrance of feeling to sweeten life's way ; 
 And prolong not again the brief cloud of an hour. 
 
 With tears that but darken the rest of the day ! 
 
 Forgive and Forget ! there's no breast so unfeeling 
 
 But some gentle thoughts of affection there Uve ; 
 And the best of us all requires something concealing, 
 
 Some heart that wth smiles can forget and forgive ! 
 Then away with the cloud from those beautiful eyes. 
 
 That brow was no home for such frowns to have met : 
 Oh, how could our spirits e'er hope for the skies. 
 
 If Heaven refused to Forgive and Forget.
 
 SWAIN. 47 
 
 THE PRINCE OF THE STORM. 
 
 I WAS born in a cloud of sulphureous hue — 
 Darkness my mother, and Flame my sire ; 
 The earth shook in terror, as forth to its view 
 
 I sprang from my throne like a monarch of fire ! 
 My brother, bold Thunder, hurraed as I sped ! 
 
 My subjects laugh'd wild, till the rain from their eyes 
 Roll'd fast, as though torrents were dash'd over-head. 
 Or an ocean had burst through the bounds of the skies ! 
 I am Prince of the Storm— of the Cloud— of the Air — 
 
 I strike the firm oak that doth ages defy ; 
 And lo ! in an instant 'tis shatter'd and bare — 
 
 For the Lanceman of Death, the red Lightning am 1 ', 
 
 Hurrah ! what a whirling and rush o'er the land ; 
 
 Like the cannon of battle the dark mountains roar ; 
 Whilst around, with my lances of fire in my hand, 
 
 I scatter wild havoc behind and before ! —
 
 48 SWAIN. 
 
 Hurrah for the forest ! with sounds Uke the ocean. 
 
 The boughs heave in billows and groan in the blast ! 
 Then, silent as death, not a branch seen in motion. 
 They breathless look up when the tempest hath pass'd. 
 Oh, I'm Prince of the Storm — of the Air — of the Cloud, 
 
 I strike the tall rock that doth ages defy. 
 And lo ! in an instant 'tis shiver'd and bowed — 
 For the Lanceman of Death, the red Lightning am I !
 
 SWAIN. 49 
 
 THE BRITISH BOW. 
 
 Hurrah ! the bow, the British bow. 
 The gallant, fine old English bow ! 
 Never flashed sword upon the foe. 
 Like arrow from the good yew bow ! 
 What knight a nobler weapon wields ? 
 Thou victor of a thousand fields. 
 Are lances, carbines, thy compeers ? 
 No : vouch it, Cressy and Poictiers ! 
 With hearts of oak and bows of yew. 
 And shafts that like the lightning flew. 
 Old England wore her proudest crown. 
 Nor bolt nor brand might strike it down ! 
 
 Hurrah !
 
 50 SWAIN. 
 
 Hurrah ! the bow, the British bow. 
 The merry, true old Enghsh bow ! 
 Where fed the stag or sprung the roe, 
 There bent the ready stout yew bow ! 
 What hoof of speed dared scorn its might ? 
 What plume outsoar its glorious flight ? 
 Oh ! joyous was the greenwood then. 
 And matchless all her own bold men ; 
 Her rovei's rude by mount and flood. 
 Her king of outlaws, Robin Hood ! 
 Right daring, reckless, wild, and free. 
 Great champion of the brave yew-tree. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Hurrah ! the bow, the British bow. 
 The stately, firm, old English bow ! 
 What souls with freedom's spirit glow. 
 That love not thee, heroic bow ? 
 When haughty Gaul deem'd all-secure 
 The victor's wreath at Agincourt, 
 Thy shafts, triumphant from the string, 
 Bore fate and vengeance on their wing. 
 And well the serried ranks might reel, 
 When, like a hunncane of steel. 
 They saw ten thousand barbs assail 
 Their horse and horsemen, helm and mail ! 
 
 Hurrah !
 
 SWAIN. 51 
 
 Hurrah ! the bow, the British bow. 
 The graceful, Hght, old English bow ! 
 What island of the world may show 
 Aught like our own unconquer'd bow ? 
 The guardian of our native wild. 
 When libertj' was yet a child ; 
 Ere yet were launch'd our shijDs of war, 
 Our thunderbolts of Trafalgar; 
 When Nelson was no magic word — 
 Drake, Hawke, St. Vincent's fame unheard ; 
 Then oh ! whilst freedom's bounties flow. 
 Thrice honour'd be the bow ! the bow ! 
 
 Old England's bow ! Hurrah !
 
 52 SWAJN. 
 
 DRYBURGH ABBEY 
 
 'TvvAS morn — but not the ray which falls the summer 
 
 boughs among 
 When beauty walks in gladness forth, with all her light 
 
 and song ; 
 'Twas morn — but mist and cloud hung deep upon the 
 
 lonely vale. 
 And shadows, like the wings of death, were out upon the 
 
 gale. 
 
 For He whose spirit woke the dust of nations into life — 
 That o'er the waste and barren earth spread flowers and 
 
 fruitage rife — 
 Whose genius, like the sun, illumed the mighty realms of 
 
 , mind — 
 Had fled for ever from the fame, love, friendship of mankind !
 
 SWAIN. 53 
 
 To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit swept afar, 
 Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the Hght of moon or 
 
 star; 
 To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth — 
 To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence 
 
 worlds had birth ! 
 
 There was wailing on the early breeze, and darkness in the 
 
 sky, 
 When, with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train 
 
 swept by ; 
 Methought — St. Mary, shield us well ! — that other forms 
 
 moved there. 
 Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and 
 
 fair ! 
 
 Was it a dream ? — how oft, in sleep, we ask, " Can this be 
 
 true ?" 
 Whilst warm Imagination paints her marvels to our 
 
 view ; — 
 Earth's glory seems a tarnish'd crown to that which wc 
 
 behoVl, 
 M'^hen dreams enchant our sight with things whose meanest 
 
 garb is gold !
 
 54 SWAIN. 
 
 Was it a dream? — methought the "dauntless Harold" 
 
 passed me by — 
 The proud " Fitz-James," with martial step, and dark 
 
 intrepid eye ; 
 That "Marmion's" haughty crest was there, a mourner 
 
 for his sake ; 
 And she, — the bold, the beautiful ! — sweet " Lady of the 
 
 Lake." 
 
 The " Minstrel " whose Last Lay was o'er, whose broken 
 
 harp lay low. 
 And with him glorious " Waverley," with glance and step 
 
 of wo ; 
 And " Stuart's " voice rose there, as when, 'mid fate's 
 
 disastrous war, 
 He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave " Vich Ian 
 
 Vohr." 
 
 Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the " Dominie " stalk'd 
 
 past, 
 With " Bertram," " Julia " by his side, whose tears were 
 
 flowing fast ; 
 " Guy Mannering," too, moved there, o'erpowered by that 
 
 afflicting sight ; 
 And "Merrilies, " as when she wept on Ellangowan's 
 
 height.
 
 SWAIN. 55 
 
 Solemn and grave, " Monkbarns " appeared, amidst that 
 
 burial line ; 
 And "Ochiltree" leant o'er his staff, and mourn'd for 
 
 " Auld lang syne ! " 
 Slow march'd the gallant "Mc. Intyre," whilst "Lovel" 
 
 mused alone ; 
 For once, " Miss Wardour's " image left that bosom's 
 
 faithful throne. 
 
 With coronach, and arms reversed, forth came " Mac 
 
 Gregor's" clan — 
 Red "Dougal's " cry peal'd shrill and wild—" Rob Roy's " 
 
 bold brow look'd wan : 
 ITae fair " Diana " kissed her cross, and bless'd its sainted 
 
 ray; 
 And "Wae is me!" the "Baillie" sighed, "that I should 
 
 see this day ! " 
 
 Next rode, in melancholy guise, with sombre vest and 
 
 scarf. 
 Sir Edward, Laird of EUieslaw, the far-renowned " Black 
 
 Dwarf;" 
 Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks flowing free — 
 The pious sculptor of the grave — stood " Old Mortality !"
 
 36 swAix. 
 
 "Balfour of Burley," " Claverhouse, " the "Lord of 
 
 Evandale," 
 And stately "Lady Margaret," whose wo might nought 
 
 avail! 
 Fierce "Bothwell" on his charger black, as from the 
 
 conflict won ; 
 And pale " Habakkuk Mucklewrath," who cried, " God's 
 
 will be done !" 
 
 And like a rose, a young wliite rose, that blooms mid 
 
 wildest scenes. 
 Passed she, — the modest, eloquent, and virtuous "Jeanie 
 
 Deans ;" 
 And " Dumbeidikes," that silent laird, with love too deep 
 
 to smile, 
 And " Effie," with her noble friend, the good " Duke of 
 
 Argyle." 
 
 With lofty brow, and bearing high, dark " Ravenswood " 
 advanced. 
 
 Who on the false " Lord Keeper's " mien with eye indig- 
 nant glanced : — 
 
 Whilst graceful as a lonely fawn, 'neath covert close and 
 sure. 
 
 Approached the beauty of all hearts — the "Bride of 
 Lammermoor!"
 
 SWAIN. "ir 
 
 Then "Annot Lyle," the fairy queen of Hght and song, 
 
 stepped near, 
 The " Knight of Ardenvhor," and he, the gifted Highland 
 
 Seer; 
 "Dalgetty," "Duncan," "Lord Monteith," and "Ranald," 
 
 met my view ; 
 The hapless " Children of the Mist," and bold " Mhich- 
 
 Connel Dhu ! " 
 
 On swept "Bois Gilbert " — " Front de Boeuf"— "De 
 
 Bracy's " plume of wo ; 
 And "Coeur de Lion's" crest shone near the valiant 
 
 " Ivanhoe ;" 
 While soft as ghdes a summer cloud "Rowena" closer 
 
 drew. 
 With beautiful " Rebecca " — peerless daughter of the 
 
 Jew! 
 
 Still onward like the gathering night advanced that funeral 
 
 train — 
 Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy 
 
 main; 
 AVhere'er the eager gaze might reach, in noble ranks were 
 
 seen 
 Dark plume, and glittering mail and crest, and woman's 
 
 beauteous mien !
 
 58 SWAIN. 
 
 A sound thrilled through that length'ning host ! methought 
 
 the vault was closed. 
 Where in his glory and renown fair Scotia's bard reposed ! 
 A sound thrilled through that length'ning host ! and forth 
 
 my vision fled ! 
 But, ah ! — that mournful dream proved true, — the immortal 
 
 Scott was dead !
 
 SWAIN. 59 
 
 THE DYING MINSTREL. 
 
 " And the night's darkness clips me around. 
 Close girilliiig', enthralling, profound, 
 Tile dreary descent to the tomb." 
 
 W. JnnoAx. 
 
 I HEAR thee, solemn Death ! — 
 Thy deep, dark whispering voice is in my heart ; 
 
 There is a warning breath, 
 Which tells me, with the night I must depart. 
 
 And is my fate so nigh — 
 Are all the hopes, the feelings, cherished long, 
 
 Thus in their spring to die, 
 With the expiring music of ray song ?
 
 60 SWAIN. 
 
 Youth's glowing leaves — are all 
 To wither in the winter of the tomb — 
 
 Its idols doomed to fall — 
 Its stars to set in dim, mysterious gloom ? 
 
 Is there no single ray 
 Tliat lit the visions of departed hours. 
 
 To smile upon my way. 
 And braid the path of death with some few flowers ? 
 
 Thou, too, my mother Earth, 
 Whose silent woods and mountain-streams have grown 
 
 A passion from my birth, 
 I leave thee — soon the grave will take its own ! 
 
 Never again to hail 
 Thy summer sunset in the deep blue sky ; 
 
 Ere then — the moonbeam pale 
 AVill light the lonely church-yard where I lie. 
 
 The brook, as wont, will shine — 
 The lilac-bower perfume our favourite spot- 
 
 And roses gaily twine — 
 When I — am in my quiet shroud forgot.
 
 SWAIN. 61 
 
 Thou lute, thou friendly lute — 
 Whose chords have been the echo of my heart — 
 
 Henceforth thou must be mute 
 To touch of mine — I leave thee — we must part ! 
 
 My last notes linger yet. 
 Like twilight o'er thy strings to fade in eve j- 
 
 Or lovers that have met 
 In most unhappy hour to muse and grieve ! 
 
 Thus murmuring faint and low, — 
 Like sunless waters to a viewless shore, — 
 
 Thy last sad echoes go, — 
 Never on earth to be remembered more !
 
 62 
 
 SWA IN. 
 
 THE LYRE. 
 
 I'licrc is a liviiij; spirit in tlxc Lyre." 
 
 MONTGOMKKT. 
 
 A Sound came floating by, 
 O'er the still beauty of the moonhght air ; 
 
 Soft as a spirit's sigh. 
 Soothing the death-couch of the young and fair. 
 
 A sound came floating free, 
 A wild and low, and melancholy sound, — 
 
 A wandering harmony, 
 Haunting the slumber of the woods around.
 
 SWAIN, C3 
 
 "Whence art thou?" — murmured I — 
 " Lone visitant of this deserted shrine, — 
 
 Whence art thou ? — speak, reply — 
 Answer, thou voice, this troubled heart of mine ! " 
 
 " Ere yet the shadowy woods 
 Waved their green honours to the breath of morn ; 
 
 Ere yet the solitudes 
 Echoed the song of thunders — I was born ! 
 
 My voice was known and heard. 
 When paradise grew glorious with the light 
 
 Of Angels ! — and the Word 
 Spake 'midst the stars of first-created night ! 
 
 My voice was felt, when first 
 The gathering murmur of the deluge woke ! 
 
 When, like creation's bm-st, 
 Pi'oud forests fell, and giant mountains broke ! 
 
 Mine was the breath that drew 
 The Patriot forth to guard his native shore ; 
 
 When lances wildly flew — 
 And cities trembled to the cannon's roar !
 
 64 SWAIN, 
 
 Upon my wings the prayer 
 Of countless millions sought the Saviour's throne ; 
 
 My power is everywhere — 
 In every heart — in every language known i 
 
 Still ask'st thou what am I ? — 
 Go, ask the Bard whose visions I inspire : 
 
 And, oh ! — he will reply, 
 The Lyre—the Lyre— the soul-exalting Lyre ! '
 
 SWAIN. 65 
 
 THE SCHOONER. 
 
 " Pourquoi ces sons affreux, ces longs rugisseraens, 
 
 Ce turaultc coufus, ce choc des elemcns ? 
 
 O puissance fecoiide I O nature immortelle ! — 
 
 Ocs Etres aninics mere tentlre ct cruellc ! — 
 
 Faut il done qu' aux faveurs dent tu les as eombles, 
 
 Succedent les lleaux dent ils sont accables ?" 
 
 St. Lambert. 
 
 The misty sun sank fast 
 
 O'er the long and gloomy main. 
 And the hollow moaning blast 
 
 Swept like a burial strain. 
 
 Yet swift the vessel flew. 
 In the spirit of her pride ; 
 
 And the surges dashed like dew 
 From her bold, majestic side !
 
 6G SWAIN. 
 
 The dim liorizon shed 
 A thin and sickly ray ; 
 
 The dull, black vapours spread 
 Like a pall along her way. 
 
 Yet lovely 'midst the storm — 
 As a rainbow on the deep — 
 
 Did the Schooner's stately form 
 O'er the bursting billows sweep ! 
 
 Blacker and blacker set 
 
 The wild, portentous night ; 
 
 The winds and waters met. 
 Like demons in their might. 
 
 The tempest rode the main, 
 With death-denouncing speed ; 
 
 And the giant mast was snapt in twain, 
 As a child would break a reed ! 
 
 Then paler fell the cheek — 
 And dimmer grew the sight — 
 
 And lips that wished, yet dared not speak. 
 Turned cold and ghastly white.
 
 SWAIN. 67 
 
 On — on the vessel ran, — 
 Trembling and wild and bare- 
 
 The skill and strength of man 
 Were dust upon the air. 
 
 On — on the vessel burst — 
 
 No helm — no cheering ray- 
 Like a dying thing accurst, 
 She held her dreadful way ! 
 
 The breakers girt her round ; 
 
 One fierce wild shout of fear — 
 And the roaring waves were the only sound 
 
 That reached the landsman's ear ! 
 
 'Twas a blue and moonlight night. 
 With a mild and shoreward breeze. 
 
 When a lonely wreck hove first in sight, 
 On the far ^>gean seas. 
 
 No signal sound arose 
 
 From the solitary deck ; 
 She seem'd alone amidst her foes — 
 
 That miserable wreck !
 
 OS SWAIN. 
 
 From helm to prow no sound 
 Of Ymng thing was there ; — 
 
 Some gallant crew a grave had found, 
 Unblest by earthly prayer ! 
 
 Deep silence reigned above ; 
 
 But, ah ! the berth below 
 Displayed a scene of human love — 
 
 A scene of human woe ! 
 
 The beautiful — alas ! — 
 
 The bright — the better flower 
 Is ever thus the first to pass 
 
 From Love's domestic bower ! 
 
 A youth, in sickness deep. 
 Lay breathing weak and low. 
 
 As soon the everlasting sleep 
 Would settle on his brow. 
 
 And there — in all the pride 
 Of early bloom and grace, 
 
 A fair-haired girl knelt by his side, 
 With meekly beauteous face.
 
 SWAIN. 69 
 
 With blue, beseeching eyes. 
 In stedfast hope upraised ! — 
 
 She seemed a sister of the- skies,- 
 So holy was that gaze ! 
 
 And smote the hand of Death 
 
 Thus mildly in its might ? 
 Lived there on that sweet lip no breath- 
 
 In those blue eyes no light ? 
 
 Oh ! lovely and not dark. 
 Death, is thy mild decay, 
 
 When the immortal spark 
 Yet radiates our clay ! 
 
 A gleam of daylight set. 
 May gild the cloud of eve. 
 
 And the soul's light linger yet 
 O'er the form it sighed to leave ! 
 
 Serene she knelt in death, 
 
 Beside the sufferer's bed ; 
 The youth lay warm with life's free breath !- 
 
 The weary watcher dead!
 
 SWAIN. 
 
 THE TEMPLE OF VICTORY. 
 
 " SpectJtinlus in ccrtoiuinc niartio, 
 Devota morti pcctora Uherx 
 Quiiitis fatigarcl ruiiils ; 
 Indoinitas prope quulik uudas.'' 
 
 HORA.CR. 
 
 Th e glorious spears of war 
 
 Gleam o'er the calm blue wave ; 
 Voices and lutes afar 
 Sing paeans to the brave ; 
 Cittern, and lyre, and trumpet-strain. 
 Breathe of the red victorious plain ! 
 
 "Wreath, wreath the laurel crown ; 
 
 Swell forth the glad acclaim ; 
 Bid glory and renown 
 
 Record each valiant name ; 
 The mighty ones who by your side 
 For Hellas fought ! — for Hellas died !
 
 SWAIN, 71 
 
 Fill, fill the banquet board. 
 
 Your standards wave on high, 
 Chiefs of the shrine and sword ! — 
 Brothers of victory ! — 
 Bring forth the guerdon of your toil,- 
 The gold, the captives, and the spoil. 
 
 Brightly and fast the waves 
 
 Bear on the warriors now ; 
 The tide in beauty laves 
 
 Each tall barque's sih^er prow : 
 A myriad dashing oars sweep by. 
 And shouts of conquest shake the sky ! 
 
 Open your gates of brass, 
 
 Ye temples ! — and receive 
 The brave whose deeds surpass 
 What ages may achieve ! 
 Pour on the consecrated shrine 
 The offering bright of ruby wine. 
 
 Upon your tables trace. 
 In characters of light 
 Which time shall ne'er efface, 
 The victors of the fight ! 
 Immortal be they on your page, — 
 Stars which may light an after age !
 
 72 SWAIN. 
 
 O ! beautiful thou art. 
 
 Land of my sires ! — to me 
 Of heaven thou seem'st a part ; — 
 A charm — a mystery 
 Broods o'er thy hills — thy pleasant bowers— 
 Thy vine-clad plains — thy leaves and flowers. 
 
 Mother of heroes ! — long 
 
 May valour guard thy breast. 
 Thou terror of the strong ! 
 Thou shield of the opprest ! 
 Wither the tyrant's deadly hand. 
 That would enchain my native land ! 
 
 Evan Evohe ! — Hear ! — 
 
 Thy noble patriots come : 
 They have brought golden cheer. 
 Riches and triumi)h, home ! — 
 Sound, sound the tidings far and free,- 
 Evan Evohe ! — Victory !
 
 SWAIN. 
 
 BOYHOOD. 
 
 "Some clioril, iu miisou with what we hear, 
 Is touched within us, and the heart replies." 
 
 COWPEB, 
 
 The dreams of early youth, 
 How beautiful they are — how full of joy — 
 
 When fancy looks like truth, 
 And life shews not a taint of sin's alloy. 
 
 When every heart appears 
 
 The temple of high thought and noble deed- 
 When our most bitter tears 
 
 FaU o'er some melancholy page we read.
 
 74 SWAIN. 
 
 The summer morn's fresh hours — 
 Her thousand woodland songs — her glorious hues ; 
 
 Oh ! life's so full of flowers. 
 The difficulty then, is where to choose ! 
 
 The wonderful blue sky — 
 Its cloudy palaces — its gorgeous fanes — 
 
 The rainbow tints which lie 
 Like distant golden seas near purple plains, — 
 
 These never shine again, 
 As once they shone upon our raptured gaze : 
 
 The clouds which may remain 
 Paint other visions than in those sweet days ! 
 
 In hours thus pure — sublime — 
 Dreams we would make realities : life seems 
 
 So changed in after-time. 
 That we would wish realities were dreams !
 
 REV. DR. MC. ALL.
 
 MC. ALL. "J*] 
 
 CHRIST'S SECOND COMING, 
 
 He that lived on earth a stranger. 
 
 Groaned in anguish, suffered loss. 
 Lay in BethPhem's humble manger. 
 
 Died on Calvery's bloody cross : 
 Now though clouds of Heaven conceal him. 
 
 Robed in glory, from our sight. 
 Soon their parting shall reveal him 
 
 Bursting through a flood of light ! 
 
 Sinners ! think — his name despising 
 
 While afar his chariot stays — 
 When ye see the dead arising 
 
 'Mid the world's expiring blaze. 
 Earth departing, Heaven unfolding. 
 
 Angels marshall'd at his feet. 
 How shall ye, the pomp beholding, 
 
 This neglected Saviour meet ?
 
 MC. ALL. 
 
 Conscience oft, by midnight shaded. 
 
 When no other eye is near. 
 Calls on crimes from mem'ry faded. 
 
 Bright as noontide to appear ; 
 But when worlds on worlds assemble. 
 
 And the lightning flames abroad, 
 How shall then your spirits tremble — 
 
 Tremble at the throne of God !
 
 MC. ALL. 79 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 Ye twinkling stars ! refulgent gems ! 
 
 "Which deck the diadem of night. 
 Form a new coronet for him 
 
 Who gives you all your silver light 
 
 For him who made your spheres at first. 
 And into crowns your splendours wove. 
 
 For him who sheds his brightest beams 
 Through all the regions where you move. 
 
 Once, when the world in darkness lay. 
 And night's thick gloom involved the sky. 
 
 Ye joined to form " nocturnal day," 
 Poured on the shepherd's wakeful eye.
 
 80 MC. ALL. 
 
 When, lo ! a brighter orb arose. 
 
 Whose light the world ne'er saw before, 
 
 Starthng the weary from repose, 
 
 ^Vhile your bright beams were seen no more. 
 
 That orb, so bright and so divine. 
 Was but forerunner to his rays. 
 
 Around whose awful head entwine 
 
 The fires of love — the lightning's blaze.
 
 MC. ALL. 81 
 
 CONSOLATION IN DEATH. 
 
 Trembling on life's awful verge. 
 Stands the waiting pilgrim's soul, 
 Sees, beyond, the shado^vy surge 
 In o'erwhelming darkness roll ; 
 Conflicting with hope and fear. 
 Longs, yet dreads to enter there. 
 
 But a voice across the wave 
 Bids her fears, her sorrows cease — 
 " Jesus has an arm to save. 
 Heaven shall prove a port of peace. 
 Boundless though the tide appear, 
 Thou shalt ride in safety here."
 
 82 MC. ALL. 
 
 Darkness flies — the floods are still 
 While those accents melt away ; 
 And around, from Zion's hill, 
 Bright reflected glories play : 
 Rapture fills the fragrant air. 
 Silence tells that God is there ! 
 
 Angels, who your vigil hold 
 Ever on that solemn land, 
 When the waters I behold. 
 Frowning rise, on every hand. 
 Then your sweetest songs prepare. 
 And I'll haste to meet you there.
 
 W. H. AINSWORTH
 
 AINSWORTII. 85 
 
 Y O L A N D E , 
 
 A GOLDEN flower embroiderino-, 
 A lay of love low murmuring ; 
 Secluded in the eastern tower 
 Sits fair Yolande within her bower : 
 
 Fair — fair Yolande ! 
 Suddenly a voice austere. 
 With sharp reproof breaks on her ear : — 
 Her mother 'tis who silently 
 Has stolen upon her privacy — 
 
 Ah! fair Yolande! 
 *' Mother ! why that angry look ? — 
 Mother ! why that sharp rebuke ? 
 Is it that I while away 
 My solitude with amorous lay ? 
 Or, is it that my thread of gold 
 Idly I weave, that thus you scold 
 
 Your own Yolande— your own Yolande ?"
 
 86 AINSWORTH. 
 
 " It is not that you while away 
 Your sohtude with amorous lay ; 
 It is not that your thread of gold 
 Idly you weave, that thus I scold 
 
 My fair Yolande ! 
 " Your want of caution 'tis I chide ; — 
 The Baron fancies that you hide. 
 Beneath the cushion on your knee, 
 A letter from the Count Mahi : — 
 
 Ah ! fair Yolande ! 
 " Busy tongues have filled his brain 
 With jealousy and fi-antic pain ; 
 Hither hastes he with his train ! — 
 And if a letter there shou'd be 
 Concealed 'neath your embroidery ? 
 Say no more. But give it me. 
 My own Yolande — my own Yolande !"
 
 AINSWORTH. 87 
 
 THE COFFIN. 
 
 In a church-yard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid. 
 And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade. 
 A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously. 
 With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie. 
 
 For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented 
 
 face. 
 With serpents lithe that round it wriihe, in folded strict 
 
 embrace ; 
 Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set. 
 And emblematic scrolls, mort heads, and bones, together 
 
 met. 
 
 " Ah, well-a-day ! " that sexton gray unto himself did cry, 
 " Beneath that hd much lieth hid — much awful mysterie. 
 It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here ; 
 Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a 
 frere.
 
 88 AINSWORTH. 
 
 " In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon 
 
 cloister shrined. 
 That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find; 
 The costly carvings of the Ud I scraped full carefully, 
 In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see. 
 
 " With pick and spade I've plied my trade for sixty years 
 
 and more. 
 Yet never found beneath the ground shell strange as that 
 
 before ; 
 Full many coffins have I seen — have seen them deep or flat — 
 Fantastical in fashion — none fantastical as that." 
 
 And saying so, with heavy blow the hd he shattered wide. 
 And pale vvith fright, a ghastly sight that sexton gray 
 
 espied ; 
 A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see. 
 The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fallen humanity. 
 
 Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly 
 
 heap. 
 With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it 
 
 keep; 
 The hands were clenched, the teeth were wrenched, as if the 
 
 wretch had risen, 
 E'en after death had ta'en his breath, to strive and burst 
 
 his prison.
 
 AINSWORTH. 89 
 
 The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no Umb or joint 
 
 was straight ; 
 Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate; 
 And as the sexton stooped him down, to lift the coffin 
 
 plank. 
 His fingers were defiled all o'er with slimy substance dank. 
 
 " Ah, well-a-day !" that sexton gray unto himself did cry, 
 " Full well I see how fate's decree foredoomed this wretch 
 
 to die; 
 A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust. 
 Alack ! alack ! the agony ere he returned to dust." 
 
 A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton's eyes ; 
 Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin 
 
 lies. 
 He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast ; 
 Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last. 
 
 The coffin then by reverend men is borne with footstep 
 
 slow. 
 Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the 
 
 requiem low; 
 And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not 
 
 flown. 
 Then all is drowned in hollow sound, the earth is o'er him 
 
 thrown !
 
 90 AINSWORTH. 
 
 He draweth breath — he wakes from death to Ufe more 
 
 horrible, 
 To agony ! such agony ! no hving tongue may tell. 
 Die ! die ! he must, that wretched one ! he struggles, strives 
 
 in vain ; 
 No more heaven's light, nor sunshine bright, shall he 
 
 behold again. 
 
 "Gramercy, Lord!" the sexton roared, awakening sud- 
 denly, 
 " If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die. 
 Oh, cast my body in the sea ! or hurl it on the shore ! 
 But nail me not in coffin fast — no grave will I dig more."
 
 AINSWORTH. 91 
 
 THE CHURCH-YARD YEW. 
 
 A NOXIOUS tree is the church-yard yew. 
 As if from the dead its sap it drew; 
 Dark are its branches, and dismal to see. 
 Like plumes at Death's latest solemnity. 
 Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings 
 "Which some spirit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings : 
 Oh ! a terrible tree is the church-yard yew. 
 Like it is nothing so grimly to view. 
 
 Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound. 
 Can nought so tough in the grove be found : 
 From it were fashioned brave English bows. 
 The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes. 
 For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves 
 From the branch that hung o'er their fathers' graves ; 
 And though it be dreary and dismal to view, 
 Stanch at the heart is the church-yard yew.
 
 92 AINSWORTH. 
 
 LA GITANILLA. 
 
 By the Guadalquiver, 
 
 Ere the sun be flown. 
 By that glorious river 
 
 Sits a maid alone. 
 Like the sunset splendour 
 Of that current bright. 
 Shone her dark eyes tender 
 
 As its Avitching light ; 
 Like the ripple flowing. 
 
 Tinged with purple sheen. 
 Darkly, richly, glowing. 
 Is her warm cheek seen. 
 'Tis the Gitanilla 
 
 By the stream doth linger. 
 In the hope that eve 
 
 Will her lover bring her. 
 
 Se«, the sun is sinking ! 
 
 All grows dim, and dies ; 
 See, the waves are drinking 
 
 Glories of the skies.
 
 AINSWORTH. 93 
 
 Day's last lustre playetli 
 On that current dark ; 
 Yet no speck betrayeth 
 
 His long-looked-for bark. 
 'Tis the hour of meeting ! 
 Nay, the hour is past ; 
 Swift the time is fleeting ! 
 Fleeteth hope as fast. 
 
 Still the Gitanilla 
 
 By the stream doth linger, 
 In the hope that night 
 Will her lover bring her. 
 
 Swift that stream flows on. 
 
 Swift the night is wearing, — 
 Yet she is not gone, 
 
 Though with heart despairing. 
 Dips an oar — plash — hark ! 
 
 Gently on the river ; 
 'Tis her lover's bark. 
 
 On the Guadalquiver. 
 Hark ! a song she hears ! 
 
 Every note she snatches ; 
 As the singer nears. 
 
 Her own name she catches. 
 Now the Gitanilla 
 
 Stays not by the water — 
 For the midnight hour 
 
 Hath her lover brought her.
 
 94 AINSWORTH. 
 
 DEDICATORY STANZAS. 
 
 TO 
 
 When last we parted, lady, 'twas in tears; 
 Thy cheek was dimmed with sorrow's trickling dew, 
 And from my heart the grief of many years, 
 Hoarded 'till nigh forgotten, burst anew. 
 Sad offerings to love and memory true. 
 Shall ever memory faint, or love be cold ? 
 Ah, no ! that cheek may lose its breathing hue. 
 And those dear eyes their living beams withhold. 
 But love shall still endure, with faith unknown, untold ! 
 
 Accept the tribute that to thee I bring, 
 (It is the first, and it mil be the last,) 
 The leisure fruit of fancy's wandering : 
 But fancy rules no more — her sway is past. 
 And into other paths my course is cast ; 
 Me now no more shall fiction's dreams beguile ; 
 Their hues, like fading rainbows, vanish fast ; 
 My feet shall tread in ways of drearier toil. 
 And fiction hide her wealth and poesy her smile.
 
 AINSWORTH. 95 
 
 Yet, if to me a loftier lyre were given, 
 And round my harp were twined a brighter \VTeath ; 
 If I could snatch immortal verse from heaven, 
 And pour its melody to souls beneath. 
 It may be that I would not cease to breathe 
 Thy name in accents love should make divine. 
 And round thy beauteous brows a band enwreath, 
 A garland bright, whose flowers should brightly shine. 
 More lovely, and more bright, when sunned by smiles of 
 thine !
 
 96 AINSWORTH. 
 
 THE MANDRAKE. 
 
 The mandrake grows 'neath the gallows tree. 
 And rank and green are its leaves to see ; 
 Green and rank as the grass that waves 
 O'er the unctuous earth of graves, 
 And though all around it be bleak and bare. 
 Freely the mandrake flourisheth there. 
 
 Maranatha! Anathema! 
 Dread is the curse of Mandragora. 
 Euthanasy ! 
 
 At the foot of the gibbet the mandrake springs. 
 
 Just where the creaking carcase swings ; 
 
 Some have thought it engendered 
 
 From the fat that drops from the bones of the dead ; 
 
 Some have thought it a human thing ; 
 
 But this is a vain imagining. 
 
 Maranatha! Anathema! 
 Dread is the curse of Mandragora. 
 Euthanasy !
 
 AINSWOKl'll. UJ 
 
 A charnel leaf doth the mandrake wear, 
 
 A charnel fruit doth the mandrake bear; 
 
 Yet none like the mandrake hath such great power, 
 
 Such virtues reside not in herb or flower ; 
 
 Aconite, hemlock, or moonshade, I ween, 
 
 None hath a poison so subtle and keen. 
 
 Maranatha ! Anathema ! 
 Dread is the curse of Mandragora. 
 Euthanasy ! 
 
 And whether the mandrake be create 
 Flesh with the flower incorporate, 
 I know not ; yet, if from the earth 'tis rent, 
 Shrieks and groans from the root are sent ; 
 Shrieks and groans, and a sweat, like gore. 
 Oozes and drops from the clammy core. 
 
 Maranatha ! Anathema ! 
 Dread is the curse of Mandragora. 
 Euthanasy ! 
 
 Whoso gathereth the mandrake shall surely die ; 
 Blood for blood is his destiny. 
 Some who have plucked it have died with groans. 
 Like to the mandrake's expiring moans ; 
 Some have died raving, and some beside — 
 With penitent prayers — but all have died. 
 
 Jesu ! save us, by night and da\- ! 
 
 From the terrible death of Mandragora ! 
 
 Euthanasy ! 
 II
 
 9S AliN;SWORTU. 
 
 THE CROW 
 
 The carrion crow is a sexton bold, 
 He raketh the dead from out the mould ; 
 He delveth the ground like a miser old, 
 Stealthily hiding his store of gold. 
 
 The carrion crow hath a coat of black. 
 Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back ; 
 Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way— 
 The fouler the ofFal, the richer his prey. 
 
 The carrion crow hath a dainty maw, 
 With savoury pickings he crammeth his craw ; 
 Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim. 
 It never can hang too long for him. 
 
 The carrion crow smelleth powder, 'tis said. 
 Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead ; 
 No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit. 
 For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit. 
 
 Caw ! Caw ! the Carrion Crow ! 
 
 Dig ! Dig ! in the groimd below !
 
 REV. K. PARKINSON
 
 PARKINSON. 101 
 
 SAIxNT BEGA'S ABBEY. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 Bright was the hour, on sea and on land, 
 When Saint Bega left the Irish strand. 
 The breeze was up, and the sun was high. 
 And the clouds that freckled the azure sky 
 Gave a soothing repose to the splendours of noon. 
 Like the spots on the face of the modest moon. 
 Each wave, as it danced to the pebbled shore. 
 Was tipp'd with a crest of foam-bells hoar. 
 And played round the vessel as if in glee 
 That borne on its bosom Saint Bega should be : 
 
 For she was one by favouring Heaven 
 
 To mortals in its bounty given. 
 
 Too fair for earth — too pure to dwell 
 
 In aught save holy cave or cell ;
 
 102 PARKINSON. 
 
 There the lone hours to watch and pray. 
 
 To waste her lovehness away. 
 
 And strive, by jienance and by pain. 
 
 To quell fond hopes and wishes vain ; 
 
 Then from dark cell to issue forth. 
 
 To spread glad tidings through the North, 
 
 And leave the world a name to move 
 
 The heart to worship and to love. 
 She had listened with sorrow and grief to the tale 
 That the faith in wild Cambria did falter and fail ; 
 That its nobles were tyrants throughout the land. 
 Cruel of heart, and bloody of hand, 
 Striving the lordship in fury to gain. 
 And shedding the blood of their vassals hke rain ; 
 That the vassals were darkling, and poor, and proud. 
 Silent at mattins, in cursing loud. 
 Plundering the sea, and robbing the land, — 
 And such was the state of dark Cumberland. 
 Her heart was moved at so sad a tale, 
 She wept that the faith in the North should fail. 
 And she sail'd from Green Erin, with bedesman and monk. 
 To expel the dark cloud that o'er Cambria had sunk. 
 
 Fair is the breeze as on her way 
 
 The holy vessel glides. 
 And laughing waves in gladness play, 
 
 Are ripphng round her sides. 
 High on the poop Saint Bega sings 
 
 A solemn hymn of praise,
 
 I'ARKINSOX. 103 
 
 AVliile sea-mews droop their snowj* wings 
 As listening to her hiys. 
 
 Now the tall crest of Man uprears 
 His double front on high, 
 
 And Cambria's distant shore ajjpears, . 
 Darkening the eastern sky ; 
 
 The sun sinks in the crimson west, 
 The breeze no longer blows. 
 
 And sea, and air, and sky, at rest, 
 Lie wraj)t in calm repose. 
 But who on earth may boast unchanging peace ? 
 Who can bid storm and rage for ever cease ? 
 The best, the holiest, are doomed to know 
 That hours of bhss but herald hours of woe. 
 Scarce had the sun the breast of ocean kis.'^ed. 
 Ere from its bosom rose a deadly mist ; 
 Wing'd mth the wind, and armed with lightning flame, 
 Full on that holy ship the tempest came. 
 Then, as in fury, rose the angry seas. 
 Sail, mast, and cordage shivered in the breeze, 
 And monk and sailor, quell'd alike with fear. 
 Embraced with darling hand their mistress dear ; 
 She, all unmoved, and firm in holy faith. 
 Gazed with calm eye on that dark scene of death. 
 Wiped the dank sea-spray from her marble brow. 
 And thus to thee, bright Virgin ! pledged her vow : — 
 
 " Virgin fair ! and maiden mild ! 
 
 For the sake of thy sinless Child, 
 
 For the sake of Cambria's race, 
 
 Sn.nk in sorrow and disirracT.
 
 104 j'AKKrxsnx. 
 
 For the sake of her who goes 
 
 To dissipate their sins and woes. 
 
 Grant thy votaress one request — 
 
 Lull this fiery storm to rest, 
 And wherever my vessel first touches the land, 
 To thy name and thy glory a temple shall stand." 
 She spoke, and at once ceased the hillows' commotion ; 
 There was silence in Heaven, — there was peace on the 
 
 ocean ! 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 On the smooth bosom of the quiet sea 
 
 The gentle vessel cuts her sunny way ; 
 Fair is the breeze that bears her gallantly, 
 
 And bright the sunbeams that around her play. 
 While on the pillowed prow Saint Bega lay, 
 
 Pouring to Heaven her grateful hymn of praise, 
 AVhose hand had chased the bitter storm away ; 
 
 Preserving thus her life for brighter daj's. 
 And nobler acts, to claim the unl)orn poet's lays. 
 
 Before her eyes in sunshine now 
 The shores of England lay; 
 
 Tall Tomlyn with his rocky brow. 
 And Fleswick with its bav.
 
 PARKINSON. i05 
 
 And there, where the receding land 
 Leaves girdle brown of solid sand. 
 And a small streamlet finds its way 
 To ocean through a narrow bay. 
 There, ^vithout aid of sail or oar. 
 Her gentle bark first touched the shore. 
 
 It was the eve of a midsummer day 
 
 When Saint Bega first gazed on the castle grey 
 
 That frowns on the brink of the Ehn's sweet river, 
 
 Built there by De Meschienes to stand for ever ; 
 
 For he was the lord of the region around, 
 
 His eye could not reach its utmost bound, 
 
 And " Look you to mountain, or look you to sea, 
 
 The land that you gaze on is mine," said he. 
 
 With step of impatience and thought pi'ofound, 
 
 He paced the dark ramparts of Egremond round. 
 
 When his step was arrested, his thoughts disarrayed, 
 
 At the sight of a lovely and kneeling maid ; 
 
 The sea-spray still glistened amidst her dark hair. 
 
 All pale was her forehead, her bosom was bare. 
 
 " Lord of the region round," she cried, with hands upraised, 
 
 and eyes 
 Now fixed upon that Baron's face, now gazing on the skies, 
 " List to my tale — from Erin's shores to England fair I 
 
 came. 
 To turn this land from Paganrie — Saint Bega is my name. 
 As o'er the ocean broad I sailed my Ijark was tempest-tost, 
 And but for holy Mother's care, I surely had been lost !
 
 106 PARKINSON. 
 
 She heard my prayer, whe heard my vow, that where my 
 
 foot should land, 
 Ev'n there, to her eternal praise, a temple bright should 
 
 stand. 
 Do thou then, lord of all this land, to me that spot resign. 
 And for thy gracious charity my prayers shall still be 
 thine." 
 She spoke ; — it would have made you mourn. 
 Your very heart it would have torn 
 
 To mark that baron's eye ; 
 Round and round he proudly gazed. 
 His eyes with fiendish triumph blazed, 
 His threatening hand to heaven he raised. 
 
 And thus he made reply : — 
 " I give my lovely lands to thee ! 
 Thou wanderer of the main ! 
 Yes ! small the boon thou seek'st of me, 
 
 Tliat boon thou shalt obtain. 
 To-morrow is midsummer day we know, 
 
 Sure time for frost and cold ! 
 And every rood that is covered with snow 
 
 Shall be thine to have and to hold." 
 He spoke in scorn ; the maiden then 
 AVhispered one feeble word — " Amen ! " 
 The baron turned to his castle fair. 
 The lady bent herself in prayer. 
 
 It is not given to man to know 
 Another's bhss, another's woe !
 
 PARKINSON. 107 
 
 Each bosom has its own sharp pain, 
 Enough to suffer and sustain : 
 Or you might picture well the smart 
 That shot to that bold baron's heart, 
 When gazing, on the morrow's dawn. 
 O'er hill and valley, wood and lawn. 
 He marked the region, high and low. 
 Wrapped in a wondrous robe of snow ! 
 Deep Wastdale's Screes and Crags so white 
 Were glittering in the morning light. 
 And Ennerdale's tall pillar wore 
 His winter coronet once more. 
 The vale of Lowes was spotted o'er. 
 From rock to lake, with patches hoar ; 
 And Preston's fertile Isle was seen 
 To shroud in white her summer green ! 
 The baron's haughty heart was riven, — 
 He saw revealed the hand of Heaven, 
 
 He stoop'd him to the stern decree ; 
 He humbly bent that maid before. 
 And by the holy rood he swore 
 
 Her will his only guide should be. 
 So she built to the Virgin Saint Bega's Abbaye, 
 
 Who her life from the sea had defended. 
 And wherever the snow fell on midsummer day. 
 
 There the rights of her Chantry extended ! 
 
 Maiden ! that now, unseen, unknown, 
 Riding thy self-directed throne.
 
 108 I'AKKINSON. 
 
 Hover'st around the scene where thou 
 
 Hast prayed thy prayer and vow'd thy vow. 
 
 Still may thy hope and wish be crown'd 
 
 Of spreading light and life around ! 
 
 Still 'mid thine own time-hallowed ground 
 
 May Truth's pure messengers be found. 
 
 With all the fiery love and zeal 
 
 Thy wild and fearless age could feel, 
 
 With all the wisdom of our own. 
 
 To make the Gospel summons known ! 
 
 Then, though bereft of all the power 
 
 And wealth that were its early dowei", 
 
 Though ruined walls but ill proclaim 
 
 The glories of its ancient fame. 
 
 Still shall thy hallowed fame be found 
 
 The watch-light of the region round, 
 
 Fhnging its peaceful beams afar, 
 
 Till rising of the Morning Star !
 
 I'ARKINSO.N. lUy 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN A BOAT. 
 
 Pull ! pull ! my boys, the stream runs fast. 
 
 And favouring is the gale : 
 And see, the setting sun has cast 
 
 A shadow o'er the vale ; 
 Our course is rough, the way is long, 
 
 The light is sinking fast ; 
 Pull ! pull ! my boys, your oars are strong. 
 
 And favouring is the blast. 
 
 How bounds the boat beneath each stroke 
 
 The labouring arm applies ! 
 How, by the dashing oars awoke. 
 
 The air-blown bubble flies ! 
 How sweet, as on its watery mngs 
 
 The steady pinnace glides. 
 To listen to the stream that sings 
 
 And ripples round its sides !
 
 IIU PARKiNSOX. 
 
 Fast Hies on either hand the bank. 
 
 As down the stream we bound ; 
 How soon yon towering mountain sank 
 
 Beneath the swelhng ground ! 
 See on that hillock's verdant brow 
 
 The sun's last radiance quiver; 
 We turn this jutting point — and now — 
 
 The beam is gone for ever ! 
 
 So floats our life down Time's rough stream. 
 
 Such is its constant motion ; 
 And bubbles on the land mil gleam 
 
 Like bubbles on the ocean. 
 Then pull, my boys, the stream runs fast. 
 
 The sun's last beam is shining, 
 And fix your steady anchor fast. 
 
 Before the day's declining !
 
 J. UiDDAL WOOD.
 
 WOOD, ii: 
 
 ANGEL V 1 « I T S . 
 
 (DESTRUCTION OF SODOM. 
 
 There was a monstrous wildness in the air; 
 All animals, with instinct terror, fled, 
 Or breathless sank, as given to despair ; 
 The swelling clouds look'd wrathfully and red ; 
 The sun behind the hills yet lingered, 
 Reluctant to behold the horrid scene ; 
 Whilst many rose from their accustomed bed 
 With heart as light as though the skies serene 
 Had slumbered whilst they wrought their last disgusting sin. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There you might see dismay in every form ; 
 All attitudes, all aspects, desperate ; 
 And yet, amidst the desolating storm. 
 Some cursed their fellows, — mad with rage and hate ; 
 Some charged on God their pitiable fate ; 
 Some proud of heart, and all impenitent, 
 Laugh'd hideously ; some cowering sate. 
 Soul ^vithered ; some, iron-hearted, rent 
 The sky with horrid shrieks, — daring the Omnipotent.
 
 114 WOOD. 
 
 X. 
 
 In mute amazement, on that awful morn, 
 The warrior rose ; nor poised his shield, nor drew 
 His useless sword, nor frowned, as oft in scorn, 
 "When daring mortal foe ; whilst vengeance threw 
 Heaven's burning wrath around ; the lightning's hue 
 Reflecting on his dark and livid brow. 
 Revealed the worm within ; the lurid blue 
 Danced on his quivering lips ; unwont to bow, 
 The terrors of his God soon laid the rebel low. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Some, conscience-smitten, stood with powerless limb. 
 Unnerved, unstrung, and listless ^vith affright ; 
 The soft blue eyes of beauty waxed dim, 
 And he that flattered once now shunn'd the sight ; 
 The ruby lip empurpled, — deathly white ; 
 The cheek, late pencill'd o'er with velvet blooms. 
 Not slow, nor gradual, but with sudden blight; 
 From youth to age, from sunshine to the gloom. 
 That death's cold Ansage wears, when gathered to the tomb. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The delicate and timid virgin sped, 
 Uuflattered, unadorned, unnoticed there ; 
 Forsaken of her lovers all, and wed 
 To dissolution pale, and grim despair;
 
 WOOD. lU 
 
 Among the ringlets of her glossy hair 
 The tempest's blasts in sportive fury played ; 
 As wildly on she flew, with bosom bare. 
 She stumbled o'er a corpse, and sank dismayed. 
 Nor moved, till half consumed, she faintly shrieked for aid. 
 
 XIV, 
 
 'Twas dreadful in the multitude to mark 
 The cheerless blind, %vith melancholy tread. 
 Groping their way amidst the unnatural dark, 
 And stumbling o'er the dying and the dead ! 
 In vain they stood, or fell, or wavering fled ; 
 In vain implored relief on bended knee ; 
 Irresolute some shook, unnerved with dread ; 
 Some languid sinking, briefly ceased to be ; 
 Some braved the falling fire, and died in agony ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ITiere the young mother clasped her first-born child ; 
 Fear at her heart, and madness in her mien. 
 She hurried on, distractedly and wild. 
 But succour there was none from that dread scene : 
 Shrieking, the pauses of the storm between. 
 The bursting thunder gave a dread reply ; 
 Sinking, her babe she fondly thought to screen 
 In her convulsed embrace ; swift to destroy. 
 The shower soon cut them off, — that mother and her boy!
 
 116 WOOD. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Among the guilty crowd that vainly stretch 
 Their eyes to Him on whose commands they trod^ 
 Behold Adoram ! poor deluded wretch ! 
 Forsaking and forsaken of his God ! 
 Heaven blessed his youth, but now it's awful nod 
 Awakes the apostate from his dreams of pride ; 
 In vain he seeks to escape the avenging rod 
 That long had threatened and was long defied ; 
 In vain he rushes forth to escape the fiery tide. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 For him no more shall peaceful eve return. 
 No smiling morn his waking eyes shall greet ; 
 O'er him no lonely widow'd heart shall mourn. 
 No children their lost father's name repeat ; 
 No requiem music, melancholy sweet. 
 Shall soothe the sorrow of one weeping friend ; 
 All he had loved his dreadful doom must meet. 
 Linked to his own their destinies impend ; 
 There dawns no hope, no intermission, and no end. 
 
 XXTV. 
 
 And now with sudden sweep it comes ! it comes ! 
 The arrowy sleet pours horribly around ; 
 The thick and scalding shower, that all consumes. 
 Falls on his houseless head. Hark ! the hoarse sound
 
 WOOD. 117 
 
 Of bellowing thunder makes the hills rebound ; 
 Anon he faints with agony ; — then falls 
 Prone, writhing on the sulphur-flaming ground ; 
 Eternity his inmost soul appals ; 
 Too late his dying voice for outraged mercy calls. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He died, as sinners die, without a hope ! 
 The same convulsive quiverings of frame, 
 Intense yet brief; the same revolting group 
 Of demon forms before him darkly swam ; 
 His haggard brow and glaring eye the same ; 
 The same recoiling from the dark unknown. 
 Where faithful conscience pictured worlds of flame ; 
 The same forebodings dire, — desponding tone, — 
 Wild parting mortal strife, — and last terrific groan ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 In that deep agonizing groan's despite, 
 A spirit wing'd for immortahty 
 Forsook the clay on her tremendous flight ! 
 The smile of mercy never more to see ! 
 No angel bands with holy minstrelsy , 
 Hailing her advent to the eternal shore. 
 But damned souls, in restless agony. 
 Made darkness echo with their hideous roar ; 
 Earth failed ! hope fled ! hell yawned ! she sank to rise no 
 more!
 
 118 WOOD. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The lofty cedar, whose proud form had stood 
 The storms of centuries, was wreathed in fire j 
 The giant oak, coeval with the flood. 
 Blazed upwards, waving its terrific spire, 
 Like some red torch at Sodom's funeral pyre. 
 Whilst lurid lightnings arched the vaulted sky ! 
 Oh ! who may stand the Almighty's judgments dire ? 
 All living things in with'ring anguish die. 
 When God, the God of Glory, sweej)s in anger by. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Where are the scoffers .'' where their idols now ? 
 Where the loose dance, and lewd lascivious song ? 
 The shameful practice, and the shameless brow ? 
 Where the proud leader of the impious throng. 
 With all the wily serpent on his tongue, — 
 With all the savage traitor in his soul ? 
 In one tremendous ruin borne along, 
 Where once they dwelt, still dying thunders roll ; 
 Booming along the waste their solemn funeral toll ! 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 O'er what a host the eternal veil is drawn ! 
 What various matter sleeps entombed there ! 
 What hopes cut oflP from being in their dawn ! 
 What phantom fears are vanished into air !
 
 WOOD. 119 
 
 What sinful joys exchanged for endless care ! 
 What sorrows lost in deeper, deadlier woes ! 
 What loves revealed but to the tempest's glare. 
 Then quenched for ever ! What tormenting throes 
 Of strong tumultuous passion those dark wastes enclose ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 What proud imaginations overthrown ! 
 What hell-conceived deeds of villany 
 Cut^short in action, ere completely blown ! 
 What acts of cruelty no eye might see, 
 Arraign'd and punished there by Heaven's decree ! 
 What base desires to fulness satisfied ! 
 What exquisite despair and misery ! 
 What impious blasphemies, that once defied 
 The Thunderer in his power, — those gloomy ashes hide ! 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The vainly warn'd perish at length unwarn'd ! 
 Thus fell the guilty cities of the plain ; 
 The morn with beams of orient light adom'd 
 The temples and abodes of the profane ; 
 But, lo ! one shower of Heaven's avenging rain, 
 And idols, %vith their retinue of slaves. 
 Were smoking ruins ere it dawn'd again ! 
 And now, with dismal moan, the Dead Sea waves 
 Have restless ages roU'd above those scoffers' graves !
 
 120 WOOD. 
 
 OH! BEAUTIFUL STAR, 
 
 Oh ! beautiful star, with thine aspect of hght 
 
 Adorning eternity's mantle of blue. 
 Were thy silvery features more lovely and bright 
 
 When they smiled on the scene whilst the world was yet 
 new? 
 
 Oh ! I who address thee am but of a day. 
 And to-morrow thy fadeless and radiant eye 
 
 Shall witness me wither and vanish away. 
 And smile on my grave from thy throne in the sky. 
 
 But though fix'd to one time, like a point in vast space. 
 
 My soul is unpinion'd, and often doth cast 
 A glance o'er the gloom of the future, or trace 
 
 The varied events that have peopled the past. 
 
 Thou hast seen, — thou hast seen, in thy deathless career, 
 All, and more than the records of ages have told : 
 
 Thou shalt see, from thy distant and shadowy sphere, 
 What few but thyself and thy Maker behold.
 
 WOOD. 121 
 
 Oh, tell me, wert thou of that glorious throng 
 That witness'd creation's bright beauties unfurl'd r 
 
 That thrill'd to the music and join'd in the song. 
 
 When morning stars welcom'd the birth of the world ? 
 
 Then man was instinct with celestial fire. 
 
 And nature was graced with perennial bloom ; 
 
 Now these are exchang'd for the thorn and the briar, 
 The bed of affliction, the mourner, the tomb. 
 
 Didst thou see the wide flood in its horrible sweep 
 Roll proudly, and usher the world to its grave ? 
 
 Didst thou, when the ark was alone on the deep. 
 First whisper of hope o'er the desolate wave ? 
 
 When the armies of midnight were raarshall'd on high, 
 And earth with her children to slumber was given, 
 
 Didst thou witness the Bethlehem shepherds draw nigh. 
 And list the melodious pseans of heaven ? 
 
 And haply thy mild and ethereal ray 
 
 In the east where it rose was arrested till morn, 
 
 Inviting the Chaldean Magi away 
 To the lowly retreat where the Saviour was born. 
 
 Again wert thou call'd to look earthward, and lo ! 
 
 There were darkness, and earthquakes, and thunderings 
 dire : 
 The sun had withdrawn from the vision of woe. 
 
 And man — only man, saw the Saviour expire !
 
 122 Avoou. 
 
 I too must behold him when time shall be done. 
 The angels his train and the lightnings his car ; 
 
 The earth shall be burnt and extinguish'd the sun ; 
 And thou too shalt perish, " Oh ! beautiful star ! " 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 (prom thk "angel of the covk.vavt.") 
 
 Oh ! lovely hour of twilight, when on high 
 
 The shadowy veil of eve is gently thrown. 
 
 And day's last struggles tinge the western sky 
 
 With radiant streaks of glory all its own ; 
 
 Whilst earth with flowers and Heaven \vith stars are 
 strown. 
 
 And zephyrs on the stirless foliage sleep : 
 
 If this the footstool, what must be the throne. 
 
 The sapphire throne, where choirs ethereal sweep 
 
 Their golden lyres, and all is love, pure, peaceful, deep !
 
 WOOD. 123 
 
 STANZAS, 
 
 Oh ! lay me not in the common yard. 
 Where neglected thousands rot ; — 
 
 By the public way 
 
 In the city gay 
 I pray you lay me not. 
 
 Enshrine me not in the vaulted tomb, 
 'Mid the pomp of earthly pride, 
 Where the fallen great 
 In mute splendour meet 
 To slumber side by side. 
 
 I ask no marble monument 
 When closed life's fleeting span. 
 Or empty name 
 On the scroll of fame, 
 Or more perishing breath of man.
 
 124 WOOD, 
 
 But when the angel of death shall come 
 And bear my soul away, 
 
 In his viewless car 
 
 To the realms afar 
 From this withering form of clay, — 
 
 In some retired and peaceful nook 
 Prepare my humble bed, 
 
 And my form entrust 
 
 To her kindred dust. 
 Till the grave gives up her dead. 
 
 The only monument I would crave 
 Shall be to the praise of Him 
 
 Who in mercy and love 
 
 Came down from above 
 The lost and undone to redeem. 
 
 And then M'hen })yramids totter and fall, 
 And the marble is worn away ; 
 
 When the mountains shall nod 
 
 At the trumpet of God, 
 I shall burst from my prison of clay. 
 
 Though in weakness I die, yet in power shall rise- 
 This mortal immortal put on ; 
 
 And faith lost in sight 
 
 Shall dwell in the light 
 Of the Lamb in the midst of the throne!
 
 WILLIAM MORT.
 
 MORT. 127 
 
 LIFE'S PROGRESS. 
 
 "We Vniiig our ye.irs to an eiul as it werf a (air that is told." — Paii.Ma. 
 
 Child ! that so securely clingest 
 
 To thy mother's side. 
 And thine arm around her flingest 
 
 Lest some harm betide ! 
 Thou who art so archly smiUng, 
 
 Void of care thy brow ; 
 No wi'ong thought thy soiil defihng — 
 Cliild, how old art thou ? 
 And the child looked up with a face of glee. 
 Which beamed with a smile of ecstasy; 
 But his Usping tongue no words expressed. 
 As he closer clung to his mother's breast ; 
 And the guileless glance of that sinless eye 
 Was all the innocent one's reply.
 
 1-* MORT. 
 
 Boy ! that mournfully art creeping 
 
 To thy tasks to-day. 
 And to-mon-ow high art leaping 
 
 On thy joyous way ; 
 Thou, %Yhose every thought is bounded 
 
 By the present nowj 
 Thy prospects all by hope surrounded — 
 Boy, how old art thou ? 
 And the boy answered haughtily. 
 And his bosom swelled perceptibly : 
 "Call me not Boy — I am in my teens. 
 And long have forgotten my childhood's scenes ; 
 And five brief years will soon be gone, 
 Then hail ! all hail ! to twenty-one. 
 Hurrah ! for the day that shall set me free. 
 When none shall dare to dictate to me !" 
 
 Man ! that through the crowded city 
 
 Passest in thy prime, 
 Doling forth superfluous pity 
 
 To the sons of time j 
 Thou, whose half of life is wasted. 
 
 Unredeemed thy vow ; 
 Rehgion's waters scareely tasted — 
 Man ! how old art thou ? 
 And the man replied abstractedly. 
 In a voice that sounded remorsefully : 
 " Oh ! ask me not — the days are past. 
 That I vainly thought for aye would last !
 
 MORT. 129 
 
 The plans that I formed in my early years 
 Have hrought to me only griefs and tears ; 
 And those whom in youth I did most despise 
 Have been lifted up in the nation's eyes. 
 Whilst, unimproved, the powerful sway 
 Of my forty summers hath passed away !" 
 
 Grey-haired eld ! that totterest weakly 
 
 'Cross thy chamber floor, 
 Drinking sounds, benign and meekly, 
 
 Soon thou'lt hear no more ! 
 Thou whom " mere oblivion" shroudeth — 
 
 Whose last days are now — 
 Ere " sans speech" vipon thee crowdeth. 
 Say, how old art thou ? 
 And the grey-haired man essayed to speak. 
 And a tear passed over his vidthered cheek ; 
 But there came no sound — he bowed his head — 
 His age untold, he was with the dead ! 
 
 ■* 
 
 ? K
 
 130 MOBT. 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 " She was not made 
 
 Through ycarp and moons the inner weight to bear. 
 
 Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 
 
 By age in earth ; her days and pleasures were 
 
 Brief, but delightful — such as had not staid 
 
 Long with her destiny!'' 
 
 Byron. 
 
 She left her father's land, and the birth-place of her mother. 
 She broke the bonds of sisterhood, she parted from her 
 
 brother. 
 And with one of distant country she crossed the open sea. 
 Her husband bore her to his home — thy fair land, Italy ! 
 
 He bore her to his native home, and who shall blame the 
 
 pride 
 That swell'd his breast while gazing on his beauteous 
 
 English bride ? 
 He took her to the valley where his boyhood had been 
 
 pass'd. 
 And he pointed out the mountain where he looked xipon it 
 
 last.
 
 MORT. 131 
 
 He led her to his aged sire — his mother long was dead — 
 And heard with joyous feelings all the words of welcome 
 
 said; 
 He introduced his sisters — they too were young and fair — 
 And with a smiling face he gave his Avife unto their care. 
 
 And seven days passed over, and his bliss was unalloyed. 
 And pleasure danced before him as a thing to be enjoyed; 
 And every night his glowing cheek was pillowed on the 
 
 breast 
 Of her whose happy heart alone his fervent love possessed. 
 
 But ah ! there is a mockery in soul-engrossing love, 
 When the heaven of our idolatry is not enthroned above ; 
 The jealous God will brook not aught less than him 
 
 adored — 
 In his just ear alone must all our orisons be poured ! 
 
 Fled seven days of happiness — and lo ! the eighth she lay 
 A tiling of love and beauty still, but life had passed away ! 
 The fairy foot was motionless, the voice of music hushed — 
 The spirit, like a frightened bird, from out its cage had 
 rushed ! 
 
 And in his native valley he interred his English wife — 
 That bitter hour revealed to him how frail a thing is life ! 
 He mourned as mourn the desolate when all their hope hath 
 
 died. 
 And again he crossed the ocean — but where was now his 
 
 pride ?
 
 132 MORT. 
 
 THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Good night, good night ! thou art leaving us — 
 
 Old year, thy days are done ; 
 Of a much-loved friend thou'rt bereaving us — 
 
 Good night ! thy goal is won. 
 Thou cam'st in thine infancy hither. 
 
 We have loved thee long and well ; 
 But thy leaf was doom'd to wither. 
 
 And we bid thee now farewell ! 
 
 Good night, good night ! our adieu to thee 
 
 Is fraught with a deep despair. 
 For the grief of parting is new to thee, 
 
 And we may not thy sorrowing share. 
 But thy fond and pure affection, 
 
 Old year, we will not forget — 
 For though robb'd of thy kind protection, 
 
 We love, we love thee yet.
 
 MORT. 133 
 
 Good night, good night ! thou hast ta'en with thee 
 
 Of our greatest and our best, — 
 But reproach shall not give pain to thee. 
 
 For thy summons to them was rest ! 
 We have loved thee most sincerely, 
 
 Old year, and we wish thee well ; 
 O, to one we hold so dearly 
 
 It is hard to bid farewell ! 
 
 Good night, good night ! thou hast been with us 
 
 In many a joyous day ; 
 Thou hast laugh'd at many a scene with us, 
 
 When our hearts were light and gay. 
 We have found in thee a brother. 
 
 Whom we've loved to gaze upon — 
 And we may not meet with another. 
 
 Old year, when thou art gone ! 
 
 Good night, good night ! we'll cling to thee 
 
 To the last hour of thy stay — 
 Our love and our blessing we'll fling to thee 
 
 As thou soar' St on thy wings away ! 
 O, our hearts are fiU'd with sorrow. 
 
 For thy days, old year, are done j 
 We shall miss thee on the morrow — • 
 
 (loorl night ! thy goal is won.
 
 134 MOKT. 
 
 THE MOURNERS. 
 
 " Why seek ye the living aniung the deati."- — (Luke xxiv. 6.) 
 
 " Why deck ye thus that lowly tomb 
 
 A\'ith boughs of the cypress tree ? " 
 I asked a maiden and a youth 
 
 Who there sat mournfully — 
 " The grave can not give up its dead. 
 
 Nor the mourned one know your grief; 
 Then seek not thus 'neath the gaze of men 
 
 To give your hearts relief." 
 
 The youth and maid still calmly sate 
 
 Beside that simple tomb — 
 They shed no tear, but on their cheek 
 
 Was the shade of a settled gloom ; 
 Hand clasped in hand, all silently 
 
 They planted their cypress boughs. 
 And seemed like lovers plighting faith, 
 
 And breathing there their vows.
 
 MORT. 135 
 
 " It is not for the praise of men," 
 
 Thus spake the youth at last, 
 " That here we come, on this lowly tomb 
 
 These withering leaves to cast ; — 
 'Tis our father's grave, and well we know 
 
 His spirit is hovering near. 
 For daily since we laid him down 
 
 Have we come to meet him here !" 
 
 " God help you, simple ones !" I said, 
 
 And slowly walked away — 
 But a still voice checked the rising smile, 
 
 And thus to me did say : 
 " Presuming fool ! why mockest thou 
 
 The faith thou canst not feel ? 
 Or question what the Holy-one 
 
 Hath pleased him to reveal ? 
 Learn, like that simple pair, to seek 
 
 Thy God in daily prayer — 
 And even thou, where'er thou bow'st, 
 
 Shalt find thi/ Father there !"
 
 136 MORT. 
 
 THE PRIDE OF LIFE. 
 
 How date we our life ? By the weary sum 
 Of the years we have passed upon earth ? 
 Count we the days that have dawned and set 
 
 From the shrieking hour of birth ? 
 Do we number the grains of sand that have run 
 From the glass since pulsation's power begun — 
 Or note we the seasons as they progress 
 With a voice in their course that our time is less ? 
 Not thus, not thus may we date our life — 
 
 There are deeper things to scan ; 
 For if length of days be our only boast. 
 How vain is the life of man ! 
 
 "Watch we the growth of the infant bud, 
 Jrom its first young sprout in May 
 
 Till the winter's frost doth touch its root, 
 And its leaves all die away r
 
 MORT. 137 
 
 Do we list to the passing cuckoo's note. 
 
 As he flies through the woods at night ; 
 Or the swallow's warning twitter, ere 
 He takes his sea-ward flight ? 
 Not thus, not thus may we date our life — 
 
 There's a nobler test than this ; 
 For if fleeting things have a charm for us. 
 How vain are our hopes of bliss ! 
 
 How then may the Christian count his years ? 
 
 — By the acts of kindness done ; 
 By the famishing brethren clothed and fed 
 
 Since useful life begun ! 
 By the wretched mourner's banished fears. 
 By the widow's and orphan's dried-up tears. 
 By the scoffing sinner's penitent groans. 
 And the stirring of life 'mid the old dry bones. 
 And the conscious joy of a peaceful breast 
 That hath not one crime to disturb its rest ! 
 
 It is thus, it is thus we should date our life, 
 
 Wlien the dawn of its worth appears ; 
 For the Pride of Life is in duties done. 
 And not in the length of years !
 
 138 MORT, 
 
 THE LOST BROTHER. 
 
 Mother, look forth on yon beautiful cloud 
 
 That sails o'er the bright blue sky, 
 And flings to the winds its misty shroud 
 
 As it maketh its course on high ; 
 And tell me if that is my Brother, who's gone 
 
 To those dwellings of light above, 
 AVhere the sun in his glory for ever hath shone ? 
 
 That is 7iot thy Brother, my love ! 
 
 Look, Mother, look, at yon tmnkling star 
 
 That glows like a hght on the sea. 
 And seemeth as though from its palace afar 
 
 It were stedfastly gazing on me. — 
 Is not that my Brother who fled away 
 
 From his home like a wild stock-dove, 
 And left me all alone to play ? 
 
 That is not thy Brother, my love !
 
 MORT. 139 
 
 List, Mother, list, to the soft low tone 
 
 That comes on the evening breeze. 
 Like the musical sound of some night-bird's moan 
 
 As it steals through the old elm trees ; 
 Is not that the voice of my Brother, who's telling 
 
 The joys of his home above — 
 Where the throat of archangels with rapture is swelling ? 
 
 That is not thy Brother, my love ! 
 
 The clouds that flit o'er the sky so bright. 
 
 Soon, soon have passed away ; 
 And the star that cheereth the gloom of night 
 
 Is gone ere the break of day. 
 But thy Brother — O think not, my love, that he 
 
 Doth change Uke the things of air ! 
 The heaven of heavens no eye can see — 
 
 Thy Brother, thy Brother is there !
 
 140 MORT. 
 
 M A L I B R A N 
 
 " Where should this musie be '. i' the air, or the earth ?— 
 
 It sounds no more!" 
 
 Shakspkark. 
 
 Within the huge and sombre walls of yon most ancient 
 
 pile. 
 Where groups of dead lie buried beneath the sacred aisle, 
 A thousand beating hearts had met, a thousand bosoms 
 
 glowed. 
 And o'er each fair and beauteous cheek the tears of rapture 
 
 flowed — 
 For there, beneath that hallowed roof, she stood, enshrined 
 
 in song, 
 A wandering seraph that alone to heaven's quire might 
 
 belong — 
 The spirit of that sainted one, who in the olden days 
 Beneath the Syrian palm-tree's shade poured forth her 
 
 hymns of praise !
 
 MORT. 141 
 
 11. 
 
 A sound of mourning and of woe passed on the midnight air — 
 
 A piercing cry of agony — the wailing of despair ! 
 
 And they who watched beside the couch of her who lay 
 
 thereon 
 Felt that the sun of hope had set — the light of life was gone ! 
 Tliere lay she deep in placid sleep, the unbroken sleep of 
 
 death — 
 In one low sigh of melody had passed away her breath ! 
 The brightness of a seraph's light still shone within her eye — 
 Alas ! that one so like a saint should e'er like mortal die ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Twelve days agone, and in our ear the " sounds of music " 
 
 crept. 
 And, by one little organ moved, even hardened stoics wept ! 
 Twelve days agone — and lo ! hath ceased the tabret and the 
 
 song — 
 And far and wide is scattered now that gay and lordly 
 
 throng ! 
 The blessed voice is silent which entranced our souls of yore. 
 And its most sweet and hallowed chords shall bless us now 
 
 no more — 
 For there, beneath those dim old aisles, where glittering 
 
 feet did tread, 
 
 Tlie bright-eyed seraph of the spheres lies mute, and cold, 
 
 and dead ! * 
 r 
 
 * The body of Malibran has since been exhumed and carried to Brussels.
 
 142 
 
 MOKT. 
 
 MY LIKES. 
 
 'This likes me well."— Hamlet. 
 
 I LIKE to ramble through the woods. 
 When the autumn sun is setting ; 
 And the young pale moon so innocently 
 "With the twihght seems coquetting. 
 
 I like to stand on a beetling rock 
 And watch the big waves plashing— 
 As through their surge they onward urge 
 The ships on their wild course dashing. 
 
 I like to be on the desert sea 
 
 When the blustering winds are wailing— 
 
 Tossing about 'mid the elements' rout. 
 
 Like a cork on the white wave sailing ; — 
 
 No voice to break upon my thought. 
 
 Or mar the spell the night hath wrought-
 
 MORT. 143 
 
 No hand but my own, when the wind shall roar. 
 
 To furl the sail or pull the oar — 
 
 Not a living thing to look upon me 
 
 As I pass o'er the black and troubled sea ! 
 
 I like to catch the stolen glance 
 
 Of a blushing bright-eyed girl. 
 
 As she peeps from beneath the spiral wreath 
 
 Of a dazzling auburn curl. 
 
 I hke to see that same fair maid 
 
 With her lover beside her kneeling — 
 
 When the heaving breast, and the one sweet word 
 
 By him alone distinctly heard. 
 
 Life's mystery are revealing ! 
 
 I like to cank with a dear old friend 
 
 By the side of a winter's fire — 
 
 Talking of doings that filled our youth. 
 
 When the lip and the brow bore the stamp of truth. 
 
 In the days of a good old sire. 
 
 I like to read an old, old book. 
 
 That was writ in the days of yore ; 
 
 On whose tall page, in ancient times, 
 
 Our grandsires used to pore — 
 
 Whose margin deep with quaint old notes 
 
 Is thickly printed o'er — 
 
 And not a line but contains a mine 
 
 Of the wealth of an ancient lore !
 
 144 MORT. 
 
 I like to list to the martial strains 
 
 That herald a soldier's bier — 
 
 Whilst the muffled drum at intervals 
 
 Booms on the aching ear. 
 
 And each note that swells from the bugle tells 
 
 Of a warrior's closed career. 
 
 i like — I like — all things I like 
 That are beavitiful and uncommon ; 
 From the guileless smile of a little child 
 To the holy love of woman ! 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 How soon, alas ! how very soon, the dead 
 
 Are quite forgotten ! In their graves they lie 
 
 All quietly embedded, and we walk 
 
 Above them and around, and read their names, 
 
 And note their length of pilgrimage, then pass 
 
 Unthinkingly away. Or, it may be. 
 
 If that our friend or father lie interred 
 
 In some contiguous nook, we loiter on 
 
 And gaze a moment o'er the sepulchre 
 
 That hides him from us ; then we muse awhile, 
 
 And, being melancholy, weep ! What more ? 
 
 Alas, how soon, how very soon, the dead 
 
 Are quite forgotten !
 
 SAMUEL BAMFORD
 
 BAMFOKD. 14) 
 
 LINES 
 
 OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OK LORD BYllON. 
 
 I SAW the sun go down, 
 
 And in that dark'ning time. 
 From earth to sky uprose the cry 
 
 Of many a tongue and chme. 
 By Valtos, where Botzaris fell. 
 The mailed freeman stood and cried 
 Until his fount of tears was dried ; 
 
 And Britain, too, could tell 
 How she had gloried in his day — 
 How mourned when he had passed away ! 
 
 And as I looked again, behold 
 
 A fearful sight advance ; 
 For up there came the cold, cold moon. 
 That dream'd not of a night so soon, — 
 
 I marked her placid glance : 
 Serenely still she kept her sky. 
 Her head unveil'd, and proudly high 
 Betray'd a mien that might not move 
 At death, or agony, or love.
 
 148 BAMFORD. 
 
 And curl'd around her crested horn, 
 
 I saw a snake of fire. 
 Which utter'd words of bitter scorn : — 
 
 Interminable ire 
 Dwelt on the tongue of that strange thing, 
 That round and round the moon did cling : 
 
 Of broken vows, of pride that bled. 
 The creeping reptile ever spoke ; 
 
 Anon, it toss'd its scaly head. 
 That flash'd as if the lightning broke ; 
 When cruel thoughts and passions woke. 
 It nurs'd the flame, and kept it burning ; 
 To love, to duty, no returning 
 Was ever known. No sigh, no tear. 
 Hath stray 'd from that unmelting sphere. 
 
 The present race of men shall die. 
 
 Before another sun 
 Arise so bright, or soar so high. 
 
 As, lost one, thou hast done ! 
 The priest is laughing 'neath his robe. 
 
 The tyrant on his throne ; 
 In hollow phrase they dole forth praise 
 
 Far better let aJone. 
 That voice which " should as air be free," 
 Vouchsafes but guarded words for thee ; 
 Whilst bigotry and pow'r do stand 
 In dark conjunction o'er the land.
 
 BAMFORD. 149 
 
 HYMN TO SPRING. 
 
 Thou bringer of new life, 
 
 Welcome thou hither ! 
 Though with thee comes the strife 
 
 Of changeful weather. 
 Oh ! young and coldly fair. 
 Come with thy storm-blown hair, 
 Down casting snow-pearls fair, 
 
 For earth to gather ! 
 
 Approachest thou in shower ? 
 
 Mist hath enroU'd thee. 
 Till, chang'd by viewless power. 
 
 Bright we behold thee. 
 Whilst chilling gales do fly. 
 Thou wanderest meekly by 
 Green holm and mountain high, 
 
 Till shades enfold thee. 
 
 By dusky woodland side. 
 
 Silent thou rovest; 
 Where lonely rindles glide, 
 
 Unheard thou movest ;
 
 150 BAMFORD. 
 
 Wide strewang buds and llowers. 
 By fields, and dells, and bowers, 
 'Mid winds and sunny showers. 
 Bounteous thy provest. 
 
 Though ever changeful, still 
 
 Ever bestowing ; 
 The earth receives her fill 
 
 Of thy good sowdng ; 
 And lo ! a spangled sheen 
 Of herbs and flowers between. 
 Blent with the pasture green. 
 
 All beauteous groAving. 
 
 Now comes the driven hail, 
 Ratthng and bounding ; 
 
 A shower doth next prevail. 
 Thunder astounding ; 
 
 Until the glorious sun 
 
 Looks through the storm-cloud dun ; 
 
 And, as the light doth run. 
 Glad tones are sounding. 
 
 The throstle tunes his throat. 
 
 On top bough sitting ; 
 The ouzle's wizard note 
 
 By dingle flitting ; 
 The lov'd one, too, is there. 
 Above his snow-plash'd lair ; 
 He sings, in sun-bright air, 
 
 Carol befitting.
 
 BAMFORD. 151 
 
 Come ev'ry tone of joy ! 
 
 Add to the pleasure ! 
 Sweet robin's melody 
 
 Joins in the measure ; 
 And echoes wake and sing, 
 And fairy-bells do ring. 
 Where silver bubbles fling 
 
 Their sparkling treasure. 
 
 The hazle-bloom is hung 
 
 AVhere beams are shining 
 The honey-bine hath clung, 
 
 Garlands entwining, 
 For one who wanders lone 
 Unto that bower unknown, 
 And finds a world, his own. 
 Pure joys combining. 
 
 Then, bringer of new life. 
 
 Welcome thou hither ; 
 And welcome, too, the strife 
 
 Of changeful weather ; 
 Oh ! ever young and fair. 
 Cast from thy storm-blown hair 
 Bright drops, and snow-pearls fair, 
 
 For earth to gather !
 
 152 BAMFORD. 
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR, 
 
 God help the poor, who on this wintry morn 
 Come forth of alleys dim, and courts obscure. 
 God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn. 
 And meekly her affliction doth endure : 
 God help the outcast lamb ; she trembling stands. 
 All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands ; 
 Her sunken eyes are modestly down cast ; 
 Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast ; 
 Her bosom, passing fair, is half reveal'd. 
 And, oh ! so cold, the snow lies there congeal'd ; 
 Her feet benumb'd, her shoes all rent and worn ; 
 God help thee, outcast lamb, who stands forlorn ! 
 
 God help the popr !
 
 BAMFORD. 153 
 
 God hel|) the poor ! An infant's feeble wail 
 Comes from yon narrow gate-way ; and behold, 
 A female crouching there, so deathly pale. 
 Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold; 
 Her vesture scant, her bonnet crush'd and torn ; 
 A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold : 
 And there she bides the ruthless gale of morn. 
 Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold. 
 And now, she sudden darts a ravening look. 
 As one mth new hot bread comes past the nook ; 
 And, as the tempting load is onward borae. 
 She weeps. God help thee, hapless one forlorn ! 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 God help the poor ! Behold yon famish'd lad ; 
 No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect ; 
 With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad. 
 He wanders onward, stopping to inspect 
 Each window stor'd with articles of food. 
 He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal ; 
 Oh ! to his hungry palate, viands rude 
 Would yield a zest the famish'd only feel ! 
 He now devours a crust of mouldy bread ; 
 With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn. 
 Unmindful of the storm which round his head 
 Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn ! 
 
 God help the poor !
 
 151 UAMFORD. 
 
 God help the poor ! Another have I found, — 
 
 A bow'd and venerable man is he ; 
 
 His slouched hat with faded crape is bound ; 
 
 His coat is grey, and thread-bare too, I see. 
 
 "The rude winds" seem to "mock his hoary hair;" 
 
 His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. 
 
 Anon he turns, and casts a wistful eye. 
 
 And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray ; 
 
 And looks again, as if he fain would spy 
 
 Friends he hath feasted in his better day : 
 
 Ah ! some are dead, and some have long forborne 
 
 To know the poor ; and he is left forlorn. 
 
 God help the poor ! 
 
 God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell. 
 Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow : 
 Their's is a story sad indeed to tell ; 
 Yet little cares the world, and less 'twould know 
 About the toil and want they undergo. 
 The wearying loom must have them up at morn ; 
 They work till worn-out nature will have sleep ; 
 niey taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep 
 Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door ; 
 The night storm howls a dirge across the moor. 
 And shall they perish thus, oppress'd and lorn ? 
 Shall toil and famine hopeless, still be borne ? 
 No ; Gon will yet arise and help the poor.
 
 BAMFORD. 155 
 
 THE PASS OF DEATH. 
 
 WRITTKN SHOIITLY AFTKR THK DBCEASK OF TlIK RIGHT HON OUKAB I.K 
 CKORGE rANVIXO. 
 
 Another's gone, and who comes next. 
 
 Of all the sons of pride ? 
 And is humanity perplex'd 
 
 Because this man hath died ? 
 The sons of men did raise their voice 
 
 And cried in despair, 
 " We will not come, we will not come. 
 
 Whilst death is waiting there !" 
 
 But time went forth and dragg'd them on. 
 
 By one, by two, by three ; 
 Nay, sometimes thousands came as one, 
 
 So merciless was he ! 
 And still they go, and still they go, 
 
 The slave, the lord, the king ; 
 And disappear like flakes of snow 
 
 Before the sun of spring.
 
 156 BAMFORD. 
 
 For Death stood in the path of Time, 
 
 And slew them as they came. 
 And not a soul escap'd his hand. 
 
 So certain was his aim. 
 The beggar fell across his staff. 
 
 The soldier on his sword. 
 The king sunk down beneath his crown, 
 
 Tlie priest beside the Word. 
 
 And youth came in his blush of health. 
 
 And in a moment fell; 
 And avarice, grasping still at wealth. 
 
 Was rolled into hell ; 
 And age stood trembling at the pass, 
 
 And would have turned again ; 
 But time said " no, 'tis never so, 
 
 Thou canst not here remain." 
 
 The bride came in her wedding robe, 
 
 But that did nought avail ; 
 Her ruby lips went cold and blue. 
 
 Her rosy cheek turn'd pale ; 
 And some were hurried from the ball. 
 
 And some came from the play. 
 And some were eating to the last. 
 
 And some with \vine were gay. 
 
 And some were ravenous for food. 
 
 And rais'd seditious cries; 
 But, being a " legitimate," 
 
 Death quickly stopp'd their noise !
 
 BAMFORD. 157 
 
 The father left his infant brood. 
 
 Amid the world to weep ; 
 And the mother died whilst her babe 
 
 Lay smiling in its sleep. 
 
 And some did offer bribes of gold. 
 
 If they might but survive ; 
 But he drew his arrow to the head. 
 
 And none were left alive. 
 And some were phghting vows of love. 
 
 When their very hearts were torn ; 
 And eyes that shone so bright at eve 
 
 Were closed ere the morn. 
 
 And one had just attain'd to pow'r, 
 
 And wist not he should die ; 
 Till the arrow smote his stream of life 
 
 And left the cistern dry ! — 
 Another's gone, and who comes next, 
 
 Of all the sons of pride ? 
 And is humanity perplex'd 
 
 Because this man hath died ? 
 
 And still they come, and still they go. 
 
 And still there is no end, — 
 The hungry grave is yawning yet. 
 
 And who shall next descend ? 
 Oh ! shall it be a crowned head. 
 
 Or one of noble line ? 
 Or doth the slayer turn to smite 
 
 A life so frail as mine ?
 
 153 BAMFORI>. 
 
 ODE TO DEATH. 
 
 Come not to me on a bed 
 Of pale-faced sickness and of pining ; 
 
 Oh ! clasp me close on the battle field red, 
 Midst warriors' shouts and armour shining .; 
 
 Let me not have priest nor bell, 
 Sable pomp, nor voice of wailing ; 
 
 The roar of the cannon shall be my knell, 
 And tears with thee are unavailing. 
 
 Then clasp me close in the hottest strife. 
 
 Where the cut, and the stab, and the shot are rife. 
 
 May I fall on some great day. 
 With Freedom's banner streaming o'er me ; 
 
 Live but to shout for the victory 
 And see the rout roll on before me — 
 
 And tyrants from their greatness torn. 
 Beneath the scourge of justice smarting — 
 
 And gaze on Freedom's glorious morn. 
 My soul to cheer before departing. 
 
 Oh, then my life might melt away. 
 
 In visions bright of liberty !
 
 BAMFOKD. 159 
 
 THE WIND UNBOUND. 
 
 God doth unbind the enchained wind ; 
 He bids him go, and he straightway goeth ! 
 
 The mighty one from the Lord is gone ; 
 O'er ocean wide, and o'er land he bloweth. 
 
 From mountain peak doth he terror shake ; 
 'Mid cavern'd echos he wildly crieth ; 
 
 His wings descend where the pine woods bend- 
 O'er desert plain in thick cloud he flieth. 
 
 On moonless night doth he take his flight? 
 Star-spangled regions he then explorethj 
 
 Flings wide his pinions in heaven's dominions. 
 And t'wards God's own palace gate he soarcth.
 
 160 BAMFORD. 
 
 Then Ijack he bends, and to earth descends. 
 Cloud-rending stormer, the world he shaketh : 
 
 Pale fear lies waihng, the brave are quailing. 
 The proud he humbles, the strong he breaketh. 
 
 On shoreless main, when his path is ta'en, 
 Howhng he calls on that whelming ocean : 
 
 The deej) sea cleaveth, the billow heaveth, 
 And wind and flood meet in dire commotion. 
 
 No ship may ride through that dreadful tide. 
 Stark horror j'ells, every hope denpng : 
 
 The fierce wind breaketh, the wave down taketh ; 
 Oh God ! have mercy upon the dying.
 
 NER GARDINER 
 
 , 
 
 M
 
 GARDINER. lC3 
 
 THE RUIN. 
 
 Time-haunted Fane, where ruin loves to stray, 
 
 And undermine with still, remorseless hand. 
 The fluted pillar and the column gray. 
 
 And strew them o'er the earth in shapeless sand ; 
 How sweet to linger round your broken walls. 
 And stray in awe along your silent halls. 
 Where ev'ry footstep rings of lightest tread. 
 As though the floor were answering from the dead. 
 
 How solemn is the stillness of the scene ! 
 
 Here loneliness in grandeur seems to dwell. 
 Where pomp, and power, and glory once have been 
 
 The tenants of a dome to suit them well ; 
 The mailed knight of chivalry is fled, 
 The wily monk has found a peaceful bed. 
 The baron calmly rests, despite his pride, — 
 In death's cold peace they slumber side by side.
 
 I6i GARDINER. 
 
 And i-ound the ruins of the mouldering tomb 
 
 The ivy greenly wreathes its tiny arms. 
 Hiding in freshness its funereal gloom, 
 
 And lending even to desolation charms. 
 Yes, strip those darkly-verdant leaves away. 
 That softly murmur to the wild wind's play; 
 How cheerless and how cold those walls would seem, 
 That now peep out, as time they would redeem. 
 
 Lo ! contemplation has her altar here. 
 
 Fit home where passion once held wde domain. 
 And urged her votaries in their wild career. 
 
 And gave to dark licentiousness the rein : 
 Delusive hope ! 'twas thine to bring despair; 
 Unhallowed joy ! 'twas thine to end in care ; 
 Abused hospitality, thy kind food 
 By dire revenge was scatter'd forth in blood. 
 
 Fit themes for her with placid brow and mien ; 
 
 Has Heaven in anger scath'd the works of art. 
 Whilst nature all around looks fair and green. 
 
 And seems to breathe of peace she would impart ? 
 She mark'd the treacherous deeds of years gone by. 
 When cold ambition doom'd its friends to die. 
 When calm deceit grasp'd foe with friendly hand. 
 And lagg'd behind to plunge with deadly brand.
 
 GARDINER. l65 
 
 All seems forgot by her, and bush and tree, — 
 
 And pastoral hedge-row twining o'er the ground, — 
 And peaceful cot, and children at the knee 
 
 Of homely matron, glad the scene around. 
 And hfe and lovehness go hand in hand. 
 Where rapine, murder, once defaced the land ; 
 Time-haunted Fane ! thou standest in thy gloom. 
 For those who wrought such deeds, meet grave, meet tomb. 
 
 Yes, nature still looks bright, although men mar 
 
 Awhile her holy face with savage deeds. 
 Trampling her bosom with the hoofs of war. 
 
 And scattering to the winds her fruitful seeds ; 
 No sooner hast thou hush'd the groans and sighs 
 Of him who mangled lives, or wounded dies. 
 Fair peace, than o'er the scene she flings around 
 Her emerald robe, to hide the ensanguin'd ground. 
 
 Oh ! beauteous Heaven, when shall the heart of man 
 Turn from revenge, — in sufferance learn to bear 
 
 The individual wrong, and yet not ban ? 
 Or when shall rulers turn aside the spear 
 
 Of ruthless war and cast away the sword, 
 
 Cleaving alone to reason of the word ? 
 
 That hour, how distant ! Hope may not impart 
 
 One distant gleam to cheer the human heart.
 
 166 GARDINER. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Blythe lark, thou hast a lowly, lovely nest. 
 
 And may-be younglings tie thee to the earth ; 
 
 But thou upspringest in thy morning mirth. 
 
 And to the heav'ns dost turn thy joyous breast. 
 
 Lo ! ere the last faint ray of night is done. 
 
 Thou soarest up to meet thy god, the sun. 
 
 And pourest out to him, in jocund strain. 
 
 Melodious breathings from thy happy throat ; 
 
 Whilst from the earth the early rustic swain 
 
 Uplifts his eyes to heaven, where thou dost float. 
 
 So may my soul seek Heav'ns aU-glorious day. 
 
 When Death's dark night shall drag me from earth's ties. 
 
 Spring from the gloom that shrouds this earth of clay. 
 
 And soar on joyful pinions to the skies.
 
 GARDINER. 167 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF SOUND. 
 
 Oh ! the Spirit of Sound ! 
 It is in the green trees — 
 And it floats all around, 
 To the breath of the breeze ; 
 List the hush of its tones, 
 'Tis the voice of the leaves, 
 That, in musical moans. 
 For the passing hour grieves. 
 
 Oh ! the Spirit of Sound ! 
 It is in the bright rill. 
 As it flows o'er the ground. 
 Or foams white from the hill. 
 Oh ! how sweetly it rings 
 As it murmurs along. 
 As if wild, unseen things 
 Were in mourning and song. 
 
 Oh ! the Spirit of Sound ! 
 It laughs out on the shore. 
 To the wild waters bound, 
 As they revel and roar ; 
 And the dark winged storm 
 Rides in might with the cloud, 
 Then spreads his wild form 
 O'er the waves, hke a shroud !
 
 168 GARDINER. 
 
 THE WOMEN AT THE CROSS. 
 
 "And many women were there behulJing afar off, which followed Jesus from Galilee, 
 ministering; unto him." — Mattuetv xxvii. 55. 
 
 Watching all thy mortal throes, 
 Weeping all thy pangs and woes, 
 Ling'ring round the fatal tree. 
 Madly rais'd to torture thee ; 
 
 'Midst thy degradation still 
 
 Bend we to thy holy will. 
 
 Though with felons thou hast died, 
 Murd'rers mocking at thy side. 
 Purest innocence was thine. 
 Meekness, lowhness divine ; 
 
 'Midst thy degradation still 
 
 Bend we to thy holy will. 
 
 • 
 
 Matrons, sisters, raise your songs. 
 Plead the Sa\aour's woes and wrongs ; 
 Infants on the mothers' knee. 
 Lisp to Heaven your melody ; 
 
 'Mi^st his degradation still 
 
 Bend to Jesus' holy will.
 
 GARDINER. 169 
 
 TRUE WISDOM 
 
 In what consists true wisdom ? Not in joy 
 
 Born in the sensual lap of young delight ; 
 
 Nor yet in fickle pleasure's sweets, that cloy. 
 
 Nor passion's truant train, new-fledged for flight. 
 Ah no ! nor in the lusts that grossly hind 
 The energies of man's immortal mind. 
 And cast him down a slave at folly's feet. 
 With heart whose pride adds meanness to deceit. 
 
 In what consists true wisdom ? Seeking peace. 
 And hallowing each pure feeling of the heart ; 
 
 Luring each fond affection's soft increase ; 
 
 Twining contentment round aflrliction's dart ; — 
 
 Shunning the path where vice and folly meet ; 
 
 Seeking out virtue in her calm retreat ; 
 
 Training the mind to look where faith may save. 
 
 And wing the soul for flight beyond the grave.
 
 170 
 
 GARDINER. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I STAND upon the earth and gaze around, 
 I dimb the lofty hills, and thence behold 
 Plain gathering upon plain, and the huge fold 
 Of towering mountains ; far beyond their bound 
 The ocean traverses the earth in pride. 
 And mighty empires simply form her banks. 
 And thousand rolling rivers, side by side. 
 Dash on then- way and rush into her ranks. 
 And lofty hills— and gathering, length'ning plains- 
 And towering mountains spiring to the sky — 
 And the old ocean, v,nth. his thousand veins— 
 And the broad empires which her rage defy ; 
 These, to the myriad worlds that shine afar. 
 All— all combined, gleam but a twinkhng star.
 
 GARDINER. 171 
 
 OH! FORTH TO ROAM, 
 
 Oh ! forth to roam at night when through the sky- 
 No cloud is floating, and the azure blue 
 Of Heaven comes softly beaming on the eye, 
 And the eternal stars shed down their hue 
 Of liquid hght ; when nature, calm and still. 
 The heart with holy fervour seems to fill ; 
 At that lov'd hour, in loneliness to stray. 
 Refines the soxil from earth's corrupting clay. 
 
 Go, — gaze into the soft blue depths of heaven. 
 When all is calm and still at peaceful night j 
 Uplift thine eyes and thoughts where earth's cold leaven 
 
 May never reach the soul in its bold flight ; 
 Roam through all space, in aspirations high, 
 And feeling then the soul can never die. 
 Approach with sacred awe God's mighty throne. 
 And dare to make His promis'd word thine own !
 
 172 GARDINER. 
 
 Compared to these high feelings, what are all 
 
 The visionary musings of the mind? 
 Philosophy's cold reasonings lure, to pall ; 
 
 'Tis inspiration that must couch the blind ; 
 'Tis this must clear the film from mortal eyes. 
 And give them vision of the eternal skies ; 
 Such as the saint in Patmos dimly saw. 
 And then revealed, in words of fervent awe ! 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 The lonely heart, with feehng. 
 
 How like the harp alone. 
 No melody revealing, 
 
 Tliough full of sweetest tone ; 
 For hidden in the silent strings. 
 It only waits their tremblings. 
 
 Poor heart ! — oh ! lonely heart ! 
 When sympathy is lost to thee. 
 
 Thou, like the harp, must silent lie. 
 Yet feel within a melody 
 
 "Which, wanting that alone, must die !
 
 MISCELLANY,
 
 JAMES EVERETT. 1/5 
 
 /ETNA. 
 
 " Stay, stranger, stay, nor dare ascend 
 The mountain's brow, while clouds portend 
 
 The deeper hues of night; 
 When virtue seeks its sweet repose 
 And villain eyes their fire disclose 
 
 To flash upon your sight. 
 Without a star or Cynthia's ray. 
 Or Etna's flame to light your way." 
 
 " Nay bar me not thus onward borne 
 To meet on high the blush of morn, 
 
 The sun's empurpled bride ; 
 I seek not nature's common place, — 
 The homely features of her face, 
 
 To me — to none denied. 
 Beheld by all, like spires of grass, 
 Or varying seasons as they pass.
 
 170 JAMES EVERETT. 
 
 For these 'tis not for me to roam ; 
 
 They spring and laugh around my home. 
 
 The heritage of all ; 
 But nature's forms in earth and sky, 
 Which seldom meet the human eye. 
 
 To please and to appal, 
 And sweep for these o'er land and floods,- 
 Her rarest glows — peculiar moods." 
 
 He sped away, and sped alone. 
 
 With \news and feehngs all his own, — 
 
 A stranger to the soil ; 
 And not till night her sway maintained. 
 The mountain's swelling base was gained, 
 
 Wlien all was upward toil ; 
 Where all around was lovely green, 
 But not a tint by him was seen. 
 
 Full often down that mountain's side 
 The molten lava, like the tide. 
 
 When 'prisoned fountains break, 
 Had rushed and roused a country's awe. 
 Like Sinai's thunder and its law. 
 
 When God was heard to speak ; 
 Nor man nor beast but quaked with fear,- 
 Trembling his presence to draw near.
 
 JAMES EVERKTT. 1": 
 
 For ages had that lava-stream — 
 Which once sent forth a fiery gleam — 
 
 Been hardened into rock ; 
 And o'er it now the soil was spread, 
 And shepherds watched and piped, and led 
 
 The rich and roving flock. 
 While gardens, like a wreath of flowers. 
 Spread beautiful in sunny hours. 
 
 He trod for miles the cinder path. 
 The wreck of fled, experienced wrath. 
 
 In brokenness and mass ; 
 But now the mountain, aspect-stern. 
 Engirt with scattered oaks and fern. 
 
 Through which he had to pass ; 
 And then, more rugged, open, wild. 
 He scaled the rocks by earthquakes piled. 
 
 In districts where the gardens lay 
 It seemed like summer's holiday. 
 
 With timbrel and with dance ; 
 While sterner tracks of fern and oak. 
 Like sober autumn, gravely spoke 
 
 Of winter's swift advance ; 
 And soon, as higher he arose, 
 Cold blew the wind o'er crackling snows. 
 
 N
 
 178 JAMliiJ EVEUETT. 
 
 He now has cleared the snowy wreath, 
 And leaves the winter track beneath. 
 
 Like seasons that have fled ; 
 And presently his weary feet 
 Begin to feel the mountain's heat, 
 
 As hell-ward he seems led. 
 And now upon his breath and eyes 
 Thick stifling sulphur-fumes arise. 
 
 Yet hot as are the rocks below. 
 All swiftly o'er the cope of snow 
 
 The coursing breezes sweep ; 
 So keen and chilling are they found, 
 He wraps his mantle tightly round, 
 
 The vital warmth to keep ; 
 And, toiling long from lower lands. 
 At length on >.^tna's brow he stands. 
 
 The first fair glimpse of morning dawn 
 Unfolds the crater's mouths, which yawn 
 
 Like Tophet for her prey : 
 From one, as round the brink he strolls. 
 The smoke, a vast dense column, rolls. 
 
 Then breaks in clouds away, — 
 A mighty plume, seen far below. 
 That decks and shadows JEtna'a brow.
 
 JAMES EVERETT. ]7y 
 
 Around the less terrific void 
 
 He stepSj by crumbling earth annoyed. 
 
 All crrsp'd with central heat ; 
 Through chinks, with slender space between. 
 The smoke in filmy wreaths is seen 
 
 Enveloping his feet, — 
 Slow curling — whitening — rising, where 
 It dissipates in upper air. 
 
 The stars all silent, one by one. 
 As morn's superior light comes on, 
 
 In modesty retire. 
 And leave the soul, in that dim hour, 
 Upon the brink of such a power — 
 
 A treasury of fire, 
 In earnestness to pass away. 
 And fade like them in brighter day. 
 
 Within the mountain's labouring womb. 
 As 'midst infernal heat and gloom. 
 
 The thunder is conceived ; 
 "While from the soil, with ashes spread. 
 Where'er creation's life seems dead. 
 
 From age to age upheaved, 
 Hideous abortions of the earth 
 Are here brought forth in fiery birth.
 
 180 JAMES EVERETT. 
 
 Upward he sees a clearer sky, 
 And downward, as he turns his eye 
 
 Beyond the mountain's base. 
 The sun, as from the ocean's bed. 
 Where slumbering he had laid his head. 
 
 Rises and shews his face. 
 Bespangling every wave with light. 
 And flashing glory on the sight. 
 
 No sooner does he mount the skies. 
 Than waking millions see him rise. 
 
 In city, field, and wood ; 
 The vapours dim roll off below. 
 Hills, capes, and towns in beauty glow. 
 
 And brighter every flood ; 
 Forward to Christ the mind is borne. 
 
 Sun of the resurrection's morn. 
 
 t)nce more the stranger sought the plain. 
 But, ere his feet the verge could gain. 
 
 Above — where he had been — 
 The heights were wrapt in cloud on cloud. 
 The thunder peals were long and loud. 
 
 The hghtning's glare was seen 
 In dreadful, yet sublime, array — 
 Like ensigns of the judgment day.
 
 REV. II. STOWKLL. 181 
 
 PLEASURES OF RELIGION. 
 
 In God alone can our affections rest — 
 
 If warped to earth they lacerate our breast : 
 
 As, when the woodbine round the sapling clings, 
 
 And wastes her wild luxuriance of rings. 
 
 Full soon will storms those tangled tendrils rend. 
 
 Torn by the shrub that promised to defend : 
 
 But if she wisely fear the tempest's shock. 
 
 And seek and circle round some massive rock, 
 
 Strong in his strength, her weakness shall abide. 
 
 His crags shall stay her, and his clefts shall hide ! 
 
 So let the tendrils of the heart be wound 
 
 The changeless omnipresent God around — 
 
 Nor chance, nor death, tliose life-strings then can tear. 
 
 Nor treach'ry blight them into sere despair. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 Love, mighty love, can every task beguile — 
 Can make the sternest face of duty smile. 
 Mark how yon mother watches o'er her boy, 
 By night her vision and by day her joy ; 
 T Unwearied still liis ceaseless wants supplies, 
 Bears all his tempers — thrills to all his cries ;
 
 182 REV. H. STOWELL. 
 
 That task a stranger's loathing soon would stir. 
 But love endears the irksome toil to her : — 
 Or see ! — beside the death-bed of her sire, 
 "Where life long flickers ere the lamp expire, 
 Yon pallid maiden — there the live-long night. 
 The slow-paced day she finds her sad delight 
 To smooth his pillow or his head sustain. 
 Forestall his wishes, share his every pain — 
 The one, last solace of her burdened breast, 
 That pain her pleasure, and that toil her rest. 
 Thy love, then. Saviour ! — shall it not endear 
 Each painful precept ? — hush each faithless fear ?- 
 It makes contrition's bitter cup be sweet. 
 The stony pathway grateful to our feet ; 
 Reproach and scorn sit lightly on our brow. 
 
 Yea, self-denial — is indulgence now. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Lo ! mounting upwards- how the craven kite 
 Seems to aspire, exulting in his flight. 
 Yet earthward ever bends his soi'did eye. 
 Craving for prey, regardless of the sky — 
 Such the dissembler, saintly in his show. 
 His heart the while still grovelling below, 
 His raptures feigned, as his desires are base. 
 Misname not him — " recipient of grace " — 
 Forbear, misjudging world ! forbear thy sneer, 
 'Tis not religion thou deridest here. 
 
 But see ! afar, swift soaring while she sings, 
 Heaven in her eye and freedom on her wings.
 
 REV. n. .STOWELL. 183 
 
 The joyous lark pursues her high career, 
 
 Nor casts one glance on all the turmoil here — 
 
 Expressive emblem of the saint indeed ! 
 
 His heart, and life harmonious with his creed ; 
 
 In spirit simple, as in purpose clean. 
 
 Truth in his eye and nature in his mien — 
 
 His bearing speaks him of celestial birth. 
 
 He walks a pilgrim, hastening from the earth ; 
 
 A stranger, doomed awhile to toil and roam 
 
 'Mid foreign cUmes — but still in heart at home : 
 
 True he can hail, if gushing undefiled, 
 
 The native springs which still refresh this wild ; 
 
 But halts not long — intent on ardent haste, 
 
 Where others build he pauses but to taste ; 
 
 The world in vain would lull him on her breast — 
 
 Where sin has ravaged he can never rest. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Hail, gracious Sabbath, to the heavenly mind 
 
 Thy dawn how welcome, thy repose how kind ! 
 
 Oh ! how benign thy orient beams are shed. 
 
 Through latticed window, on the poor man's bed — 
 
 The pious poor man — gilding all his woe, 
 
 His clean-swept cottage smiling with the glow. 
 
 Whilst light of heart from dreamless sleep he springs, 
 
 On mercy musing till for joy he sings : 
 
 His thoughtful spouse has laid in neat array 
 
 The well-saved garments sacred to the da)', 
 
 With dewy flowers, the peasant's only gem, — 
 
 Yet Judah's monarch could not vie with them ; — 
 
 Nor vie the transports intellect bestows, 
 
 When reason triumphs, or when fancy glows, —
 
 181 REV. H, STOWELL, 
 
 'ITiey cannot paragon that peace of heart 
 Which Sabbath scenes to holy cots impart ; 
 Unbought, unlaboured, — fresh from Heaven's own clime. 
 In nature simple, as in kind sublime. 
 
 Divine Religion ! — by thy Sire's decree. 
 Respect of persons has no place mth thee ; 
 Wit-learning genius charm the favoured few. 
 Thy blessings fall unstinted as the dew ; 
 No soul so vast but thou canst overflow. 
 But thou canst elevate, no mind so low; 
 Thy bounty free as beams the lamp of day, 
 Which lights and gladdens with impartial ray 
 The gorgeous palace or the homely cell. 
 The wide horizon or the narrow dell. 
 
 Hark ! echoing sweetly down yon winding vale. 
 Now swells, now fades, upon the whisp'ring gale. 
 The Sabbath-speaking bell ; — how dear its tone, — 
 Heard, 'mid the gen'ral hush, so sacredly alone ! 
 The vain may slight it, and the scorner sneer. 
 It falls in melody on many an ear. 
 Full many a heart throbs lighter at the sound. 
 Full many a fettered spirit feels unbound ; 
 Prompt at its call the hills, the valleys teem, 
 Lo ! cheerful groups from every hamlet stream, 
 Meandering many a devious path along, 
 In social converse, or in hallowed song, 
 Then meet and mingle in yon house of prayer, 
 And youth and age, and want and wealth, are there.
 
 RF,V. K. n. JACKSON. 185 
 
 EARTHLY VANITIES. 
 
 The sun was hid in misty shroud, 
 The autumn winds were piping loud. 
 And thick with varied hues around 
 The falhng leaves bestrewed the ground ; 
 When to a deep secluded vale 
 A youth retired to breathe his tale ; 
 Pale was his brow, and wan his form. 
 Which drooped and bowed before the storm ; 
 And thus he poured his plaintiff sighs, — 
 " O ! vanity of vanities ! 
 
 " How vain is nature's brightest bloom ! — 
 She decks her for the silent tomb ; 
 Low in the dust forlorn ye lie, 
 Sweet flowers ! — ye blossomed but to die ! 
 The brightness of the Sylvan scene. 
 The mountains tall, the meadows green. 
 Why do ye thus your charms display ? 
 'Tis but to flourish for a day ! 
 In mockery ye bless my eyes, — 
 All vanity of vanities !
 
 186 REV. K. D. JACKSON. 
 
 " And I have sought the world around. 
 But peace, alas ! have never found. 
 I loved — another sought the maid — 
 Through paltry gold I was betrayed. 
 For honour's ties I next would thirst — 
 I grasped the bubbles, and they burst. 
 And wealth, like painted insect gay, 
 I caught, — to brush its charms away ! 
 What is not vain beneath the skies ? 
 All vanity of vanities ! 
 
 " O that, upon my quiet bed, 
 I could repose this aching head ; 
 Though rude the storm, and bleak the wind, 
 Yet friends of earth are more unkind. 
 But must I leave thee. Nature, too ? 
 This earth of green, this sky of blue — 
 Though death for me should smile serene, 
 'Twere grief to leave so fair a scene, 
 Despite that voice which solemn cries — 
 All vanity of vanities ! 
 
 " My heart is sick, — and o'er me creep 
 Death's broodings, shadows dark and deep; 
 My mother, earth ! unfold thy breast. 
 And let thy hapless offspring rest. 
 Sweet flowers ! again your charms will shine. 
 Rut they must deck this grave of mine.
 
 REV. E. D. JACKSON. IS/ 
 
 The earth shall bloom, and sinile the sky, 
 But they must glad another's eye. 
 Vain man ! how soon thus beauty dies, — 
 'Tis vanity of vanities ! " 
 
 He spoke ; when thus before his sight 
 Replied a form of heavenly light : — 
 " Does nature's brightest charm consume 
 'Tis sin that sinks her to the tomb ! 
 Does pleasure's cup so treacherous shine ? 
 'Tis sin that poisons all the wine ! 
 If earthly bliss itself destroys. 
 Then wake, O man, to nobler joys. 
 To soar where perfect pleasure lies — 
 No vanity of vanities !" 
 
 He said — fierce blew the eastern blast. 
 While the youth knelt, and breathed his last ; 
 A prayer of silent joy addrest, 
 Then calmly took his peaceful rest. 
 Spring smiled again with pleasant hue. 
 The earth was green, the sky was blue ; 
 But he who sung their charms before. 
 Would look, and love, and sigh no more ; 
 Enough for him those cloudless skies, 
 Wliere are no earthly vanities,
 
 188 REV. E, D. JACKSON. 
 
 REST. 
 
 How sweet the hour of soft repose. 
 When the tired world forgets its woes ; 
 When gentle peace in silence reigns, 
 And not a zephyr sweeps the plains ; 
 When not a breath disturbs the woods, 
 And feebly sigh the murmuring floods ; 
 When \vinds are hushed upon the deep. 
 And waters all are lulled to sleep ; 
 WTiile the fair moon, with ray serene, 
 O'erspreads the stilly pensive scene ; 
 Tliis is rest, grateful rest ; 
 Nature rests, \vith toil opprest. 
 
 But sweeter far the peaceful hour. 
 When passions wild have lost their power, 
 When storms of conscious guilt are o'er. 
 And anxious fears disturb no more ; 
 When Jesus' blood has given release. 
 And to thy spirit whispered peace ; 
 When God upon thy soul hath smiled. 
 In Christ, a father reconciled. 
 And thou canst feel, by grace divine. 
 That thou art his, and he is thine ; 
 This is rest, heavenly rest. 
 Such as dwells among the blest.
 
 HENRY WHEELER. Isy 
 
 ODE TO THE MANCHESTER FREE 
 GRAMMAR SCHOOL. 
 
 Full from the verge of fam'd Mill Brow, 
 
 Proud Grammar School I view thee now; 
 
 I view each old unfading token — 
 
 Thy crackling walls, thy windows broken ; 
 
 And think, as thus I silent gaze. 
 
 On the past scenes of other days ! 
 
 How oft against thy massive wall 
 I've hurl'd my bounding catch-a-ball ; 
 Or round thy gateway huge and thick 
 I've join'd in Willy's groimd on Tick ; 
 Or played on dark November morn 
 At Buttermilk and Barley Corn.
 
 190 HENRY WHEELER. 
 
 Ah ! such were then the jocund plays, 
 
 That oft were mine in school-boy days ; 
 
 I thought no sorrow, knew no woe. 
 
 Save what, perchance, might sometimes flow 
 
 From learning lessons over-night. 
 
 Or wanting wind to fly my kite ! 
 
 Yet oft, thou tow'ring Grammar School, 
 Have I, like many another fool. 
 Been doom'd to feel the ache full long 
 Of Doctor's whip and Usher's thong ; 
 Whilst Nature's voice, at every blow, 
 Cried out, in thund'ring accents, " Oh !" 
 
 Oft too I've wished, (Heaven spare my sin,) 
 That beams and rafters, tumbling in. 
 Might lay, in one stupendous mound. 
 Thy well-earned honours on the ground ; 
 That books and papers, pens and ink. 
 In smoking ruins all might sink. 
 
 Such thoughts, that oft have knit my brow. 
 Like midnight phantoms vanish now ; 
 And thus my soul, unshackled, free. 
 Turns -with redoubled joy to thee. 
 Faithful to this its fondest rule — 
 Hail to thee still, proud Grammar School !
 
 HENRY WIIEKMiU. ■ 191 
 
 I deem thee, viewing thus thy form. 
 An eagle mounting o'er the storm ; 
 For thou amidst a troubled world. 
 By wars opprest, by tempests hurl'd. 
 Thou, thou, whilst many a mortal name 
 Has perish'd, standest thus the same. 
 
 Oh ! could'st thou speak in mortal tone. 
 And tell the history of thine own ; 
 Could'st thou (so deemed by Heavenly fate) 
 Burst thro' thy walls of brick and slate. 
 To tell the course a school-boy runs, 
 The tricks, the frolics of thy sons ; 
 
 Bright on the crowded list would shine 
 The oddities of me and mine ; 
 Thou would'st not long forget, I trow, 
 To tell of scenes few now can know. 
 That in the breast of many a sire 
 E'en yet might kindle flames of fire. 
 
 Some forms are graven on the heart, 
 That never, save with life, can part ; 
 And thou, whilst memory yet may stay 
 To guide one thought of nature's clay, 
 Shalt live, by me forgotten not, 
 "WTien time shall other visions blot !
 
 l[)2 HENRY WHEELEH. 
 
 Still whilst I bend at mortal shrine. 
 And say this day on earth is mine. 
 My conscious heart in secret glee 
 Shall vibrate still to think on thee; 
 Whilst I, thro' life's decHning days. 
 Will tell thy virtues, sing thy praise ! 
 
 Oh ! may'st thou stand thus jiroud and high. 
 When humbler works of man shall die ; 
 May'st thou o'er others' pathway shine 
 A beacon, bright as shone o'er mine ! 
 And form, through many a coming age. 
 The fairest gem of History's page !
 
 liEV. W. GASKi:!,!., 193 
 
 DEATH AND SLEEP. 
 
 (THROWN' IXTl) VliRSE PROIM Kr.l'MM ACHKR.) 
 
 The evening shades Ijegan to creep 
 Across the earth, when Death and Sleep, 
 Twin angels, on their errand bound. 
 With noiseless footsteps walked it round ; 
 Then resting on a hilly place. 
 Lay down in brotherly embrace. 
 
 Though near them rose men's dwellings there, 
 
 A solemn silence filled the air ; 
 
 From all the distant hamlets round 
 
 The curfew bell had ceased to sound, 
 o
 
 iy4 REV. W. GASKELL. 
 
 Peaceful and still, as is their way, 
 
 Awhile the gentle spirits lay, 
 
 Till night its clouds around them spread; 
 
 Then, rising from his mossy bed. 
 
 The angel Sleep looked o'er the land. 
 
 And scattered forth with wary hand 
 
 Tlie slumber grains, so fine and light. 
 
 Invisible to mortal sight ; 
 
 Which straight the winds obedient took. 
 
 And round each quiet dwelling shook. 
 
 Soon as they entered, balmy Sleep 
 
 On all within began to creep, 
 
 Down from the sire, with locks of snow. 
 
 On helping crutches forced to go. 
 
 To the young child that, tired \vith play. 
 
 Soft nestling in the cradle lay. 
 
 At once the sick their pains forgot. 
 
 The poor their hard and anxious lot ; 
 
 At once was hushed the mourner's grief; 
 
 All eyes found rest, all hearts relief. 
 
 Beside his sterner brother, then 
 
 The friendly angel sank again. 
 
 And, thinking o'er his kind employ, 
 
 " When morning dawns," he cried with joy, 
 
 " And wakes up men refreshed with rest. 
 
 With what glad thanks shall I be blest ! 
 
 " How sweet our task ! how happy we. 
 The ^Hewless messengers to be
 
 REV. W. GASKELL. 195 
 
 Of the good spirit, who hath given 
 
 To us this ministry of heaven ! " 
 
 Thus did Sleep's gentle angel say. 
 
 While Death in mournful silence lay ; 
 
 But when his brother's look he caught, 
 
 So bright, and full of happy thought, 
 
 Tears gathered in his large dark eyes. 
 
 Such as in those of angels rise. 
 
 "Ah! sweet indeed thy thanks," said he, 
 
 " But none a blessing gives to me, 
 
 My guerdon is but hate and fear ; 
 
 Men tremble when they deem me near. 
 
 And say I come but to destroy. 
 
 And scare away their peace and joy." « 
 
 " Not long," Sleep's angel straight replied, 
 " Shall be sweet thanks to thee denied. 
 Will not the good their wrong confess, 
 And thee, with grateful spirits, bless, 
 When from the slumbers of the tomb 
 In bright immortal strength they come ? 
 Have we not both the same intent ? 
 Are we not by one Father sent ?" 
 Death smiled, as thus his brother spoke — 
 A light into his dark eyes broke; 
 And linked in still more fond embrace. 
 They rested on that hilly place.
 
 196 REV. AV. GASKEJLL. 
 
 COME AND PRAY. 
 
 Thou, beset with doubt and sorrow. 
 Wandering in a sunless way, 
 
 Wouldst thou hght and comfort borrow. 
 Child of misery, come and pray. 
 
 Thou, the frail, the sin-o'ertaken, 
 Lost in guilt's distressful way, 
 
 Would'st thou find the peace forsaken. 
 Child of earth, repent and pray. 
 
 Thou, the feeble, fading, dying, 
 
 Woiddst thou chase thy fears away ; 
 
 No more on mortal aid relying. 
 Child of death, look uji and pray.
 
 WILLIAM HARPER, 19^ 
 
 C^'UR DE LION. 
 
 The lamps of heaven are palelj' burning, 
 The morn in misty robe returning, 
 
 And tents are on the plain : 
 And mustering hosts with hehn and lance. 
 And harness'd steeds that neigh and prance. 
 
 The plumed chieftains rein. 
 
 The Crescent glimmers on the hill, — 
 Hark ! how the discord, harsh and shrill. 
 
 Sounds o'er the desert far ! 
 The bugle note, — the mingling cry, — 
 The march of England's clii\'a!r\-, 
 
 Triumi)hant to the war !
 
 198 WILLIAM HARPER. 
 
 Who rages 'mid the thickest fight ? 
 And, nerved mth superhuman might, 
 
 Hurls havoc on the foe ! 
 The Christian sign arrays his breast, 
 The plated scales his Umbs invest. 
 
 His arms an axe and bow ! 
 
 From Albion's isles the monarch came. 
 To purge \vith blood, for Jesu's name. 
 
 The land of Palestine ! 
 Where, 'mid its holy places, dwell. 
 With rites obscene, the Infidel, 
 
 And mock at Salem's shrine ! 
 
 The loud lament ! — the dying cry ! — 
 And mingled foemen redly lie, 
 
 All cold and ghastly there! 
 The vulture hovers o'er his prey, 
 The howhng wolves have track'd their way, 
 
 The horrid feast to share ! 
 
 Now, Saracen, upon thy head, 
 
 Be thrice the righteous blood that's shed. 
 
 Yea, tenfold I'll repay ! 
 Yet turn — abjure — repent — believe ! 
 And freely will 1 pardon give. 
 
 And thou art saved to-day !
 
 WILLIAM HARPER. I99 
 
 KENILWORTH, 
 
 Proud Kenilworth a ruin stands. 
 
 That is of old renown ; 
 'Mid smiling streams and pleasant lands 
 
 He bows his glory down. 
 
 My spirit dreams of other days 
 While yet I gaze on thee ; 
 
 Of mailed knights and minstrel lays. 
 And queenly revelrie. 
 
 And then I think how sad the things 
 That such mutation know : 
 
 The pomps of nobles and of kings 
 Are but a passing show !
 
 200 WILLIAM HARPER. 
 
 And where are they that in thy halls 
 Have suit and service known ? 
 
 Who piled thine ivj'-tangled walls, 
 Unshaped and overthrown ? 
 
 All silent now in mist and gloom, 
 The shadows of the past ! 
 
 Their mansion is the barren tomb, 
 Their triumphs could not last ! 
 
 Be mine a portion better far 
 Than aught of earth can be — 
 
 Whose gloiy is a falling star, 
 Like, Kenilworth, to thee ! 
 
 C. wnKEI-HB AND SON, ?T. AXx's-?TRKKT. 
 
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