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 STORY OF CARN BREA, 
 
 ESSAYS, AND POEMS./ 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HARRIS, CORNISH MINER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE MOUNTAIN PROPHET, THE MINE, 
 AND OTHER POEMS," ETC. 
 
 ' The fields his study, Nature was his book." — Bloomfield. 
 
 1 And this Blight boon would consecrate to Thee, 
 Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free." 
 
 II. K. White. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. 
 
 1863.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICHOLS, 
 
 4G, HOXTON SqUAKK.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In appearing before the public for the fourth time, 
 the author feels that he has but little apology to offer. 
 Some of the poems in the present volume have been 
 written in his early home, when the author was in 
 his teens, and others are of more recent date : some 
 have been pencilled amid the fragrance of the wild 
 flowers, at the musing time of twilight, when sitting 
 on the moss of the hill, beside his Cornish birthplace : 
 and some have been composed in the leisure of even- 
 ing, by his own dear hearth, with his children play- 
 ing around him. He once more claims for these 
 poetical effusions the meed that has been cheerfully 
 awarded for his former publications, — originality and 
 simplicity. 
 
 The story of the honest miner in the blank verse 
 poem, is authenticated by many of the inhabitants of 
 the West ; and some of Madam Worth's descendants 
 still exist in one of our Cornish seaport towns. 
 Other pictures in the volume are paintings from 
 every-day life, or incidents in the writer's brief 
 career. 
 
 Nearly all the Essays in this collection were 
 written when the author was a daily labourer in one
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 of the oldest and deepest tin mines in Cornwall. A 
 few of them have appeared in Magazines and local 
 periodicals. Some of his friends have suggested his 
 arranging them in the present issue ; and he hopes 
 they will not be disappointed. If these Essays gain 
 the verdict of "prose by a poet/' the writer will 
 be satisfied. 
 
 " Go, little book, from this my solitude 
 I cast thee on the waters, go thy ways ; 
 And if, as I believe, thy vein is good, 
 The world will find thee after many days." 
 
 6, Killigrew Terrace, Falmouth, 
 March IQt/i, 18G3.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 19 
 32 
 
 46 
 59 
 
 72 
 
 87 
 
 89 
 
 92 
 
 99 
 
 103 
 
 107 
 
 113 
 
 116 
 
 121 
 
 125 
 
 130 
 
 135 
 
 139 
 
 143 
 
 PEEPS AT A POET : OR, LINES IN MY 
 OWN LIFE 
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA— Book I. 
 
 Book II. 
 Book III. .. 
 Book IV 
 Book V. 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 The Land's End 
 
 Book-Making 
 
 Christ's Invitation to the Weary 
 
 Ramble to Mylor Churchyard 
 
 The Leper restored 
 
 Private Prayer 
 
 The Works of God 
 
 The pleasant Way 
 
 Great Events from small Beginnings 
 The Two Foundations 
 
 Zeal for the Sanctuary 
 
 The Divine Knocker 
 
 To the Young 
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 The Village Lane
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQG 
 
 Winter 145 
 
 My Primrose prom the Hill 146 
 
 The Dying Minstrel 148 
 
 The Hartley Hero 150 
 
 Hedges 153 
 
 The old Year 155 
 
 The Flower 156 
 
 To my Daughter Jane 157 
 
 Falmouth Fire 159 
 
 Miss E. C.'s Birthday Poem, 1861 161 
 
 Miss E. C.'s Birthday Poem, 1862 163 
 
 Not yet 164 
 
 The Bible-Reader 167 
 
 The Wesleyan-Methodist Conference, 
 
 Camborne, Cornwall, August, 1862 170 
 
 The Boot upon the Sand ...'. 173 
 
 The Cornish Chough 174 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Death op the Prince Consort 179 
 
 Marie J. E. Fotherby 182 
 
 The Death of Mrs. Philippa Williams ... 184 
 
 Old Joanna 186 
 
 EPISTLES. 
 
 To my Brother William 191 
 
 Howard's Epistle to Miss S. B 195 
 
 An Epistle to my Brother 197 
 
 Jane's Epistle to her Uncle 200
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Spring-Buds I gazed on, O where are 
 
 they fled 201 
 
 The Lark Dick 203 
 
 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 To my Mother 207 
 
 Jane finding a Primrose in February 210 
 
 Home 211 
 
 Frederick the Shepherd 212 
 
 Tale of the early Primrose 218 
 
 Night 219 
 
 The returning Brother 220 
 
 The lost Dinner 221 
 
 The Mountain Boy 224 
 
 A Flower gathered at Evening 226 
 
 To my Lyre 227 
 
 The Burial 229 
 
 The Camomile 230 
 
 Fall of the old Mine Stack 231
 
 PEEPS AT A POET 
 
 OR, 
 
 LINES IN MY OWN LIFE.
 
 PEEPS AT A POET: 
 
 OR, 
 
 LINES IN MY OWN LIFE. 
 
 " There are in this loud stunning tide 
 Of human care and crime, 
 With whom the melodies abide 
 Of the everlasting chime ; 
 AVho carry music in their heart 
 Through dusky lane and wrangling mart — 
 Plying their daily task with busier feet, 
 Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat." 
 
 Keblk. 
 
 On the quiet evening of October 14th, 1820, in a 
 straw -thatched, boulder-built cottage, with bare rafters 
 and clay floor, locally known as the " six chimneys," on 
 the top of Bolennowe Hill, Camborne, Cornwall, as the 
 leaves are falling from the trees, and the robin mourns 
 in the thicket, a gentle mother gives birth to a babe ; 
 and that baby-boy is a poet. The little fellow is just 
 Like other children ; and grows up so much Like his com 
 peers, that he attracts but slender notice above the young 
 bipeds around him. He cries for things he ought not to 
 cry for, gives his mother not a little trouble by poking 
 his fingers into bits forbidden, has his wheelbarrow, 
 cart, and spade, and soon grows vain of his buttoned 
 dress and cap with waving plume. Very early in life. 
 
 B 2
 
 PEEPS AT A POET : 
 
 OR, 
 
 LINES IN MY OWN LIFE. 
 
 " There are in this loud stunning tide 
 Of humau care and crime, 
 With whom the melodies ahide 
 Of the everlasting chime; 
 AY ho carry music iu their heart 
 Through dusky lane and wrangling mart — 
 Plying their daily task with busier feet, 
 Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat." 
 
 Keblk. 
 
 On the quiet evening of October 14th, 1820, in a 
 straw-thatched, boulder-built cottage, with bare rafters 
 and clay floor, locally known as the " six chimneys," on 
 the top of Bolennowe Hill, Camborne, Cornwall, as the 
 leaves are falling from the trees, and the robin mourns 
 in the thicket, a gentle mother gives birth to a babe ; 
 and that baby-boy is a poet. The little fellow is just 
 like other children ; and grows up so much like his com 
 peers, that he attracts but slender notice above the young 
 bipeds around him. He cries for things he ought not to 
 cry for, gives his mother not a little trouble by poking 
 his fingers into bits foi-bidden, has his wheelbarrow, 
 cart, and spade, and soon grows vain of his buttoned 
 dress and cap with waving plume. Very early in life. 
 
 B 2
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 what time the red sun sinks behind the purple hills, and 
 the first bright stars look through the firmament, he is 
 taught to kneel at his bed-side, and repeat, " Oar 
 Father." And then come picture-books and toys, mar- 
 bles and trundling-hoops, and anon Little Red Riding 
 Hood, Goody Two Shoes, Jack the Giant Killer, Sally 
 Meanwell, Fifth of November, and then the green 
 satchel, and away to the village school. See him 
 sitting on the end of a low stool, when not much more 
 than five years of age, and taugbt by an old Cornish 
 crone the letters of the alphabet. Slowly, slowly, the 
 crooked characters find a lodgment in his memory, and 
 swim before his eyes. At length he masters the horn- 
 book, and takes his place on an upper seat. His father 
 and his mother praise his proficiency ; and he leaves the 
 learned village schoolmistress, and is placed under an 
 iron master. This man is exceedingly hard-hearted and 
 cruel, and verily hoots the lessons in his ears. He beats 
 his pupils without mercy, with a polished piece of flat 
 wood, studded with small sharp nails, until the blood 
 runs down, and soon scares the little learner from his 
 straw-roofed academy. Nor must the Wesleyan Sunday- 
 school in the hamlet be forgotten, where he hears with 
 glad heart the " stoiy of the Cross," in which he remains 
 for more than thirty years, and the religious teaching 
 therein received tinctures all his future life. 
 
 On the edge of a brown common, in a little thatched 
 school-house by the side of the highway, very near the 
 famous Nine Maidens, he finds another master, who 
 wore a wooden leg, with more of the milk of human 
 kindness in his soul, a thorough Christian, and a man of 
 much prayer. Here he plods through the spelling-book, 
 and walks like a conqueror into the mazes of arithmetic, 
 learns to read and write, leaving all other branches of 
 knowledge to slumber in forgetfulness. The evenings of 
 his boyhood are evenings of purest joy. Sitting by the 
 old hearth-stone where his grandfather had sat before
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 him, and another generation had mused and passed 
 away, — sitting by the old hearth- stone, and gazing up in 
 his mother's face, he listens to her wild stories with 
 wondering joy. She tells of shipwrecks and battles, and 
 feats of heroic bravery on sea and land. She tells of 
 hallowed deeds performed in secret, which, like angels 
 of mercy, shed a halo on the world. She tells of Beauty 
 pining in solitude, and Virtue neglected in the humble 
 shed. She tells of good men in rags, and wicked men in 
 princely habiliments. She tells of sorrow and weeping 
 as the lot of all, and of Him who came to redeem the 
 world. And as he listens, O how his young heart beats, 
 and imagination bears him far away on her dazzling 
 wings ! The tears will often start into his eyes, and a 
 gentle spirit whispers in the cells of his soul. And now, 
 cowering by the old grate, in the dim fire-light which 
 clothes the walls in shadowy warriors and plumed 
 knights mounted on floating steeds, and a thousand 
 nameless fantastic shapes, he hangs over the " Pilgrim's 
 Progress," a tattered volume of doggerel rhyme, written 
 by an old scarred soldier, and Cook's Voyages round the 
 World. 
 
 Then come a few stray notes from the mystic lyre of 
 the undying Burns, in an old time-eaten copy of the 
 " Cotter's Saturday Night," found among a few antique 
 books belonging to his father; and its tuneful echoes 
 float through the chambers of his soul like breathings 
 from an iEolian harp, and ever haunt him in the silence 
 of his reedy cot. Watts's " Divine and Moral Songs " 
 become as parts of his being, and follow him like 
 nymphs in snowy robes. It is then that his young 
 heart first feels still burning aspirations after immor- 
 tality. You might have seen him on a summer evening, 
 when his merry schoolmates are chattei-ing in the hol- 
 low, — you might have seen him walking by the stream, or 
 stretched on the moss, listening to the wind tuning its 
 organ among the rocks, or gazing up at the purple
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 heavens. He roams among the flowers, kissing them for 
 very joy, calling them his fragrant sisters. Bora on the 
 crest of the hill, amid the crags and storms, he grows up 
 in love with Nature, and she becomes his chief teacher. 
 And now come the first promptings of early genius, 
 which develope themselves in snatches of unpolished 
 song, pencilled on the leaves of his copy-book for the 
 amusement of his wondering schoolmates. He often 
 writes his rhymes on the clean side of cast-off labelled 
 tea-papers which his mother brings from the shop, and 
 then reads them to his astonished compeers with rapt 
 delight. At the age of nine comes the great monster 
 combat, his straggle for daily bi - ead; when he is taken 
 off froni school, and put to work in the fields. At the 
 age often he is employed by an old tin-streamer in the 
 moor to throw the white sand from the river, earning 
 the i»ld sum of threepence per day! And how often is 
 genius crashed in its embiyo, as its youthful possessor, 
 harnessed to the car of labour, scans life's rugged 
 pathway, and faints at the commencement of his jour- 
 ney ! O my countrymen, ye little think how many burn- 
 ing and shining lights ye extinguish in life's aspiring 
 morning for want of a helping hand ! my countrymen, 
 tread not upon the errand-boy with music in his heart, 
 or the ploughman's son who draws fresh pictures of his 
 father's sheep, or the little slimy miner with his model 
 engine, the work of his fruitful brain ; tread not upon 
 the poor child of genius, do not freeze his soul with 
 the frigid fingers of neglect, but cheer him with your 
 kindness, and warm him with your smile ; so shall the 
 great world be made holier and happier by your exist- 
 ence, and learn to bless your name ! 
 
 At the early age of twelve years we find him in the 
 mine, working on the surface nearly three miles from his 
 favourite home. As he travels to and from his labour 
 through long lanes bramble-covered, and over meadows 
 snowy with daisies, or by hedges blue with hyacinths, or
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 over whispering cairns redolent with the hum of bees, 
 the beautiful world around him teems with syllables of 
 song. Even then he pencils his strange ditties, reciting 
 them at intervals of leisure to the dwellers of his own 
 district, and older heads than his tell of his future 
 fame. When thirteen summers have filled his lap with 
 roses, and fanned his forehead with the breeze of health, 
 we find him sweating in the hot air of the interior of a 
 mine,* working with his father nearly two hundred 
 fathoms below the green fields. Morning and evening 
 he has to descend and ascend the ladders, — for there 
 was no man- engine in those days, — so that his flannel 
 dress is often wet with perspiration, like the locks of 
 the hills with rain. But a gentle lay is ever ring- 
 ing in his ears, and the angel of hope is brooding 
 over his path. Now he writes a copy of verses for a 
 poor blind man, and Hstens ashamed behind a bookstall 
 as the sightless miner sings them in the streets. On 
 rushes the great world in the pursuit of mammon, little 
 heeding the boy-bard in his zone of numbers, the com- 
 position of whose untutored melodies brings rich reward 
 to his own heart. He is told that if he continues to 
 invoke the song- spirit and write poetry, he must forego 
 gold and silver, houses and lands, eat the bread of care- 
 fulness, five, perhaps, in a hovel, and die at last on a 
 pallet of straw. But in spite of this unreasonable pic- 
 ture, he works away at his barrel-organ during his 
 leisure moments, which is as dear to him as his own life. 
 Though the great God placed the lyre in his hands, and 
 poetry appeared to him to be his greatest work in the 
 world, yet he feels that for it he must not neglect his 
 allotted labours, but pursue the path in which Provi- 
 dence has placed him, believing that to act thus would 
 be noble and manly, not depending on literature as a 
 means of pecuniary support, but partaking it as a plea- 
 
 * Dolcoath, Camborne, Cornwall.
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 surable relaxation amid the cares of life. And thus he 
 travels on through the vale of boyhood, labouring with 
 his hands, and singing with his soul, as solitary as a 
 stranger among his own people, without a single friend 
 to direct him ; for how is it possible to educate the poet ? 
 What means can you devise to burnish his golden fancies 
 that span the universe like belts of shining jasper ? 
 Try, if you please, with the chisel of art ; but it will only 
 be a fatal mistake. " The only way to educate the poet 
 is to honour him." * 
 
 On plods the young minstrel of the mountain, 
 kneeling at the shrine of Nature, taught only by her 
 look and voice. Whilst those of his own age and 
 acquaintance spend their leisure in merry companionship, 
 wasting the hour in song and wassail, he is roaming 
 with the echoes, brushing the dew-drops from the 
 flowers. Wherever he goes, he takes his sacred harp : 
 and whether he is in his father's field, turning up the sod 
 with his spade, or guiding the plough along the furrow, 
 whether he is in the shop or the shed, the mine or the 
 mart, there is ever one object before him, and that 
 object is his verse- writing. It grows with his physical 
 growth, and is dearer to him than the smile of friend- 
 ship. See him in his dear old chimney -nook, with paper 
 and pencil on his knee, writing rhymes by the firelight, 
 while his buxom brothers are shouting like tempests 
 around him. And this is his only study, save the barn 
 or the cow-house. He sometimes pencils his poems in 
 the grey bight of morning on the white-washed walls 
 of his bed-room, while all the other members of his 
 father's family are asleep. How does he long, on some 
 cold winter evening, when the cottage inmates are all 
 garrulous around him, thundering the village gossip at 
 the same moment, dinning his ears as he sits with pale 
 face wooing the Muse among them, — how does he long for 
 
 * "The Spirit of German Poetry. By Joseph Gostick."
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 9 
 
 some obscure comer, where, with a handful of fire in the 
 grate, and a small lamp upon the unplaned hoard, he 
 could write his songs in quiet ! But this is denied him, 
 and so the hills and valleys, woods and wolds, are his 
 favourite haunts for composition, amid the lonely ruin 
 or by the naked rock ; often in cold weather composing 
 his pieces walking up and down the fields, or over the 
 moors, or sitting in his bed-room, with his feet wrapped 
 in his mother's cloak, a pair of small bellows for his 
 writing-desk. And in the brown autumn- time, when a 
 pensive calm pervades the woods, and a solemn rustle is 
 heard upon the hills, he makes ink to write his idyls 
 with the juice of blackberries which grow on the hedges 
 of his mountain-meads. He saves the pence given him 
 in the holidays by his father and his friends, and lays 
 them out in the purchase of books ; and the neighbours 
 are also kind in lending him any new numbers from 
 their shelves. But his own stock is very limited ; and 
 when he has access to the Sunday-school library in the 
 village, he rejoices with great joy. Are there days of 
 rain and storm, or drizzling mist, which are often, as 
 holidays, weai-iness and misery to many ? They are 
 gilt with glory for him ; for in some " cell confined " he 
 is at his song-grinding as happy as a monarch, while 
 visions of beauty crowd upon his soul. 
 
 Love meets him on his flowery pathway, and he 
 weaves a chaplet of the choicest roses to adorn her brow. 
 He worships at the shrine of beauty till they stand 
 before the sacred altar, and the two are made one. The 
 world is now filled with sunshine, life's cup overflows 
 with bliss, and he walks over the earth as through a 
 paradise. Still he pursues his verse-writing, till a short 
 lyric " To the Robin " finds its way into the pages of a 
 Magazine, and his heart throbs with delight as those 
 well-conned lines of his are first immortalized in printer's 
 ink. He struggles with adversity as with a giant; 
 and day after day, and often night after night, finds him
 
 10 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 in the smoky caves of the deep niine. Here his labours 
 are most exhausting, often from morning till night, and 
 from night till morning, far below the light of day, or 
 sun, or moon, or star, with those who have but little 
 love for his song-seraph, — 
 
 Blasting the rude earth, 
 Which fell with such a crash, that he who heard 
 Cried, " Jcsu, save the miner ! " 
 
 But she cheered his heart in the sulphur, and sang 
 among the fiery flints, robbing the severest labour of 
 half its blight. Many times has he escaped sudden 
 death, almost by miracle, from masses of falling earth, 
 or the sudden blasting of the rock. Watch him as he 
 walks at morning to his daily toil. He seeks not the 
 company of those who may be travelling on the same 
 road, but more enjoys himself alone. Not a moment 
 passes unimproved. He turns over the numbers of some 
 unfinished poem, polishing the periods as best he may, 
 weighing the words and smoothing the ringing euphony. 
 Ever and anon he seeks for an opportunity, when no eye 
 beholds him, and inscribes his verses with a worn pencil 
 on a piece of waste paper he carries in his pocket. 
 Often, to hide it from the passer-by, he lets it sHp up in 
 his coat-sleeve, holding it with his fingers. The new 
 thought preserved, he hastens to his labour filled with 
 bright designs. In the midst of his toil his fancy is 
 revelling with song, leading him among crystal foun- 
 tains and bowers of living green. He sometimes writes 
 lines of poetry on his thumb-nails, often on pieces of 
 roof- slate and shreds of common tile, sometimes on the 
 insides and crown of his hat, and on iron wedges down 
 deep in the hollowed earth. Is there a secret path lead- 
 ing to his home ? he is sure at evening to be found in it, 
 holding strange conversation with the flowers, or shapes 
 invisible. Often does he cower behind a hedge till his
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 11 
 
 comrades have passed him, so that in silence and soli- 
 tude he may finish his lay. And how they have stared 
 sometimes, clustered under the hawthorn to hear him 
 recite his ditties in the summer moonlight, praising the 
 uneducated author ! Has he an hour's leisure and cessa- 
 tion from manual labour, that horn* is spent with the 
 Muses ; and whilst others of his own calling waste their 
 time in rambling the streets, or roaming the lanes in 
 idle and unprofitable chit-chat, or ruining body and soul 
 in those dark drinking-dens which frown like famines 
 over the land, he steals away to his bower of heath with 
 his harp upon his shoulder, intent on his one object. 
 His company is but little courted by the chatting choir ; 
 for in conversation he is remarkably stupid, scarcely ever 
 uttering the right word ; so that what was said of poor 
 Goldsmith in this respect is truly applicable to him. 
 
 Time passes on ; Providence blesses him with children, 
 and domestic cares increase ; but he still sweeps his 
 fingers over his harp, and the Muse is to him a solace 
 and a joy. And now a kind friend* steps across his 
 path, whose honoured name is syllabled by the great 
 and good of many lands, and aids him in his up-hill 
 course, aud a small volume of his poems passes through 
 the press. This volume wins for him the warm sym- 
 pathies of many hearts, and he again betakes him to his 
 studies with sunshine in his soul. Let us look in upon 
 him at evening in his own loved home, when his daily 
 task is done, and he has just returned from the hard 
 drudgery of the interior of the mine, exhausted and 
 cruelly crushed. A few worn books are piled up in a 
 corner on some narrow shelves, and three of the most 
 conspicuous are, Walker's Dictionary, sweet Bums, and 
 the immortal Shakespeare. We must not omit his Bible, 
 the gift of his sainted father, the sweet stories of which 
 so charmed him when a boy. Scraps of paper, written 
 
 * Dr. G. Smith, author of " History of Wesleyan Methodism," &c.
 
 12 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 over with, jingling rhyme, lie among the volumes, and 
 sleep in quiet nooks, jotted by his own hand. A small 
 fire is burning in ike stove ; on one side of it sits 
 his wife, plying her needle with a smile upon her face ; 
 a bright girl, with soft poetic eyes, is conning her ; 
 at his feet ; and a blue-eyed boy, like a laughing Cupid, 
 is climbing his knees and kissing his pale brow. The 
 weary poet, crushed and crippled with the labours of the 
 day, lets fall a tear upon the cheek of his little one, 
 returns its sweet caress, and for a season forgets his 
 lassitude as he gazes into the fire, where a thousand 
 strange shapes flit to and fro. He shares his frugal 
 meal with his dear ones, and blesses God for what 
 they enjoy. And now he tells the children tin ir wonted 
 story, joins them in their sports, dances baby in his 
 arms, or writes his poetry as they crow upon his ; 
 O, sweet is his domestic bliss, and bright angels are 
 bending over the walls of glory to gaze upon the 
 scene. 
 
 "He owns neither mansions nor lands. 
 
 His wealth is a character trood; 
 A pair of industrious hands, 
 
 xV drop of poetical blood. 
 
 " He never of fortune complains, 
 of parentage, learning, or birth; 
 The sweat (if his brow, and his brains, 
 Yield more than hi D earth. 
 
 " His bliss arc his eventide hours ; 
 
 His book, wife, and children, his pride; 
 In joy they 're his sweetest of Sowers, 
 And angels when sorrows betide." 
 
 Edward Capebn. 
 
 And when at last his cottage roses fall asleep, and fold 
 themselves in beauty, and quiet is br< > <t his
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 13 
 
 shed, it is then that his verses are written, and his 
 thoughts twined into rhyme. But chief he loves to be 
 away from the dwellings of men, with rocks and rills 
 and flowers, poetizing in the shadowy twilight. Here 
 he feels a purer inspiration, and revels through lands 
 enchanted. He woos the Muse as a lover his mistress, 
 seeking some flowery bank in the bosom of solitude, and 
 here he pens his poems, 
 
 " Where Nature sows, herself, 
 And reaps her crops ; whose garments are the clouds ; 
 Whose minstrels, hrooks ; whose lamps, the moon and stars; 
 Whose organ-choir, the voice of many waters ; 
 Who-e banquets, morning dews; whose heroes, storms; 
 Whose warriors, mighty winds ; whose lovers, flowers ; 
 Whose orators, ihc thunderbolts of God; 
 Whose palaces, th • everlasting hills; 
 Whose ceiling, heaven's unfathomable hlue ; 
 And from whose rocky turrets, hattled high, 
 Prospects immense spread out on all sides round, 
 Lost now between the welkin and the main, 
 Now wall'd with hills that sleep above the storm." 
 
 Poi.lok. 
 
 In his work and in his home, by the wayside and on 
 the pathless wild, in the dusty street and on the sand of 
 the sea-shore, there is evermore this gentle spirit beside 
 him, cheering life's weary pilgrimage, and alluring him 
 onward in spite often thousand difficulties. 
 
 As it was when he first found his lyre, amid the ferns 
 of his father's fens, even so it is now, when pursuing his 
 solemn labours among the aged and afflicted — a sunny 
 joy and an unceasing solace cheering him at all seasons, 
 and under all skies ; with his rising family, and limited 
 salary. Thus he pursues his even corxrse; rarely in- 
 dulging in the reading of a book, drinking at the rills of 
 Nature, singing by his hearth-stone and amid the silent 
 solitudes, not neglecting for it one social or domestic
 
 14 PEEPS AT A POET. 
 
 duty, tracing the hand of God in everything. He would 
 not omit a kind word for his patrons and friends, who 
 have aided hirn in his up-hill course, and cheered his 
 journey over the desert of life, invoking the blessing of 
 the great King upon them. 
 
 He knows that knowledge is not acquired through the 
 medium of the wishing-cap, nor genius by the wand of 
 the enchantress. If we desire to be useful to our fellow- 
 creatures, and distinguish ourselves above the careless 
 crowd around us, it must be accomplished by d i 
 labour and perseverance in the right direction. We 
 should not be discouraged by unpromising surroundings, 
 recalling to mind the brave and brilliant host who 
 have toiled through the valley of labour, oppressed with 
 weariness and pain; but whose flaming souls bore them 
 far above the rough rubbish of the rude world, until 
 the green laurel was placed upon their brows. He 
 remembers that beautiful allegorical poem of Long- 
 fellow, the great American poet, in which he describes 
 a young man wandering among the mountains of the 
 Alps, bearing in his hand a banner, upon which is 
 written this strange device, "Excelsior." This young 
 man is represented by the poet as beginning to climb 
 one of those mighty mountains, on whose crest is eternal 
 whiter, bearing this strange banner in his hand ; when 
 he is met by a peasant, who endeavours to dissuade him 
 from the task. But he glances at the banner, " Higher, 
 and yet higher still," and, leaving the peasant behind 
 him, he hastens on his way. Farther up, on the rough 
 ridges of the kingly mount, he meets with another 
 traveller, who tries to discourage him, and persuade him 
 to go back. But once more he gazes at the banner, 
 " Higher, and yet higher still," and with eager footsteps 
 he climbs towards the stars. Higher, and yet higher 
 still, the young man climbs, bearing his banner aloft 
 from crag to slippery crag, from white snow- field to 
 snow-field, higher and higher from this wicked world,
 
 PEEPS AT A POET. 15 
 
 till a wanderer, wending through the snow, finds him 
 lying in the winds, with the mark of death upon his 
 forehead, still grasping the banner in his icy hand, and 
 over him, high up in the blue fields of ether, a spirit is 
 singing sweetly, — 't is the spirit of the youth still chant- 
 ing the word, " Excelsior." To the young especially we 
 would say, Emblazon the word " Excelsior " on your 
 banner, " higher, and yet higher still." Go forth with it 
 into the world, act under its dictates, and circumstances 
 shall bend before you. Aim at a certain object, turn 
 your steps towards it perseveringly, hopefully, cheer- 
 fully ; and, by and by, we pledge ourselves you shall be 
 crowned with the laurel. Christian! emblazon the 
 word " Excelsior " on thy banner,." higher, and yet higher 
 still." Heed not those who would entice thee to go 
 back ; keep thine eye on the crown before thee, walk 
 in the footprints of the blessed Redeemer ; rear aloft thy 
 standard, " Higher, and yet higher still," and soon the 
 ivory palaces of heaven will be thy home. Let us take 
 this motto as our burning, living watchword, " Higher, 
 and yet higher still : " higher in Christian experience, 
 higher in the knowledge of God, higher in the Divine 
 life, higher in the scale of existence, higher in acts of 
 benevolence, and deeds of good- will toward our fellow- 
 creatures ; " higher, and yet higher still," till we climb the 
 green hills of Eden, and gather flowers in the fields of 
 light.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA.
 
 A STORY OF CARS BREA. 
 
 BOOK FIRST. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Poem opens with an Allusion to bright Gems and noble Minds 
 often shining amid Rubbish and Barrenness — Song of the 
 Moorland Maiden — The Author's Love of Nature — His County 
 his Copy-Book — The Horsemen — Cam Brea — Rain-Storm — 
 Cottage on a Rock — Burial of a Christian — Sabbath Evening 
 Bells — The Honeysuckle — Reverie — The Cottage Dame — Her 
 Cornish Courtesy — The simple Meal — The "Widow's Story — 
 Her Trials — Her Miner Tributer Husbaud — His Boy and he 
 descending into the Mine — Perseverance — Bright Taney — Dis- 
 appointment — His stricken Household — Distraining for Rent — 
 His Prayer — The mystic Voice — True Benevolence illustrated 
 in the Sailor — Soldier — Orphan — Stranger — Pilgrim— Damsel 
 — Labourer — A quiet Fishing Town — Prudence Worth — Her 
 Charity reaching the Fisherman — Farmer — Artisan — The 
 Widow — The Afflicted — The Miner's Journey — His Conversa- 
 tion with Nature and God — His simple Tale — The Lady's 
 Kindness — His Promise. 
 
 The fairest flowers, the richest veins of ore, 
 The brightest gems, the costliest specimens. 
 The grandest, greatest, meekest, noblest minds, 
 Are often shining in this darksome world 
 Where least expected, and their glory's beams 
 Remain unnoticed in the general glare. 
 How many an honest man in homely weeds, 
 
 c 2
 
 20 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 
 
 Whose name is odour in his little sphere, 
 
 Dwelling in nook obscure by sea or stream, 
 
 Or hawthorn lane, or earn, or rushy moor, 
 
 On mountain side, or in the listening vale, 
 
 Or where the city darkens, many-tongued, 
 
 Or in the hamlet's hollow, where the rill 
 
 Trickles soft-singing over slippery stones, 
 
 Beside the mine, or on the healthy farm, — 
 
 How many are there living thus obscure, 
 
 Scarce known on earth, but much esteem'd in heaven, 
 
 The gems of Adam's race, whose royal names 
 
 Are deep engraven in the Book of Life ! 
 
 So have I hei rd from some low cottage porch, 
 
 Heed-wrapp'd and woodbined over like a bower, 
 
 With lattice low, and rude walls, boulder-built, 
 
 Sweet-scented mid the mineral of the mine, 
 
 What time the milk-maid brush'd the early dews, 
 
 A gentle carol warbled from the lips 
 
 Of moorland maideu, rarely caught by kings. 
 
 Some court " great gluts of people," houses, towns, 
 
 And cities drunk with riot ; but, for me, 
 
 I woo the reedy meadow and the fen, 
 
 Where rushes rustle, or the rock where climbs 
 
 The shining ivy, and the wild bird sings. 
 
 Quaint do ye call me, that I love such scenes, 
 
 For evermore with Nature ? Be it so ; 
 
 I am her child, and she my mother is ; 
 
 And so you must not blame me. Up the hill. 
 
 And down the vale, and through the breezy earn, 
 
 By the sea-shore, and on the ragged ridge, 
 
 I read her legends, living lays of love. 
 
 My own old county is my copy-book, 
 
 From which I cull my pictures ; and its leaves 
 
 Are like her mines, exhaustless in their worth. 
 
 My hero-miner is no gilt ideal, 
 
 Pull'd in to make a poem, but a man
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 21 
 
 Who really lived, and acted, and expired ; 
 A noble man, a man to imitate. 
 But, see, two riders and their foaming steeds 
 Burst from the coppice like a thought of flame. 
 
 Still onward dash'd the horsemen. Through the mist 
 Loom'd the grey granite crags and castle-top 
 Of mineral-niark'd Cam Brea, whose awful head 
 Was drench'd with rain, and pitted with the storm. 
 The rabbit cower'd within its mossy cell, 
 The wild bird sat in silence 'neath the ledge, 
 With half- shut eye, and beak beneath its wing, 
 And talons sunk into the sodden mould, 
 As march'd the winds across the horrid wild, 
 Hurling the rain-drops on the groaning world. 
 Still onward dash'd the horsemen. Bank and brier, 
 And deep morass, and ditch with water drown'd. 
 And lanes where ruts yawn'd hungry, and dark pits, 
 Whose open mouths led into treacherous mines, 
 And rivers wildly tumbling o'er their brims, 
 And ruins green with age, or grey with years, 
 And bogs with torture boiling, — all were pass'd, 
 And in a cottage cliuging to a rock, 
 Where sat a lonely dame in linen weeds, 
 They turn'd at last for shelter, while their steeds 
 Smoked in an outhouse 'neath a roof of straw. 
 
 A Christian had been buried, one whose gifts 
 
 Were great in secret, whose heart-prayers were made 
 
 More in the closet than the crowded church ; 
 
 Who spoke with pity to the lowest hind, 
 
 And wiped the tear from Sorrow's soften'd face ; 
 
 Who call'd the children round him when the day 
 
 Expired in piu^ple o'er the forest falls, 
 
 And told them tales, and fed upon their smiles, 
 
 Laugh'd with their laugh, and shouted with their shout, 
 
 Mingling the lays of age with early life ;
 
 22 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Then led them far beyond the reefs of time. 
 
 He stood between th^, oppressor and oppress'd, 
 
 Healing the wounds which cruelty had made. 
 
 He sought the bed of sickness, and, when found, 
 
 Refresh'd the sufferer with his purse and prayer. 
 
 With liberal hands he wrought most liberal things. 
 
 The widow found in him a constant Mend. 
 
 The wandering orphan, shivering through the world, 
 
 Ne'er stopp'd in vain before the good man's gate. 
 
 His bounty, like the sky-lark's joyous song, 
 
 Gladden'd the hearts of all within its range. 
 
 He stoop'd to wretchedness, and, with kind words 
 
 And kinder deeds, lighten'd the grey-hair'd man. 
 
 Familiar was he with Dame Nature's laws, 
 
 Nor seal'd her book of wonders ; but his soul 
 
 Held endless converse with the' Eternal "Word. 
 
 Messiah was his pattern. Morn and eve, 
 
 And busy noontide, found him toiling on 
 
 In the Redeemer's footprints. By his life 
 
 He preach'd the Saviour to the multitude, 
 
 And cried to all, " Walk in the narrow way." 
 
 He stood among his fellows like a tree, 
 
 Of foliage rare and verdure beautiful, 
 
 Whose summer greenness never knew decay. 
 
 The Sabbath bells are ringing, vale and wood, 
 
 And rock, and ridge, and slope with mosses dress'd, 
 
 Seem hung with echoes ; wandering voices flow 
 
 Upon the spirit, lulling it to peace, 
 
 And gentle visions fill the mind with heaven. 
 
 Beneath this honeysuckle let me sit 
 
 In quiet meditation. As for man, 
 
 His days are swifter than the eagle's wing, 
 
 Or river rushing down the steepest i 
 
 To-day he rises in his summer prime, 
 
 To-morrow bends along the vale of age. 
 
 How near the days of happy childhood seem,
 
 A STORY OP CAEN BREA. 23 
 
 Though forty winters block them up with clouds ! 
 I stretch my arms forth with a gush of joy, 
 And seem to touch my daisy- gathering hours. 
 Alas ! alas ! old Time hath hurried on, 
 And left them far behind the farthest hills, 
 With king-cups sparkling over all the land : 
 And now I battle with the storms of life. 
 But there is peace at last for all oxu- woe, 
 And comfort for the weary, if we trust 
 The kind and loving Saviour, in the home 
 Of Eden-music higher than the stars. 
 
 Peal on, ye gentle preachers. Day is done, 
 
 And Eve steals down the vale in garments grey : 
 
 I ponder in her shadows. One sweet spot 
 
 Is ever with me, as your echoes float 
 
 Above the tree- tops, like the sweep of wings. 
 
 A little grave it is among the hills, 
 
 Beside a Gothic chapel, and I seem 
 
 To hear the tread of those who haste to prayer, 
 
 Through primrose lanes, although I 'm far away. 
 
 Here have I long desired to sleep at last, 
 
 When life, with all its cares, is at an end, 
 
 Among the honest, pious villagers, 
 
 Just at the foot of my old granite mount ; 
 
 That when the cottager, his day's work done, 
 
 Sits in the dusk with baby on his knee, 
 
 What time the first few tapers gild the pane, 
 
 He, listening to the river at his gate, 
 
 May think of him who caroll'd through his moors. 
 
 Sweet honeysuckle ! let me ringer here, 
 Among thy fragrance issued in a shower. 
 How blissful thus to muse where Nature poiu-s 
 Her incense forth in hollows watch'd with hills, 
 And roof d with stars, and floor'd with living flowers ! 
 O what a temple is the leafy wood,
 
 24 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 
 
 The rude old cam, the ocean's solemn shore, 
 The valley's bosom, and the meadow's lap ! 
 I love thee, Nature, with a fire unfeign'd, 
 And ever at thy feet thy child would sit 
 In pleasant meditation, where the eye 
 Of selfish man beholds not my retreat, 
 In storm or calm, when heaven is blue or black, 
 Learning thy lore, and treasuring up thy truth. 
 Could I have had my choice, my home would be 
 Among the rocks and rivers, fens and ferns. 
 From human hives as lonely as a crag. 
 Here, hermit-like, I 'd pass away my hours, 
 Drinking at Nature's fountain, undisturb'd 
 By trump or tumult, writing simple song, 
 With wife and bonny bairns, until life's last 
 Long evening shadow fell upon the plain. 
 But Providence has given me other work, 
 And other wonders, and I bless His name. 
 Now to our story mid the spreading thyme. 
 
 The dame heap'd up the fuel on the hearth, 
 
 Which crack'd a joyous carol, while the blast 
 
 Drove the rude rain-drops shrieking on the thatch, 
 
 And hissing on the casement. Then she spoke, 
 
 With much of love and Cornish courtesy. 
 
 " I give you greeting to my lowly home, 
 
 Ye storm-ca\ight strangers. Nearer draw you now 
 
 My fir-wood fire, and dry your weltering weeds. 
 
 I have a turf-baked cake upon the shelf, 
 
 And milk and cream upon the pantry board : 
 
 Pray let me fetch them for you." So she placed 
 
 Before her guests these simple elements. 
 
 They ate, and drank, and chatted each with each, 
 
 Giving their hostess space to speak between. 
 
 She told of trials past, and tempests near ; 
 Of storms blown over, and of gales to come ;
 
 A STORY OP CAEN BREA. 25 
 
 Of blank bereavement, like the rush of war ; 
 
 Of kindred lost, and relatives betray'd ; 
 
 Of beauty blighted in her summer morn ; 
 
 Of tear-drops shed upon the infant's grave ; 
 
 Of Hunger sitting with the household flowers, 
 
 As still as Death, amid the charnel dews ; 
 
 Of sickness entering with its fever- face, 
 
 And laying low a loving family ; 
 
 Of harvest-time, when earth was wet with rain; 
 
 Of noise and show acquiring shouts of praise, 
 
 And meekness pining in its empty shed ; 
 
 Of Horror, stalking through the heavy night ; 
 
 Of Desolation, coming like the sea, 
 
 With blacken'd breakers, bearing with a roar 
 
 The hopes of man upon the rocks of doom. 
 
 But more than all were they intent to hear 
 
 How first she walk'd the way of widowhood. 
 
 Her husband was a miner, toiling where 
 
 The light of morning never found its way, 
 
 Or star-beam gilt the gloom ; where night remain'd, 
 
 Blacker than Boreas when he hides the hills, 
 
 And shrouds the valleys with his dismal wings. 
 
 His eldest boy strove with him, twelve springs old ; 
 
 A bud in shade, a blossom in the dark. 
 
 And they were wont the ladders to descend, 
 
 Tied in a rope. At one end was his sire 
 
 Going down before, and after him the lad 
 
 Came clinging to the staves. Around their waists 
 
 The cord was fasten'd ; so that, if the child 
 
 Fell, he might save him as he downward dropp'd, 
 
 And bring him to his mother and his home. 
 
 He was a tributer ; a man who work'd 
 
 On speculation, digging through the ground 
 
 In search of ore, the sweetener of his toil. 
 
 If found, he flourish'd ; if not found, he fell ; 
 
 Nor fell alone, fell wife and family.
 
 26 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 But much of misery was lie doom'd to feel. 
 
 Long months of disappointment, nights of woe, 
 
 And days of strife, and mental agony : 
 
 He dug, and found not ; dug and dug again, 
 
 Again to be the loser — all was dead. 
 
 He ventured till his clothes were heavy rags, 
 
 And the last shilling glided from his purse. 
 
 Yet hope sang with him in the sulphur-rifts, 
 
 And pictured bright to-morrows. And when green 
 
 Tinctured the rock, or copper stain'd the stone, 
 
 In fancy he beheld his stores increase, 
 
 His pile of mineral levell'd on the floors, 
 
 His debts discharged, his wife in new attire, 
 
 His household songsters warmly clothed and fed, 
 
 His new home rising by the running brook, 
 
 His farm enclosed, his pretty meadows till'd, 
 
 Poultry and pigs rejoicing in the stye, 
 
 And Molly 'neath the hawthorn by the gate 
 
 Chewing her cud in quiet. So he dug, 
 
 With eyes the home of tears, and heart in heaven : 
 
 But when men elbow'd him along the street, 
 
 And frown'd upon him in his patch'd-np vest, 
 
 And cries of hunger echoed in his home, 
 
 His heart sank in him. and the angel Hope 
 
 For a short season travell'd from his side. 
 
 One weary day he labour'd in the smoke, 
 
 Pale with prostration, while vex'd Fortune's wheel 
 
 Turn'd round and round in utter emptiness. 
 
 He left his working-place a clouded man, 
 
 And in his white-wash'd home among the stacks 
 
 A wail o'ercame him such as Misery yells 
 
 Among the famish'd in her shatter'd shed. 
 
 His darling children, cold and hunger-pale, 
 
 Cower'd in his hovel, crying much for food. 
 
 On a small stool, scour'd white with straw and sand, 
 
 His eldest boy bent, broken in the bud,
 
 A STORY OP CARN BREA. 27 
 
 Weeping aloud with redness in his eyes. 
 A little girl sat sobbing on her chair, 
 With hunger-marks upon her lovely cheek. 
 In the wood-cradle baby found a voice, 
 Thrusting his faded hands in empty air. 
 The mother's face, beneath her apron hid, 
 Appear'd a sky of drops ; while through the gloom 
 Words wander'd woful, " Father, give us bread." 
 
 Meanwhile the moon's face blush'd behind a cloud ; 
 
 Strange foot-falls echoed on the threshold- stone ; 
 
 The door was rudely open'd ; when at once 
 
 Two men rush'd in, with wildness in their looks, — 
 
 The landlord and a towering officer, 
 
 Who, spite of tears, and sighs, and hunger-moans, 
 
 Took an inventory of then furniture, — 
 
 Clock, dresser, table, settle, stools, and chairs, 
 
 Bed, bedding, clothes-press, pewter pans and plates, 
 
 Old faded pictures, jostled much by time, 
 
 The hour-glass, and the cage without the lark, 
 
 And other items, such as knives and spoons, 
 
 With numerous tiu cans shining on the shelf, — 
 
 And, scowling on the good man, left his home. 
 
 O God of Jacob, succom- the distress'd ! 
 
 Sleep came at last, and bound them in their tears, 
 When he, with many arrows in his soul, 
 Knelt in his chamber, with uplifted voice, 
 Praying and sobbing, " Father, hear Thy child, 
 O hear Thy child ! Have mercy on a worm ! 
 Yes, I have sinn'd against Thee ; with high hands 
 And outstretch'd arms defied Thy just commands. 
 Yet, O, have mercy on me, for the sake 
 Of Thy dear Son, who tasted death for me. 
 Give me Thy Holy Spirit, gracious Lord, 
 To lead me in the path of rectitude, 
 And fill my erring soul with light Divine.
 
 28 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Thou seest my wasting household : all day long 
 
 Have they been pining in my breadless home ; 
 
 The stamp of famine is upon their face ; 
 
 Weakness in every limb, mist o'er then* eyes, 
 
 And untold gnawings shake through all their frame. 
 
 Have mercy on us, Father ; let our cry 
 
 Bring down Thy bounty on our shrouded hearth, 
 
 All-gracious Benefactor. Thou art He 
 
 Who ever feed'st the raven of the rock, 
 
 The wild bird of the wood, and all the forms 
 
 Of unseen life that throng this wondrous world ; 
 
 And Thou hast promised, those that trust in Thee 
 
 Shall feel no lack of anything that 's good. 
 
 O, Father, Father, shield us from the woe 
 
 Of wasting hunger ; let my little ones, 
 
 And her that bare them, speedily be saved 
 
 From creeping down to death with feet of bone. 
 
 Be merciful, O God, to sinners vile ; 
 
 Open a door of hope, a path of life, 
 
 That we may bless and praise Thy mighty name. 
 
 But if, by Thy inscrutable decree, 
 
 My poor petition may not move Thine la 
 
 And we all die. Thy righteous will be done." 
 
 He wiped the hot drops from his eyes, and heard 
 
 A voice of sweetness, " Go to Widow Worth." 
 
 The shipwreck'd sailor, rescued from the deep 
 Moaning in mountains round its struggling prey, 
 And toss'd half-naked on a stranger shore, 
 Clothed, warm'd, and fed, and guided to his home ; 
 The linib-lopp'd soldier, hunted by the foe, 
 And hidden with the mercy of the good, 
 Whose sons and daughters he had sworn to kill, 
 Until the howl of murder droop'd and fell, 
 And he in safety reach'd his friends and fire; 
 The friendless orphan on a winter's night, 
 Blue with the blast, and crying with the cold,
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 29 
 
 Snatch'd from Ms doom, and shelter'd from his fate, 
 By those who never knew his father's name ; 
 The hungry man, in valleys not his own, 
 Fed from the table he had never seen ; 
 The thirsty pilgrim, o'er life's burning sands, 
 Refresh'd with waters from the limpid brook, 
 A little girl the cheering minister; 
 A starving labourer, borrowing precious loans 
 From one whose dwelling tower'd above his own, 
 Which saved his feeble wife, and feebler ones', 
 From rushing o'er the rapids of despair ; — 
 These know the worth of true benevolence. 
 
 Within a quiet, pious fishing-town, 
 
 Snug in the west, resided Prudence Worth ; 
 
 A lady famous for her charity, 
 
 Both in her native place, and far beyond. 
 
 The unsuccessful, striving fisherman, 
 
 Who in his little boat went paddbng forth, 
 
 Singing his hymns, and looking up to heaven, 
 
 With net, and hook, and bait, to lure his prey, 
 
 On the blue fields of ocean wonder-fill'd, 
 
 Where the great gull rode kingly, and the winds 
 
 Spoke in a language heard not on the shore ; 
 
 Returning when the moon twined her chaste rays 
 
 O'er the white billows breaking on the sand, 
 
 With not a single fish for all his pains, 
 
 To creep into his shed, distress'd, and sad ; 
 
 Emptied his sorrows in the widow's ear, 
 
 And felt his wants abundantly supplied. 
 
 The failing farmer in the western vales, 
 
 Craving her bounty, drank it like a stream 
 
 Of living waters, healing greedy woe ; 
 
 The toiling artisan who sigh'd for help, 
 
 Found help in her, when other helpers fail'd ; 
 
 The pale mechanic and the delving hind, 
 
 The heart-crush'd straggler sighing on through clouds,
 
 30 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 
 
 The weeping widow and the orphan slim, 
 All found in her an angel of relief. 
 In the sick chamber, and the home of pain, 
 She sat, like Love, with honey on her lips, 
 Dispensing bounty with a smile of joy. 
 Like Him, who left the glory of the heavens 
 And stoop'd to suffering manhood, walking o'er 
 This woful world with healing in His heart, 
 Both for the bodies and the souls of men ; 
 So "Widow Prudence pass VI her pilgrimage : 
 Her goodness, like an odour wafted far, 
 Had reach'd the honest miner ; and he took 
 His staff in hand to travel to her bower. 
 
 The morning light was wooing the green earth 
 
 To wake from slumber, when he kiss'd his babes, 
 
 Aud westward turn'd his face toward the hills, 
 
 Whose blue peaks caught the sunshine, while they seem'd 
 
 To roll him welcomes from their rocky tongues. 
 
 He walk'd along, conversing with his thoughts, 
 
 Which rose in mystic phases, mauy-hued ; 
 
 Now wing'd with hope, now blank with rayless doubt. 
 
 Through long, rude lanes he travell'd, charm 'd with birds, 
 
 That trill'd sweet measures on the fresh free air ; 
 
 Or awed with Nature's wonders, mount and main, 
 
 And forest high, and river rushing clear, 
 
 And earn, where quiet slumber'd, hid in moss ; 
 
 Or farm, or cottage, peering through the trees, 
 
 With apple -blossom laden ; and his soul 
 
 Discoursed, meanwhile, in silent speech with God. 
 
 He reach'd the lady's residence, and told 
 
 His simple story, — how in a dark mine 
 
 " Bad speed " pursued him ; though he labour'd long, 
 
 And toil'd with zest unchanging, nothing came ; 
 
 And now his goods were all distrain'd for rent, 
 
 Which would be sold at once, unless a friend
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 31 
 
 Would lend him money to escape the blight. 
 
 'T was a great trouble which had touch'd his soul, 
 
 And so he pray'd she 'd help him. " "Where's your home ? " 
 
 Ask'd Mrs. Worth ; " pray tell me, — and your Mends ? 
 
 For aught I know, you are a wicked man, 
 
 A drunkard or impostor ; tell me all." 
 
 " O, Madam, I am neither," he replied ; 
 
 " But what I say is honest, simple truth. 
 
 No bread is in my cupboard, and the cry 
 
 Of fainting hunger pierces through my frame. 
 
 My neighbours know, but will not heed, my woe. 
 
 If you will kindly lend me this small sum, 
 
 I promise that, when four short months are flown, 
 
 I'll come and pay you, as I hope for heaven." 
 
 " How much do' you require ?" ask'd Widow Worth. 
 
 " Three guineas," said the miner ; " this would make 
 
 The world a glory and my life a joy." 
 
 Her heart, unused to anything but love, 
 
 Yielded to his entreaty : so she placed 
 
 The money in his hand, saying, meanwhile, 
 
 " Here, take it, though I never see it more." 
 
 And he, o'ercome with gratitude, retired, 
 
 Sobbing between his thanks, " I'll come again 
 
 In four short moons, and each bright guinea pay."
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Caen Bkea from my Father's Fields — A May-Day Visit to its 
 Summit — Poets' Baggage — Singing Larks — Granite Cutters — 
 Apostrophe to Childhood — Druid-carved Boulders — Tones of 
 Nature — Visions — Mountain Flowers — Quoit — Gorseddan — 
 Rock -basons — Castle — Monument — Cottager — Echoes through 
 the Broom — Strange Story — Moonlight — The two Lovers — 
 Beauty of Nature — Their growing Affection — lie attends her as 
 she milks the Cows — At the Fountain — From the Market — 
 Laura's Affliction — His Offering of Spring-flowers — First Visit 
 to her Home — Parting in the Porch — Autumn — Climbing the 
 old Hill — Sitting on a Moss-bauk — His Address — Deep Silence 
 — Anxiety — Her Death in the Moonlight- — His Solitude — Exit 
 — Old Man at his Door — A Tale of War— His two Sons — The 
 Battle-field — Sad Sights — Youth dving by a River — A Father 
 and his four Lads — The Last Letter — Death by Fever — Effect 
 of the Tidings — His War Dirge — Prayer — Door of his Hut — 
 Feeding the Sparrows — Soliloquy— More of the Saviour — Mer- 
 cies reviewed — Friends — Children — The Evening Board — 
 Praise to Jesus — Bethsaida — The toiling Rowers — Christ walk, 
 ing on the Sea — Horsemen and Miner again. 
 
 How often hast thou fed my early Muse, 
 Crag-heap'd Cam Brea, when from my father's meads 
 I scann'd thy front, mist-clad or clear, deeming 
 My mount and thee twin- sisters beautiful ! 
 One bright May mom, when violets were rare,
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 33 
 
 I trick'd old Labour, and equipp'd myself 
 
 With poets' baggage, pencil, sheet, and lyre, 
 
 And, walking o'er the moors, I turn'd my face 
 
 Towards its summit shining in the dawn, 
 
 As 't were an old bard welcoming the young. 
 
 I cross'd the meadows, follow'd by our dog, 
 
 Who snuffd the air and bark'd among the flowers, 
 
 Right happy to be free ! The larks were up, 
 
 Singing among the cloudlets, and sweet song 
 
 Gush'd from a hundred hollows. In the fields 
 
 The cottagers were busy with their spades, 
 
 And ploughs, and harrows ; and perhaps they thought 
 
 I was a crazy fellow wandering weird. 
 
 I reach'd the mountain's base, where an old man 
 
 And a young lad were cutting granite blocks, 
 
 Perchance to build a cottage of their own ; 
 
 And hard enough they work'd. So on I went 
 
 To gain the summit of this famous cam. 
 
 Which look'd so distant from my father's door, 
 
 That oft in childhood I have thought the sun 
 
 Stopp'd on the rocks and started forth again, 
 
 Renew'd by resting on its ridgy brow ; 
 
 And in my dreams within my own dear bower 
 
 I oft believed, if I could wander there, 
 
 I should be sure to see great Pho3bus' bed, 
 
 And mark the door from whence the moon came out, 
 
 And view the' uncover'd stars. O, childhood, fair 
 
 Art thou, and innocent as fan, and sweet 
 
 As breeze-blown odours from the banks of broom, 
 
 And fleet as sweet, — gone like an uncaged bird. 
 
 I gain'd the hill-top, saw its boulders bare, 
 
 Some worn by time, some carved by Druid art, 
 
 Where oft perhaps the painted Briton pray'd 
 
 To Thor and Woden, offering human blood, 
 
 When moral darkness fill'd our blessed isle. 
 
 Thank God, the light has come, the living light, 
 
 Chasing the shadows, gilding house and hall,
 
 34 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 And guiding Albion in the way of truth. 
 
 Even then, boy as I was, I leam'd to list, 
 
 Beside the banks and rocks and hedges low, 
 
 For any tones of Nature's poetry 
 
 Straying upon the zephyr ; and methought 
 
 I heard the tramp of feet along the down, 
 
 And saw, as in a mirror, bearded chiefs, 
 
 With battle-bows, and skins about their loins, 
 
 And paint upon their cheeks, calling aloud 
 
 On gods which having eyes could never see, 
 
 And ears could never hear ; and such a shriek 
 
 Rush'd from the rocks, that, snatching up my lyre, 
 
 I hasten'd from the hill, and at its foot 
 
 Stopp'd for a moment, gazing wildly round, 
 
 To pluck some flowers with white-and-yellow leaves, 
 
 "Which I bore home, calling my brothers round, 
 
 And little sister, giving them the whole. 
 
 They seem'd to wonder where such flowers could grow, 
 
 And begg'd me I would tell them. Sitting down 
 
 On a green hillock 'neath our hawthorn tree. 
 
 I pointed to the mountain far away, 
 
 And told them that its sides were cover'd o'er 
 
 "With these dear beings pale with gentleness. 
 
 They shouted in then mirth, " Brother has been 
 
 Up in the sky, and pluck'd those pretty flowers, 
 
 And brought them to us." So they tripp'd about, 
 
 Well-pleased to have my nosegay for a toy. 
 
 I had been on the mount, and breathed its air. 
 Bathed in its glory, worshipp'd in its gloom, 
 Clamber'd its stairs, beheld its chambers huge, 
 Paused by the quoit, and listen'd by the cave, 
 Harp'd on its wild gorseddau,* light-enthi-oned, 
 And the rock -basons, stain'd with mysteries ; 
 Read cantos on the castle, where each ledge 
 
 Judgment-seat of the Druids.
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 35 
 
 Is a rude poem, from the pen of Time ; 
 
 Breathed in deep silence by the monument, 
 
 Sacred to one who bears a noble name ; * 
 
 And felt repaid, and then paid o'er again, 
 
 For my rough climbing ; wishing, too, that May 
 
 Would reign without a rival. Walking back, 
 
 I travell'd on, through song from bird and stream, 
 
 The lark in ah - , the cuckoo on the bough, 
 
 And, meeting with a cottager, I caught 
 
 The following echoes struggling through the broom. 
 
 The speaker was a pilgrim, and he wore 
 A cloak of beaver, streaming to the grass. 
 His eyes were black and bright, and on his brow 
 There was a dignity by thought impress 'd ; 
 And this the import of his story strange : — 
 
 " The moon was resting on a broken cloud, 
 Bright as an angel, when, beside that rock 
 Deep-channell'd yonder, two fond lovers sat 
 Reading each other's faces. As they gazed, 
 Tears fell, and sighs were utter'd, which the dark 
 Reveal'd not, as then sweet lips met again, 
 And kiss'd like streamlets. Each far star appear'd 
 A burning seraph with a harp of joy, 
 And the old world was Eden. O'er the earn 
 Glanced white-robed visions, and the swelling wind 
 Wafted then names upon it. From her bower, 
 O'erarch'd with ivy, Happiness look'd forth, 
 And sang her tenderest vesper, while the heath, 
 Brown in its beauty, wooed bright angel-feet, 
 And shook with solemn breathings. Thus they sat, 
 Embower'd with blossoms from the tree of bliss. 
 How beautiful the dawning of young love, 
 Gilt with the glory of the sun of hope, 
 
 * Lord dc Dunstanville. 
 D 2
 
 36 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Fresh, Eden-odour'd ! On the mountain sides, 
 In the still vales and hamlets, rustic-robed, 
 And clover farcns, sht lingers, clad in white, 
 Amid the ruins of this blighted ball. 
 
 " Like a fair flower had their affection grown 
 
 In the dear dingles of then" fatherland, 
 
 Sweet-scenting every action ; first the bud, 
 
 And then the bloom, and then the perfect rose, 
 
 Ripe for the white-robed angel. When she walk'd 
 
 In gentle girlhood through the peat-hedged meads, 
 
 To milk the cows beneath the flowery thorn, 
 
 He whistled at the gate, and saw her home. 
 
 And if at eve she took her waterpots, 
 
 To fill them at the fountain, there was he, 
 
 Conversing by her side, and aiding her 
 
 To cross the narrow stiles with granite steps, 
 
 Bearing her pitcher even to the door. 
 
 And when she rode from market, holding fast 
 
 The basket on her lap, he strove to steal 
 
 Across the lane, with business on his brow; 
 
 Or true or false, he cared not, so he caught 
 
 A smile from her to gladden all his care. 
 
 And one May eve he wash'd and comb'd his curls, 
 
 And brush'd his best coat lustily, and took 
 
 Some wild flowers in his hand, which he had pluck'd, 
 
 Searching the moorland for them when the sun 
 
 Shower'd his warm kisses on the shelter'd banks, 
 
 Or hedges tipp'd with green, and bent his steps 
 
 Towards her dwelling, lighted up with love. 
 
 For she was ill, and those sweet offerings pale 
 
 Were for his Laura, beautiful in gloom, — 
 
 Daisies and blue-bells, buttercups and moss, 
 
 And primroses, with sonnets on their leaves. 
 
 The wakening world look'd like a petted bard 
 
 Shining in fresh-won laurel, and the sky, 
 
 Blue in its brightness, seem'd the gate of heaven.
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 37 
 
 He touch'd the latch, it rose, and soon the door 
 
 Turn'd on its hinges, and he found himself, 
 
 For the first time, sitting beside his love 
 
 In her own home. They blush'd, and blush'd again ; 
 
 And then the father spoke, the mother too ; 
 
 And the youth felt his tremor wane away, 
 
 Even as the wind falls on a summer eve, 
 
 And leave him chainless. In the porch she came 
 
 At parting, sweetly bidding him good night. 
 
 Thus step by step the Graces led them on. 
 
 " Summer was past, and in the leafless wood 
 Autumn lay down to die. Deep mourning tones 
 Arose from Nature, and the sky wept tears 
 Upon the sounding earth, as, one gray eve, 
 They climb'd the old hill with elastic tread, 
 And, sitting on a moss-bank, hand in hand, 
 Conversed in whispers. On her path the moon 
 Walk'd robed in silver, and the white rocks look'd 
 Like saints assembled on the hills of heaven. 
 He spoke delighted ; as he spoke, love words 
 Came thronging on him, till his speech sm-pi'ised 
 The speaker, and the gentle listener smiled ; 
 Then bent her head, even as the lily bows 
 When the sun blush'd too deeply on its face. 
 ' How happy must we be when yon small home 
 Among the rushes shall be wholly ours ; 
 And we dwell there like honeysuckles dwell, 
 In the green covert, shedding sweet for sweet ! 
 How will we tend the crocus, how the rose, 
 And how the woodbine climbing to the thatch ! 
 How beautiful shall be our walks at eve, 
 Twilight descending, and the day's toil done ! 
 And when the Sabbath, like a traveller, comes 
 From the peace-shore, with hymns upon its harp, 
 And prayers and praises flowing from its tongue, 
 How will our hearts rejoice beneath the vine
 
 38 A STOUT OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Of lioly Israel, rich with clustering love ! 
 And should the crow of baby-ones be heard, 
 And baby-feet patter along the floor, 
 And baby-music shiver by the hearth, 
 How will we love them for the Giver's sake, 
 And dedicate our rose-buds to the Lord ! 
 Speak, speak, my angel, shall it not be so ?' 
 
 " He listen'd, and the silence deeper grew ; 
 
 The wild bird scream'd among the naked blocks, 
 
 The wind came rustling, aud deep shadows stalk'd 
 
 Along the hill-side, whispers fill'd the air 
 
 Mysterious, wend-like. ' Answer me, my love, 
 
 My light, my life, my summer in the cold, 
 
 My fountain in the desert, answer me. 
 
 Shall not our love grow stronger year by year ? ' 
 
 Still no reply, but silence deep as death. 
 
 Gently he touch'd her hand. — it fell Like stone. 
 
 Then, stooping down, he look'd into her face. 
 
 Her eyes were fn-eless, and the roses fled. 
 
 He kiss'd her lips ; but they were cold as rock. 
 
 A shudder shook him, all his pulses beat, 
 
 And coals seem'd heap'd upon his burning brain ; 
 
 Life's courses almost stopp'd, as with a shriek 
 
 Her name rush'd from him, echoing o'er the wild. 
 
 He knelt and wail'd, then rose, and cried again, 
 
 Gazed on her face, and wonder'd in her eyes, 
 
 Entreated her to whisper but a word, 
 
 Or smile upon him ; but she stiller lay, 
 
 And colder grew, and wax'd more pale, until 
 
 The truth hiss'd through him, that the foe had quench'd 
 
 An arrow in her heart, and she was dead. 
 
 Tes, she was dead ! In Love's enchanted bower 
 
 Blissful she lay, when death came, Like a breeze 
 
 Laden with wings, and lull'd her into rest. 
 
 Her pillow was the moss, her couch the heath, 
 
 Her canopy the star-bespangled blue,
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 39 
 
 Her curtains Cynthia's tissues, and the rays 
 Which play about the blessed in then* dreams 
 Her free attendants. So she gently died, 
 As dies the moonlight on a harvest morn ; 
 And angels came and carried her to heaven. 
 
 " Darkness o'ercame him, harp and tabor ceased ; 
 
 The glory of the old mount waned away ; 
 
 The face of man grew strange. He sought the fields, 
 
 And sounding wilds, and caverns cloak'd with shade, 
 
 And moors with marshes mournful, till his hair 
 
 Grew as the shaggy common, and his form 
 
 Spare as the lonely alder. Boy, and girl, 
 
 And timid matron, shunn'd him in their walk, 
 
 And village gossip gave him twilight fame ; 
 
 And one clear evening, when the moon was full, 
 
 Two harvesters, returning from the meads, 
 
 Beheld him sitting on his favourite bank 
 
 Where Laura's spirit left her. He appear'd 
 
 Like one conversing with some mystic shape, 
 
 Or far-off brightness. On his head he wore 
 
 A hat of oaten straw, and in his hand 
 
 He held an oaken staff, rough-knotted round, 
 
 And he was gazing eastward. Days, and months, 
 
 And heavy years lagg'd by, with sorrow fraught ; 
 
 But he was seen not, and retum'd no more." 
 
 The peasant wiped his brow, and, sobbing, said, — 
 
 " An aged man was sitting by his door 
 One quiet evening, listening to the sounds 
 That rose from Nature, and a tale he told 
 Of war and want, that smote the listener's ear. 
 Two sons had he, his comfort and his stay, 
 His all in life ; he had no kin besides. 
 For they had ripen'd quickly, and lay lopp'd 
 Beneath the reaper's sickle. Tears pass'd by,
 
 40 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 
 
 And Peace slept in their dwelling, till, one mom, 
 
 The brasen trumpet bray'd among the hills, 
 
 And forth they rush'd to battle. What they saw, 
 
 And what they heard, and what they suffer'd there, 
 
 Can hardly be imagined : — yells that made 
 
 The hill- sides tremble, and the stately pines 
 
 To wag then weeping tops ; hoarse howls that drove 
 
 The timid beast beyond its trodden lines, 
 
 The wild bird froru its covert ; dying groans 
 
 Upon the pulses of the laden breeze. 
 
 As if had dawn'd the dreaded day of doom ; 
 
 The crash of arms, the roar of musketry, 
 
 The thunder of the cannon, at whose sound 
 
 The great rocks seem'd to bellow, and the heights. 
 
 Studded with tongiies, appear'd one awful clang ; 
 
 The rash of armies, as their spear-points met, 
 
 Rustled and waver'd, like the black north wind 
 
 Among the forest branches ; towns on fire 
 
 And cities roaring in one horrid blaze ; 
 
 The widow murder'd, and the fatherless 
 
 Stabb'd, shrieking for their parents : greybeards gotiged 
 
 At then- own tables, the sharp-pointed steel 
 
 Pinning then- stain'd locks to the social board ; 
 
 Men dying in the darkness, wailing loud 
 
 For distant friends, some with torn scalps, and some 
 
 With limbs hewn like a tree ; some hot for thirst, 
 
 With tongues cracked and glazed eyes, and some 
 
 Bleeding away in quiet, gleams of home 
 
 And face familiar passing through the mind ; 
 
 Some uttering prayers a mother's love had taught, 
 
 And some with curses on then closing lips ; 
 
 Some starving in the bushes, peel'd with shells 
 
 That blazed and crash'd, and left them there to die, 
 
 Forgotten by their fellows, who had wheel'd 
 
 As the foe drifted, madden'd with the charge, 
 
 Lom now of reason, staring at the stars.
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BEEA. 41 
 
 " A young man by a river stain'd with, blood, 
 
 His school-gift Bible lying at his side, 
 
 With clotted hair, and jaw-bone rooted off, 
 
 Lay gazing at a locket. 'T was the shade 
 
 Of one who loved him, where the roses twine 
 
 About her father's cottage. Death had set 
 
 His impress on his features, and full soon 
 
 He cross'd the river, and his name was lost. 
 
 A father and his four sons in a trench 
 
 Lay heap'd together, mark'd with many a scar, 
 
 Down-toppled from a rampart. They had fought 
 
 In noise and blood, till, overcome at last 
 
 By pressing thousands, they were spear'd, and shot, 
 
 And hack'd, and sabred, and then wildly toss'd 
 
 Upon each other, spear-points broken off, 
 
 Out-gushing from their bodies, and then- limbs 
 
 Shatter'd or lopp'd ; — in a green vale beyond 
 
 Leaving a mother childless, and a wife 
 
 In lonely widowhood and endless tears. 
 
 The old man's boys beheld them lying there, . 
 
 The warm blood mingling as it faintly fiow'd, 
 
 And penn'd a letter to him. Hunger sharp 
 
 Was then their portion, watching and fatigue. 
 
 They begg'd his prayers, and hoped that heaven at last 
 
 Would be their meeting-place. They wrote no more. 
 
 In a few days a fearful fever came 
 
 And hurried them away, and in one grave 
 
 They both were tumbled, without board or shroud, 
 
 On a lone prairie where the wild beast roars. 
 
 " The tidings reach'd him, and his hair turn'd grey, 
 
 Turn'd in a single night, and the blow bent 
 
 His body, even as the slim reed bends 
 
 When the cold tempest mutters. Then, like Job, 
 
 He stoop'd submissive, asking for His love 
 
 Who doeth all things well, who gives all good, 
 
 And for our profit taketh it away.
 
 42 A STORY OF CAEN BKEA. 
 
 And oft at eve, when murmurs fill the vale, 
 
 And loiter up the mountain, when the air 
 
 Is faint with softness, and the purple hills 
 
 Seem throng'd with angels, many a villager 
 
 Is startled in his cabin as he sings 
 
 His war-dirge mournful : ' War, O cruel war, 
 
 Thou hungry murder- fiend, the foulest foe 
 
 That prowls the globe with clutches all a-gore, 
 
 Red rankling demon, burning bigot, off! 
 
 I curse thee in my soul. Two sons had I, 
 
 And thou hast wrapp'd them in thy fiery folds. 
 
 They sleep together, where the sod was red ; 
 
 And now I travel lonely to the grave. 
 
 My all they were, my everything on earth : 
 
 They ask'd my prayers ; I gave them, and they died, 
 
 Died among strangers, in their greenness died. 
 
 And yet men call this glory ! O great King, 
 
 Hasten the time when swords and horrid spears 
 
 Shall change then being, and the fearful fiend 
 
 Lie chain'd for ever under thick eclipse ! ' 
 
 " The traveller, passing by his rushy home, 
 Beholds him at his door, oft scattering crumbs 
 To feed the sparrows, or conversing low 
 With little redbreast on the hawthorn-tree, 
 Straining his eyes beyond the distant hills 
 As if he saw the gateway into rest." 
 
 More, more of Thee, my Saviour : thotxgh the winds 
 
 Howl, and the waves rise higher than the land ; 
 
 Though poverty come rushing like a blast, 
 
 Or persecution meet me on my way, 
 
 Or pain or weakness ; Saviour, more of Thee ! 
 
 Even like the mariner upon the plank, 
 
 Whose bark has founder'd and whose mates are drown'd, 
 
 Not heeding the full moon on the cloud's crest, 
 
 Or the bright stars above him, but whose eyes
 
 A STORY OP CAEN BREA. 43 
 
 Are rivettecl on the approaching ship, 
 Steering to save him, so would I behold 
 The Man of Sorrows crucified for me. 
 More, more of Thee, my Savioru - , when the mom 
 Breaks o'er the mountains, or hot noontide pants 
 Along the dingles, or pale Evening sits 
 Singing her vespers by her glow-worm lamp. — ■ 
 More, more of Thee, my Saviour ! Though I learn 
 But little of the world and the world's ways, 
 And men pass by me in then rush for fame, 
 And friends forsake me, leaving me to pine 
 Where leafless branches rustle, and the ice 
 Of cold neglect hangs on the wither'd spray, 
 And hungry beasts are prowling, roaring loud, — 
 More, more of Thee, my Saviour ! Though the bars 
 Of some dark prison shut me from the light, 
 And chains press on my limbs, and I sit there, 
 An utter outcast, gnawing a dry crust, 
 And sipping stagnant waters, while the hands 
 Of Want and Woe pluck off the wasted hah, — 
 More, more of Thee, my Saviour ! Seas are cross'd, 
 And lands are traversed, for the dust of gold. 
 Bright blades are bared, red armies meet in strife, 
 Dark plots are laid, and, O, what blood is shed ! 
 Men ponder night and day, and day and night, 
 How they may fill then coffers. " Give me gold, 
 
 give me gold," cry out the multitude, 
 Pursuing gain hi paths all dark with gloom. 
 
 1 sigh not for earth's treasures. As Thou wilt, 
 Thou great Disposer, give or take away. 
 More, more of Thee, my Saviour ! If I walk 
 Through thorns and briers, or o'er beds of moss, 
 Where Plenty spreads her table ; if my path 
 
 Is rough with trial, or all smooth with joy ; 
 If Favour sing my praises in her poems, 
 Or Calumny deface the precious page ; 
 Whatever be my lot, where'er my place,
 
 44 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 
 
 If high or low, or be it rich, or poor, 
 In cloud or light, in sunshine or in shade, — 
 More, more of Thee, my Saviour, till I gaze 
 Upon Thy glory in the- land of love ! 
 
 How many mercies meet me on my way, 
 Making my life delightful ! Loving Mends, 
 Like sunlight in the darkness, wife and home, 
 And little children running at my call, 
 Climbing my knees, and mingling in my joys, 
 And sometimes sharing in my draught of woe. 
 O blessed Saviour, thank Thee for the buds 
 Around my table, lovelier than the green 
 Which robes the valleys redolent with rills. 
 And when I see the pining little one, 
 In other households, or the empty chair 
 And playthings left in quiet ; when I mark 
 The scalding tear upon the mother's face, 
 From mention of her darling whom the grave 
 Holds in the darkness ; when I sometimes hi 
 The church-bells toll among the solemn trees 
 For childhood in its greenness ; words of praise 
 Press to my lips, and gush up from my soul, 
 For those Thy love preserveth, blooming fair 
 In my home- garden by the blue sea- shore, 
 The breeze of health flowing among the leaves 
 Pencill'd with lines of beauty, yielding me 
 An everlasting summer. O what joy 
 To meet them at the hearth when evening comes, 
 Each like a ringing poem, and their eyes 
 Gleaming with glances of a brighter day ! 
 And when they sit around the frugal board, 
 Enjoying what our Father has bestow'd, 
 My cup of bliss uprises to the brim, 
 Bubbles and overflows, inspiring strains 
 That echo only in the home of love.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 45 
 
 Once more I shake me froni dull worldly thoughts 
 
 That twine into. my being, and look up 
 
 Where dwells the' Incarnate pleading for a world, 
 
 Praising Thy name, O Jesus. Have I not 
 
 Unnumber'd blessings ever at my side, 
 
 Both when I wake and when I rest in sleep, 
 
 Which others know not, and do not enjoy ? 
 
 Troubles I have, in common with my kin, 
 
 And sorrow upon sorrow, which all feel 
 
 Whilst journeying homeward through a land of foes. 
 
 But He who saw the humble fishermen, 
 
 On the wild billows near Bethsaida, 
 
 Toiling in rowing, and who walk'd the waste 
 
 Of surging waters with majestic step, 
 
 Proving His Godhead, quelling their hot fears, 
 
 And speaking down the tumult of the storm, 
 
 So that the winds fell powerless, and the blast 
 
 Shatter'd its trumpet, hurrying through the void, 
 
 Sees me a toiling rower on the sea 
 
 Of dark distress, toss'd with the fretful waves ; 
 
 And in His own good time will surely come 
 
 And whisper, " It is I ; be not afraid; " 
 
 Guiding my vessel to the port of peace. 
 
 Our horsemen linger by the widow's fire, 
 
 Where we may meet at the next chapter's close, 
 
 In fields of story, fresh from fatherland. 
 
 We left oiu- miner by the lady's lodge, 
 
 Blessing and blest, within his heart a joy 
 
 That giadden'd every object, driving far 
 
 The clouds of gloom which hung above his head, 
 
 Filling with light the glowing firmament, 
 
 And trees and dancing flowers, as forth he walk'd 
 
 Into the glory of the outer world.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 Death of the Prince Consort — Mourned by the Musician — Painter 
 — Poet — Senator — A weeping Nation — Prayer for our widowed 
 Sovereign — The Green Island — A woodbined Dwelling — The 
 Queen reading the Scriptures by the Couch of the Invalid — 
 Shore of Change — The three Homes — Cottage on the Crag — 
 Among the Mine-Pits- Near the Rushes — -The green Grave — 
 The honest Miner again Change iu his Feeliugs — Joy of 
 Nature — Sorrows of his Home — The kind Neighbour — The 
 weary Waiters — The anxious Mother — Rising Moon — The 
 Miner's Return — The Wretched relieved — Conversation of the 
 Horsemen — Storm again — Apostrophe to Carn Brea — Its 
 mineral Chambers — Story of second Rider — The IuGdel — His 
 impious Address — Morning Song of the little Girl — Echoes 
 from the Hollows — Conviction of the Infidel — Conversion — 
 Happy State of his .Mind — Death — Destruction of his Dwelling 
 — Story of first Rider — Death on a Doorstep — The blighted 
 Flower — The dark Den— Snow-Storm — Within and Without — 
 Wreck. 
 
 Muffle thy chords, my harp. — England's dear Queen 
 
 Is now a widow, clad in widow's weeds. 
 
 Her heart is bleeding, and a nation mourns. 
 
 Commerce was rife, the hum of merchandise 
 
 Rose from the earth, old ocean's arg( 
 
 Swept shoreward, and the noisy tongue of Time
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 47 
 
 Told of a world in action, when disease 
 
 Rush'd like a sable warrior in the dark, 
 
 And forced his spirit from him. The hrave Prince 
 
 Lay in the Royal castle, like a tree 
 
 Tom up in summer by the fierce monsoon, 
 
 In all its leaves apparell'd, and a cry 
 
 Of mortal anguish shudder'd o'er the globe. 
 
 Music sat wounded at her instrument, 
 
 With hot drops running o'er the silent wires. 
 
 Painting let fall her pencil with dim eyes, 
 
 And one sad vision on the canvass lower'd. 
 
 Poetry, with frozen thought, struggling for birth, 
 
 Ran o'er wild walks in blank bewilderment. 
 
 Amazement seized the senator, and wrapp'd 
 
 His utterances in mourning ; and a wail 
 
 Rose from unnumber'd hearts, heavy with grief. 
 
 O wondrous Prince ! drinking the wine of Peace, 
 
 And dying in her arnis, with vest unsoil'd, 
 
 And name uutarnish'd, leaving love behind. 
 
 O, pray we for our country and our Queen, 
 
 That red-robed "War may never stain our shores, 
 
 That strength be given her in this hour of need, 
 
 Aud all the scions round the Royal board, 
 
 To bear this dispeusation which roll'd by, 
 
 Leaving thick blackness on its midnight trail. 
 
 The cup is drunk, our widow'd Sovereign walks 
 
 Without her partner. We will hope her heart, 
 
 Soft as the sunshine on the ruomhig flower, 
 
 Will feel yet more for poverty and woe, 
 
 The widow and the orphan. Thus we pray, 
 
 " O Prince of princes, save our dearest Queen." 
 
 Leave the light boat upon the pebbly strand. 
 The shore is green with verdtue, and the leaves 
 Dip down into the waters : murmuring streams, 
 And singing birds, and echoes from the dells, 
 And cottages like fabrics of the fays,
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 .And flowers as numerous as the lights of heaven, 
 
 And many-colour'd as the bow of truth, 
 
 Make it a royal haunt where princely feet 
 
 Brush the bright mosses of a favour'd isle. 
 
 Turn down yon lane, loved for its crookedness, 
 
 Where bats wheel in the twilight, and the vow 
 
 Of early lovers trembles on the air : 
 
 And on the green hill's side behold a cot, 
 
 Guarded by angels. Softly walk ye now, 
 
 Nor let yoiu* garments rustle as ye pass 
 
 The woodbined window. In that cottage home 
 
 An old man lies afflicted on his bed, 
 
 And by his side a lady in dark weeds 
 
 Sits reading from the Bible. Gentle words 
 
 Float on the peasant's ear, and visions bright 
 
 Pass and repass before him, — battlements 
 
 Gilt with the sheen of harpers glory-clad, 
 
 And valleys trod by seraphs, whose white wings 
 
 Murniur delicious music : streets of gold, 
 
 And cities turretted with fadeless light ; 
 
 Flowers smiling sweetly in the upper sphere, 
 
 Where friends departed iningle ; and he longs 
 
 To shake life's burden off and be at rest. 
 
 And then a silent prayer ascends on high, 
 
 That God would bless the lady, whose dark weeds 
 
 Hang mournfully about her. Blush, O man 
 
 Denying truth, for this is England's Queen. 
 
 O happy nation, blest with such a head ! 
 
 Ten thousand voices, like the rush of waves, 
 
 Rise from the hills, and echo from the vales, 
 
 And thunder from the waters, " Saviour God, 
 
 O save our Queen, save, save our dearest Queen ! " 
 
 How are we toss'd and drifted ! Each high tide 
 Drags back our hopes into the black abyss, 
 And leaves us floundering on the shore of change. 
 Three pleasant homes, since busy life began,
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 49 
 
 Have closed their doors upon me, and I 've gone, 
 Leaving their feathers dewy with my tears. 
 My first was reed- surrounded and reed-roof d, 
 A cottage on the crag where heather-fays 
 And moorland fairies danced among the broom, 
 And music trill'd from Druid-trodden cam, 
 From fern and fen and bush and bending brake, 
 Or spann'd the welkin like a choir of chords. 
 Silence and Peace walk'd round it arm in arm, 
 And Poesy sang beneath its shaven eaves, 
 Or warbled by the hearth-stone, and the lore 
 Of lofty legends linger'd in its light. 
 
 blessed home, next to my home in heaven ! 
 With sunlight cover'd, when all else is gloom : 
 
 1 loved thee as a bridegroom his young bride, 
 And twined thy buds around my youthful harp. 
 I roam'd among thy fissures, like a thought 
 From the hot brain of some fame-foolish bard. 
 
 I heard within thy echoes trumpet-tongues, 
 
 Blown by the blast, and read upon thy rocks 
 
 Immortal cantos, chronicled by Time, 
 
 And in the twilight of the summer eve 
 
 Visions descried, — great hosts of bearded seers, 
 
 Or towers far distant on which harpers stood, 
 
 Or mountains crested with the sheen of heaven ; 
 
 And travelling through thy thickets, verse-imbued, 
 
 Whispers have floated round me, such as those 
 
 Whose life is poetry alone can hear. 
 
 Sweet home, all-precious, though I wander where 
 
 Pomp rules the scene, and show and chattering boast. 
 
 I turn my thought toward thy rude-built walls, 
 
 Now prostrate on the common, like the tar 
 
 Rowing to land, not seen for many years. 
 
 Bower of the Muses, where they ever sing, 
 
 Along thy hedge-rows, and amid thy moss, 
 
 Dearer than all and fresh as summer airs ! 
 
 Love drew me from thee with a thread of gold ;
 
 50 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 But evermore along life's bustling track 
 My spirit meets thee like a saint from bliss. 
 
 Among the mine-pits was my second home, 
 
 With earth's red ribs surrounded, hack'd away 
 
 By Cornish heroes underneath the sod, 
 
 And piled in heaps on the disfigured plain. 
 
 Here grew our earliest flower, still opening fair, 
 
 In childhood's garden, Like a plant from heaven, 
 
 Until the first dear word tripp'd from her tongue, 
 
 Filling our hearts with rapture, and we gazed 
 
 Into the future, beautiful with hope. 
 
 Here, too, my harp gave pleasure deep and still, 
 
 Although the hand of hard, grim-grinding Toil 
 
 Press'd on my limbs like metal, and my nerves 
 
 Tingled with weakness like a crazy chord. 
 
 My third was 'mid the rashes by the rill, 
 
 Babbling its beauty to the tall blue-bells, 
 
 Which kiss'd its waters as they sparkled by. 
 
 'T was a small nest, with pleasant garden-ground, 
 
 Built for myself. My own hands raised the stone 
 
 From an adjoining quarry, and our croft 
 
 Yielded me granite, which I split and brought. 
 
 And I had thought to pass my life away 
 
 In its seclusion, till the call arrived 
 
 To leave the shadow for the shadeless shore. 
 
 But, no ; it must not be. One autumn morn, 
 
 We started up, and left it in the mist 
 
 Which gather'd thick between our eyes and it, 
 
 And by the sea- shore with our babes we came. 
 
 Not all. There is a grave beneath the trees, 
 
 Small, daisy-cover'd, where the glow-worms shine, 
 
 And green grass grows, and freedom's favourites sing ; 
 
 And here one slumbers like a rose entomb'd. 
 
 But fifty moons have scarcely come and gone, 
 
 Ere we must leave again, and sorrowing go 
 
 To seek elsewhere a humble dwelling-place.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 51 
 
 But God will surely guide us on our way. 
 With my dear wife and loving little ones. 
 And harp, and book, and friendly brother-bards, 
 A hovel were a home, with hollow walls 
 And rended roof wind-swept upon a rock, 
 On Cornwall's moors, or 'mid the Alpine snows, 
 Sun-streak'd with beauty from the isle of love. 
 These changes, treading on each other's heels, 
 Will surely wean us from this world of woe, 
 And bind our spirits to the home of heaven. 
 
 Our miner left the town, as if a weight 
 
 Was sever'd from his person. All things changed. 
 
 A grandeur fill'd the universe, and glow'd 
 
 Above the highest hill-tops, streaming round 
 
 The gladden'd welkin like a zone of gold. 
 
 Sometimes he cried, sometimes he laugh'd, for joy. 
 
 He travell'd on his way, as through a grove 
 
 Of beauteous blossoms painted by the bard. 
 
 The flowers, and trees, and sparkling waters smiled, 
 
 With other faces fairer and more dear; 
 
 And every man and country bairn he met 
 
 Seem'd far more friendly than they were before. 
 
 He pass'd each public-house without a pang ; 
 
 His wife and dear ones rose before his ken, 
 
 Wooing his feet like angels, and his eyes 
 
 Beheld them imaged wheresoe'er he tum'd. 
 
 Elastic was his step, his song all flame, 
 
 And warm thanksgivings rush'd up from his soul. 
 
 The sounds of Nature alter'd ; voice of bird, 
 
 And running brook, and wonder-working wind, 
 
 And humming insect steering o'er the down, 
 
 And ploughboy whistling on the sloping lea, 
 
 Were far more musical than heretofore. 
 
 As suddenly as thoughts troop through the brain 
 
 The old dark World had put his wrinkles off, 
 
 Enamell'd with the rosy streaks of youth. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 A STORY OF CAEN BEEA. 
 
 So have I often felt when pay-days came, 
 With little hope for that which I required 
 To purchase blessings for niy family, 
 Denied me, though I labour VI hard and long : 
 If but an unexpected trifle dropp'd 
 Into my pocket, earth was dark no more, 
 And, hastening home to kiss my Little ones, 
 I felt as happy as a nation's king. 
 
 Return we to the cottage, where the wife 
 
 And loving mother waited wearily. 
 
 The children oft had started in their sleep, 
 
 And utter'd sobs of anguish ; now awake, 
 
 They cried for food. Nor did they cry in vain. 
 
 A neighboiu- poor, whose husband was a hind, 
 
 Broke her brown loaf in two, and brought them half, 
 
 Which, with a jug of milk, refresh'd them all, 
 
 And seem'd like manna to then - hungry lips. 
 
 But as the day declined, and on the hills 
 
 Huge shadows rested, they with tears inquired, 
 
 " Is father coming ? Why is he so long ! J 
 
 Wherefore is evening here, and he away ? 
 
 We have been looking through our window-panes 
 
 For long, long hoiu-s, and yet he does not come. 
 
 Why does he tarry when we feel such pains 
 
 Shooting through every artery like a fire ? 
 
 You told us that a lady of the west, 
 
 Whose soul was softer than the multitude, 
 
 Would surely send your hungry ones relief. 
 
 Haste, mother, to the corner of the road, 
 
 And see if father 's coming." Then she took 
 
 Her faded cloak and bonnet, and crept up 
 
 The narrow path, with thistles overgrown, 
 
 Where stood the waymark with its stony hands, 
 
 Pointing along the common ; but she saw 
 
 No husband through the halo of her tears.
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BKEA. 53 
 
 The moon was rising, and the wild bird slept 
 
 In the still thicket, when he reach'd his home, 
 
 And dandled baby once more on his knee. 
 
 His children gather'd round him, glad to hear 
 
 Of that day's travel, glad to grasp and eat 
 
 The sweetest bread that ever strengthen'd life. 
 
 He watch'd them with a heart from whence a stream 
 
 Of waters issued, bursting from his eyes. 
 
 " Could you have seen us," the pale widow said, 
 
 " Kneeling together in our little room, 
 
 And heard my husband's earnest prayer of praise 
 
 For mercies countless as the grains of sand, 
 
 Or drops of dew upon the locks of Morn, 
 
 Tou surely would have cause to weep anew. 
 
 But darker visions crowd upon my sense, 
 
 Beings of blackness, whose ghost-sheeted shapes 
 
 Hid for awhile the sunlight from my soul." 
 
 She paused amid her sobbings, which burst forth, 
 Stronger and stronger, as her tale unroll'd, 
 With sorrow-streaks along each wetted page, 
 Like winds that whistle ere they wound the world. 
 Then spoke the horsemen, wondering by the fire. 
 The first, with forehead bold and quiet eye, 
 Peer'd through the Gothic casement, uttering loud, 
 " How the great mountain like a rocky king 
 Stands silent in the tempest ! Not a gust 
 With water laden, rushing with fierce front 
 Against his wrinkles, but he shakes it off, 
 Like filmy atoms from an insect's wing. 
 The thunder growls upon his splinter'd head, 
 Telling from cave to cave, and every crag, 
 Carved by the Druid in the olden time, 
 When men were wont to worship on his crest, 
 Seems like a fiery pillar, as the flames 
 Leap from the clouds, and lick their knotty sides. 
 He, awful in his calmness, shakes his locks,
 
 54 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 And gazes up into the solemn shy, 
 As if a strain of music shooh the air. 
 
 wondrous mountain, 'neath thy ribs of rock 
 Lie beds of precious mineral, which, when Time 
 With tardy feet hath crept through other years, 
 Shall cheer the seeker with their shining store. 
 Rude ridge of boulders, cam of polish'd crag ! 
 Eternal utterer of the Deity, 
 
 1 muse within thy shadow, and look up, 
 As on the face of the Invisible, 
 
 And sounds rush from thee in the tempest's clang, 
 
 And rattle round the portals of my soul, 
 
 Like oracles from the eternal hills ; 
 
 And I have thought in childhood, when my feet 
 
 First press'd the mosses that hang down thy sides, 
 
 And bore me wondering 'mid thine isles of rock, 
 
 That on a night of tempest, wild and weird, 
 
 The Man i' the Moon had tumbled boulders down, 
 
 Which, rolling rudely, raised thee, root and rib. 
 
 I need no other monitor to show 
 
 The impress of Jehovah. Thou art full 
 
 Of the Eternal, and His voice is heard 
 
 Among the Druid temples of Cam Brea." 
 
 Then spoke the second rider, with a face 
 All summer'd over like a July lake : 
 " There 's not a sound vibrating from the chords 
 Of the hill's harp but thunders of the Lord, 
 The mighty Maker of this beetling dome. 
 Beside yon lodge, with lichen cover'd o'er, 
 Once stood a cottage, where an old man dwelt, 
 Grey as the granite round the castle's base. 
 He wore an ancient hat, and shaggy coat, 
 With buttons white as silver ; on his shoes 
 Were shining buckles, and where'er he went, 
 His curly dog would bear him company. 
 But on his face there was a settled gloom.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 55 
 
 He was a mighty reader, and devour'd 
 
 Books by the parcel, books of baser sort, 
 
 Shadow'd with doubt, and doleful with despair. 
 
 The Bible he believed not, never read 
 
 Except to cavil ; and the sun, and moon, 
 
 And silver stars, green earth and sounding sea, 
 
 Were on his calendar as imps of chance. 
 
 He turn'd his forehead to the blushing sky, 
 
 And with his lips he utter'd blasphemies, 
 
 And madly shouted, ' There 's no God, no God ! ' 
 
 He vow'd that heaven and hell were fables both, 
 
 And man would perish like the roving kine ; 
 
 That all went down and rotted in the earth, 
 
 And there it ended. At the judgment day 
 
 He laugh'd, and wildly laugh'd at death, and said, 
 
 That when it came, he 'd meet it without fear, 
 
 And go to sleep in quiet. Thus he grew 
 
 Yet hard and harder every passing day, 
 
 Until his soul was crusted o'er with wrong, 
 
 And childhood fair and staff- supported age 
 
 Pass'd by him, whispering, ' That 's the infidel.' 
 
 Poor hopeless outcast, blinded in a blaze 
 
 Of heaven's own glory gilding the great world ! 
 
 Open thine eyes, blank idiot, and behold 
 
 God in the meanest newt or noblest form. 
 
 " The morning sun illumed the castle's crest, 
 And shot his rays athwart the solemn earn, 
 As forth he wander'd, listening to the lai-k, 
 Trilling his sonnets on the spires of light ; 
 When, mingling with his anthem, he o'erheard 
 A gentle carol trembling through the dews ; 
 And, looking, he beheld a little girl, 
 Now half way up the mountain, climbing still 
 A narrow sheep-path, singing as she rose, 
 ' I thank Thee, Father, that mine eyes behold 
 Another nioming. All night long hast Thou
 
 5S A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Been iny protector, so that no rude tiling 
 Came near my dwelling, sickness or alarm ; 
 And now Tliy little lamb would come again, 
 
 gentle Shepherd, asking Thee to guide 
 My youthful feet into the way of life. 
 
 And when I die, O take me home to heaven.' 
 
 And every rock and toppling stony heap, 
 
 And flower, and fem, and furze-bush beautiful, 
 
 And matin breeze, sweet murmuring o'er the down, 
 
 Seem'd strangely echoing, ' Take me home to heaven.' 
 
 Through the fresh air, from myriad tongues unseen, 
 
 Floating on cloudlets or the zephyr's wing, 
 
 Or borne by birds across the mossy turf, 
 
 These words came ringing, ' Take me home to heaven.' 
 
 In his dark soul it sounded like a bell 
 
 "With muffled cadence, ' Take me home to heaven.' 
 
 The old hill seem'd to shout it, and on high 
 
 A shining seraph, sweeping through the dawn, 
 
 Chimed it upon his harp with golden strings. 
 
 He stood, as if with sudden sickness seized ; 
 
 His limbs were paralysed, a heavy weight 
 
 Was resting on his person, all his sins 
 
 Stood naked round him, while dread Tophet's flames 
 
 Seem'd redly rising even at his feet. 
 
 He roar'd like one Hck'd with the tongue of Fire. 
 
 ' There is a God. O yes, there is a God. 
 
 1 feel it now, it bums through every vein. 
 That little angel, climbing, with her prayer 
 Of simple sweetness, up those quiet heights, 
 Seems more than mortal. God has used this child 
 To lead an aged sinner to Himself; 
 
 So that the weak has overcome the strong. 
 Be merciful, O Lord, be merciful. 
 I here renounce my wickedness and crime, 
 And fall upon Thy goodness : save, O save, 
 The vilest wretch that ever trod the ground.'
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BKEA. 57 
 
 " Weeks crept away, with blackness on then' wings, 
 
 And still he groan'd, in agony untold ; 
 
 Till, one soft evening, as the sun went down, 
 
 A voice came murmuring through the bending broom, 
 
 ' I blot thy sins out, for the Saviour's sake ; ' 
 
 And he was happy. So his latter life 
 
 Was full of faith and deeds of charity. 
 
 He bore the fruits of love to God and man. 
 
 His curse was turn'd to prayer, his sneer to praise, 
 
 And joy was beaming from his aged eyes ; 
 
 The winter of despair had left his soul, 
 
 And summer glory overflow'd the void ; 
 
 He drank from clearest rills, and walk'd with God. 
 
 Dying at last, he enter'd into rest, 
 
 Leaving no scion to prolong his name ; 
 
 And soon his rude-built cottage walls decay'd, 
 
 The roof fell in, and on a night of storm 
 
 It lay upon the heather in a heap, 
 
 And now the site is a smooth bed of moss. 
 
 'T is thus we fall, and perish from life's page." 
 
 Then spoke the rider of poetic eye : 
 
 " To-day a tale came tear-hung to our home, 
 
 Filling our souls with sadness. Woe of woes, 
 
 Death on a door-step 'neath the frosty stars. 
 
 Not age down-drooping, but a green young girl, 
 
 Blacken'd and broken hi the porch of June. 
 
 She turn'd aside from virtue, and went down 
 
 The way of wrong, with poison-fruit o'erhung, 
 
 Slipping at every step, until she fell 
 
 Where tears are shed not, and the heart is rock. 
 
 Behold her in a den of infamy, 
 
 Quaffing the cup of crime with front of fire, 
 
 Singing lewd songs, and uttering woful words, 
 
 In fluttering feathers, faded like herself, 
 
 The very queen of Satan's high-fumed court. 
 
 Too soon a change pass'd o'er her : she grew old
 
 58 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 
 
 Before her summer, and the rose of youth 
 
 Died like a blasted primrose on the moor. 
 
 Her lovers all departed, hope fell dead, 
 
 And tongues of torture shot through every vein. 
 
 She dared not look above : the frowning heavens 
 
 Pour'd withering curses on her sinking soul. 
 
 She gazed around, and all her May-day friends 
 
 Had vanish'd, leaving her to writhe alone, 
 
 With full-eyed Hunger staring from bis stand. 
 
 No ray of light gleam'd in the cave of gloom. 
 
 The snow fell fast, the wintry winds were loose, 
 
 Rolling their white cars o'er the frozen hills. 
 
 Muffled in rags, she stole into the street, 
 
 And laid her down beside the rich man's gate. 
 
 Within were happy faces, pleasant cheer, 
 
 Great blazing fires, a sounding sea of song, 
 
 Beauty on cushions, niirth and sparkhhg wines. 
 
 Outside the door, in withering loneliness, 
 
 A dying wreck, with snow, and wailing wind, 
 
 And biting frost, her cruel ministers. 
 
 Thus beaten by the tempest's wing she lay, 
 
 Till from a chasm of the fearful gale 
 
 Death dropp'd and slew her. Still within went on 
 
 The feast and song, the wine and revelry ; 
 
 And Morning, struggling through her icy doors, 
 
 Reveal'd a vision sad as sin can stain."
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 This blind Fiddler — His little Girl — History — Sudden Explosion of 
 the Hole — Echoes of his Violin — Story of Second Rider — The 
 Farmer — The Mocker — Sudden Fall — Buin — Mysterious De- 
 parture — -Stories of First Rider — The Christian again — Devotion 
 to the Cause of Christ — Conversation — Love for the Bible and 
 closet Prayer — Sobriety — Humility — Charity — Last Sleep — 
 The old Man and his Tombstone — His easy Nature — Teaching 
 of the Seasons — Moral Darkness — Thirst for Fame — Tin Box 
 — Bible Reader — New Light — Resolution — Change — Exit — 
 The Spirit's Sword — The Moorland Mother — Her froward Sou 
 ■ — Prayer at his Bedside — Emigration — Conversion in a strange 
 Land — The Petition answered — The blessed Sheet — The 
 "Widow's Story again — Her changeful Path — Hope in God — 
 The harvest Wain — The Redbreast — The Miner's Departure — 
 Affection for his Children — The Wife's "Watching. 
 
 I had been busy with a little poem, 
 Making and mending, when I took my book, 
 And started up to walk into tbe fields, 
 To gather inspiration from the flowers, 
 And happy birds, and lyric-laden breeze ; 
 And, turning round a corner by a stile, 
 I saw a blind man with his violin, 
 Singing and playing to some villagers, 
 Led by a little girl of six years old,
 
 60 A STORY OP CAEN BEEA. 
 
 Ruddy and beautiful, and thinly clad, 
 Who carol'd cadence to her father's chime. 
 He wore a coat of bargain, and a hat 
 Long mock'd by tempests and the pelting rain ; 
 A green eye- shade conceal'd his sightless orbs, 
 And on his face the powder- grains had left 
 The impress of their riot, pits and ruts 
 And fearful scars, with bottoms black and sides. 
 One hand was splintered, half the fingers gone, 
 And the dried wrist, all blacken'd with the blast, 
 Seem'd like a moving cinder of ckarr'd wood, 
 Guiding the bow across the warbling strings. 
 
 what a wreck he look'd, a human wreck ! 
 And yet he sang and play'd so pleasantly, 
 As if he were the happiest man alive. 
 
 1 stood to listen, and the pity-drops 
 
 Came to my lids to hear those ringing strains, 
 
 Rising and swelling on the evening ah. 
 
 If he were happy, blind and blacken'd so, 
 
 Half fed and weary, on whom wind and rain 
 
 And bitter cold pour'd all then- violence, 
 
 How should my song of gratitude arise 
 
 For mercies, numerous as the countless sands, 
 
 Strewn on my path, and clustering round my board ! 
 
 His little girl sang with him, and her eyes 
 
 Oft look'd imploringly on those around. 
 
 ' T was a sad sight. Within a reedy shed, 
 
 On a wild earn, sis little ones were left, 
 
 Wrapp'd up in woe, and wrung by wasting want, 
 
 Watch'd by a loving mother, woe-begone, 
 
 With scarce enough to keep them from the worms. 
 
 And day by day this pensive couple pass'd 
 
 From town to town, to sing for daily bread, 
 
 Not only for themselves, but those at home. 
 
 I gave the child a trifle, and pass'd on ; 
 
 But through the rushes and among the ferns, 
 
 Beside the hedgerow and along the lane,
 
 A STOEY OF CAEN BEEA. 61 
 
 Over the pools and quivering through the trees, 
 
 Their touching ditty sounded, and I heard 
 
 The sharp shrill shiver of the violin. 
 
 ye enjoying eyesight, when you gaze 
 
 Upon the beauties of this under -world, 
 
 On moon and stars, comets and wandering clouds, 
 
 That glow serenely in the upper sphere, 
 
 Think of the poor blind miner, and relieve 
 
 The wandering minstrel singing through the gloom. 
 
 His history is soon told. One Autumn mora, 
 
 He left his cot, and travell'd to the mine ; 
 
 But not before he bent above the beds 
 
 Where slept his treasures, kissing every one, 
 
 Then parting from them, ne'er to see them more. 
 
 He hasten'd down the ladders, and full soon 
 
 Was at his labour, boring the hard rock. 
 
 He placed a charge of powder in the hole, 
 
 Filling it half-way up, and the top part 
 
 With a soft stone he had design'd to fill, 
 
 The usual course when blasting the hard ground, 
 
 Tamping it to the top. Alas, alas ! 
 
 When beating down the second floor, a spark 
 
 Ignited the closed charge, and off it crash'd, 
 
 Like a great peal of thunder, dashing him 
 
 Back several fathoms ; and when consciousness 
 
 Came, like a stranger, wondering at the change, 
 
 His eyesight had departed, and his limbs 
 
 Hung like the blasted branches of the beech, 
 
 Lick'd with the livid lightning. If you ask 
 
 His first fresh thoughts as he lay groaning there, 
 
 He '11 tell you that his soul was uppermost, 
 
 And then his wife and children. Poor, poor man ! 
 
 'T was sad to see him, after weeks of pain, 
 
 And long, long months of anguish, borne in trust 
 
 And Christian meekness, sitting by his fire, 
 
 Feeling the faces of his little ones,
 
 62 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 And playing with their ringlets, telling them 
 That he should ne'er behold their eyes again, 
 Or gaze upon their beauty, but then - hope 
 Must now be in the God who made the heavens, 
 And soon they should behold each other there. 
 Then, as his limbs grew strong enough to bear 
 His wasted body, and his children's cries 
 Rose loud for help, he took his cottage-harp, 
 "Which he had practised when he was a boy, 
 And with his little maiden wander'd forth 
 Among the hamlets, singing for their bread ; 
 And day by day is heard the violin 
 Amid the mountains and upon the moors. 
 
 Then spoke the rider, twisting round his chair : 
 " 'T is sad the havoc the great foe hath made, 
 Since first let loose to blight the wicked world. 
 Fire, sword, diseases, haggard pestilence, 
 Storm, earthquake, famine, with ten thousand ills, 
 Like whetted scythes, mow down the field of man. 
 I knew a farmer, who went step by step 
 O'er misery's steep, until his end came on, 
 As sudden as the warrior blade to blade. 
 Wine was his mocker, till it madly huii'd 
 Him, blinded, from the earth before his Judge. 
 One market-day he left his injured wife 
 And gentle babes, and promised to return 
 When evening shadows fell upon the flower. 
 But eve approach'd, a summer eve and still, 
 And night with all its stars and blessed dreams, 
 And yet he came not. At the farm-yard gate 
 She crept to listen, then went back again 
 To weep and wonder. Shadows flitted round, 
 Or scowl'd among the pictures on the wall. 
 Perch 'd on the chairs, or sat upon the stools. 
 She hid her face, and silent was her prayer. 
 The clock struck two ; she sought the gate again,
 
 A STORY OP CAEN BREA. 63 
 
 Again to feel no comfort ; not a sound 
 
 Pass'd through the stillness, save the river's moan. 
 
 The clock struck three : she heard the horse's hoofs, 
 
 And, rushing through the door, beheld, sad sight ! 
 
 The steed without its rider. Months lagg'd on, 
 
 And years of sorrow trail'd into the dark. 
 
 The widow's hah* tum'd grey upon her brow ; 
 
 Her eyes had ceased to weep, her heart to bleed. 
 
 Her children gone, she lived in loneliness, 
 
 With heaven before her shining like a sun, 
 
 And yet no tidings of the lost one came. 
 
 Conjecture's page was rife ; — the assassin's blade, 
 
 The river's bed, the mine-pit's awful gloom, 
 
 The sea's dark grotto, or the hungry bog, 
 
 Perhaps engulph'd him. This is all that 's known. 
 
 He left the highway inn at one o'clock, 
 
 Weltering in wine, and dizzy with the dose. 
 
 The cunning landlord help'd him on his horse, 
 
 Received his money with a gracious smile, 
 
 Bade him good night, and tum'd the pony's head 
 
 Into the long lane leading to the moor. 
 
 He swagger'd in his saddle, and rode on. 
 
 The widow died, and gone is all her kin. 
 
 Long hath the landlord slunk iuto the grave. 
 
 Mysteries have risen, shook then - dark drapery off, 
 
 And stalk'd about the world in weeds of light ; 
 
 But till this hour a haze has overcast 
 
 The fate of this poor drunkard, which, pei'haps, 
 
 Will He beneath the cloudy hill of doubt 
 
 Until the judgment of the last great day." 
 
 " How differently our friend we left behind, 
 In the green graveyard, 'neath the castle walls, 
 Lived ! " said the other, resting on his hand. 
 " And living well, he died in perfect peace. 
 The stranger lingering 'mid our lodes, who saw 
 His face among his fellows, and o'erheard
 
 64 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 The gentle words that nrarmur'd from his tongue, 
 
 Felt in his heart he was a man of God. 
 
 The April of his life, his May-day hours, 
 
 His summer season and rich autumn brown, 
 
 Were all devoted to the cause of truth. 
 
 Sobriety sat down in plain attire 
 
 Beside his table, and, where'er he walk'd, 
 
 It bore the pilgrim pleasant company. 
 
 His conversation, like a purling brook, 
 
 Even for ever, though the rude storm strove, 
 
 Flow'd freely, never rushing o'er its bounds. 
 
 The neighbours prized him, and believed his word, 
 
 And sought his counsel when discomfort came, 
 
 Or trouble roll'd upon them, which he gave 
 
 Free, without grudging, filling life with love. 
 
 The Bible was his compass, chart, and guide. 
 
 He took the lowest place, and deem'd himself 
 
 Unworthy as an officer of Heaven. 
 
 He feasted with Humility, and sat 
 
 Among the rich grapes iu her porch of rest. 
 
 Religion with him was an awful thing, 
 
 Too dread to handle lightly : hence he fell 
 
 In awe before her, all unworthiness. 
 
 He wrestled in his closet, all alone, 
 
 On hill and valley, with the Lord of life. 
 
 'T was there he won his greatest victories, 
 
 And drank more largely of the wine of heaven. 
 
 At times he lifted up his voice in prayer 
 
 In public places, feeling it a cross. 
 
 At times he utter'd words which served to cheer 
 
 The faint disciple of the blessed Christ. 
 
 At times he warn'd the sinner to repent. 
 
 But all was managed meekly, and much good 
 
 Was oft acconrplish'd in his Master's name. 
 
 The great God bless'd the labour of his hands, 
 
 So that he prosper'd daily, and his alms 
 
 Oft dropp'd into the shrivell'd palm of Want.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 65 
 
 He went about the country like a balm 
 
 For Hearts care-broken, by bis look, and word, 
 
 And cheerful deed, perforni'd with earnest prayer. 
 
 His bfe was one convincing homily, 
 
 To win the wicked and to serve the saint. 
 
 Death came, and in his little upper room, 
 
 With glory filPd, fronting the morning star, 
 
 Bright angels gather'd, and he fell asleep 
 
 With Canaan's odours passing o'er his soul. 
 
 " Now take another scene from memory's page : 
 Amid the rocks he dwelt, and waterfalls, 
 And Druid hills with strange-carved crags a-top : 
 An easy man, with brain enough to think 
 How cattle sold, and com, and farming crops, 
 And just no more : this was enough for him. 
 A small horizon bounded by the heights 
 And heathery downs, distinguish'd from his door, 
 In which his mind revolved for sixty years. 
 The seasons came, with wisdom on their wings, 
 And teachings for the thoughtful, morn and eve, 
 And day and night, the sun, and moon, and stars, 
 Telling of God, and whispering of His love. 
 And yet he heard not, saw not, and his soul 
 Grew dark and darker every passing hour. 
 The flowers arose and cast their fragrance forth, » 
 Breathing of Him who made them ; and the birds 
 Sang in the valleys then- Creator's name ; 
 And every stone, and steep, and rushy rill, 
 And roaring torrent, rolling down the rocks, 
 And cowslips clinging to the shelly ledge, 
 And shining insect humming o'er the heath, 
 Had each a tongue which trill'd the name of God. 
 And yet he heard it not, but closed his ears, 
 And shut his eyes, and groped about in gloom, 
 Quenching the light within him, till he seem'd 
 Almost as callous as his native crags ;
 
 66 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 And many shook their heads in sage debate, 
 Saying, ' Alas ! there 's little hope for him.' 
 But good art Thou, O Father, and Thy love 
 Extends to every atom Thou hast made ; 
 Chiefly to man, the noblest of Thy works, 
 Drawing the farthest wanderer to Thyself, 
 Refusing none, receiving all mankind, 
 Not willing that the vilest should be lost, 
 But giving Jesus that the world might live. 
 
 " Strange that within the landscape of his thoughts 
 
 There should be found a phantom men call fame, 
 
 Glistering in raiment brighter than the mora, 
 
 And that, amid the stillness of his home, 
 
 Where rushes waved and hawthorns niark'd the meads, 
 
 This easy man should sigh to be renown'd, 
 
 And hunger after immortality. 
 
 Tet so it was. On every New Tear's Day 
 
 He dropp'd a trifle in a small tin box, 
 
 Which, he had said, when lying with the worms, 
 
 Would buy his tombstone, and his name would live 
 
 Within the village when the tower tum'd grey. 
 
 And so the box remain'd, a sacred thing 
 
 Not to be open'd till was oped his grave. 
 
 One April morn, when buds were on the brea, 
 
 And primrose clusters from the coppice peer'd, 
 
 Like angel-eyes, inspiring thoughts of song, 
 
 And waking melodies that slumber'd deep 
 
 Within the soul, a Bible-reader came, 
 
 And oped the treasures of the holy book 
 
 Before his eyes, and bade him gaze and hive ; 
 
 And, passing on, he left him to his thoughts. 
 
 All this was new to him, a region fair, 
 
 And bright, and wonderful, and rich with hope. 
 
 Man lost and ruin'd, but redeem'd and saved, 
 
 Justice appeased, the Father reconciled, 
 
 And the great Conqueror spoiling Death and Hell,
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 67 
 
 Opening the gates of glory to a world, — 
 All this was new to him. The Spirit shone 
 Into his heart, and one by one the scales 
 Fell from his eyeballs, till he clearly saw 
 The path of life, and walk'd the way to heaven. 
 
 " Daylight was done, and night came stealing on, 
 
 A night of cloud and tempest. How they rush 
 
 Above the hills, and hurry through the air, 
 
 Like muffled monarchs marching on to doom ! 
 
 The angry Wind lifts up his dreadful front, 
 
 And yells in fury on the trembling heights, 
 
 Shaking the earth and stirring up the sea, 
 
 Roaring around the reedy hamlet-home, 
 
 And knocking like a robber at the door. 
 
 Such was the world without, as he sat down 
 
 Beside his fire of peat, with new -bom thoughts 
 
 Thronging the galleries of his wondering soul. 
 
 His wife, in linen weeds, and spectacles, 
 
 Was mending an old garment ; on the shelf 
 
 The hour-glass stood, with brown sands trickling down, 
 
 Where pewter plates and pewter teapots shone ; 
 
 In the wood-comer's entrance slept the cat, 
 
 And o'er the flower-pots by the lattice hung 
 
 A cage, and bird with beak beneath its wing. 
 
 Gone were their children, married all, and gone ; 
 
 And so life's autumn closed them in its calm. 
 
 At last he spoke, and said, ' Yes, I 'm resolved 
 
 That when to-niorrow's stui looks o'er the hill, 
 
 I '11 ope my box, and, be it rain or shine, 
 
 I '11 take the money to the minister 
 
 To help the cause of Christ. This is my all, 
 
 And long have I been thinking it would buy 
 
 My tombstone, and our famous village bard 
 
 Might write my epitaph, and I should live 
 
 For generations 'mid our moors and meads. 
 
 All this I now abandon for His sake 
 
 F 2
 
 68 A STORY OF CARN BEEA. 
 
 Who scatter'd my thick darkness with His light, 
 That others may believe and feel like me.' 
 And year by year he walk'd with humble feet 
 The road to Zion, and his influence, 
 Silent as dew, was felt where'er he moved, 
 And many fear'd, and sought and found the Lord. 
 His last horn- came. "With shining armour on, 
 He stepp'd into the boat, and reach'd the shore, 
 And landed where a dart is never hutTd. 
 
 " How does it thrill through every chord of life 
 
 To hear of princes clad in peasant weeds, 
 
 Monarchs in frieze, and kings in coarsest vests, 
 
 Or queens apparelFd like the cottage dame, 
 
 Wielding the Spirit's sword with mighty power, 
 
 Mi iving Jehovah on His throne of stars, 
 
 And bringing down upon the sons of men 
 
 A flood of blessing from the sky of Love ! 
 
 I knew a mother, living on a moss, 
 
 Who quietly pursued her humble way 
 
 Along life's road, communing with her Lord. 
 
 She had a fro ward son, who took his seat 
 
 Among the scomers, greedy after wrong. 
 
 He laugh'd at goodness, in whatever form, 
 
 And ridiculed religion, saying they 
 
 Were easy souls who sought her sacred shade. 
 
 He walk'd unblushing to the drunkard's den, 
 
 And roar'd his ragged carol, stealing home, 
 
 With reason reeling round an any ring, 
 
 When Midnight sat upon the darken'd hills, 
 
 Or Morn came blushing through her golden porch 
 
 And as he lay, all feverish, on his bed, 
 
 She, deeming him asleep, would softly steal 
 
 Into his chamber, and kneel down to pray. 
 
 I fancy that I hear her as she cries : 
 
 ' O blessed Saviour ! Thou who didst come down 
 
 From highest heaven to seek and save the lost,
 
 A STORY OP CAEN BREA. 69 
 
 Have mercy on my wandering, wicked boy, 
 And let Thy Spirit lead his erring feet 
 Into the upright land, where all is safe ! 
 O let Thy holy will by him be done, 
 That by and by, when time shall be no more, 
 We both may happy be where Jesus reigns ! ' 
 And then, as softly as she came she went, 
 To wipe away her tears and pray alone. 
 
 " Time roll'd along upon his cloudy car 
 
 By winged coursers drawn, till, one spring mom, 
 
 When buds were bursting to the gush of song, 
 
 And rills stole softly round the primrose banks, 
 
 He left his native land, and o'er the seas 
 
 A vessel bore him to another clime. 
 
 Here he remain'd for years, as rock, unchanged, 
 
 Timiing his back upon the cause of Christ, 
 
 And seeking rest to find increasing woe ; 
 
 Till one rude night, when Horror was abroad, 
 
 And thunder rush'd from groaning hill to hill, 
 
 As reeling through the forest to his shed, 
 
 A change pass'd o'er him swifter than the light. 
 
 Nought was or is, above, around, below, 
 
 Without, within, but with an angry tongue 
 
 It yell'd reproof. In the red thunder's roar 
 
 Deep condemnation rattled : every sheet 
 
 Of lurid flame that dash'd across the dark 
 
 Glared like a dreadful monster, uttering doom. 
 
 The black pine forest shook its mighty arms, 
 
 And seem'd to menace wildly, while his guilt 
 
 Hose like a great hill, cover'd o'er with clouds. 
 
 He fell upon the ground, and cried to God, 
 
 Rose and pursued his way ; then fell again, 
 
 And cried, yet louder. Feeling no relief, 
 
 He reach'd his injured home, and wail'd till morn ; 
 
 And after many bitter days and nights 
 
 Rose up renew'd. He tum'd away froni sin,
 
 70 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 And lived another life, of faith and love, 
 
 Preaching the Cross he had despised before. 
 
 That praying mother, in her little room, 
 
 By angels guarded, still exists in peace, 
 
 And but a few short moons ago received 
 
 A letter from him, which she rightly call'd 
 
 ' A blessed sheet,' relating how the Lord 
 
 Had heard her prayer, and blotted out his sins. 
 
 ' You used to steal into my room,' said he, 
 
 ' When I lay drunk upon my bed, and kneel 
 
 And pray, believing me asleep ; but I 
 
 Have heard your words, and they have follow'd me, 
 
 Like Heaven's own echoes, wheresoe'er I went ; 
 
 And now your son is on the King's highway.' 
 
 But day is dying, and we fain would hear 
 
 Our widow's story. Will you end it, dame ? " 
 
 The matron wiped her eyes, and thus began : 
 " My path through life has been mark'd out by Him 
 Who cannot err, and so I know 't is right. 
 Sometimes in cloud, sometimes in brightest sun, 
 Sometimes in mist, sometimes in clearest blue, 
 Sometimes o'er flowers, and oft where thorns abound. 
 Such has my journey proved towards my rest. 
 But life all summer would have chain'd my heart 
 To lower objects than the bliss of heaven ; 
 Prosperity unbroken would have bound 
 My spirit to the creature ; and a walk 
 All smoothness would have led me to the pit. 
 Sweet was my childhood, sweet my hymnful youth, 
 And sweet my womanhood and married life, 
 Though cares came creeping as my steps advanced. 
 And now, when, lone and wintry, I look up, 
 With much of thankfulness, and trust, and hope 
 For help below and happiness above, 
 And like a lonely plover on the moor, 
 With night approaching, I awake my cry,
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 71 
 
 If haply I may soon regain my mate." 
 
 And then she told them how, when ripe fruit hung 
 
 Within the orchard, and the harvest-wain 
 
 Roll'd laden from the corn-field, when among 
 
 The changing leaves the swallows held their court, 
 
 Ere they departed to a warmer clime, 
 
 And robin sang in silence, drawing near 
 
 The open casement with his whistling note, 
 
 Her husband donn'd his Sunday dress, unlock'd 
 
 A little chest, and gladly took therefrom 
 
 Three guineas for the lady. Then he kiss'd 
 
 His olive- branches, bade his wife good bye, 
 
 And said, " Expect me when the moon's locks rest 
 
 Upon the mountain : Heaven preserve you all ! " 
 
 And, resting on his staff, he cross'd the brook, 
 
 And hasted up the footpath o'er the stile, 
 
 And soon was lost among the rising hills. 
 
 She scann'd him from the casement, till her eyes 
 
 Grew dim with gazing, and a sudden rash 
 
 Of pale presentment bow'd her to her chair. 
 
 Never had warrior to the murder field, 
 
 Or mariner on long discovering voyage, 
 
 Or traveller to pile of ancient fame, 
 
 Intenser watching than she gave her lord.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Honest Miner's Walk to the Benevolent Lady — His Apprecia- 
 tion of Nature — God in everything — The precious Name — 
 Soliloquy — Eulogy on the Bible — None hut Jesus — Christ All 
 in All — Earth's Changes — The old Man by the Tree — Loss of 
 his Kindred — His Love of the Hills — Kind Greetings — Hayle 
 River — The Rising Tide — Fording the Channel — The drowning 
 Man — Evening — Children at Prayer — Fireside Happiness — My 
 Cornish Cabin — The Mother and her Bible — Her pious Medi- 
 tations — The solemn Rustle — Midnight Watching — Sad Tidings 
 — Resignation— The pale Messenger — Surprising Discovery — 
 The Funeral — The Honest Miner apostrophized — Cessation of 
 the Storm — Sea-gull — Miner's Child — Thatcher — Riders again 
 — The Corn-gleaner — Furze-glen — Summer — The Fisher — 
 Lizard Lights — Cottage by the Brook — The great Wave — The 
 Forsaken Nest — The parting Lay — Meteor — Exit of the 
 Horsemen — Conclusion. 
 
 He walk'd along, delighted with the world, 
 Delighted with himself, and all he met ; 
 His eyes beheld, in everything around, 
 The grandeur of the Highest. In the hills, 
 Golden with heather, he discover'd God ; 
 In the rude rocks that ribb'd them, and the clouds 
 That gather 'd on their summits, and the light 
 Which oped then- revelations, clearly he
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 73 
 
 Saw God ; and in the valleys shining, God ; 
 
 In the dear wayside flowers, and narrow rills, 
 
 The trees, and shrubs, mosses, and blades of grass, 
 
 And humming bees, and sporting butterflies, 
 
 And white sand-grains along the sea-shore, God ; 
 
 Above, below, and all around him, God. 
 
 His mind was full of light, his soul of prayer, 
 
 As, climbing hills and threading quiet dales, 
 
 He thus soliloquized 'mid fems and fens : 
 
 " What joy to taste the stillness of the moors ! 
 
 I feel afraid to shake their holiness 
 
 By breathing freely. Silence, beating heart, 
 
 And let me listen to the feet of God. 
 
 He walks among the mosses, where the flow 
 
 Of Nature's anthem murmurs on the ear. 
 
 I rush away from man, to pour my thanks 
 
 Forth in her temple fill'd up with the Lord. 
 
 The rivers are my trumpets, and the trill 
 
 Of tongues unnumber'd my sweet choristers. 
 
 What bliss to worship here beneath the blue 
 
 Of heaven's broad ceiling, without fear of man ! 
 
 Sweet breeze, O bear upon thy odorous wings 
 
 The praises of my Saviour ! Hear it, heaven, 
 
 And echo it, O earth, and roll it far, 
 
 Thou everlasting ocean. If I die 
 
 On some sharp crag, alone and hunger-pierced, 
 
 I '11 breathe the name of Jesus. If the sea 
 
 Engulph me in its grottoes, struggling hard 
 
 To foil the monster, that all-precious Name 
 
 Shall bubble from the breakers. If far off, 
 
 In some thick forest, where the wild beast roars 
 
 And serpents lick the dust, the hovering bird 
 
 Behold me pining, watching for my fall, 
 
 The name of Jesus from my closing lips 
 
 Shall but half- scare him from his quivering prey. 
 
 If, in the quiet of our moorland cot, 
 
 My spirit breaks its. fetters, or within
 
 74 A STORY OF CAEN BEEA. 
 
 The workhouse walls life's burden I lay down ; 
 If in the mine I meet my sudden doom. 
 Or fall on Time's highway o'errun with care ; 
 My latest utterance shall be Jesu's name. 
 
 " I turn my face towards those rock-crown'd earns, 
 
 Silently solemn, feeling that the law 
 
 Of God condemns me, and my trembling soul, 
 
 Beclouded, cries, ' Where shall I look for hope ? ' 
 
 And the deep desert rolls the query back. 
 
 ' Where shall I look for hope ? ' The towering trees, 
 
 Nature's true prophets, ranged along the vale, 
 
 Look kindly on me in their green-leaf robes, 
 
 Fresh, beautiful, lyre-hung, and wonder-fraught ; 
 
 And so I ask them, weeping at their roots, 
 
 ' Wbere shall I look for hope ? ' and their firm trunks 
 
 Echo aloud, ' Where shall I look for hope P ' 
 
 Over the brook I bend, the wayside brook, 
 
 And kiss its murmuring waters clear as truth, 
 
 And as dear songs float to me, borne along 
 
 By gentle wavelets to its grassy shore, 
 
 I ask the piu-ling poet, loitering through 
 
 The dingle, with its idyls on its lips, 
 
 ' Where shaD I look for hope ? ' and the clear stream 
 
 Sobs in the shade, ' Where shall I look for hope ? ' 
 
 I gaze above, below, on either hand, 
 
 On steep and stone, on river, reef, and rill, 
 
 Asking them all, ' Where shall I look for hope ? ' 
 
 And back returns, ' Where shall I look for hope ? ' 
 
 The grim i*ocks frown upon me, and the flowers 
 
 Hang down their heads in silence ; bird and beast, 
 
 And grass, and grove, the earth, and sea, and sky, 
 
 Are silent, and my words wander through space 
 
 Like orphan forms, ' Wbere shall I look for hope ? ' 
 
 O blessed Bible ! let me turn to thee, 
 
 Full of my Saviour, shining with His love ! 
 
 Here is the door of mercy, sbut to none
 
 A STOEY OF CARN BKEA. 
 
 Who rest on Jesus, the chief Corner-stone. 
 Here, here is hope, built on the oath of God. 
 Shout it, nry soul, and let the happy winds 
 Waft it upon then- wings to farthest shores, 
 Till all mankind rejoice in its embrace. 
 Shout, God is love ; He gave His only Son 
 To die for sinners, to atone for guilt, 
 Vast without compass, piled upon a world. 
 He who was high stoop'd down to lowliness, 
 To raise us to the riches of the skies. 
 Glory to Jesus ! glory to His name ! 
 The King of kings, the mighty Lord of lords ! 
 Lend your bright wings, ye seraphs, that I may 
 Soar from earth's sorrows to the shining home 
 Of my Redeemer. Glory to the Lamb ! " 
 
 And thus he journey'd on, with pilgrim pace, 
 
 As through Elysium, gathering purest joys 
 
 From meditation, where the robin sang, 
 
 Or through the hawthorns soar'd the shepherd's lay, 
 
 Or from the thickets rose the mighty rush 
 
 Of the rejoicing rivers. On he stole, 
 
 Companion'd with the comforts of the skies, 
 
 So soon to be where sin has left no stain. 
 
 Joyous was he ; his soul was like a well 
 
 Of frying waters, bubbling o'er its brim, 
 
 As thus he pour'd his fervid feeling forth : 
 
 " Forbid it, that I e'er should seek for rest 
 
 But in my loving Saviour. Do I not 
 
 Desire Him more than gold, or precious stones, 
 
 Or friends, or fame, or house, or fruitful farm ? 
 
 Thou knowest, Father, that I dare not build 
 
 My hopes on earth's foundations. None but Thee 
 
 Do I desire, O precious Prince of Peace ; 
 
 No, none but Thee, nor less than Thee be given. 
 
 But, ah ! how slowly do I learn Thy love ! 
 
 Like infant faltering o'er its mother's name,
 
 76 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Or staggering from the cradle to her arms. 
 
 Forgive me, Saviour, and inspire my heart 
 
 With grace and strength to serve Thee more and more. 
 
 O come, Great Spirit, scatter all the mist 
 
 Which hangs about the svimmit of my hopes, 
 
 And fill the' horizon of my faith with light. 
 
 Jesus is all, my Comforter, my Friend, 
 
 Refuge and Rock, my Fortress and my Tower, 
 
 My First and Last. I drop into His arms." 
 
 Ah, world, how changeful art thou ! Morning dawns 
 
 On hopes in embryo, withering ere the Eve 
 
 Draws her grey cloak around her. All things here 
 
 Have marks of change upon them, and a sigh 
 
 Is ever creeping at the heels of Joy. 
 
 He pass'd an old man, sitting by a tree, 
 
 Whose hah- was white as winter. He had left, 
 
 Within the churchyard, by the belfry porch, 
 
 Each vestige of his kindred ; so that now 
 
 He had no child but Nature, whom he loved 
 
 With all a poet's fondness. They exchanged 
 
 Few words of kindness, greetings of the heart, 
 
 And then, as quickly parting, went then way. 
 
 He reach'd Hayle River at the rising tide, 
 
 And, glad to save three miles of weary road, 
 
 Resolved to ford the channel. Be it known, 
 
 That in those days no Causeway spann'd the void ; 
 
 But Art has now another daughter here. 
 
 His feet are in the water, which becomes 
 
 Deeper at every step, yet deeper still ; 
 
 Now at his loins, and now above his breast, 
 
 And now it reaches even to his chin. 
 
 Hope leaves him blinded. A black-chamber'd wave 
 
 Rolls with a roar upon him, the loose sand 
 
 Yields underneath, when, thrusting up his arms, 
 
 A prayer to Jesus rushes from his lips, 
 
 And down the good man sinks to rise no more.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 77 
 
 " Come, little ones, and lay your toys aside," 
 
 Said the fond mother ; " kiss me once again, 
 
 Kneel at your prayers, and creep into your beds. 
 
 The moon is come before your loving sire. 
 
 I '11 sit and read my Bible." Then they clasp 'd 
 
 Their little hands, and pray'd that God would bless 
 
 Their father and their mother, make all good, 
 
 And take them up at last to heaven's bright home, 
 
 And, lying on their couches, fell asleep, 
 
 With summer landscapes sweeping through their dreams. 
 
 How sweet is home when day's hard task is done, 
 
 And Labour's forge is silent ; when the song 
 
 Of village milkmaid warbles from the mead, 
 
 And twilight idyls tremble through the trees ! 
 
 I oft have felt, when sitting in my cot, 
 
 After a day of trial, such as those 
 
 Who dig in darkness only can conceive, — 
 
 I oft have felt, as round me shook the buds 
 
 With household music which my Father gave, 
 
 To deck my dwelling on the pensive moor, — ■ 
 
 I oft have felt, when loving eyes have turn'd 
 
 Upon my face, and loving words have dropp'd 
 
 Upon my ears, that I would not exchange 
 
 My Cornish cabin, fragrant with the breath 
 
 Of richest roses, for a gilded court, 
 
 Where little children till not life with love ; 
 
 And when those gentle song- strains have been hush'd 
 
 By sleep's enchantments, and a solemn spell 
 
 Has dropp'd upon me, I have snatch'd my harp, 
 
 And its wild music, rushing round my hearth, 
 
 Has quite o'ertum'd the wasting wail of care, 
 
 And lull'd me in a land of pleasant streams. 
 
 She read, re-read, and then read o'er again, 
 The precioiis page of promise : " Let your heart 
 Be free from sorrow ; rest upon My word. 
 Beyond the stars are mansions, where the sun
 
 78 A STORY OF CAEN BEEA. 
 
 Scorches no more, nor pang is felt of pain ; 
 And those who love Me shall he where I am, 
 And see My face fov ever ; " and the tears 
 Fell on the page that cheer'd the worshipper. 
 " O, there are times," she said, and raised her eyes 
 From the worn Bible, " when my spirit longs 
 To leave this prison, and go home to rest. 
 Like a lorn hird confined in cruel cage, 
 Fluttering its wings, and picking at the bars, 
 Longing to break the wires, and mount away ; 
 So does my spirit pant for its release. 
 But soon the silver cord shall be unloosed, 
 The bird shall leave its cage of closing ckiy, 
 And like the lark among the morning clouds, 
 Whose song is sweeter as he higher soars, 
 So shall I feel upon my angel-car." 
 
 And then a rustle, like a hundred wings, 
 Seem'd to sweep by her. Starting quickly up, 
 She hasten'd to the door to look for him, 
 Her light in darkness, wondering why the stars 
 Shone clear, and solemn midnight long had past, 
 And he not come to brighten all below. 
 She kiss'd her babes again, and knelt in prayer. 
 The night was spent in watching, and when morn 
 Call'd up the ploughboy from his bed of sedge, 
 And robin shook his wings among the leaves, 
 And sparrow on the housetop, down the lane 
 Came a pale man, with sorrow in his face, 
 And words of sadness stealing from his tongue. 
 Their import, like a dreadful monster, rush'd, 
 And fell'd her to the floor, and when this flash 
 Of faintness left her, she was shatter'd so, 
 They scarcely knew her ; yet with feeble voice 
 She gently murmur'd, " God hath given me all, 
 And He hath taken, blessed be His name ! 
 My dear- loved treasure to the land of flowers.
 
 A STORY OP CARN BREA. 79 
 
 O be my Husband, great eternal King, 
 
 And shield my blossoms from the ice of want. 
 
 And as I travel through this lonely world, 
 
 O let Thy face illuminate my path, 
 
 And cheer me with Thy presence, till beyond 
 
 The blue of ether I regain my mate, 
 
 Where Paradise reveals her living streams." 
 
 And then the messenger, with faltering voice, 
 
 Told where her husband in a fisher's shed 
 
 Lay shrouded in a sail-cloth, dead, and drown'd ; 
 
 And she inform'd him, trembling, how he took 
 
 Three gtiineas, purposing with it to pay 
 
 Their debt of kindness to good Mrs. Worth. 
 
 He hasten'd back and publish'd what he heard. 
 
 They search'd his pockets, but no gold was there. 
 
 They look'd along the beach, among the shells, 
 
 And in the sand ; but it could not be found. 
 
 Some one observed his right hand firnily clench'd. 
 
 'T was ojJen'd, and Surprise brush'd back her hair, 
 
 And Woader stared with silence on his lips, 
 
 To see it shining in the dead man's palm. 
 
 His promise seem'd to occupy his mind, 
 
 When the- last life-string crack'd beneath the wave. 
 
 The funeral day came, laden with the mist 
 
 Of lazy clouds that cover 'd all the heavens. 
 
 The moiu*ning train moves down the mossy moor, 
 
 Singing a solemn dirge, through hamlets lone, 
 
 And meads all mournful, to the churchyard stile. 
 
 The coffin was lower'd down, the good man read 
 
 The sweetly- solemn service, as great sobs 
 
 With heavy utterance labour from her soul. 
 
 Strangers were there, and loving relatives, 
 
 And neighbours wiped their eyes. His children, too, 
 
 Were there, in weeds of mourning, and then- feet 
 
 Sank in the slimy mould which soon will hide 
 
 Their loving parent underneath the ground.
 
 80 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 A little robin on a cypress limb 
 
 Pour'd forth a dirge for the departed one, 
 
 As pensive as the trickle of a stream. 
 
 Hail, honest miner ! such true worth as thine 
 Has more of glory than the din of blades. 
 Thou wert among the dwellers of the earth 
 Like moonlight on the mountains, guiding feet, 
 All prone to stumble in the gloom of sin, 
 To halo'd bowers of rectitude and right. 
 Life's closing drama, like the blaze of heaven, 
 Flash'd out in darkness ; the black curtain fell, 
 With thy free thoughts, like sea-beat, missing barks, 
 Steering towards the harbour they had left, 
 Where friend was longing to embrace his friend, 
 And love to weep upon the neck of love, 
 Fatally foundering even at its mouth. 
 Hail, honest miner ! to thy ashes peace ! 
 Entomb' d in quiet 'neath the blessed flowers, 
 Where country winds are sighing, and the stars 
 Look down on tower, and tree, and village spire. 
 The great Recorder, in the land of leaves 
 That never wither, shall reveal thy name 
 Among the noble on Life's mighty page. 
 
 And now the rain had ceased, the wind was gone, 
 The clouds had fled behind the farthest hills ; 
 The thrush came forth, and on the dripping thorn 
 Sang its last vesper to the peering star ; 
 The swollen rivers through the valleys rush'd 
 With lofty voices, each a solemn song ; 
 The rustling sea-gull wheel'd along the void ; 
 The old mount, with its altar of grey rocks, 
 And a few tears upon its shining face, 
 Rose in the blue of heaven with quiet crown'd. 
 Beneath the eaves of a thatch'd cottage near, 
 A miner's child was singing to the moon,
 
 A STORY OF CAEN BREA. 81 
 
 Whose crescent gleam'd above the castle's roof. 
 Strains softly sweet gush'd from a thousand lyres, 
 And down the lane beside the lover's well 
 The thatcher whistled walking to his home. 
 Up rose the riders, musing to depart, 
 But not before she told them how her sons 
 And grown-up daughters left her one by one ; 
 Some for the seas, some for the vale of gold, 
 Some to seek lands, and some slept in then- graves. 
 But God upheld her alway. His kind care 
 Was like a cloak around her ; food, and rest, 
 And peace, and hope, were with her evermore ; 
 And still she trusted that the Lord would bring 
 Her safely through the wilderness, and guide 
 The weary pilgrim to the home of heaven. 
 
 Buttoning then- coats, one to the other said : 
 
 " You know the poor com- gleaner, with a hood 
 
 Over her bonnet, whom we saw to-day 
 
 Crossing a stile, leading her little girl 
 
 With paleness on her forehead ? Her sad tale 
 
 Would move a heart of diamond. O'er yon hill 
 
 That sends a gale of odour through the moors 
 
 From furze, and fern, and broom with golden bells, 
 
 So that the dweller in the city-street, 
 
 Treading our turf and breathing the pure air, 
 
 Exclaims renew'd, ' What floating fragrance here ! ' 
 
 Over yon hill trod by the feet of bards, 
 
 Who love to walk within its hoary caves, 
 
 And trill their sonnets, smiles a cottage-home, 
 
 With reedy roof, and honeysuckle porch, 
 
 And pretty garden, like an isle of bloom : 
 
 And here, a blithe carn-nyinph, she sweetly pass'd 
 
 Her girlhood, and ten years of mai*riage life, 
 
 As happy as a princess, love-o'erflow'd, 
 
 Until the winds of wild adversity 
 
 Came howling in their chariots, bearing off
 
 82 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 
 
 Her summer glory to the land of cloud. 
 Then earth appear' d a gloomy sepulchre, 
 And for a season heaven was hung in black. 
 
 " 'T was summer time, the sun was on his march, 
 The white clouds drifted to then western homes ; 
 Beauty lay down, and dreamt upon the thyme, 
 Or carol'd through the thicket ; swallows skimm'd 
 O'er glassy pools, or dash'd athwart the dells ; 
 Breeze follow'd breeze, in amorous pursuit, 
 Kissing among the rushes, or on high 
 Murinuring their loves in the fresh fields of air, 
 And now descending to the limpid rill, 
 Brushing its wavelets with then welcome wings, 
 Stealing into the little lattice low, 
 Where sickness bound the sufferer, cheering him 
 With freshness gather'd from the fields and flowers ; 
 Now shaking through the hoary locks of Age, 
 Resting upon his thom-staff, thought-o'ercome ; 
 Now kissing the fan- child, whose hands were full 
 Of gather'd flowers, not fairer than herself; 
 Now murmuring o'er the hamlets, now away 
 Among the lichen by the great sea shore ; 
 Now in the meadow, now along the mine, 
 And now beyond the farthest flight of thought. 
 Songs fill'd the welkin, songs o'erflow'd the dell, 
 And gush'd from every crevice of the cliff. 
 The bright sea- waves stole singing to the shore, 
 With music in then chambers ; and the world 
 Above, below, seem'd one rejoicing note 
 Of love and thankfulness to the Supreme. 
 
 " Her husband was a fisher, and that day, 
 On a large rock beneath the Lizard Lights, 
 He sat and chimed his song, as heretofore, 
 With hook and bait, in patient watchfulness 
 To capture that which brought his household all.
 
 A STORY OF CARN BREA. 83 
 
 Nature was grand with wildness ; crag, and creek, 
 
 And curious earn, and sea-birds pereb'd around, 
 
 Or riding on the waters like a plume, 
 
 All undisturb'd within their tuneful doors, 
 
 And scarcely stirring at the approach of man. 
 
 The bright blue sky, the ever-moving main, 
 
 And fanes of serpentine o'erflowed with song, 
 
 While voices roll'd from billow, bank, and brake, 
 
 Or crash'd from organs hidden in the heights. 
 
 His cottage, up the valley by a brook, 
 
 Was plainly seen, and at its rustic door 
 
 His wife and children watch'd him on the moss ; 
 
 She knitting, and they playing, bright with bliss, 
 
 When suddenly a great wave, growing still, 
 
 And rising higher as it onward roll'd, 
 
 Rush'd o'er the rock, and fell in sparkling foam, 
 
 Tumbling him in the water quick as thought ; 
 
 And as they gazed, he struggled with the waves, 
 
 Which bore him seaward, onward, outward still, 
 
 Until he sank exhausted, and gave up 
 
 His ghost beneath the billows. Still they gazed, 
 
 And wrung then - hands, and wading tore then* hair ; 
 
 They saw his body rise bereft of life, 
 
 It drifted from them still away, away ; 
 
 Then from the highest, farthest, fullest crag, 
 
 A huge sea-bird dropp'd on the floating corse, 
 
 And with rapacious beak began to pick 
 
 His stiffening scalp. They wad'd and cried to Heaven, 
 
 And gazed, and wiped then- eyes, and wail'd again, 
 
 Until the body and the great sea-bird 
 
 Shrunk into haze, and dwindled out of sight. 
 
 Nothing on earth but merges into change. 
 
 That morning shone on then- unsever'd band ; 
 
 The evening saw them lone and desolate, 
 
 Then song a shriek, then* light a thick cold gloom, 
 
 Their nest forsaken, all its music fled, 
 
 The green reed braised, the blossoms crush'd and torn ; 
 
 o 2
 
 84 A STOEY OF CAEN BEEA. 
 
 They fatherless and friendless in the strife, 
 She entering on her night of widowhood." 
 
 Full hastily they sang their parting lay, 
 
 Then from their purses cheer'd their hostess' heart, 
 
 Mounted then steeds, and tum'd a parting look 
 
 On the calm monarch in the evening's gloom, 
 
 Marking distinctly just above its base 
 
 A little glow-worm shining in a rift, 
 
 Ohannell'd long since by the wild water-sprite, 
 
 And gamish'd over with the god of flowers. 
 
 They gazed, yet spoke not, pleased with quiet thought ; 
 
 When all at once a meteor, like a stream 
 
 Of purest silver, shot athwart the heavens, 
 
 And on its march it almost seem'd to sweep 
 
 The summit of the mountain. This aroused 
 
 Them both to action : they exclaim'd, " How grand ! " 
 
 And onward dash'd the horsemen.
 
 ESSAYS.
 
 ESSAY I. 
 
 THE LAND'S END. 
 
 (A letter to e. b.) 
 
 Land's End, 
 Thursday, August 28th, 1856. 
 
 Wele, here we are in a fog-shroud, groping our way 
 around the Logan Rock, and shivering amidst the 
 grandeur of the Land's End: mist, mist, nothing but 
 mist ! I declare I was quite angry with the fog- sprite ; 
 for, from the first moment we entered on this wild array 
 of crags, to the time I am now pencilling these lines in 
 " First and Last," (the name of the inn at the Land's 
 End,) this invisible tormentor has been sputtering away 
 till we are quite drenched through to the skin. 
 
 I think the Land's End to be the most sublime thing 
 I have ever seen in nature. How the dark waves dash 
 against those rocks, and foam and hiss, moaning hoarse 
 tales of storms, and shipwrecks, and callous wreckers in 
 days of old ! Everlastingly they come and go, thumping 
 the walls of the old cliff with giant fury, and then recoil- 
 ing in jets of foam ! And the light-house in the midst 
 of the waters, and the sea-birds on the ledges of the 
 rocks, or floating over the waves, or chiming to the 
 hoarse bass of the billows, as they dash through the 
 sparry grottoes, — all conspire to endear it to the 
 memory of the bard. 
 
 But the mist is still falling, or rather driving. We
 
 88 ESSAYS. 
 
 are hastening back over the moor, fragrant with flowers, 
 to our nest for the night, ever and anon pulling off a 
 tuft of heather, and asking questions of our cheerful 
 guide, who seems to tell us all he knows. And now the 
 old clock on the top of the stairs is striking eight, Jane 
 is almost exhausted with the day's long journey, and for 
 the first time in my life I retire to rest away from home. 
 So good night until the morning. 
 
 Friday morning, August 29th. The old clock struck 
 ten, eleven, and still I slept not. The little white 
 chamber seemed full of wicked elves, which prided them- 
 selves on keeping my eyelids open. The moan of the 
 old ocean came up on the blast, which hurried over the 
 house-top with a furious twitch; and a couple of fat 
 travellers in an adjoining room kept whistling and sing- 
 ing; so that I wished them somewhere else. I never 
 expected to get into dream-land or sleep-land, and was 
 just about to leap out of bed, and commence an angry 
 poem, or rash down to the wild beach and listen to the 
 midnight songs of the sea, when sweet sleep fell on me 
 Like a beautiful spell. 
 
 When I awoke, the winds were hushed, the mist was 
 gone, the light of the morning was streaming through 
 the window, the sea-birds were wheeling over the heaths, 
 a robin sang under the eaves of the old inn, and the 
 Light-house was shining like an angel in the midst of 
 the waters. So away we went in the matin breezes, 
 down, down past Johnson's Head, away on the extreme 
 crags of the Land's End; and, O, what a wilderness of 
 wonders was there ! We felt doubly paid for the mist, 
 doubly paid for our long walk, as the huge clouds rolled 
 back from the rising sun, and the great sea became bluer 
 and bluer, and the Scilly Islands rose up to view, and 
 the noisy gulls called to each other in the crevices of the 
 cLiff, or cried upon the waters like poets of the billows. 
 I stood upon one of the crags and repeated Charles 
 Wesley's hymn, and felt I had begun a new era in my
 
 BOOK-MAKING. 89 
 
 existence. Why, the Land's End is like a great craggy 
 poem, epic or otherwise. Every poet should read it, and 
 make it his own. Thanks to you for directing me there. 
 
 ESSAY II. 
 
 BOOK-MAKING. 
 
 " Of making many books there is no end." Man has 
 invented a thousand things to immortalize his name, 
 and hand it down to posterity. Mausoleums are built, 
 monuments are raised, the brass is engraven, and pyra- 
 mids tower up to heaven, which seem to defy the tooth 
 of Time, and laugh at the world's destroyer. But 
 mausoleums crumble into ruins, pyramids are dashed to 
 the earth, monuments are ground into powder and 
 scattered on the four winds of heaven, and 
 
 " The busto moulders and the brass consumes." 
 
 Words written in books are the only things that live 
 on, surviving the desolations of age, only to fall amid 
 
 " The wreck of matter and the crush of worlds." 
 
 Hence, in all ages and in all countries, multitudes have 
 been, and still are, devoting all their energies and all 
 their powers to the composition and publication of 
 books. 
 
 O what a cloudy age was that, ere the art of printing 
 was known, when our rough fathers, for want of better 
 materials, and for want of wiser heads, used to write
 
 90 ESSAYS. 
 
 and make books on the leaves and bark of trees and 
 square blocks of wood ! Time passed away, paper was 
 invented, the art of printing was known, and thought 
 flashed forth in graceful columns like a thing of magic 
 life. But, for a long period, the price of a Bible was so 
 high, that it was chiefly confined to the clergy and the 
 nobility. Now it ornaments the towns and beautifies 
 the villages of almost all lands. It smiles in the valley, 
 and shines among the crags of the mountain ; it pours 
 forth its solemn music under the trees of the hamlet, 
 and amid the heather of the wild; beside the rural 
 hedge-row and the dusty highway. The worthy 
 colporteur drops them by river and by rock, by fountain 
 and by fen, in forest and in field, by snow-heap and in 
 summer bower ; so that, from zone to zone, they smile 
 like guardian angels amid the moral waste. 
 
 The writer of the words at the head of our essay was a 
 wise man and a rich, so that his fame had gone forth 
 into all the world. Monarchy came down from its 
 throne, and crossed valleys and mountains, to hear his 
 wisdom and to gaze upon his wealth. His eyes roamed 
 among the trees of the forest, where the axe of the 
 woodman had never been heard ; and he spake of them 
 all, from the cedar that is in Lebanon, to the hyssop 
 that springeth out of the wall. He spake of beasts that 
 fatten in the forest, or revel in the wilderness, or roam 
 through the solitudes of the boundless desert. He 
 scanned the fields of air, and sang of birds with starry 
 wings, which float through the groves like the bright 
 imagery of the bards, or carol on the branches of the 
 palm-trees in the shadowy twilight to sing the fair 
 daughters of the young world asleep. He spake of 
 creeping things that inhabit the earth, sheltering in 
 mountains and valleys, or existing in the crevices of the 
 rocks, or hiding among the grasses of the glen, or 
 burrowing in the slimy mould. He gazed upon the sea, 
 blue and beautiful, boundless and benign, rolling its
 
 BOOK-MAKING. 91 
 
 thunders on the rocky strand, or flowing in billows of 
 rich music on the listening shore. And he spake of 
 fishes great, and fishes small ; of fishes that float on its 
 mighty surface, or those that hide in its fathomless 
 grottoes. Thus he spake of the earth, the sea, and the 
 sky, and almost all that is therein. He had, too, a deep 
 knowledge of nature and the human heart, and uttered 
 three thousand proverbs for the profit of man. He 
 snatched his harp, and the Muse came to his aid, and 
 his proverbial philosophy has descended to us in rich 
 strains of song. Lyric after lyric was added to his list, 
 until they numbered a thousand and five. But after an 
 age of experience, after labouring and accumulating so 
 much, after acquiring and accomplishing more than any 
 man in his day, he comes to this conclusion, " Of making 
 many books there is no end." 
 
 As it was in the days of king Solomon, so it is now 
 during the reign of our beloved widowed Queen ; of 
 making many books there is still no end. The historian 
 sits him down and ransacks old musty volumes, and by 
 their aid he gazes upon buried cities and countries 
 desolate. He rushes over the war-field, and hears the 
 neigh of the battle-horse, as it dashes to the fray. He 
 traces the rise and fall of empires, and lays proud kings 
 in their tombs. He revels with the shadows of the past, 
 and lifts off the shroud from the urn of the destroyer. 
 He spends a whole lifetime in studious retirement, and 
 then gathers up his thoughts and binds them in a book. 
 The astronomer directs his telescope to the stars, and 
 walks among them in the shroud of night. He con- 
 verses with the constellations, and calls the planets by 
 their names. System after system is added to his list, 
 and the mysteries of creation are revealed by his re- 
 searches. He, too, culls his wonderful discoveries, and 
 binds them in a book. The geologist racks his brains, 
 and tortures his imagination, to arrive at new theories, 
 how the mountains were created, and the hills brought
 
 92 ESSAYS. 
 
 forth ; liow tlie rocks are above ground and under 
 ground ; how earthquakes rend the globe, and volcanoes 
 belch forth flame. His thoughts, too, are gathered up, 
 and bound into a book. The poet seeks the shades of 
 solitude, shuns the haunts of men, and hides him in the 
 glens and lichened caves. He wanders by the sea-shore , 
 and hears strange music in the murmur of the billows. 
 He finds 
 
 " Tongues in the trees, books in the running streams, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything." 
 
 He robes the earth in beauty, flinging strange spells 
 over the hills and valleys. He weaves the cobwebs of 
 rural life into silken flowers, to beautify the homes of his 
 fatherland. He, too, gathers up his musings, and binds 
 them in a book. But the historian, the astronomer, the 
 geologist, and the poet die, and fade away like the mists 
 of morning; and we come to the conclusion that he 
 alone is wise who loves his Saviour, and whose name is 
 written in the Lamb's book of life. This book will 
 stand when all other books are destroyed and burnt 
 together at Nature's funeral pile. 
 
 ESSAY III. 
 
 CHRIST'S INVITATION TO THE 
 WEARY. 
 
 " Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy 
 laden, and I will give you rest." These healing words, so 
 dear to the sin -stained mourner, were uttered by the
 
 CHRIST'S INVITATION TO THE WEARY. 93 
 
 Word that was inade flesh, and dwelt among us. These 
 words were uttered by Hini of whom prophets and poets 
 sang from the blushing morning of time, down and 
 down, until His natal hom*. These words were uttered 
 by Him who was bom in Bethlehem, and cradled in a 
 manger, at whose birth a new star shone forth in the 
 canopy of heaven, guiding the wondering shepherds to 
 this illustrious Babe. And we do not wonder that a 
 new star gemmed the crystal firinanient at the birth 
 of the world's Redeemer. He made all the stars that 
 twinkle in the depths of space, and they are 
 
 " For ever singing as they shine, 
 ' The Hand that made us is Divine.' " 
 
 These words were uttered by Him who taught in the 
 temple, when only twelve years of age, astounding the 
 learned doctors and all who heard Him. These words 
 were uttered by Him who turned the water into wine at 
 the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee ; who fed the 
 multitude with a few barley loaves and fishes ; who 
 rebuked the devil, and he came out of the tortured man ; 
 who stood at the grave of His friend Lazarus, when he 
 had been dead four days, and cried with a loud voice, 
 " Lazarus, come forth," and forth from his murky prison 
 flashed the living man. And we do not wonder that He 
 raised a dead man from the grave. He will raise all the 
 dead one day ; all that are in then tombs will hear the 
 voice of the Son of man, and will come forth to meet 
 Him, " those that have done good to the resurrection 
 of the just, and those that have done evil to the resur- 
 rection of damnation." These words were uttered by 
 Him who, after a life of benevolence and love, after a life 
 of unexampled charity to man, — He being rich, yet for 
 our sakes becoming poor, exclaiming as He trod this 
 wicked world, " The foxes have holes, and the birds 
 of the air have nests, but the Son of man has not where 
 to lay His head ; " — after a life of unsullied purity,
 
 94 ESSAYS. 
 
 climbed the rock -ribbed bill of Calvary, and on tbe 
 summit of tbat bill, after being beaten, and spit upon, 
 and crowned witb thorns, and pierced with a spear, He 
 exclaimed, " It is finished," and gave up the ghost. 
 Hell heard those words, and trembled. Devils slunk 
 back to their dens, confotinded, terrified, and an echo 
 rolled along its smoky caverns, " It is finished ! It is 
 finished ! " Angels heard those words, in the bright fields 
 of Eden, when walking over beds of unfading flowers, and 
 with golden lyres they prolonged the glorious echo 
 which swept over the green hills of the Holy Land, " It 
 is finished ! It is finished ! " Earth heard those words, 
 and shook. Giant rocks, unsinged with the flight of 
 years, and unscathed with the tongue of the tempest, 
 were riven in pieces at the sound. The thunder bel- 
 lowed, and the earthquake groaned ; graves were opened, 
 and dead men stalked about the streets ; the sun hid his 
 face in darkness, and shrouded him in night. " It is 
 finished ! It is finished ! " Man's redemption is com- 
 plete, the great price is paid, the sins of the guilty 
 human family are cancelled, and a pathway is now 
 opened from earth to glory. These words were uttered 
 by Him who, after His crucifixion, was laid in a new 
 tomb ; but the new tomb could not detain Him ; He burst 
 the barriers of that tomb, and soared away triumph- 
 ant to His Father's throne ; and He now sits down upon 
 that throne, surrounded with cherubim and seraphim, 
 and all the flaming hosts of heaven, who worship and 
 adore Him, ascribing honour, and might, and majesty 
 to Him that sitteth upon the throne and to the Lamb 
 for ever. These words were uttered by Him who 
 appeared to His beloved disciple John in the island of 
 Patmos, exclaiming, " I am Alpha and Omega, the 
 Beginning and the End, the First and the Last." 
 These are the words of our adorable Lord and Saviour 
 Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of sinful man ; and, though 
 eighteen hundred years have passed away since they
 
 Christ's invitation to the weary. 95 
 
 first fell from His sinless lips, they still stand upon the 
 holy page, as fresh, and beautiful, and bright as if they 
 were written but yesterday : " Come unto Me, all ye that 
 labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." 
 
 All men desire to be happy : and in quest of this 
 priceless boon many are the roads which are taken, the 
 plans which are tried. Some seek it in riches, some in 
 honour, some in fame. One seeks it in travel over land 
 and sea, another in the heart of the city in revelry and 
 riot. One seeks it on the blood-dyed field, amid sack and 
 carnage ; another in the stilly quiet of some cloistered cell. 
 One here, and another there ; one in this way, and another 
 in that. But all seek too low for this who seek beneath 
 the skies. Wandering through the dark valley of life, 
 they are for ever encountering its ills, and the fair form 
 of happiness is for ever eluding their grasp. They 
 hasten on and on, through tangled wilds and sandy 
 deserts, till they fall over the slippery precipice, and are 
 dashed on the frowning rocks below. The confession 
 of the Sabbath-breaker, the groan of the drunkard and 
 swearer, the dissatisfied looks of the worldly-minded 
 man, and the wail of the poor dissipated irreligious one, 
 brings us to the conclusion that 
 
 " 'T is religion that can give 
 Sweetest pleasure while we live," &c. 
 
 By believing in the Lord Jesus Christ, the poor bur- 
 dened sinner finds rest to his spirit, and walks in the 
 land of peace to his Father's home. 
 
 Weary, worn, and harassed with the cares of life, we 
 retire to the chamber of solitude, and, opening our 
 Bibles, these living words glow bright before our eyes, 
 " Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy 
 laden, and I will give you rest." The weary, care-worn 
 man, on whose brow the snows of life's winter are thinly 
 scattered, who, conceived in sin and shapen in iniquity, 
 has been wandering here and there in quest of happi-
 
 96 ESSAYS. 
 
 ness, seeking rest, but finding it not, opens tbe blessed 
 Bible in tbe evening of bis days, and drinks in tbis 
 bealing passage, " Come unto Me, all ye tbat labour and 
 are beavy laden, and I will give you rest." Tbe fair- 
 hafred scbool-boy, too, in wbose ear tbe Spnit's voice 
 rings long and loud, turns over bis fathers Bible, and 
 on the well-thumbed leaf his eye rests upon these 
 precious words, " Come unto Me, all ye that laboiir 
 and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." The 
 boy reads, and beHeves, and is saved. Tbe weary wan- 
 dering prodigal, who has long been absent from his 
 Father's house, striving to fill his belly with the husks 
 that the swine eat, but is never, never satisfied, is 
 never, never full, finding hiniself surrounded with diffi- 
 culties out of which it is impossible to extricate himself, 
 over whose head the thunders and lightnings of the law 
 flash and roar, flies for refuge to the Book of books, and 
 takes hold of this invigorating promise, and is made a 
 new creature, so that the wanderer wanders no more. 
 How does it rejoice the heart of the widowed mother, 
 who has long been mourning over the woes of life, clad 
 in the weeds of sorrow for him, the husband of her 
 youth, passed into the spirit-land, — how does it rejoice 
 the heart of this widowed one, on opening the Book she 
 loves, that Book which her sainted husband loved when 
 he travelled through this valley of tears, — how does it 
 rejoice her bleeding heai't to meet with this loved pro- 
 mise, " Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy 
 laden, and I will give you rest ! " The eyes of hundreds 
 of thousands of our sin-born race, on their journey from 
 the cradle to the tomb, have rested on those hallowing 
 words, and, reading them, they have been blessed. The 
 eyes of the white man, and the red man, and the yellow 
 man, the eyes of the man of the forest and the man of 
 the field, the man of the mountain and the man of the 
 moor, the eyes of millions on millions of the human 
 family, since they were first uttered by our blessed
 
 Christ's invitation to the weary. 97 
 
 Redeemer, have glowed in the light of these sacred 
 lines. Taking hold of them, they have passed through 
 life's thorny mazes as if they were flowery meads ; and 
 now from the green hills of Paradise they gaze on the 
 adorable Utterer in the sacred light of heaven. 
 
 There is no word, perhaps, in our language which 
 conveys a sweeter idea than the word " rest." It brings 
 before us the picture of some weary, way-worn traveller, 
 who has long been contending with the " war of ele- 
 ments," traversing inhospitable climes, wandering over 
 arid wilds and sandy deserts, suffering thirst, hunger, 
 and fatigue. At last, after long years of absence, he 
 turns his face homewards, and hastens back to his 
 beloved country. The love of home, and sweet thoughts 
 of his wife and children, add wings to his footsteps. He 
 hastens on and on, till, at last, in the grey bight of 
 evening, he sees the curling smoke- wreaths rising from 
 his beloved home, and hears the merry laugh of his 
 children floating on the evening breeze. The mellow 
 tones of the lyre, awakened by the skill of some mighty 
 musician, were never half so ravishing to his listening 
 ears. He goes in among the happy throng, and weeps 
 for very joy. Once more surrounded with those he 
 loves, he forgets his toils and sorrows, and sits him 
 down to rest. The word " rest " also brings to our 
 mind the idea of the toil-worn soldier, escaping the gory 
 horrors of the battle-field, coming home victorious when 
 the thunders of war have ceased to bellow, and, laurel- 
 crowned, sitting him down to rest. We also think of the 
 tempest-tossed mariner, who has long been contending 
 with the winds and waves, turning his vessel's prow to 
 port, and hastening home to embrace his friends. Once 
 more surrounded with his happy household, he forgets 
 the perils of the deep, and sits him down to rest. But 
 more especially do we think of the Christian soldier, 
 who has long been wending his way through the 
 tangled mazes of life. He has had to battle with sor-
 
 98 A.YS. 
 
 rows, disappointments, and pains. Poverty and afflic- 
 tion have been mingled in his cup. His children have 
 been taken from him, and diseases have fastened upon his 
 frame. Friend after friend has departed, and left him 
 alone in the world. But in the midst of all his suffer- 
 ing, his eye has been npon the crown ; in the midst 
 of all his distress, his faith in Christ has not wavered, 
 his feet have been upon the Rock ; in the midst of cloud 
 and darkness, his gaze has been upon the cross, and his 
 footsteps have been bearing him towards his Father's 
 house. Wiping the perspiration from his brow, and 
 straining his vision homeward, he has said, when smit- 
 ten with distress, " He doeth all things well." But 
 the days of his mourning are now over, his earthly 
 race is run, the soldier has laid down his sword, the 
 pilgrim has dropped his staff, he has gained the tops 
 of the everlasting hills, and now in the house of his 
 heavenly Father he enjoys uninterrupted rest. 
 
 The sweets of companionship make the home of the 
 traveller, the soldier, and the mariner so dear to them. 
 The conversation of friends, the prattle of children, and 
 the mellow voices of those they love, float around them 
 in music-tones. But what are the companions of earth 
 to the companions of heaven ? There the Christian 
 conqueror converses with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, 
 and those that lived before the flood. He sits down 
 with David, Isaiah, and Daniel, beside the well of living 
 waters, or under the unfading tree, the leaves of which 
 are for the healing of the nations. He mingles with 
 apostles, prophets, martyrs, and holy men, singing the 
 song of Moses and the Lamb. Walking arm-in-arm 
 with the white-robed evangelist, he gathers flowers 
 which fade not, and leaves for ever green. The great 
 and good of every kindred, and from every clime, are 
 his happy companions; and in the ambrosial fields 
 of Eden he enjoys felicitous repose.
 
 A RAMBLE TO MYLOR CHURCHYARD. 99 
 
 "But his greatest happiness, 
 His highest joy, shall be, 
 God the Saviour to possess, 
 To know, to love, and see." 
 
 A sight of the spear-pierced Utterer of these hallowing 
 words, " Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy 
 laden, and I will give you rest," will outshine every 
 other object ; and, basking in the beams of Deity, his 
 eternity will appear as a day. 
 
 ESSAY IV. 
 
 A RAMBLE TO MYLOR CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Mylor churchyard is near Falmouth, Cornwall, and 
 is well worthy of a visit by all those who delight in 
 nature and quietude. Almost surrounded by the sea, 
 the deep music of whose waters is rolling there for ever- 
 more, it is a fit sleeping-place for the bold mariners, 
 many of whom lie under its green sward, and the 
 margin of their graves is almost kissed by the murmur- 
 ing main. Far away from the din and tumult of town 
 or city, it woos the lover of meditation to its paths of 
 peace at all times and at all seasons, whether Spring 
 calls forth the shining buds, or Summer reposes in her 
 bower of leaves, or Autumn smiles by the corn-sheaf, or 
 Winter spreads his snow garments over the hills. I 
 have seen it under almost all those different aspects, and 
 beauty has always been its dower. 
 
 My friends and I had been standing by the brink of a 
 beautiful river, on a calm August evening, watching the 
 
 h 2
 
 100 ESSAYS. 
 
 happy harvesters returning from the fields, and musing 
 on Capem's all-glorious harvest-hymn, beginning, — 
 
 " God bless you, merry harvesters ! down witli the golden grain ! 
 I love to hear your sickle-strokes enlivening the plain." 
 
 We then started off on our intended ramble, crossed the 
 ferry for Flushing, and away by the old tree, up the hill 
 through the wood, over stubble-meadows and grassy 
 leas, away and away in the dusky twilight to the quaint 
 old churchyard of Mylor. The sun had long set, the 
 stars were looking lovingly down upon the quiet earth, 
 the chime of the evening bells came floating over the 
 waters, strangely recalling the musical words of Moore, — 
 
 " Those evening bells, those evening bells, 
 How many a tale their music tells, 
 Of youth and home, and that sweet time 
 When first I heard their soothing chime ! " 
 
 The bat crept out of his hiding-place, and was 
 wheeling by with a pleasant " whirr ; " the harvester 
 was sitting in his home, after the labours of the day, 
 blessing the great Father for the bounties of His pro- 
 vidence ; silence crept over the hollows, and nought 
 was heard but the dip of the oar of the boatman in the 
 shining waters of the river, which slept at our feet like 
 a sheet of crystal, as we wound our way down the 
 sloping meads, on by the sea- side, and then over the 
 rural stile into the tree-covered churchyard. And such 
 a solemn place, at such a solemn hour ! The darkness 
 was made more palpable here by the shadows of the old 
 trees, which cloaked us in their shrouds like the skirts 
 of the god of gloom. We all involuntarily uncovered 
 our heads from pure reverence, and glided among the 
 graves like so many disembodied spirits, not uttering a 
 word. Tombs stood thick on the uneven sward, of 
 almost every form and every fashion, and seemed as if 
 they were strangely watching our movements in the
 
 A RAMBLE TO MYLOR CHURCHYARD. 101 
 
 gathering darkness, and wondering at the deep silence 
 of our course. One old yew-tree, .near the sea-side 
 entrance, is remarkably large : I never saw such a noble 
 specimen before in any " city of the dead." It spreads 
 its mighty branches far around, which cannot be much 
 less than sixty feet in diameter. We were sorry to 
 learn, from a courteous inhabitant of this favoured spot, 
 that some selfish individuals have recently been lopping 
 off its giant lim bs, and turning them into pieces of 
 household furniture, more careful to fill then purses 
 than preserve this sacred relic of the olden time. O, 
 shame upon then sacrilegious hands ! Could our voice 
 be heard amid the rush of those earnest seekers after 
 gain, we would utter a piercing cry, " O spare the old 
 yew tree." Under its far-spreading branches, in a deep 
 wide grave, lie a heap of human beings, who were 
 drowned at the loss of the "Transport" on Trefusis 
 Point many years ago. The yew is, however^ grand and 
 solemn, and awe-inspiring enough in itself; and I could 
 not gaze on it without recalling Tennyson's fine 
 words : — 
 
 " Old yew, which graspest at the stones 
 That name the under-lying dead, 
 Thy fibres net the dreamless dead ; 
 Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 
 
 " The seasons bring the flower again, 
 And bring the firstling to the flock ; 
 And in the dusk of these, the clock 
 Beats out the little lives of men. 
 
 " 0, not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
 Who changest not in any gale ; 
 Nor branding summer suns avail 
 To touch thy thousand years of gloom." 
 
 The small Gothic church, which is supposed to be 
 eight or nine hundred years old, stands almost in the
 
 102 ESSAYS. 
 
 centre of the churchyard, and nothing was lacking at 
 that solemn hour to clothe it with traditionary romance. 
 Thick, green ivy clambered up by the door, hung over 
 the low eaves as if watching the slumbering dead, and 
 pierced in at the fretted windows. Gray's Elegy 
 written in a Country Churchyard came back upon our 
 memories, and its deep-toned melodies were sounding 
 through our souls. We approached the old ivy-covered 
 belfry, which is a living poem of itself, and stood on one 
 of the green hillocks. Not a leaf was stirring. Nature 
 seemed breathless with awe. Not a sound broke upon 
 the ear, save when ever and anon a sportive wavelet 
 rolled up from the river, almost laving the green sod of 
 some quiet sleeper. Suddenly we held our breath, and 
 gazed wonderingly at each other ; for even as this 
 solemn silence was possessing our very souls, and bring- 
 ing them into fit sympathy with the hour and the place, 
 a hoarse weird tone saluted our ears, similar to the snore 
 of some weary dreamer after the fatigues of a day of toil. 
 "We looked up at the little tower whence the sound came, 
 but could see nothing. It must have been the -song of 
 the night owl cheering his mate. 
 
 We had lingered so long in meditative silence, that we 
 were too late for the ferry, and so had to hire a boat to 
 take us to the quay. As we were silently gliding over 
 the still harbour, the moon suddenly rose from behind a 
 hill, shedding her welcome beams upon the waters, and 
 we seemed paddling through a lake of silver. We had 
 stars below and stars above, ships at anchor and ships 
 afloat, sheets of lurid light in the blue deep, as well as 
 in the smoky town ; and over all hung pale Cynthia like 
 an angel shedding mystic peace around. Joy was in 
 our hearts, as we marked and treasured up for future 
 delight all the pictures of loveliness and beauty which 
 were so profusely scattered around us ; and we returned 
 to our home that night with a feeling that we had never 
 known before that the earth was so beautiful.
 
 THE LEPER RESTORED. 103 
 
 ESSAY V. 
 
 THE LEPER RESTORED. 
 
 " And they came to Him from every quarter." There 
 is a, beautiful image in the first chapter of St. 
 Mark which comes before us in the narrative, and from 
 it we are led on from wondrous miracle to miracle to 
 the words at the head of this paper. " And at even, 
 when the sun did set, they brought unto Him all that 
 were diseased, and them that were possessed with 
 devils. And all the city was gathered together at the 
 door." Jesus Christ had been teaching in the synagogue 
 of Capernaum on the Sabbath day ; and, after astonish- 
 ing those who heard Him with His doctrine,— for He 
 taught them as one having authority, and not as the 
 scribes, — He entered into the house of Simon and 
 Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon's wife's 
 mother lay sick of a fever, pining and wasting away ; 
 and as Jesus stood in their dwelling, they told Him of 
 it, and the heart of the kind Saviour was touched, as it 
 always is with the tale of the penitent one ; and He came 
 and took her by the hand, and lifted her up ; and imme- 
 diately the fever left her, and she ministered unto them. 
 And how often does the Lord lift up the feeble soul 
 that trusts in Him ! How often, when interceded with, 
 does He lift up the weary one from the couch of sorrow 
 and pain ! How often, in the midst of sore trial and 
 distress, have we poured our sorrows in the ear of the 
 Deity, and the Lord has lifted us up ! 
 
 It was a beautiful Sabbath evening, when Christ had 
 cured Simon's wife's mother of the fever, and the great 
 sun was wheeling down behind the western hills, 
 spreading his golden garments upon the mountain tops, 
 and twining his bright tissues with the palm-trees in the
 
 I 104 ESSAYS. 
 
 
 
 distant vale, which looked to the eye of the beholder 
 like pillars of burnished brass. How gently falls the robe 
 of twilight upon the darkening earth, and here and there 
 the solitary song of the nightingale gushes from the 
 distant dell ! Groups are seen wending their way 
 through the' streets, down each opening, and along 
 each avenue, eagerly travelling to Simon's house, till all 
 the city was gathered together at the door. What 
 strange and varied characters must have been in that 
 throng ! And how different the diseases of that motley 
 band ! Here an old man might be seen bending on his 
 staff, eagerly listening to the words of wisdom that 
 dropped from the Saviour's lips ; and beside him shook 
 his only son, withering away with disease ; and Christ 
 put forth His hand and healed him. And here, in 
 another part of that assembly, might be seen a lovely 
 young damsel on the eve of womanhood, smitten with 
 sickness, like a beautiful flower of the forest singed 
 with the tongue of the thunderer, and pining away in 
 the solitude of the wilderness. Christ saw her in the 
 midst of the throng, and healed the weeping maiden. 
 And here, afar off, might be seen a poor man in 
 the possession of a devil, wringing his hands in agony, 
 gazing upon the Saviour, imploring help. And that 
 eye that saw Nathanael under the fig-tree pitied the 
 poor sufferer, cast out the devil, and healed him. Such 
 wonders did the Saviour perform before the door of 
 Simon's house on that holy Sabbath eve. 
 
 The night passes away, and where do we find the 
 blessed Saviour, the great Healer of mankind, in the 
 morning ? In some solitary grove or vale is He, or by 
 some murmuring stream, or on some mountain top, 
 before the morning star has melted away into the light 
 of heaven, or ere the great sun has tinged the summits 
 of the hills with his rising beams. He is up a great 
 while before day, in some solitary place, praying to His 
 Father. How beautiful is a summer's morning, when
 
 THE LEPER RESTORED. 105 
 
 the dew-drops are hanging on the leaves, and the birds 
 are stirring in the branches, and the fresh breeze conies 
 over the hill-tops, laden with sweet perfumes ! How 
 beautiful is morning, when the song of the sky-lark is 
 ringing in the heavens, and the sheep are beginning to 
 bleat in the pastures, and the mower is whetting 
 his scythe among the new-mown hay, and the 
 thatcher is whistling on the eaves, and the poet is 
 carolling by the streamlet at the grey breaking of the 
 dawn ! How beautiful is morning, when the bright 
 flowers are opening their dewy eyelids, and the pale 
 stars are fading away one by one, and the great hills 
 grow plainer and plainer in the eye of Day, till their 
 calm summits glow in the light of the rising sun ! 
 How beautiful is morning, when man rises up, fresh 
 from his couch, and goes forth into the great temple of 
 Nature to commune with his Maker, and pour out his 
 petitions in the ear of Heaven ! Christ loved the calm 
 and quiet of the morning ; He rose up a great while 
 before day, and oft the solitudes of Galilee heard His 
 fervent prayer. If Christ loved the calm and quiet of 
 the morning, so should Christ's followers 
 
 " Steal from the world to haunts uutrod, 
 And hold communion there with God." 
 
 As Jesus Christ was teaching in the synagogues of 
 Galilee, there came a leper to Him, and, kneeling down 
 before Him, he said, " If Thou wilt, Thou canst make me 
 clean." See the faith of this poor man. " If Thou wilt, 
 Jesus, Thou canst make me clean. I know the power is 
 Thine, and the virtue is Thine : pity me at Thy feet, and 
 heal me of my malady." And Christ had compassion 
 on him, and put forth His hand, and touched him, and 
 said, "I will; be thou clean;" and immediately the 
 leprosy departed from him, and he became a new creature. 
 And Christ sent him from Him, and charged him to 
 keep it secret. But away went the man, and began to
 
 106 ESSAYS. 
 
 publish it much, and to blaze abroad the matter. Here 
 be met a friend, and there perhaps a neighbour ; here he 
 met a son, and there perhaps a daughter ; and the 
 subject of his song was, " I am a new creature ; Christ 
 has healed me of my leprosy ; it is all departed from me ; 
 health is restored to my frame, and happiness to my 
 heart. All nature is changed around me, the valleys 
 and mountains are smiling with loveliness, the rills and 
 rivers are murmuring praises to Jesus Christ, who 
 healed the poor leper, and my heart sings, ' Hosanna 
 to the Son of David ! ' " He began to publish it much, 
 and to blaze abroad the matter; so that Christ could 
 no more openly enter into the city, but was without in 
 desert places, and they came to Him from every quarter. 
 See them coming over the mountains, see them throng- 
 ing through the vales, see them winding down beside 
 those streams, see them issuing from among the palm- 
 trees and beneath the arches of the wood, here and 
 there and almost everywhere; for they come to Him 
 from every quarter. 
 
 As it was in the days of His flesh, so it is now, 
 eighteen hundred years since He taught in the 
 synagogues of Galilee; they still come to Him from 
 every quarter. The East has heard of His fame, and 
 bends before His majesty ; the West has caught the 
 music of His lips, and hastes to do Him homage ; the 
 South sends forth her teeming millions, and they throng 
 in dense masses beneath His banner ; the North comes 
 forth to meet Him, to place its loud hosannas on 
 His head. The black man from his sun-scorched valley, 
 the white man from his breezy mountains, the red man 
 from his tangled forests, the yellow man from his dells 
 of roses, the poor weeping slave from the plantations of 
 sugar-canes, and the free man from the marts of the 
 city, — they come to Him from every quarter. The 
 dwellers of the mountain and the dwellers of the vale, 
 the dwellers of the hamlet and the dwellers of the town,
 
 PRIVATE PRAYER. 107 
 
 the dwellers of the palace and the dwellers of the cot ; the 
 eld man, the young man, the rich man, the poor man, 
 the wise man, and the clown, — they come to Him from 
 every quarter. They come from Europe, from Asia, 
 from Africa, and America, from Australia and the 
 islands of the south. 
 
 England takes fire, and her ten thousand son9 
 
 "With throbbing hearts cry cut, " The world for Christ ! " 
 
 He has redeem'd it, therefore 't is His own. 
 
 Systems are quaking which for age3 stood ; 
 
 Diana totters on her pedestal ; 
 
 The giant Hercules is giving way ; 
 
 And infidels grow dizzy with amaze. 
 
 The isles are shaking at His near approach ; 
 
 Old heathen oracles are obsolete; 
 
 Their gods are famish'd, and their temples bare. 
 
 Amen ! so let it be, " The world for Christ." 
 
 ESSAY VI. 
 
 PRIVATE PRAYER. 
 
 " But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, 
 and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father 
 which is in secret ; and thy Father which seeth in secret 
 shall reward thee openly." There is no teaching like 
 the teaching of Christ ; there are no sayings like the 
 sayings of Jesus ; there is no instruction like that con- 
 tained in the word of God ; there is no living the life of 
 the Christian without prayer. Prayer is the element in 
 which the Christian lives, the gushing fountain from 
 which his only happiness proceeds. Through the fields
 
 108 ESSAYS. 
 
 of prayer lie delights to wander, attuning his lyre in 
 songs of praise to his Maker. Whether at home or 
 abroad, in the mine or the mountain, the field or the 
 shop, on the hill or in the valley, in sunshine or in 
 shade, in affluence or poverty, in sickness or in health, 
 at all times and in all places, his thoughts fly up to God. 
 As soon as he ceases to pray, he ceases spiritually to 
 exist, he becomes a rotten carcase without an animating 
 soul. Like Samson when shorn of his strength, he may 
 say, " I will go out as at other times;" but he is sur- 
 rounded with his enemies, and falls into the hands of 
 the destroyer. "Without prayer, he spiritually withers 
 and expires. Prayer is the throbbing of the soul in the 
 ear of the Deity, the breathing of the spirit after God. 
 
 Prayer is a duty enjoined on every son and every 
 daughter of Adam, from the prince in tinselled robes to 
 the beggar in fluttering rags. " Would that men would 
 pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands." " Ask, and it 
 shall be given you." This invitation, " Ask," comes to 
 every one. It enters the cottage of the peasant and the 
 palace of the king, climbs up the shaggy mountain, 
 glides down into the flowery vale, speaks in the heart of 
 the poor man as well as the heart of the rich, and is 
 ringing in the ears of the child and the hoary sage, 
 " Ask, and it shall be given you." 
 
 " Child amid the flowers at play 
 As the red light fades away, 
 Mother with thine earnest eye 
 Ever following silently, 
 Father by the breeze of eve 
 Call'd thy harvest work to leave, 
 Pray ; ere yet the dark hours be, 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee. 
 
 " Traveller on a foreign strand, 
 Far from thine own household band, 
 Mourner haunted by a tone 
 Of a voice from this world gone,
 
 PRIVATE PRAYER. 109 
 
 Captive, in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell, 
 Sailor on the darkening sea, 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee." 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 " Prayer moves the hand that moves the world." In 
 answer to prayer, the angel blessed Jacob at the break- 
 ing of the dawn, calling him no longer Jacob, but Israel. 
 In answer to the prayer of Elijah, the fire of the Lord 
 came down, consuming the burnt sacrifice, the wood and 
 the stones, licking up the water in the trench, con- 
 founding the prophets of Baal, and convincing all the 
 people, who exclaimed, " The Lord, He is the God ; the 
 Lord, He is the God." In answer to prayer, Hezekiah 
 had fifteen years added to his life. In answer to prayer, 
 Daniel was saved in the lions' den, and the three 
 Hebrew children in the burning fiery furnace. In 
 answer to prayer, Jonah from the whale's belly was 
 cast uninjured upon dry land. In answer to prayer, 
 the centurion's servant was healed, and the blind men 
 received their sight. In answer to prayer, Peter was 
 released from prison, though sleeping between two 
 soldiers, and bound with two chains. Prayer has 
 quenched the violence of fire, blunted the edge of the 
 sword, made the weak man strong, turned to flight the 
 armies of the aliens. Prayer walled up the waters of 
 the Red Sea, so that Israel passed through dry-shod, 
 and then rushed back, entombing Pharaoh and his host. 
 Prayer caused the angel of death to breathe in the face 
 of the hosts of Sennacherib, and in the morning the 
 cold dew rested on the mailed warrior, stiff and deadly 
 pale. Prayer has stopped the wheels of Nature, and 
 arrested the great sun in his course. 
 
 The duty of prayer will appear from the fact of our 
 being born in sin and shapen in iniquity ; and there is 
 no other way to get the stains removed but by prayer. 
 Pray, for fear the evil one overpower thee and take thee
 
 110 ESSAYS. 
 
 unawares. Pray ; for if the sword of the Spirit be 
 locked in its sheath, the rust will adhere to its scabbard, 
 and in time of necessity this two-edged blade will not 
 be able to pierce thy foe. Pray ; for thy life is waning, 
 the glass of time runs fleetly down, the eagle with spread 
 pinions is careering onward, thy opportunities for prayer 
 are getting fewer and fewer ; 
 
 " For every beating pulse we tell 
 Leaves but the uuniber less." 
 
 Pray ; for diseases are stalking around thee, the pesti- 
 lence walking in darkness, and the arrow flying at 
 noonday. 
 
 " Dangers stand thick through all the ground, 
 To push us to the tomb." 
 
 At such an hour as we think not, the Son of man 
 cometh. Christian, there is no other defence for thee 
 but prayer. 
 
 " When thou prayest, enter into thy closet." The 
 closet of the Christian, we think, can be made almost 
 anywhere and at any time. He can breathe a fervent 
 desire, sigh his wishes to the throne, drop a speaking 
 tear, or glance towards his Father's house, under almost 
 all circumstances. Abraham's closet was the open 
 grove, and here he talked with Jehovah as friend to 
 friend. Isaac's closet was the river side; and Isaac 
 walked forth at eventide to commune with his God. 
 David's closet was the sheep-fold; and here the fair 
 shepherd-boy, with ruddy cheek, resting upon his crook, 
 and tuning his lyre in the green fields of Bethlehem, 
 called upon his heavenly Father. Daniel's closet was 
 his own chamber ; and here three times a day, with his 
 window open towards Jerusalem, his own beloved land, 
 he called upon his God. Nathanael's closet was under 
 the fig tree ; and here, in the solitude of nature, under 
 the spreading branches of the fig tree, the omniscient 
 Eye beheld him, and Christ said unto him, " "When thou
 
 PRIVATE PRAYER. Ill 
 
 wast under the fig-tree, I saw thee." Our Saviour's 
 closet was the blue mountain-top. And when even was 
 come, Christ ascended the mountain alone to pray. 
 And why was He there alone ? Why was our blessed 
 Saviour on this hill's head alone at that twilight hour ? 
 The sun went down, and flushed the beauteous lake 
 beneath Him, and hung his golden robes on the crests 
 of the distant hills ; and here was the world's Redeemer 
 communing with His Father and our Father, with His 
 God and our God. Yes, we may make our closet any- 
 where. How often have we conversed with our heavenly 
 Father when walking the highways and travelling the 
 public lanes of life ! How often, when the Christian's 
 hands are engaged with his lawful avocation, does he 
 hold sweet colloquy with Heaven ! How often, by the 
 river side, in the flowery valley, in the shadowy wood, on 
 the rocky mountain, down deep in the darksome mine, or 
 far out on the solitudes of the blue sea, has the Christian 
 found a closet ; retiring from such a place refreshed and 
 cheered, and the Lord has blessed him openly ! 
 
 " But thou, when thou pray est, enter into thy closet ; 
 and when thou hast shut thy door," — when the busy 
 scenes of life are veiled from thy vision, when thou 
 retirest from the haunts of men, when the great world 
 is shut out of thy thoughts, or when for a moment, in 
 the midst of thy toil, thou feelest a good desire, then 
 " pray to thy Father which is in secret, and thy Father 
 which seeth in secret." The Christian's God is an 
 omnipresent God ; His eyes are everywhere at the same 
 time, beholding the evil and the good. He sees and 
 blesses the poor man in the solitude of his mud- walled 
 home, as freely and as largely as the king upon his 
 throne. He sees and blesses the weeping school-boy in 
 the corner of his father's meads, as freely and as largely 
 as the hoary sage in the great congregation. Wherever 
 there is a heart to pray, God is there to bless. " And 
 thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee
 
 112 ESSAYS. 
 
 openly." This is forcibly illustrated in the following 
 anecdote of a Nonconformist minister, whose temporal 
 circumstances, during the days of church persecution, 
 were so sadly reduced that he and his wife sat down one 
 evening to consult what to do. After they had calmly 
 talked over the matter for some time, it was agreed that 
 on the following morning he should leave his family, 
 and go in search of employment. His wife retired to 
 rest ; but he remained up the whole of that night in 
 prayer to God. And when the morning light was 
 streaming through the windows of the East, kissing the 
 flowers into life and beauty, and the wakening birds 
 were chanting on the tree-boughs, shaking showers of 
 dew-drops on the glittering grass, he kissed his sleeping 
 little ones, shook hands with his wife, and departed he 
 knew not whither. He travelled the whole of the first 
 day without any success, and in the evening he made up 
 to a farm-house by the way-side, and asked permission 
 of the farmer to sleep in his bam that night. The 
 farmer granted him permission, and he retired to the 
 barn, but not to sleep — he remained up the whole of that, 
 night also in prayer to God. The next day he again 
 pursued his search, without any better success ; and as 
 the shades of evening were once more falling on the 
 landscape, a large mansion-house rose before him, and 
 soon he stood before the gate. He knocked, the porter 
 came, and he said to him, " Can you raise employment 
 for a poor man whose wife and family are starving ? " 
 The porter answered, " No," and he retired with a heavy 
 heart. He had not retreated many steps, however, 
 when the porter recollected that their shepherd had just 
 left, and he thought, " Perhaps this man understands 
 the keeping of sheep : I will call him, and ask." When 
 called, the poor man very significantly said, " I have 
 been a shepherd all my days," meaning a shepherd of 
 souls. He was employed by the lord of the manor as a 
 shepherd, and, the sheep-cote being about two miles from
 
 THE WORKS OF GOD. 113 
 
 the nia.nsion-house, the servants who took his meals to 
 him often heard him praying. Not long after this her 
 ladyship was taken ill, and the physicians supposed she 
 would die. Believing it, his lordship was anxious that 
 some one should pray with her, saying to his attendants 
 who filled the room, " Can any of you pray ? O pray 
 for her ladyship ; for she is dying." No, none of them 
 could engage in this solemn diity. At last one of the 
 servants said, " 0, Sir, our shepherd prays." " Does he ? " 
 said he, " send for him." The good man came, when 
 his lordship thus addressed him: "Can you pray?" 
 " Yes, Sir," said he; " and cursed is the man that cannot 
 pray." " O then kneel down and pray for her ladyship ; 
 for she is dying." He knelt down : strong and earnest 
 were his pleadings ; he seemed to grasp the arm of the 
 Eternal ; such an influence descended that her ladyship 
 leaped up in bed, and cried out, " Art thou a man, or an 
 angel ? for I am quite well." Never after that hour did 
 this faithful disciple of Jesus lack the bread which 
 perisheth. 
 
 ESSAY VII. 
 
 THE WORKS OF GOD. 
 
 " Consider the work of God." The works of God are 
 manifold and various, and are all replete with instruc- 
 tion, froni the little humble insect unseen by the naked 
 eye, and the simple blade of grass in the meadows, to 
 the kingly Hon of the jungle, and the wondrous banyan- 
 tree of Hindostan, under whose spreading branches 
 an army of several thousand men may find shadow.
 
 114 ESSAYS. 
 
 "Whether we look upon the earth beneath, or the heavens 
 above ; whether we examine the floweret on the moun- 
 tain, or the rock against which it rests its pallid cheek ; 
 whether we listen to the roll of the ocean, or the mur- 
 mur of the rill ; whether we watch the moon walking 
 along on her silvery pathway, or the stars that glitter in 
 the robe of night ; in all we see the finger-marks of God, 
 the footsteps of Deity. In the midst of our earthly pur- 
 suits, while we are busily engaged in the lawful avoca- 
 tions of life, let us stand still and consider the work of 
 God. 
 
 How truly the poet sings, — 
 
 " 'T was great to speak a world from nought, 
 'T was greater to redeem ! " 
 
 It was great to speak into existence the huge globe on 
 which we dwell, with all its towering mountains, its 
 waving woods, its fertile valleys, its flowing rivers, its 
 boundless deserts, and its arid wastes. It was great to 
 speak into existence the wide rolling ocean, whose 
 healthful billows lave the shores of every land. 
 
 "The eagle's vision cannot take it in. 
 The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space, 
 Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird." 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 It was great to speak into existence the beautiful 
 light, and the pure air we love to breathe, which give 
 life and vitaHty to beast and bower. It was great to 
 speak into existence the wild dwellers of the wood, the 
 sheep of the pasture, and the cattle upon a thousand 
 hills. It was great to speak into existence the fishes of 
 the sea, from the proud leviathan, " which maketh the 
 deep to boil like a pot," to the minutest animalculae, 
 millions of which hang in a drop of water. It was great 
 to speak into existence the birds of the air, from the
 
 THE WORKS OF GOD. 115 
 
 little household robin that whistles his carols by the 
 palace and the cot, to the mighty eagle perched on the 
 snowy Alps. It was great to speak into existence the 
 crystal stars, which look down upon us from their holy 
 homes, like the eyes of departed friends. It was great 
 to speak into existence the sun, and moon, and the 
 beautiful constellations, all guided in their mystic orbits 
 by the finger of Heaven. And, last, though not least, 
 it was great to speak man into existence, to create him 
 out of the dust of the ground, and to breathe into his 
 nostrils the breath of life, so that he became a living 
 soul. It was great, how great, to do all this ! And the 
 power and benevolence of Jehovah are lovingly dis- 
 played in preserving and upholding all things which He 
 has created, and in satisfying the desire of every living 
 thing. Look upon the millions of millions of our 
 fellow-creatures, scattered up and down the surface of 
 the great earth, in towns, and cities, and wooded ham- 
 lets, living on mountains and in valleys, and by the 
 rivers' sides. See them thronging on our continents, 
 and teeming on our islands. Look upon them, of all 
 ranks and of all conditions, from the tiny infant in his 
 mother's arms, to the hoary wanderer on the brink of 
 the grave ; from the wrinkled warrior with his prating 
 scars, to the healthful shepherd in his reedy cot. God 
 preserves them all by His mighty power, and feeds them 
 day by day by His kind providence. This is the work 
 of God, not the issue of chance ; and we should stand 
 still and consider it. And He satisfieth the desire of 
 every living thing ; the beasts of the field, the fowls of 
 the ah*, the fishes of the sea, and the myriad insects 
 which swarm around. He causes the trees to vegetate, 
 the flowers to bloom, the corn to grow, the sun to shine, 
 the dews to fall, and the refreshing rains to water 
 the earth. This is the work of God, and we are to 
 consider it. 
 
 But the great scheme of human redemption by the 
 
 I 2
 
 116 
 
 bloodshedding of God's only Son rises before us, out- 
 shining every other display of the benevolence of the 
 Deity. What a dark midnight pall would press upon 
 the universe, shrouding the earth and heavens in sack- 
 cloth, were it not revealed unto us that Jesus Christ the 
 Saviour of the world has tasted death for every man ! 
 It flows forth from the altars of the sanctuary, and from 
 the porches of our own beloved Jerusalem ; it meets us 
 on the pages of God's holy book, glittering in golden 
 characters upon almost every leaf; it travels on the 
 wings of the wind, and rides upon the coursers of the 
 storm ; we hear it in the throbbings of the universe, and 
 it trembles in the lyrics of the woods : " We are all 
 redeemed, not with corruptible things, such as silver 
 and gold, but with the precious blood of Christ." This 
 is God's great work, and we should consider it. We 
 should consider it at morning, at noontide, and at 
 night. We should consider it in youth, and consider it 
 in age. We should consider it when alone in the fields 
 of solitude, and we should consider it in the great 
 congregation. " Consider the work of God." 
 
 ESSAY VII I. 
 
 THE PLEASANT WAY. 
 
 " Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths 
 are peace." There is a very old-fashioned book, in which 
 I was taught to read in childhood, sitting upon my 
 mother's knees. The history and biography of this old- 
 fashioned book charmed me in boyhood and youth,
 
 THE PLEASANT WAY. 117 
 
 more than the history and biography of any other 
 volnnie. There are in this old-fashioned book sweet 
 rills of sacred song, which have gushed around me in 
 the flower-strewn morning of my life, like notes from 
 seraph lyres ; and they still continue to murmur in my 
 ears under the gathering shadows of my riper age. 
 There are within its pages limpid wells of living water, 
 clear as crystal, out of which the weary traveller may 
 stoop and drink delighted : and around those bubbling 
 springs grow most fragrant flowers, sparkling upon 
 mossy banks; and the Christian pilgrim may gather 
 them, and, inhaling their reviving odours, go on his 
 Zion-bound course rejoicing. 
 
 This old-fashioned and long-circulated book is the 
 Bible. The poor man of the cottage may not possess 
 very many books; but, having the Bible, he has the 
 best book in the world, " the Book of books." Where 
 can we meet with any history like the history which 
 the Bible contains ? Where can we meet with any 
 poetry more sublime and lofty than the poetry of 
 the Bible, the magnificent songs of Isaiah, or the sweet 
 lays of David? Hope sings among its promises, and 
 heaven opens on its leaves. Where can we meet with 
 anything more interesting in the annals of ancient or 
 modem literature, than the history of Joseph and his 
 brethren ? See him cast into a pit, sold as a slave, 
 carried into Egypt, thrown into prison, raised to honour 
 and renown, and made the means of saving the nation from 
 the horrors of famine, and preserving the lives of his 
 father and his family. Where can we meet with more 
 wonderful interpositions of Divine Providence than we 
 find in the Bible ? Here is the history of Samson and 
 the Hon ; of David and the giant ; of the widow and the 
 cruise of oil ; of Elijah fed by ravens ; of the Lord 
 listening to the prayer of Hezekiah, and adding fifteen 
 years to his life ; of Daniel cast into the lions' den, and 
 coming out unhurt ; of the three Hebrew children
 
 118 
 
 thrown into the burning fiery furnace, and walking 
 unsinged in the midst of the flame. But here, more 
 especially, we have the history of our adorable Lord and 
 Saviour Jesus Christ, who suffered, the just for the 
 unjust, to bring us to God. "We see Him portrayed 
 upon every page, shining in every chapter, — Christ at 
 the beginning of the Bible, Christ in the centre of the 
 sacred volume, and Christ at the end of this precious 
 charter. God has not revealed Himself to us anywhere 
 so brilliantly and so lovingly as in the Lamp Divine. 
 We plainly see Him in Nature, in the sky above, and in 
 the earth beneath ; we hear Him in the voice of the 
 thunder, and the hum of the insect ; in the shout of the 
 winds, and the carol of the breeze ; and the songs of the 
 birds, and the murmur of the streams, are for ever telling 
 us of God. But more especially does He speak to us 
 from the blessed Bible, teaching us that, when we had 
 ruined ourselves by sin and wicked works; when we 
 were surrounded with the ruins of the fall, out of which 
 it was impossible to extricate ourselves, and over which 
 it was impossible for us to climb ; when from behind the 
 sulphurous clouds of the bottomless pit the arch enemy 
 shot his death-bolts at us ; when there was no eye to 
 pity and no arm to save, Thine own arm, O blessed 
 Saviour, brought salvation unto us, and in Thy fury it 
 upheld us. Thank God for the redemption plan ! It 
 is a plan that far exceeds every other plan, that far out- 
 does the most sanguinary schemes of men and angels. 
 It is a plan that was conceived in the halls of old 
 eternity, long before the present generations of the earth 
 existed, and will continue in operation as long as the 
 sun and the moon endure. 
 
 The redemption song is a song that has been carolled by 
 patriarchs and prophets, apostles, martyrs, and holy 
 men, from the early morning of time down to the 
 present era. It is a song that many of our departed 
 friends and relatives loved to sing on then earthly
 
 THE PLEASANT WAY. 119 
 
 pilgrimage ; and now they are attuning their golden 
 lyres to the same anthem in the ivory homes of bliss. 
 
 How sweet the melody of the words at the head of 
 this paper, " Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
 her paths are peace ! " The way of religion is pleasant, 
 because the Saviour has been over it, and we see His 
 footprints on our pilgrim-way. The way is pleasant, 
 because of the company with whom we travel. Here are 
 the great and good, of almost every kindred and from 
 every clime. The way is pleasant, because of the scenery 
 around it. Here are trees of unfading verdure, in which 
 the birds of Paradise warble hymns of heaven ; here are 
 flowers of rainbow dye, and crystal streams murmuring 
 sweet lays of the holy land. The way is pleasant, 
 because of the promise that awaits us. At the end of 
 this way is heaven, our Father's house, that land " where 
 the roses are without thorns and the flowers are not 
 mixed with brambles, where there is eternal spring and 
 light without auy cloud." The Bible is man's unerring 
 chart to the portals of glory. 
 
 Sweet are the simple lines of this hymn of child- 
 hood, — 
 
 " 'T is religion that can give 
 Sweetest pleasures while we live, 
 'T is religion must supply 
 Solid comfort when we die." 
 
 Nothing else will cheer us and support us through this 
 desert-land but this religion. This religion will uphold 
 us in storm and adversity, in cloud and light, in sunshine 
 and shade, in sickness and health ; will cheer us when 
 our earthly friends forsake us, and attend us through 
 the dark valley and shadow of death. This is the 
 religion which Abraham felt when, at the command of 
 God, he took the knife and stretched forth his hand to 
 slay his son. This is the religion which David the fair 
 shepherd boy possessed when, tuning his melodious
 
 120 ESSAYS. 
 
 lyre, lie sang, " It is good for me that I have been 
 afflicted ; before I was afflicted I went astray." This is 
 the religion which the patient patriarch of the land of Uz 
 enjoyed when, stripped of his property and his beloved 
 children, he said, " The Lord gave, and the Lord hath 
 taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord." This is 
 the religion which the fishermen of Galilee had, when 
 they left all and followed the Nazarene. This is the 
 religion of our blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, 
 who bought it for us with His blood. And this religion 
 is increasing and shall increase. Kings have become its 
 nursing- fathers and queens its nursing-mothers ; princes 
 and peasants exiilt in its freedom ; old men and little 
 children delight in its sweetness; it has entered the 
 castle and the cot, the city and the rural hamlet; it streams 
 over the mountain and the valley, over continent and 
 isle ; it shines like a sunbeam among the snows of the 
 north, and the ice-heaps of the south; it glows amid 
 the brightness of the tropics, and in the mellow light 
 of the temperate zones ; and soon, as God's great book 
 informs us, its holy radiance will fill the whole earth as 
 the waters fill the sea. Yes ; this religion is increasing, 
 and shall increase. It smiles on the mother and her 
 daughters, on the father and his sons. It cheers the 
 weed- wrapped mendicant by the way- side, and the prince 
 in his gilded chariot. It shines on the wan face of the 
 dying, and the rosy features of health. It draws the 
 drunkard with its love-cords, and the swearer that he 
 swears no more. It flings its soft halo over the repent- 
 ant prison-wretch, whose catalogue of crimes is long 
 and dark ; and woos with loving tones the wanderer in 
 the land of morality. It takes the poor slave-black by 
 the hand, and lifts him up to the white man's heaven. 
 It echoes from hill to hill, from valley to valley, from 
 isle to isle, and from sea to sea, " Her ways are ways of 
 pleasantness, and all her paths are peace."
 
 GREAT EVENTS FROM SMALL BEGINNINGS. 121 
 
 ESSAY IX. 
 
 GREAT EVENTS FROM SMALL 
 BEGINNINGS. 
 
 The most sublime and wonderful results often ori- 
 ginate in small beginnings. There was once a little boy 
 who was sent to the parish school to learn the alphabet ; 
 and when he was not much more than seven years of 
 age, his father's circumstances were greatly reduced, so 
 that he was obliged to leave school, go out to service, 
 and take his share in the rough struggle of the world. 
 After this we hear of him being taught, by a young lad 
 in the neighbourhood, to read well in the Bible ; and he 
 had commenced writing, and only commenced, when his 
 school-days were brought to an abrupt termination, and 
 the poor little fellow was put out in the fields in the 
 summer season to keep off the cows from eating the 
 corn and the hay. Years passed away, and he was still 
 the little cow-herd; but when his sixteenth came, he 
 reached the rank of shepherd, the height of his early 
 ambition. His contemplative mind now had leisiu-e. 
 Seated on some lofty eminence, from which the docile 
 bleaters might be seen wandering wide at will, he swept 
 his fingers over his early harp, and sang his first lays 
 among the rocks and solitudes. His days were passed 
 in peaceful occupation, in an occupation which he loved ; 
 and when the evening came, he tuned his violin to his 
 own compositions, delighting the hearts of his hearers. 
 His strains, though rude and untutored, had the true 
 magic of poetry, that influence which touches the heart 
 and awakens a thousand pleasurable emotions. Shep- 
 herds sang them as they watched their flocks ; herd boys 
 chanted them, maidens carolled them at the milking- 
 fold; they were heard on hills and plains, in valleys
 
 122 ESSAYS. 
 
 and waving woods. He began to write prose essays for 
 periodicals, and his Leart leaped up with gladness when 
 those well-conned lines of his were first immortalized in 
 printer's ink. He travelled on and on in the path of 
 perseverance, flinging bright gems around him as he 
 went, till the echo of his name was heard in hamlet and 
 in town and the halls of the crowded city, and the repu- 
 tation of James Hogg the Ettrick Shepherd was world- 
 wide. 
 
 Looking off from man, and gazing on the great book 
 of Nature spread before our wondering eyes, so that he 
 who runs may read, O how many are the sublime results 
 originating in small beginnings ! Brush back the 
 flowery hawthorns that hang over that old stile, where 
 our hoary sires have often walked, whose ancient steps 
 are worn down with their repeated treading, — brush back 
 the flowery hawthorns, and enter the shady wood in the 
 bosom of the valley. Two little boys are gambolling 
 here in their childish glee, singing their morning carols 
 as happy as the day is long. One of them takes an 
 acorn and plants it beside an old hedge. In a few 
 months it shoots up, and is no bigger than a reed. 
 Tears pass away, and it is still a small diminutive thing. 
 Still it grows slowly, slowly. The boys emigrate to a 
 distant part of the world, and still the oak-tree grows. 
 They return old and grey-headed. It is now the 
 monarch of the forest : on its branches the song-birds 
 swing, and in its shadow the poet carols, and the shep- 
 herd eyes his flock. The old men die, fall into the 
 grave, and are hidden out of sight ; but still the oak- 
 tree grows. For a hundred years it grows, spreading its 
 broad arms to the blast, until its hardened limbs beat 
 back the hurricane, and defy the scowling tempest. 
 
 Hark ! do you hear that whistle at the early 
 dawn, when the lark is soaring from her nest, shaking 
 the dew-drops from her wings, — do you hear that 
 whistle floating over the meadows, across which walks
 
 GREAT EVENTS FROM SMALL BEGINNINGS. 123 
 
 the woodman with his axe upon his shoulder ? See, he 
 enters the wood, and travels up to this same old oak. 
 Cannot you hear the echo of his hatchet, as it falls upon 
 the giant trunk ? Blow after blow he gives it, blow 
 after blow, until it falls prostrate upon the earth. Time 
 passes away, and the old oak-tree is sawn, and chipped, 
 and planed, and assists in making a mighty war- ship, 
 which now sails upon the seas, mounting over the 
 ocean billows, with its meteor flag and numerous family 
 of great guns with brasen throats, skilfully managed by 
 dauntless heroes scaring the foes of old England. 
 
 Leaving the old oak-tree upon the seas, battling with 
 the elements, let us walk down this shadowy lane, 
 through which the swallows are sporting ; and, turning 
 among the broad elms, we enter the village school. On 
 the end of one of the benches in this green -leafed 
 nursery sits a little boy, with his wondrous horn-book 
 in his hand. Day after day he is there, sitting on the 
 same bench, and day after day he is taught to learn the 
 letters of the alphabet. And those letters are the 
 golden keys with which in after years that little boy 
 unlocks all the treasures of art and science, so that he 
 sails with the navigator to the remotest regions of the 
 globe, walks with Newton from star to star, or soars 
 with Milton to the highest heaven of heavens. Who- 
 ever thou art, despise not small beginnings. Take the 
 first step in the right direction : wear the April of thy 
 life away in the walks of wisdom, and let Nature be thy 
 great teacher, and the Holy Bible thy guide. The great 
 Author of the Bible is the God of the universe. He 
 who causes the oak-tree to grow, the flowers to bloom, 
 and the brook to murmur ; who built up the mountains, 
 and scooped out the valleys ; who hung the white moon 
 in the firmament, and the stars in the blue depths of 
 ether ; He who made " the great globe itself," is also 
 the maker of the Bible. Sow the seeds of instruction 
 beside all waters, trusting in God alone for the increase.
 
 124 
 
 Man was not made to be isolated and alone, to be pent 
 up in a monastery, or to sbiver in the berrnit's cell ; but 
 be was sublimely organized for social enjoyment and 
 social happiness, that the great world around him might 
 be made better and happier by his existence. In com- 
 municating happiness to others, we make ourselves 
 happy. This is the golden age of travel over land and 
 sea. Those who sit with us at our hearth, or cluster 
 around our board, or kneel in the sanctuary, or listen to 
 our words on oiu* evening walk, pass away from us, 
 bearing the seed afar. The voices of our friends now 
 ring in almost every zone, and echo in every isle. 
 Words of sweet interchange are handed to us from 
 breeze to breeze, almost from pole to pole. Sweet 
 tidings of absent ones are borne on the wings of the 
 zephyr, — 
 
 " From Greenland's icy mountains, 
 
 From India's coral strand, 
 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 
 Steal over golden sand." 
 
 The seed of life lodged in the human heart, though 
 wafted by the winds of change to the farthest regions 
 of the globe, germinates and grows, until at last it 
 " becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and 
 lodge in the branches thereof."
 
 THE TWO FOUNDATIONS. 125 
 
 ESSAY X. 
 
 THE TWO FOUNDATIONS. 
 
 " Therefore whosoever heareth these says of Mine, 
 and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, 
 which built his house upon a rock : and the rain 
 descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and 
 beat upon that house ; and it fell not ; for it was 
 founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth these 
 sayings of Mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened 
 unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the 
 sand : and the rain descended, and the floods came, and 
 the winds blew, and beat upon that house ; and it fell : 
 and great was the fall of it." The most sublime senti- 
 ments that ever fell on the ear of man were uttered by 
 Jesus of Nazareth, the reputed son of Joseph the car- 
 penter, the Saviour and Redeemer of the whole family 
 of Adam. Sages who have long been lost in contempla- 
 tion have told us wondrous things ; philosophers and 
 astronomers have ransacked earth and heaven, and we 
 have been perfectly astounded with the theories they 
 adduce ; poets have entered into Nature's holy place, 
 her inner temple, and have sung lofty hymns, the 
 solemn echoes of which ring in our ears like lays from 
 the spirit-land ; and orators, in the moment of excite- 
 ment, have breathed forth " words that burn ; " but 
 sage, or philosopher, or astronomer, or poet, or oi'ator, 
 have never littered language so full of rich melody, 
 of s\ich sublimity and grandeur, as dropped from the 
 lips of the Redeemer in His weary wanderings through 
 this world of care on acts of mercy and benevolence. 
 
 The paragraph at the head of this paper very nearly 
 concludes Christ's sermon on the mount ; a semion 
 which contains more Christian instruction than number-
 
 126 ESSAY8. 
 
 leBS well-written and richly-bound folios of the learned. 
 He had just commenced His mission of peace and good- 
 will, when, walking by the blue sea of Galilee, He saw 
 two fishermen casting a net into the water. And He 
 said unto them, " Follow Me, and I will make you 
 fishers of men." The two men might have reasoned 
 within themselves, " What profit will it be to us to 
 leave our fishing-nets, and follow Him ? and whither 
 would He lead us ? and how will He make us fishers of 
 men ? What will become of our wives and children, 
 if we wander away with this man, and leave them here 
 alone and unprotected? Will they not die with cold 
 and hunger, and perish, and be forgotten ? Who will 
 procure bread for our little ones, and speak kindly to 
 them, and take them on their knees, and listen to their 
 evening prayer, when their parents are gone far, far 
 away ? No, no ; we cannot leave all that is so dear unto 
 us, to wander with this stranger, we know not whither, 
 merely to be fishers of men." The two men did not 
 reason thus, but straightway, cheerfully and happily, 
 left their fishing-nets and followed Him. And Jesus 
 Christ, on His holy mission, went about all Galilee, 
 teaching in their synagogues, preaching the Gospel of 
 the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness, and all 
 manner of disease among the people. And His fame 
 spread far and wide; great crowds of people followed 
 Him from place to place; and, seeing the multitudes. 
 He went up into a mountain, — far away from the noise 
 and tumult of the busy throng, far away from the din 
 and discord of the world below, far away from the 
 searching eye of man, in the cleft of the hoary mount, 
 with the blue sky above Him, and the flashing waters 
 of the sea of Galilee beneath. Here He sat Him down 
 in silence and solitude, till His disciples came unto 
 Him ; and, surrounded with the few faithful fishermen, 
 He uttered the sweetest words that ever fell on the ear 
 of man.
 
 THE TWO FOUNDATIONS. 127 
 
 In this memorable discourse, on this memorable 
 mount, at this memorable time, Christ warned His dis- 
 ciples against merely hearing what He had to say, and 
 not doing what He taught. " Therefore whosoever 
 heareth these sayings of Mine, and doeth them, I will 
 liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon 
 a rock," &c. It is easy for us to imagine a house on the 
 low hill's side, built upon a rock. The builder knows 
 that at certain seasons the torrent sweeps down the 
 sides of the mountain, the rains fall heavily, and the 
 wild winds rush with mad violence froni rock to rock. 
 He has chosen the site himself, and be feels confident 
 that his house will stand on such a firin foundation. 
 Tears pass away, and no storm sweeps over its roof. 
 The breezes of summer carol beneath its eaves, and the 
 wintry winds have not yet been wild. But by and by 
 the storm comes on, the heavens gather blackness and 
 darkness, and dense masses of clouds are driven in wild 
 commotion athwart the sky. The lightnings blaze 
 forth from then sulphurous chambers, and the thunders 
 mutter in tones of dread, so that the wrinkled crags of 
 the mountain are rooted up with the roar. The windows 
 of heaven are opened, and the rains rush down in 
 streams ; the torrent thunders down the sides of the 
 mountain, and the wild winds have broken loose from 
 their caverns, and are shaking the earth with their 
 furious tramp. Ships, with then crews and cargoes, are 
 sunk upon the ocean ; giant cedar-trees are uprooted in 
 the forest, and cities quake to their very foundations. 
 But when the storm has spent itself, and, like a child 
 asleep, the wild winds have rocked themselves to slum- 
 ber ; when the lightnings and the rains have ceased, and 
 the voice of the thunder, the earthquake, and the hurri- 
 cane is heard no more, and we look out in the bright 
 sunshine on the mountain's side; there stands that 
 house which was built upon the rock, without a fracture 
 in its roof, or a rent upon its walls. Christ is this rock :
 
 128 ESSAYS. 
 
 whosoever builds upon Him, builds upon a firm founda- 
 tion. This structure will stand amid the tossings and 
 heavings of the sea of time, and even the blast of the 
 winter of old age will not shatter it. Sickness may 
 blight the walls of life's prison-house ; but in the midst 
 of approaching dissolution the Christian shall exclaim, 
 " For we know that if our earthly house of this taberna- 
 cle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house 
 not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." He 
 alone is wise who builds his hopes upon the Rock of 
 Ages. 
 
 " And every one that heareth these sayings of Mine, 
 and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish 
 man, which built his house upon the sand," etc. It 
 requires but Little effort of imagination to bring before 
 the mind's eye the picture of a foolish man in the beau- 
 tiful summer season building his house upon the sand. 
 Beside him lies a large rock, which time, with its hun- 
 dred winters, has scarcely channelled ; but he seems to 
 heed it not, content with his false foundation, which 
 looks very pleasing to the eye, and he builds his house 
 upon the yielding sand. There it stands in the bright 
 sunshine, appearing as firm as needs be, and within it 
 sits the foolish builder, unconscious of the gathering 
 storm. But the storm does gather around him, and he 
 heeds it not. At last the winds break out, blowing 
 their startling trumpets, whose shrill echoes shake the 
 rocks of the wilderness, and the high crests of the hills. 
 The rains suddenly fall from their overflowing cisterns, 
 and the floods break up the surface of the earth as they 
 rush along. The elements seem to battle in furious 
 strife, and death shrieks his doleful requiem on the 
 wings of the blast. The house built upon the sand is 
 swept away with the sm-ges of the flood, and in it 
 perishes the builder when he deemed himself secure. 
 And on the morrow, when the face of the sky is cloud- 
 less and calm, and the last pang of the storm has died
 
 THE TWO FOUNDATIONS. 129 
 
 in the valley, and the last wave of the flood has rolled in 
 the ocean, and we look out in the bright sunshine on 
 the spot where the house once stood, we see it no 
 longer, it is down, a misshapen mass of ruins, and over 
 it the death-bird flaps his heavy wings, while beneath 
 it, ay, beneath it, lies the foolish builder, mangled, stiff, 
 and dead. His house was built upon the sand, and 
 great was the fall of it. In its fall he perished and was 
 lost. 
 
 Whosoever builds upon hearing and not doing the 
 commands of Christ, builds upon the sands. Whoso- 
 ever builds upon his own good works, builds upon the 
 sands. Whosoever builds upon saints and images, 
 builds upon the sands. Whosoever builds upon tin- 
 selled exteriors, builds upon the sands. Whosoever 
 builds upon anything shoi't of the new birth by the 
 remission of sins through our Lord Jesus Christ, builds 
 upon the sands. Whosoever builds upon any other 
 foundation than the Rock of Ages, builds upon the 
 sands. O foolish, foolish man, to build thine house upon 
 the sands ! The storm may not yet have shaken thy 
 clay tenement ; but even now the wild winds mutter to 
 blast thy frail edifice. The cold gales of poverty and 
 neglect may blow upon thee ; for thieves break through 
 and steal the treasures of this world, and the moth and 
 the canker-worm settle on the fairest flowers. And the 
 storm of sickness may come, and blight the walls of 
 thine earthly tabernacle ; and disease and pain may lay 
 thee low. And, sooner or later, the blast of death will 
 hurry thee to the tomb, and thou shalt mingle with the 
 clods of the valley; and then, if thine house be built 
 upon the sands, it were better for thee that thou wert 
 never bora : and in the last and final conflagration, 
 when the elements shall melt with fervent heat, when 
 
 " The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
 
 130 ESSAYS. 
 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like the bareless fabric of a vision, 
 Leave not a wrack behind." 
 
 Shakespeare ; 
 
 then, if thine hopes be built upon the sands, they will 
 surely be swept away. Build, O build, upon the rock 
 of God's love, and thy fabric shall stand in the day of 
 judgment amid the fierce fire and wailing wreck of the 
 universe. 
 
 ESSAY XI. 
 
 ZEAL FOR THE SANCTUARY. 
 
 " I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into 
 the house of the Lord." The writer of these words was 
 a king, who once held the sceptre of a mighty nation, and 
 sat upon one of the greatest thrones of the earth. He 
 had armies of soldiers at his command, and veteran 
 swordsmen attended his beck. Ministers and courtiers 
 waited on him, and the treasures of almost every zone 
 were poured into his lap. Monarch of a country lite- 
 rally flowing with milk and honey, whose valleys were 
 filled with cattle, whose mountains were dotted over 
 with sheep, and by the margin of whose rivers troops of 
 camels ran, we might suppose that, if earthly posses- 
 sions alone could make any one happy, it would be the 
 monarch of such a realm. But no earthly possessions, 
 however valuable, or however great, can satisfy the 
 cravings of the immortal mind. Hence the sweet 
 Bible-poet breaks out in this felicitous language, "I 
 was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the 
 house of the Lord." 
 
 In reading the wonderful odes of this wonderful bard,
 
 ZEAL FOR THE SANCTUARY. 131 
 
 melodious and glorious as they are, what frequent repe* 
 titions we meet with of the poet's love for the house of 
 God ! Hence in Psalm lxxxiv. he breaks out in these 
 delightful words : " How amiable are Thy tabernacles, O 
 Lord of hosts! My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth, for 
 the courts of the Lord," &c. The secret of David's zeal 
 for the cause of God, for the prosperity of Zion, and for 
 the peace of Jerusalem, arose out of his love to God and 
 His service, his regular religious devotions, and the per- 
 sonal enjoyment of true religion. David was a Chris- 
 tian king, who enjoyed the favour of God, and walked in 
 the light of His countenance through the land of 
 uprightness. In the time of affliction he hastened with 
 his complaint to his Maker ; in the hour of prosperity 
 he did not forget his Benefactor; and when pursued 
 by his heated enemies, he evermore resorted to the 
 sanctuary, and clung to the horn of his salvation. 
 There is no doubt, too, but the psalmist worshipped 
 God, and often felt His presence, in the solitudes of 
 Jerusalem, among the groves and fields, or on the sum- 
 mit of the mighty mountain, where nought was heard 
 save the passing breeze shaking the palm-leaves on its 
 tuneful march ; or in the flowery valley, fragrant with 
 the breath of roses, where Nature, with her myriad 
 voices, praised the Lord ; or by the lonely river in the 
 wilderness, which, as it walked away to the ocean, bore 
 upon its limpid billows the accents of his earnest prayer 
 to the God above. And often, in his pious meditations 
 at the evening hour, he thought upon his younger days, 
 when, a happy shepherd-boy, he watched his father's 
 sheep in his own loved Bethlehem, and called upon the 
 God of Israel among the valleys and on the hill-sides. 
 David was a lover of Nature ; but he looked from Nature 
 up to Nature's God. See him walking forth at night, 
 on the still mountain-top, lifting his eyes up on the 
 starry sky, while those chaste sentinels, the silent 
 watchers of the firmament, are whispering in mellow
 
 132 ESSAYS. 
 
 music to his listening soul. See him clasping his hands 
 in sublime adoration of the scene above him, and 
 exclaiming as he does in Psalm xix., " The heavens 
 declare the glory of God : and the firmament showeth 
 His handy-work." There is no doubt, too, but that 
 David worshipped God in the solitude of his own cham- 
 ber ; that he had stated times for devotion, and kept his 
 closet warm with the breath of prayer. But whether in 
 his own closet, or wandering amid the rocks of the 
 desert or the flowerets of the field ; whether he climbed 
 the hill or roved the valley ; whether he gazed upon the 
 earth beneath or the heavens above, God was in his 
 thoughts, the prosperity of Zion was dear to his heart, 
 the fellowship of saints was a privilege he prized beyond 
 the gems of this world ; and, though he was a king, and 
 sat upon a throne, he felt that he could not spiritually 
 exist alone ; but, in order to partake daily of the bread 
 of life, he must be connected with the church militant, 
 and lift tip his voice in the great congregation ; and so 
 he breaks out into singing, " I was glad when they said 
 unto me, Let us go into the house of the Lord." 
 
 And has not this been the experience of Christians in 
 all ages of the world, wherever the church of Christ has 
 been erected, and the name of Jehovah adored ? Has 
 not this been the language of our hearts many and 
 many a time ? After the cares and anxieties, the per- 
 plexities and labours, of the busy week, when the light 
 of the Sabbath morning beams upon our land, and the 
 tones of " the church-going bell " are echoing from our 
 hills and valleys ; when the labourer has thrown down 
 his spade, and the wheel of the miller is still, and the 
 oar of the boatman lies silent on the strand, has not this 
 been our experience, " I was glad when they said unto 
 me, Let us go into the house of the Lord ? " 
 
 Have we not wandered forth at evening, in some 
 lonely dell, what time the young moon hung her white 
 garments upon the hill -sides, and clothed the sleeping
 
 ZEAL FOR THE SANCTUARY. 133 
 
 flowerets in the holy light ? and, lingering beside the 
 lonely streamlet, we have listened to its murmuring 
 waters flowing softly over the smooth pebbles, till the 
 sweet flow of that brooklet has gone down into our 
 souls, and become a part of our existence; and when 
 lying on our beds, with deep sleep upon our eyelids, its 
 gentle murmurs have been passing through our dreams. 
 And when the village bells have been pealing through 
 the dingle, has not that sweet song of Moore occurred 
 to our minds, — 
 
 "Those evening bells, those evening bells," &c. ? 
 
 And with the solemn sound of those bells come sweet 
 remembrances of the house of God, where we have often 
 met to worship the Eternal under our own green vine 
 and fig-tree, none daring to make us afraid. 
 
 "Those temples of His grace, 
 
 How beautiful they stand ! 
 
 The honours of our native place, 
 
 The bulwarks of our land." 
 
 The Christian is glad to go into the house of the 
 Lord, because it is here he gets the bread of life to 
 revive his spirit, and the water of life to refreshen his soul. 
 His mind is stirred up by way of remembrance, and the 
 glory of the Lord is revealed in His sanctuary to the 
 edification of believers, as it is nowhere else. How 
 often the simplest word, dropped by the simplest 
 tongue, in the simplest way, tells upon the hearts of the 
 children of God much more than the most laboured ora- 
 tion! The hard heart is softened, the Spirit of the 
 Lord descends upon the people, the tongue of the stam- 
 merer is unloosened, God appears in the midst of His 
 saints, hallelujahs are ascending to heaven, the loins of 
 the weak are girt about anew with the girdle of salva- 
 tion, and the refreshened pilgrim goes on his way 
 rejoicing.
 
 134 ESSAYS. 
 
 The Christian is glad to go into the house of the 
 Lord, because it is here he meets with Jesus the Friend 
 of sinners, who is ever present in the assemblies of His 
 people. Let one wbo has been bora under the eaves of 
 the sanctuary, who has been brought up from childhood in 
 the house of God, who has joined God's people, and has 
 long enjoyed the privilege of Christian communion, — let 
 him suddenly be cast in some isolated locality, on some 
 barren island or naked rock, where the songs of Zion are 
 never carolled, and the praises of the Redeemer never 
 sung ; and, O, how his heart would bound within him to 
 hear once more from the lips of some pious friend or rela- 
 tive the sweet words which made the heart of the psalmist 
 so glad, " Let us go into the house of the Lord ! " The 
 religious ordinances of God's house are not valued as 
 they should be, because of their profusion : — we have 
 them so often. Like the pure air we breathe, and 
 breathe again, and still our lungs are not satisfied ; like 
 the limpid fountain which has been bubbling up and 
 running by our doors ever since we have been able to 
 pluck the flowers that grew upon its banks, out of which 
 we have drunk and drunk again, and still, when thirsty, 
 we draw and drink ; like the beautiful light which 
 hangs around us as a spirit-mantle in which the glories 
 of creation flash and re-flash before us ; like all those 
 common blessings of our common lives, which are not 
 valued as they should be because they are so common ; 
 so it is with the religioiis ordinances of God's house. 
 But take away those necessary elements from us, which 
 serve to constitute oiu- physical existence, and we should 
 speedily expire. So, take away the religious ordinances 
 of the house of the Lord, and we should soon spiritually 
 die.
 
 THE DIVINE KNOCKER. 135 
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 THE DIVINE KNOCKER. 
 
 " Behold, I stand at the door, and knock : if any 
 man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to 
 him, and will sup with him, and he with Me." What 
 glorious visions were revealed to St. John in the lonely 
 isle of Patmos, where he was confined, as he tells us, 
 " for the word of God, and for the testimony of Jesus 
 Christ ! And I was in the Spirit," said he, " on the 
 Lord's day." It is easy for us to imagine him all alone 
 in the solitude of this island, in the peaceful stillness of 
 the Sabbath morning, when the sun's early beams were 
 playing with the locks of the mountain, and his first 
 bright rays were streaming through the valley, lighting 
 up the fair faces of the wakening flowers : it is easy 
 for us to imagine him at this holy time interceding 
 with Jehovah, being in the Spirit on the Lord's day. 
 Then follows a glowing description of the Son of man, 
 who appeared to His beloved disciple in this lonely place, 
 filling his heart with joy. As He was then, so He is 
 now, the unchangeable, immutable God. Wherever two 
 or three are met in His name, there is this illustrious 
 Being in the midst of them, so vividly brought before us 
 by the pencil of the inspired apostle ; there is the blessed 
 Saviour, saying, " Fear not ; I am the First and the 
 Last : I am He that liveth, and was dead ; and, behold, 
 I am alive for evermore." 
 
 " Behold, I stand at the door, and knock." Christ is 
 standing at the door of the heart of man, knocking for 
 admittance. Adam, the great father of the human 
 family, by breaking the commandment of God, brought 
 sin and death into the world, with all their attendant 
 evils ; consequently, we are all born in sin, and shapen
 
 136 ESSAYS. 
 
 in iniquity, and in sin did our mothers conceive us ; so 
 that, naturally, Christ is not in our hearts, but stands 
 without and knocks. He knocks in the morning of life, 
 in the meridian of our journey, and in the evening of 
 our days. He knocks by the voice of His providence, 
 the thunders of His judgments, and the echo of His 
 word. By the voice of His providence, when the fields 
 are full of His goodness, and the song of plenty is heard, 
 and trade and commerce flourish, and there is food for 
 man and beast ; when health and strength and friends 
 are ours, and the loved family-circle is unbroken by 
 death ; when peace dwells on our hearth- stone, and 
 happiness sits down at our board. By the thunders of 
 His judgments, when diseases are stalking the streets, 
 and famine and pestilence are in the air; when the 
 plague-spot marks the dwellings of our friends, and the 
 shriek of the fatherless is heard ; when some dear one is 
 severed from our side, and the mouth of the grave closes 
 over him. By the echo of His word, through the voice 
 of His servants, wandering the length and breadth of 
 the land, crying in the ears of the multitude, " Prepare 
 to meet your God. Behold the Lamb of God, which 
 taketh away the sin of the world." 
 
 " If any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will 
 come in to him." And how often have we heard the 
 voice of the Knocker standing at our heart's door ! 
 How often, in the morning of life, when we plucked the 
 flowers of hope, and sang our simple lays in the meads 
 of beauty, have we heard the still voice of the Knocker ! 
 How often, when our fathers and mothers have led us by 
 the hand to the house of God, when the chimes of the 
 Sabbath bells fell upon our ear, and we joined with His 
 people to worship in His sanctuary, — how often in this 
 holy place, at this early time, have we heard the sweet 
 voice of the Knocker ! Stealing to some flowery arbour, 
 far from the scrutiny of our merry schoolmates, with a 
 book in our hand, the life of some darling little one
 
 THE DIVINE KNOCKER. 137 
 
 passed into the skies, how often, in the stillness of our 
 retreat, have we heard the gentle voice of the Knocker, 
 saying, "Now give thy heart to Me, My little one!" 
 and we have listened, and wept, and promised to let Him 
 in. And in the midst of our merry games under the 
 flowery hawthorn, beside our beloved homes, 
 
 " When meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 
 To us did seem 
 
 Apparell'd in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream." 
 
 Wordsworth ; 
 where we have often played till the sun went down, and 
 the silver moon was walking up the sky ; how often, in 
 the midst of our happiest games, have we heard the still 
 voice of the Knocker ! Youth came, and passed, and we 
 stood on the crest of the mount of manhood, and still 
 that voice was in our heart. How often, when the shafts 
 of death have been sent abroad, and one has fallen here, 
 and another there, and drops of sorrow have been wrung 
 from our heart, — how often, in the midst of our tears, 
 have we heard the good Spirit's knock ! He stands at 
 the soul's door of the youth, the middle-aged, and the 
 old, though we believe that His knocks in old age are 
 less forcible and frequent. The swearer hears Him in 
 the midst of his oaths, and trembles, promising to sin 
 no more ; the drunkard in his nightly revels, and he 
 vows to reform and lead a new ■ life ; the Sabbath- 
 breaker, when desecrating God's holy day, and he 
 promises, at a more convenient season, to walk in the 
 narrow path. The Saviour knocks without ; but the 
 conditions of admittance are opening the door of the 
 heart. Faith is the bright key which lets the Saviour 
 into the soul. 
 
 " And will sup with him, and he with Me." Having 
 opened the door of the heart, the Saviour conies in, and 
 sups with us, and we with Him. The burden of the
 
 138 ESSAYS. 
 
 sinner is rolled off from his shoulder, and his soul is 
 filled with light and love. Believing on the Son of God, 
 old things pass away, and all things become new. The 
 aspect of Nature changes, the hills and mountains 
 re-echo the praises of Immanuel, and all the trees of the 
 forest clap then- hands. " Before I was converted," said 
 the poor Negro, " the hills looked sad, the trees looked 
 sad, the birds sang sad, everyting sad; but my heart 
 sadder den dem all. After I was converted, everyting 
 looked glad, the hills looked glad, the trees looked glad, 
 the birds sang glad, everyting glad; but my heart 
 gladder den dem all." Tes, the aspect of Nature 
 changes : so it was, and so it ever will be, until the end 
 of time. " I will come in to him," says the Saviour, 
 " and will sup with him, and he with Me." " I will feed 
 thee, not with the bread of this world, but with the 
 bread of life ; — not with the food of earth, but with the 
 food of angels ; not with the fruit of this blasted clime, 
 but with rich clusters from the trees of God. I will 
 give thee to drink out of the fountain of My love, as out 
 of a mighty river, and thou shalt quaff the waters of the 
 wells of hope. I will lead thee into green pastures, 
 beside the still streams, which will murmur the music 
 of heaven in thine ears, and thou shalt walk in the valley 
 of uprightness through flowers of richest dyes. I will 
 guide thee through the wilderness of this world with 
 My unerring counsel ; no hand formed against thee shall 
 prosper ; thou hast the promise of the present life, and 
 when the silver cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is 
 broken, I will conduct thy spirit to the paradise of My 
 Father, where thou shalt climb the flowery slopes of 
 Eden, and rove its fragrant valleys, and be for ever with 
 the Lord."
 
 TO THE YOUNG. 139 
 
 ESSAY XIII. 
 
 TO THE YOUNG. 
 
 Art thou young, and in the prime of life's sweet 
 morning ? and is the bright world around thee clad in 
 the garments of Spring ? Does the voice of the Holy 
 Spirit ring in thy ears, wooing and beseeching thee to 
 turn to thy heavenly Father ? O, listen to the voice of 
 that Spirit now ; for there is no time like the April of 
 thy life to begin to serve the Lord. " I love them," 
 says the blessed Jehovah in the sacred Book, " I love 
 them that love Me, and those that seek Me early shall 
 find Me." O, what cheering words are these ! what con- 
 soling words are these ! They are more to be valued 
 than rubies, and are far more precious than gems. It 
 is now life's sunny morning ; thy sky is beautifully blue, 
 and not a cloud hangs over thy head. Thy path is 
 strewn with flowers, and blossoms lie scattered along 
 thy track. Breezes, laden with sweet perfumes, fan 
 thee on thy way, and Hope, crowned with garlands, 
 stands in the distance, beckoning thee on. Thy affec- 
 tions are now soft and tender, thy heart is not yet 
 corroded with the cares of life, and the tear of sorrow 
 has scarcely dimmed thine eye. Now it is easy for thee 
 to love thy Redeemer, and He will love thee in return. 
 The great world around thee, which now looks so 
 beautiful and bright, is really full of disease and death. 
 Change and decay is written upon everything below. 
 Life's sky, which is now so clear and cloudless, will soon 
 be canopied with gloom; thy heart, which is now so 
 sensitive and tender, will too soon be hardened with 
 care, and that laughing eye of thine be wet with the 
 tear of grief. Thou hast need of a guide in passing 
 through this thorny wilderness. Thy friends will drop
 
 140 ESSAYS. 
 
 off, and leave thee one by one ; those nearest and dearest 
 unto thee will fade away before thy vision, and the 
 grave will hide them from thy sight. Thy brothers and 
 thy sisters will be separated far and wide, the playmates 
 of thy youth will no longer be found, and care and 
 anxiety will be graven on thy brow. Seek, then, in the 
 blue morning of thy life, the friendship of the Good 
 Shepherd. 
 
 I have often stood on some high eminence, on lonely 
 hill or fen, on a beautiful summer evening, and have 
 watched the great sun wheel down behind the western 
 heights, leaving his last smile upon the golden clouds 
 which hung around him, like a host of bannered warriors 
 at the gates of twilight. And when the sun has dis- 
 appeared from my vision, and the sounds of busy life 
 have ceased ; when the bright stars have come, and the 
 white moon has looked forth from the firmament, and 
 silence has stealthily crept over all sublunary things, I 
 have pondered much upon the life of man, whose 
 moments speed away swifter than the weaver's shuttle. 
 And my thoughts have then flown back to childhood, 
 when, with my happy companions, I have played in the 
 hawthorn lane, or sang my simple lays under the eaves 
 of my early home, when my heart felt little of the cares 
 of life. I look back upon those April days, and sigh to 
 think they are gone, and I shall see them no more ; and 
 the strange journey of my earthly pilgrimage now passes 
 before me like the dim outlines of some wondrous 
 dream. And I have no doubt but it will be so if I 
 should live to be wrinkled and old, when grey hairs are 
 sprinkled on my forehead, or the razor of time has 
 passed over my brow. Let us learn to love Christ and 
 His cause, and then, when the door of life is shut, we 
 shall be ushered into the great temple of eternity, to 
 hymn on golden lyres the redemption-song for ever and 
 ever.
 
 MINOR POEMS.
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 THE TILLAGE LANE. 
 
 O'ershadow'd, still retreat, 
 
 Track trod by tuneful feet, 
 Haunt of the swallow, robin's ricb domain, 
 
 Tbe freehold of the wren, 
 
 The fairies' chamber when 
 The moon is fullest ! welcome, village lane. 
 
 Beneath some ancient trees, 
 
 Shook by the sighing breeze, 
 A few roods past the last house and the mill, 
 
 Bubbles the village well, 
 
 Where lads and lasses tell 
 The hamlet's wonders when the day is still. 
 
 Tes, here true lovers stray, 
 
 When comes the cool of day, 
 Whispering their loves beneath the hawthorn tree, 
 
 Forgetful how the night 
 
 Steals o'er the darkening height, 
 And living each that each might happier be. 
 
 And who, though earthy poor, 
 Begrimed with care all o'er, 
 And sadly sad as ever sad can be,
 
 144 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Would not forget his pain 
 When lmgei'ing clown the lane, 
 Where robin builds within the hollow tree ? 
 
 How sweet to wander here, 
 
 When vespers murmur clear, 
 Tuning nry harp betwixt the day and night ! 
 
 Then pictures, fairer far 
 
 Than sky or peering star, 
 Throng on my vision o'er the dusky height. 
 
 At such a quiet hour 
 
 There comes a soothing power, 
 Found only in the path of solitude ; 
 
 And voices in the breeze, 
 
 And voices in the trees, 
 Are richly laden with the spirit's food. 
 
 Why crowd the sickly street, 
 
 With noisy, feverish heat, 
 Where not a bud or living leaf is seen, 
 
 But hills of brick and stone, 
 
 Where weary wretches groan, 
 When you may wander where the walls are green ? 
 
 Come to the village lane, 
 
 Enjoy its calm again, 
 As Eve steals forth to bead her favourite flower ; 
 
 Beneath the woodbine sit, 
 
 Where bats in silence flit, 
 And muse on life beyond earth's little hour.
 
 145 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Old Winter is come, spreading ice on the moor, 
 And wailing like woe at the cottager's door. 
 He has blighted the heather that bloom'd on the hill, 
 Stalk'd down in the valley and glass'd o'er the rill, 
 Sipp'd up the clear pools with their moss-cover'd brim, 
 And placed his cold hand on the daisy's white rim. 
 Old Winter, old Winter, come, hie thee away, 
 And let the soft breeze with the daffodils play. 
 
 O look on the trees ! they are leafless and bare ; 
 Not a bud, not a blossom, of beauty is there. 
 Hoarse wails through the branches eternally go, 
 And the cot in the valley is cover'd with snow ; 
 While down from the eaves hang the icicles cold, 
 And Cock Robin mourns on the sleety threshold. 
 Old Winter, old Winter, come, hie thee away, 
 And let the sunbeams with the gossamer play. 
 
 But, ah ! it is vain to invoke him to go ; 
 
 For the crest of the hill is a cold wreath of snow. 
 
 Wherever I look, 't is the same to my sight, 
 
 Mead, mountain, and moorland are mantled in white ; 
 
 In his palace of ice, at the back of a rock, 
 
 He moans that the crag-heaps seem rent with the shock. 
 
 Old Winter, old Winter, O leave our dear land, 
 
 And revel where ice-hills eternally stand. 
 
 The grey-headed man, clad in rags as he goes. 
 And the water-cress girl, with the frost in her toes, 
 I saw them to-day creeping down the dark lane, 
 And they trembled with cold, and were weeping with 
 pain.
 
 146 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Thou liast but a season, old Winter, to roar, 
 And then I know surely thy reign will be o'er, 
 And thou must be off to the frost-bitten zone, 
 And beautiful Spring have thy sceptre and throne. 
 
 MY PRIMROSE FROM THE HILL. 
 
 Look up, look up, my darling; 
 
 I brought thee from afar, 
 Where rocks o'ergrown with lichen 
 
 And ivied hedges are ; 
 Where gush mysterious idyls 
 
 From breeze and narrow rill, 
 That steal in Nature's freshness 
 
 Adown my own old hill. 
 
 To me 't is full of beauty, 
 
 Each bending brake and bower, 
 And like a poet singing 
 
 Is every bank and flower. 
 Men wonder why I love it, 
 
 A thing so rude and wild, 
 A earn so coarse and craggy 
 
 Among the storms up-piled. 
 
 The fault must be Dame Nature's ; 
 
 For at life's early morn 
 She woo'd me with Iier numbers, 
 
 Beneath the aged thom, 
 And smiled with so much beauty, 
 
 And glanced with so much love, 
 That my old hill seem'd shining 
 
 With glory from above.
 
 MY PRIMROSE FROM THE HILL. 147 
 
 And so I dearly loved it, 
 
 And dearly love it still, 
 Embrace it like a daughter, 
 
 And so I ever will. 
 The flowers upon its summit 
 
 Look blushing in bright bands, 
 As if the holy angels 
 
 Had touch'd them with then hands. 
 
 I may forget the volume 
 
 That chann'd me when a boy, 
 Relating tales of castles, 
 
 Of wonder, and of joy ; 
 Of haunted home and hollow, 
 
 Where turn'd the fames' mill ; 
 But thou art ever with me, 
 
 Old granite-cover'd hill. 
 
 Hence everything is sacred 
 
 Upon its holy steep, 
 The very mould and mosses, 
 
 And rocks where ivies creep ; 
 And paths where angels wander, 
 
 When evening shadows fall, 
 Upon the summer forest, 
 
 Upon the city wall. 
 
 So I dug up one morning 
 
 A primrose from the lea, 
 And bore it to my garden 
 
 Beside the sounding sea. 
 And here it blossoms fairly, 
 
 And seems to feel no loss, 
 Opening its yellow eyelids, 
 
 As if among the moss. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 What bright endearing pictures 
 
 Upon its fresh leaves rest ! 
 Its Maker's name is shining 
 
 Upon its gentle crest. 
 It tells me of the Muses, 
 
 The rushy nioors among, 
 My home upon the mountain, 
 
 And hours of sacred song. 
 
 O thank thee, darling, thank thee, 
 
 Thou scion of the down, 
 Now blooming 'neath my window 
 
 Within the noisy town. 
 An angel on thy leaflets 
 
 Bids carking care be still, 
 And in thy odour healing, 
 
 My primrose from the hill. 
 
 THE DYING MINSTREL. 
 
 (m. j. f.) 
 
 Fold thy leaves, floweret, 
 The rain cometh down, 
 
 Shadows are stealing 
 O'er turret and town. 
 
 Fold thy leaves, floweret, 
 The eve draweth nigh, 
 
 Up from the moorlands 
 Ascendeth a sigh,
 
 THE DYING MINSTKEL. 149 
 
 Over the ruin, 
 
 And by the cool rill, 
 Down by the rushes, 
 
 And up on the hill. 
 
 Fold thy leaves, floweret, 
 
 Strange voices are sighing 
 From, hollow and highland, — 
 
 A minstrel is dying. 
 
 Fold thy leaves, floweret, 
 
 God's gifted one lies, 
 Pluming her wing 
 
 For a flight to the skies. 
 
 In the morning of life, 
 
 In the freshness of day, 
 Like a rose-bud in spring 
 
 Is she fading away. 
 
 O sorrow, ye rivers, 
 
 And mxu-mur, ye rills, 
 And clothe you in sadness, 
 
 Te song-breathing hills. 
 
 Fold thy leaves, floweret, 
 
 From Sutton's sweet strand 
 A harper is passing 
 
 To Eden's green land.
 
 150 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 THE HARTLEY HERO. 
 
 Morn came, and night departed, 
 
 Although it linger'd late, 
 And on the eaves the sparrow 
 
 "Was calling to his mate ; 
 When from his couch the miner 
 
 Arose and kiss'd his boy, 
 And sought again his coal-cave, 
 
 And dangerous employ. 
 
 He carols down the footpath, 
 
 And leaps the village stile, 
 Thinking upon his baby 
 
 And wife and home the while. 
 He dashes off the tear-drop 
 
 That steals into his eye, 
 And turns to see his dwelling, 
 
 Though scarcely conscious why. 
 
 Alas, alas, poor miner, 
 
 Thou 'It never see it more, 
 Or hear thy baby's footfa.il 
 
 Upon the cottage floor ! 
 Even now the dark death-angel 
 
 On dismal wing hath sped, 
 And in the grey of morning 
 
 Is hovering o'er thy head. 
 
 Soon down into the darkness 
 With song does he descend, 
 
 To toil with the two hundred 
 Whose lives so soon will end.
 
 THE HARTLEY HERO. 151 
 
 Sing, mother, to thy darling 
 
 A sad and solemn strain ; 
 Thy husband- and its father 
 
 Will ne'er come back again. 
 
 A crash was heard, so sudden, 
 
 It seem'd a bolt from heaven, 
 .And soon it was discover'd 
 
 The engine-bob was riven. 
 Half fell within the building, 
 
 Half in the shaft was hurl'd, 
 Filling the only passage 
 
 Up from the under- world. 
 
 Amid the falling rubbish, 
 
 And timbers cracking round, 
 And groans of dying workmen, 
 
 A praying prince is found. 
 And one hand grasps the promise 
 
 The Bible truths afford, 
 And one the robe of Jesus, 
 
 The ever-living Lord. 
 
 He risk'd his life for others, 
 
 Who trembled near the goal, 
 If he could save their bodies, 
 
 Or cheer the parting soul. 
 O hero, noble hero, 
 
 Not shedding human blood, 
 But walking in the footsteps 
 
 Of thy Reedemer God. 
 
 The song of after ages 
 
 Thy story shall rehearse, 
 And harps not yet enkindled 
 
 Embalm thy deed in verse ;
 
 152 
 
 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 And glory, fairer, brighter 
 
 Than ever warrior won, 
 Shall stream upon thy pathway, 
 
 And gild life's setting sun. 
 
 O harp, pour tones of sorrow 
 
 Upon the heavy ah- ! 
 Four, five, six days departed, 
 
 And still those men were there. 
 O hundreds — sons, and fathers, 
 
 And brothers, in the gloom, 
 The gas, and greedy blackness, 
 
 Which proved a living tomb. 
 
 Not one escaped to tell us 
 
 What cries and prayers were made, 
 How son embraced his father 
 
 Within this dreadful shade ; 
 Or brother cheer'd his brother, 
 
 And bade him look on high, 
 And trust his sold to Jesus, 
 
 As death came stealing by. 
 
 All perish'd. What a number 
 
 Of England's noble sons, 
 Her strength, her hope, her riches, 
 
 Her true heroic ones ! 
 When by the fire we cluster, 
 
 As day's pale beams depart, 
 We '11 think upon the miner, 
 
 And take him to our heart. 
 
 O Saviour, save the widow, 
 With grief and care oppress'd, 
 
 And winter on her spirit ; 
 O take her to Thy breast.
 
 153 
 
 Shine through this dispensation, 
 Thou who for all hast bled ; 
 
 Uphold the sinking mother, 
 And give the orphan bread. 
 
 'tis a fearful story, 
 
 We tremble at the sound ; 
 And hope in cruel darkness 
 
 They mercy sought and found. 
 Hartley, scene of mourning 
 
 And desolation deep ! 
 For evermore shall Sorrow 
 
 And Pity o'er thee weep. 
 
 HEDGES. 
 
 Ye living boundary- lines, 
 
 "Where pensive thought reclines, 
 And gentle song in moss or ivy bower 
 
 Trills strains of music rare 
 
 Upon the upland ah-, 
 All hail, ye temples where the Muses cower. 
 
 I love ye at all hours ; 
 
 When mom awakes the flowers, 
 Or when the lark at noontide carols free, 
 
 Or Eve her silent song 
 
 Sighs the green vales among, 
 And mystic legends float o'er lake and lea.
 
 154 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 In spring, in summer's prime, 
 
 In autumn's golden time, 
 "When harvest odes uprise the meads among, 
 
 Or when old Winter roars 
 
 Along the hollow moors, 
 I love to listen 'neath your roof of song. 
 
 And when soft rains come down 
 
 On corn and common brown, 
 What joy to hide where honeysuckles crowd, 
 
 Or hawthorns snow'd with spring, 
 
 And ivy tendrils cling, 
 To drink the poetry of the floating cloud ! 
 
 The briony is here, 
 
 And many a wilding dear, 
 And gentle whispers heard not in the street, 
 
 And fays at eventide 
 
 On the long grasses ride, 
 Or climb the mosses with their velvet feet. 
 
 And when the morn of May 
 
 Resounds with Nature's lay, 
 And primroses among your green shoots shine, 
 
 Or from your sunn'd sides drop, 
 
 Or smile in troops a-top, 
 Vision of visions, — what joy is mine ! 
 
 The lively chirping wren, 
 
 The cuckoo of the glen, 
 The blackbird, with his rich, refreshing lays, 
 
 The all-melodious thrush, 
 
 The sparrow of the bush, 
 With other songsters, fill your brakes with praise.
 
 THE OLD TEAR. 155 
 
 And, 0, to share the joy 
 
 Of village girl and boy, 
 When blackberries are on the brambles strung ; 
 
 Piilling your clusters down, 
 
 When ye are autumn-brown, 
 What time the harvester's last song is sung ! 
 
 And here the bard retires 
 
 From tumult's hissing fires, 
 Nought but the ruin rising on his ken ; 
 
 And, shelter' d in your shade, 
 
 He woos the musing maid, 
 Whose simple sonnets murmur through the glen. 
 
 O leave the city's hum, 
 
 To the still hedges come, 
 And learn the lessons taught at dying day ; 
 
 The voice of the Great Sire 
 
 Is heard among the briar, 
 And silent thoughts come stealing, " Kneel and pray.' 
 
 THE OLD TEAR. 
 
 The Old Tear dies in the mist, 
 
 The death winds moan on the moor, 
 
 To hurry him off to his sepulchre 
 In the gloom of the unseen shore. 
 
 Name not the Old Man's crimes, 
 But the good deeds he hath done, 
 
 And let him pass with a kind farewell 
 Where the ancient years have run.
 
 156 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 He hath brought us fond delights, 
 
 And much delicious cheer, 
 And now we part old friends and true ; 
 
 So peace to the dying Tear. 
 
 As I sit in the faggot's flash, 
 
 Weaving the Old Tear's rhyme, 
 A silent utterer speaks to me, 
 " O bard, redeem the time. 
 
 " Tear after year steals by, 
 
 A stream from the silent mere, 
 And like a tale that is quickly told 
 Will the longest life appear." 
 
 So I pray in the firelight dim, 
 
 While midnight moans on the blast, 
 
 And the Old Tear passes away 
 With a howl to the shadowy past. 
 
 THE FLOWER. 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 A little bending, blushing flower, 
 
 With robe of blue, 
 In a far-off untrodden bower 
 
 Drank in the dew. 
 
 In hermit loneliness it dwelt, 
 
 On mountain wild, 
 And none its cheering fragrance felt, 
 
 Unknown it smiled.
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER JANE. 157 
 
 A brighter bud amid the broom 
 
 Bard could not see ; 
 But all its precious rare perfume 
 
 Drank the wild bee. 
 
 Or roving fly might chance to stop 
 
 And take a sip, 
 Or dallying Zephyrus would drop 
 
 And kiss its lip. 
 
 A little fairy, 'mid the fern, 
 
 In smiles array'd, 
 The bard from it a tale could learn 
 
 When there he stray'd. 
 
 The north storm rose, with sullen roar 
 
 And muttering strife ; 
 My little flower was seen no more ; — 
 
 And suck is life. 
 
 TO MY DAUGHTER JANE 
 
 ON HER FIRST BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Daughter, accept this meed, 
 
 A poet's simple lay, 
 The warblings of thy father's reed 
 
 Upon thy natal day. 
 
 Twelve months have come and flown, 
 With mystery-moving power, 
 
 Since we awoke one morn to own 
 Our earliest opening flower.
 
 158 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Thy mother looks and smiles, 
 And points thee to thy sire ; 
 
 He, won with thy endearing wiles, 
 Hangs web-caught o'er his lyre. 
 
 Come, sit upon my knee ; 
 
 I '11 kiss thy shining brow, 
 And sing an artless lay to thee 
 
 Thou may'st not value now. 
 
 But when long years have flown, 
 
 And I no more am seen ; 
 Wben little Jane is taller grown, 
 
 And call'd the cottage queen ; 
 
 She then may live to con 
 
 These song-lines from my hand, 
 
 And muse on golden summers gone, 
 When sunbeams fill'd the land. 
 
 I 'm glad to see thee now, 
 
 On April's merry morn, 
 When birds are singing on the bough 
 
 Of holly-tree and thorn ; 
 
 When violets peer up 
 
 Amid the pretty moss, 
 And many a little buttercup 
 
 Is smiling by the cross. 
 
 Right welcome art thou here 
 To this loved land of ours ; 
 
 Thy birthday is the birthday dear 
 Of troops of smiling flowers.
 
 FALMOUTH FIRE. 159 
 
 I 've nothing more to give, 
 
 A wild song and a kiss, 
 To wish you happy while you live, 
 
 And then heaven's endless bliss. 
 
 Daughter, accept this meed, 
 
 A poet's simple lay, 
 The warblings of thy father's reed 
 
 Upon thy natal day. 
 
 FALMOUTH FIRE, 1862. 
 
 Midnight was on the mountains, 
 
 Midnight was on the town, 
 And sleep, the balmy seraph, 
 
 Came sweetly, gently down, 
 Sealing the lids of sorrow, 
 
 Hushing the storm of strife, 
 And calming down to quiet 
 
 The busy hum of life. 
 
 The stars were in their dwellings, 
 
 Watching the world below, 
 And on her path of silver 
 
 The white moon travell'd slow ; 
 When forth the monster hurried, 
 
 With fury on his crest, 
 And fire upon his forehead, 
 
 And flames upon his breast.
 
 160 
 
 MINOR, POEMS. 
 
 "With awful, savage grandeur, 
 
 The roof he rushes o'er, 
 Forcing his flaming fingers 
 
 Through window and through door. 
 The ships within the harbour, 
 
 The boats a-near the place, 
 Are shining inithe anger 
 
 That flashes from his face. 
 
 With lurid look he rushes 
 
 Across the nai-row street, 
 Thrusting his red arms upward, 
 
 Which in the centre meet, 
 And hiss with raging fury, 
 
 No waters scarce can tame, 
 Or art avail to lessen, 
 
 A canopy of flame. 
 
 The youth, the timid maiden, 
 
 And manhood in its prime, 
 Old age, o'eiTun with wrinkles, 
 
 And whiten'd much by time, 
 The mother with her baby 
 
 Beneath the shining star, — 
 All rush before the monster, 
 
 Whose eyelids flash afar. 
 
 Yet, in this dread tornado, 
 
 The breeze of mercy flows ; 
 No human life was injured 
 
 In all this rush of woes. 
 God saved the stricken parent, 
 
 And child upon his knee : 
 No lot, however bitter, 
 
 But it mitcht bitterer be.
 
 MISS E. C.'S BIRTHDAY POEM. 161 
 
 We pass not by the matron, 
 
 Who, in the dreadful roar, 
 Rose up to leave her dwelling, 
 
 Perchance for evermore ; 
 And from the shelf her Bible 
 
 She snatch'd with tearful eyes, 
 The best of all her treasures, 
 
 Her chiefest, richest prize. 
 
 God bless the noble-hearted, 
 
 For many a generous deed, 
 For bounty richly flowing, 
 
 In this the time of need ! 
 In other climes are heroes, 
 
 Whose names illustrious stand ; 
 But none are truly greater 
 
 Than in our native land. 
 
 MISS E. C.'S BIRTHDAY POEM, 1861. 
 
 How pass away our changeful years ! 
 Whether embalm'd in joy or tears, 
 Whether without a cloud they fly, 
 Or dark with sorrow be their sky, 
 They melt away like songs at night, 
 And leave us wondering at their flight. 
 
 It only seems a passing day 
 
 Since last I wove your natal lay ; 
 
 But twelve long months have strangely flown, 
 
 Bearing then* record to the throne, 
 
 Wafting us through this world of strife, 
 
 Near and more near the bourn of life. 
 
 M
 
 162 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Since last for you my lyre I 've Strang, 
 Death has been slaying old and young. 
 A Prince in manhood's golden prime 
 Has pass'd the boundary-lines of time, 
 Fell'd like an oak 'mid his compeers, 
 Leaving a nation wet with tears. 
 
 And one, a lady kind and good, 
 Whose home was in a Cornish wood, 
 Where wild-flowers blush the elms among, 
 And brooklets flow with murmuring song, 
 And whispers from the green banks rise, 
 Has pass'd from Bumcoose to the skies. 
 
 And far away from Cornwall dear 
 Tou, too, have spent this changeful year, 
 Beside the Thames, of mighty fame, 
 With sickness pressing on your frame ; 
 Yet oft yoiu- friendly letters cheer 
 Us in our western hemisphere. 
 
 But prayer for you is often made, 
 
 When evening softens into shade, 
 
 Or morning rises, rosy-red, 
 
 On castle-top or rushy shed, 
 
 By those whose dearest friends are flown, 
 
 The widow and the orphan lone. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! May kind Heaven shed 
 Still richer blessing on your head ! 
 And may your path to Canaan's height 
 Still brighter glow with purest light, 
 Until you reach that blissful home 
 Where sin and sorrow never come !
 
 MISS E. C.'S BIRTHDAY POEM. 163 
 
 MISS E. C.'S BIRTHDAY POEM, 1862. 
 
 How much of love along life's road 
 Your heavenly Father has bestow'd, 
 During another fleeting year, 
 Whose latest hour is almost here ; 
 When with a cheerful heart again 
 I wake for you a simple strain ! 
 
 Trials and cares, from day to day, 
 
 Have met you on your pilgrim way, 
 
 And sorrows, which will be your doom 
 
 Whilst travelling through this land of gloom ; 
 
 But mercies countless as the sands 
 
 Have cheer'd you from your Father's hands. 
 
 The red War Fiend, with fire and roar, 
 Has rush'd along another shore ; 
 And Famine, with tmcover'd head, 
 Has cower'd in many a poor man's shed ; 
 And Death has borne your friends away, 
 And one how dear since last birthday ! 
 
 How sweet in God's own book to read 
 That Jesus will supply our need ! 
 When trial comes, or wasting woe, 
 That He will succour us below, 
 Will feed its with the Living Bread ! 
 O, praises be to Christ our Head !
 
 164 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 " Lo, I am with you till the last 
 Faint nutter of the heart is past." 
 So says the voice of sovereign Love, 
 From His eternal throne above ; 
 " And when is broke life's silver cord, 
 Come rest for ever with your Lord." 
 
 I raise my Ebenezer here, 
 Praising Thy name, O Saviour dear ; 
 Desiring that His hand may guide 
 Tou nearer to your Shepherd's side, 
 Till in the pastures of the blest 
 You enter on eternal rest. 
 
 NOT TET. 
 
 The twilight was departing, 
 
 The bee had found his hoard, 
 The bard was at his jingle, 
 
 The lamp upon the board ; 
 When Alfred's eyes grew heavy, 
 
 As if about to close, 
 Where dreams are gilt with summer, 
 
 And song eternal flows. 
 
 His mother kiss'd his forehead, 
 And smooth'd his shining hair ; 
 
 " Come, go to bed. my darling, 
 And sleep so sweetly there.
 
 NOT YET. 165 
 
 I'll watch you by the window, 
 
 Beside my mignonette." 
 " No, no," said little Alfred, 
 
 " No, mother dear, not n'et." 
 
 And as his sweet lips falter'd 
 
 The burden of his mind, 
 Said I, This is an emblem 
 
 Of much of human kind : 
 Amid life's endless struggle, 
 
 With care and pain beset, 
 Respecting what is rightful 
 
 The answer is, " Not yet." 
 
 " Not yet," replies the sluggard, 
 
 As, sitting in his shed, 
 The summer breeze is sighing 
 
 Across his thistle bed. 
 His rags become more ragged, 
 
 His garden wilder grows, 
 His frame and fences thinner, 
 
 Till hunger ends his woes. 
 
 " Not yet," replies the drunkard, 
 
 When conscience plies him sore, 
 And urges him to duty, 
 
 And bids him sin no more. 
 " Not yet ; another revel, 
 
 Till crowing of the cock ; " 
 And down the fearful vortex 
 
 He rushes like a rock. 
 
 " Not yet," replies the swearer, 
 
 When, at the close of day, 
 His sins start up before him, 
 
 In all their black array.
 
 166 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 " Not yet ; I may to-morrow ; " 
 And in his storm of strife 
 
 Is hurl'd the shaft of judgment, 
 And ends his wretched life. 
 
 " Not yet," replies the liar ; 
 
 " One morsel more, forsooth, 
 Beneath my tongue delicious, 
 
 And then I '11 speak the truth." 
 And as he framed the falsehood 
 
 Within his harden'd heart, 
 Death rush'd upon him quickly, 
 
 And slew him with his dart. 
 
 " Not yet," replied the schoolboy, 
 
 As on his way he ran : 
 " I '11 give my heart to Jesus 
 
 When in the weeds of man." 
 Time pass'd, his soul grew harder ; 
 
 Age came, his locks were thin ; 
 " Not yet, not yet," he shouted, 
 
 Until he died in sin. 
 
 And thus it is in error, 
 
 In foolishness and pride, 
 Too oft the wrong is cherish'd 
 
 And right is thrust aside. 
 labour rightly, promptly, 
 
 Before life's sun is set, 
 And hurry off for ever 
 
 The fatal words, " Not yet."
 
 THE BIBLE-READER. 167 
 
 THE BIBLE-READER. 
 
 The world is up in earnest, 
 
 Mankind are on the strain, 
 Each at his occupation, 
 
 In quest of shining gain. 
 The smith bends o'er the anvil, 
 
 The shopman weighs his store, 
 The clerk is at his ledger, 
 
 The boatman plies his oar. 
 
 Upon the roof the thatcher 
 
 Is singing in the sun, 
 And by his wain the driver 
 
 His journey has begun. 
 The artisan is striving, 
 
 The traveller onward wends, 
 The wealthy, joy-surrounded, 
 
 Are with their books and friends. 
 
 He takes the blessed volume, 
 
 Prom which true healing flows, 
 And forth in dismal alleys 
 
 The Bible-reader goes ; 
 Depending on the Spirit, 
 
 Who only can convert, 
 And bless the feeble sower, 
 
 And bind the broken heart. 
 
 Not with parade and glitter, 
 And pomp, and noise, and show, 
 
 And outward ostentation, 
 Does he self -heated go ;
 
 168 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 But like the cloud careering 
 In silence through the sky, 
 
 Shedding refreshing rain-drops 
 On vale and mountain high. 
 
 He climbs the stair-steps creaking, 
 
 And in the upper room 
 The blind hear words of Jesus, 
 
 The wicked of their doom ; 
 The aged in then* weakness, 
 
 Of the Redeemer's love, 
 And the dear land of promise, 
 
 Jerusalem above. 
 
 No blade with battle gory, 
 
 Or rifle, does he bear ; 
 His scimitar, the Scriptvires ; 
 
 His mail-cloak, earnest prayer. 
 And forth he goes to conquer 
 
 Upon the field of sin, 
 And many a noble trophy 
 
 For Jesus Christ to win. 
 
 He reads with wan Affliction, 
 
 And speaks as best he can, 
 And words of richest comfort 
 
 Rejoice the dying man. 
 In sheds where herd the fallen, 
 
 Sin-stain'd and woe-begone, 
 Not without hope he utters 
 
 The sayings of the Son. 
 
 He reads where Misery crouches 
 Beside the tireless grate, 
 
 And feverish eyes are weeping 
 For hope deferr'd so late ;
 
 THE BIBLE-READEB. 169 
 
 Where want, and wasting sorrow, 
 
 And pining hunger dwell ; 
 And streams of heavenly blessing 
 
 Flow through the saddest cell. 
 
 He reads where darkness gathers, 
 
 And Ignorance resides ; 
 Where, like a careless heathen, 
 
 Neglect unwash'd abides. 
 He reads where sickening vapours 
 
 Rise on the alley air, 
 Content if Christ, his Master, 
 
 Be present with hhn there. 
 
 He reads in hidden places, 
 
 Where riot roars, and strife, 
 Praying the Lord to water 
 
 The precious seed of life. 
 Though feeling much of weakness, 
 
 Of poverty and dearth, 
 He deems his solemn labours 
 
 The noblest on the earth. 
 
 Sometimes the grain he scatters 
 
 With feeble, trembling hand, 
 Falls, like the rain in summer, 
 
 Upon the stony land ; 
 Sometimes on green blades bursting 
 
 Above the fertile sod ; 
 And still he travels onward, 
 
 Believing in his God. 
 
 O, ye who love the Saviour, 
 
 When evening hour is come, 
 And round the holy altar 
 
 Ye gather in your home,
 
 170 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 And list the gentle rustle 
 
 Of wings that downward tend, 
 
 Pray for the Bible-reader, 
 That Christ may be his friend. 
 
 Doubt not God's oath of promise, 
 
 Which cannot be destroy'd : 
 " My word shall surely prosper, 
 
 Nor come back to Me void." 
 Cheer up, my brother readers ! 
 
 Though Scorn's sharp darts are hurl'd, 
 The Bible is the weapon 
 
 That shall subdue the world. 
 
 THE WESLEYAN-METHODIST CONFERENCE, 
 CAMBORNE, CORNWALL, AUGUST, 1862. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO DR. GEORGE SMITH, TREVU, 
 CAMBORNE. 
 
 Cornubia, joy to thee, 
 
 From bluest sea to sea, 
 From famed Land's End to wild Tintagel's wall ! 
 
 Christ's mighty seers are come, 
 
 They throng our island home, 
 With words of peace and blessedness for all. 
 
 From the great city's roar, 
 And many a river's shore, 
 And lake-girt lawn, they hasten to the West ;
 
 THE WESLEYAN-METHODIST CONFERENCE. 171 
 
 And in my Camborne dear 
 Christ's ministers appear, 
 Peace-shod, truth-taught, an army of the blest. 
 
 No chieftain's rugged band 
 
 With battle-bow and brand, 
 Or Druid stern, press on us in their he ; 
 
 Sheathed now the warrior's blade, 
 
 And music fills the glade 
 Like gushing song-strains from the upper choir. 
 
 Shout, Cornwall, shout aloud, 
 
 Until the heavens are bow'd, 
 In strong thanksgiving lift thy grateful hymn ; 
 
 On thee has dawn'd a day 
 
 Which never will grow grey, 
 Till the sun darkens and the stars are dim. 
 
 Pass'd is thy darksome night, 
 
 All things are new and bright ; 
 Mount Zion's glory hangs on every down, 
 
 Streams through the copper vale, 
 
 Lights up the tin- strewn dale, 
 The reedy hamlet and the sea-wash'd town. 
 
 They meet, this noble band, 
 
 On Cornwall's mineral-land, 
 Their battle-blade the Spirit's two-edged sword • 
 
 Then* counsels, how Divine ! 
 
 Their mission, how benign ! 
 Then* Master, Jesus, the redeeming Lord. 
 
 O Thou, enthroned in light, 
 Hear prayer, O God of might, 
 And let thine Israel now be richly blest ;
 
 172 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 And may it sweetly nm, 
 
 Till every mother's son 
 
 Rejoice in Jesus as the sinner's rest. 
 
 And, passing from our gaze 
 
 Along then several ways, 
 O may they leave a radiancy behind, 
 
 Still brightening more and more, 
 
 From wondering shore to shore, 
 In its grand issues blessing all mankind. 
 
 Break out, ye rocks and rills ; 
 
 Break out, ye mine-crown'd hills ; 
 Sing loud, ye pastures white with waving grain ; 
 
 And ye, who till the soil, 
 
 Or in the tin-pits toil, 
 Break out, break out in one rejoicing strain. 
 
 Sing glory to the Lamb, 
 
 The merciful I AM, 
 Who calls again His weary exiles home. 
 
 The looming shadows flee, 
 
 The morn breaks fair and free ; 
 'T is light ! 't is light ! salvation's day is come. 
 
 Descend, O mighty Power, 
 
 Descend at this glad hour, 
 Brood o'er each spirit with Thy healing wings ; 
 
 Let every soul rejoice 
 
 In Jesus as its choice, 
 And shout high praises to the King of kings.
 
 THE BOOT UPON THE SAND. 173 
 
 THE BOOT UPON THE SAND. 
 
 The winds and waves were raging high, 
 
 Roaring upon the strand, 
 And the crag-loving cormorant 
 
 Was shrieking o'er the land, 
 As, wandering by the surf, I found 
 
 A boot upon the sand. 
 
 And Fancy, with a sudden start, 
 Woke from her sleep profound : 
 
 The shriek, the plunge, the wreck was there, 
 In fragments floating round, 
 
 And some poor struggling mariner, 
 Who in the sea was drown'd. 
 
 Methought he grasp'd the slippery rock, 
 
 As loud the surges rave, 
 And rear their foamy forms on high, 
 
 And, feeling nought could save, 
 He pray'd once more for those at home, 
 
 And sank beneath the wave. 
 
 And then his reedy cot I saw, 
 A mile upon the shore ; 
 
 His wife, with baby in her arms, 
 Was standing by the door, 
 
 A- waiting for the sailor-man, 
 Who would come back no more. 
 
 'T was thus my fancy led me, in 
 Her wonder-working band,
 
 174 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 Over the sea, over the shore, 
 Over the rock and land, 
 
 By finding on that windy mom 
 A boot upon the sand. 
 
 THE CORNISH CHOUGH. 
 
 Where not a sound is heard 
 
 But the white waves, O bird, 
 And slippery rocks fling back the vanquish'd sea, 
 
 Thou soarest in thy pride, 
 
 Not heeding storm or tide ; 
 In Freedom's temple nothing is more free. 
 
 'T is pleasant by this stone, 
 
 Sea-wash'd and weed-o'ergrown, 
 With Solitude and Silence at my side, 
 
 To list the solemn roar 
 
 Of ocean on the shore, 
 And up the beetling cliff to see thee glide. 
 
 Though harsh thy earnest cry, 
 
 On crag, or shooting high 
 Above the tumult of this dusty sphere, 
 
 Thou tellest of the steep 
 
 Where Peace and Quiet sleep, 
 And noisy man but rarely visits here. 
 
 For this I love thee, bird, 
 
 And feel my pulses stirr'd 
 To see thee grandly on the high air ride, 
 
 Or float along the land, 
 
 Or drop upon the sand, 
 Or perch within the gully's frowning side.
 
 THE CORNISH CHOUGH. 175 
 
 Thou bringest the sweet thought 
 
 Of some straw-cover'd cot, 
 On the lone moor beside the bubbling well, 
 
 Where cluster wife and child, 
 
 And bees hum o'er the wild : 
 In this seclusion it were joy to dwell. 
 
 Will such a quiet bower 
 
 Be ever more my dower 
 In this rough region of perpetual strife ? 
 
 I like a bird from home 
 
 Forward and backward roam ; 
 But there is rest beneath the Tree of Life. 
 
 In this dark world of din, 
 
 Of selfishness and sin, 
 Help me, dear Saviour, on Thy love to rest ; 
 
 That, having cross'd life's sea, 
 
 My shatter'd bark may be 
 Moor'd safely in the haven of the blest. 
 
 The Muse at this sweet hour 
 
 Hies with me to my bower 
 Among the heather of my native hill ; 
 
 The rude rock-hedges here 
 
 And mossy tiu-f, how dear ! 
 What gushing song ! how fresh the moors and still ! 
 
 No spot of earth like thee, 
 So full of heaven to me, 
 O hill of rock, piled to the passing cloud ! 
 Good spirits in their flight 
 Upon thy crags alight, 
 And leave a glory where they brightly bow'd.
 
 176 MINOR POEMS. 
 
 I well remember now, 
 
 In boy- days on thy brow, 
 When first my lyre among thy larks I found, 
 
 Stealing from mother's side 
 
 Ont on the common wide, 
 Strange Druid footfalls seem'd to echo round. 
 
 Dark Cornish chough, for thee 
 
 My shred of minstrelsy 
 I carol at this meditative hour, 
 
 Linking thee with my reed, 
 
 Grey moor and grassy mead, 
 Dear cam and cottage, heathy bank and^bower.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 DEATH OP THE PRINCE CONSORT. 
 
 Upon the damp air wailing, 
 
 With startling speed there came 
 A sound of solemn sadness 
 
 It is a pain to name. 
 The willow by the wicket, 
 
 The hawthorn on the brae, 
 Seem moaning in the darkness, 
 
 " A Prince has pass'd away," 
 
 When Sabbath prayers were offer'd 
 
 By many a pious band, 
 Like a cloud-flash the tidings 
 
 Swept o'er the groaning land. 
 And suddenly we stagger'd, 
 
 As if bereft of light. 
 O, Death has seized the mighty, 
 
 And left us fill'd with night. 
 
 Weep, weep, O prostrate nation, 
 Pour forth thy burning tears ; 
 
 The great, the good, the gracious, 
 Has fill'd his list of years ; 
 
 n 2
 
 180 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 And, like a quiet leaflet, 
 He fell at midnight hour, 
 
 Casting a sudden sorrow 
 Upon each palace-flower; 
 
 Casting a sudden sorrow 
 
 Upon a Nation's brow, 
 Who loved the good Prince Consort, 
 
 And never more than now. 
 O, bards of after ages, 
 
 In peaceful, prosperous days, 
 Shall kindle into singing, 
 
 And chant him in their lays. 
 
 The striving, honest worker, 
 
 The peasant meanly dress'd, 
 The widow and the orphan, 
 
 The poor with talent blest, 
 The poet and the painter, 
 
 Ay, all who loved the right, 
 He patronized, and aided 
 
 The struggler in the fight. 
 
 In life's meridian glory 
 
 The silent Slayer came, 
 "With scarce a sound of warning, 
 
 And quench'd the vital flame. 
 He maketh no distinction, 
 
 All share one common lot, 
 And Grief shed tears of sorrow 
 
 In castle and in cot. 
 
 Not leading on red battle, 
 'Mid flashing steel and strife, 
 
 And gore and dreadful groanings, 
 Did he yield up his life.
 
 DEATH OF THE PRINCE CONSOBT. 181 
 
 But as lie lived, so died he, 
 
 Where Peace delights to bloom ; 
 
 And now fair Art and Science 
 Embrace above his tomb. 
 
 O we will hope the Saviour 
 
 Has taken him on high, 
 Where fever never rages, 
 
 And goodness cannot die. 
 Sad is this dispensation, 
 
 Its issues who shall tell ? 
 God giveth, and He taketh ; 
 
 He doeth all things well. 
 
 Now lay him down to slumber, 
 
 With fame upon his breast, 
 In all his manhood's glory, 
 
 Where Britain's heroes rest. 
 And coming generations, 
 
 As future years return, 
 Shall love to bless his greatness, 
 
 And worship at his urn. 
 
 But one there is we ever 
 
 Upon our hearts will bear, 
 When morn or evening finds us 
 
 Engaged with God in prayer. 
 The Widow of a Nation, 
 
 Whose life and works are seen, 
 A blessing and a brightness, — 
 
 O pray for England's Queen.
 
 182 IN MEMOEIAM. 
 
 MARIE J. E. FOTHERBY. 
 
 The breeze comes o'er the meadows 
 "With a load upon its wings, 
 
 And melancholy murmurs 
 Sob from its summer strings, 
 
 While in the cypress city 
 A mystic echo rings. 
 
 A singer has departed 
 
 From all that 's dear below ; 
 The silver cord is loosed, 
 
 And Death has dealt the blow 
 Which gives the spirit freedom 
 
 From agony and woe. 
 
 0, she we mourn was lovely, 
 And good as she was fair ; 
 
 Her soul a soul of music, 
 The exquisite, the rare, 
 
 "Whose strains, like Eden echoes, 
 Thrill'd through the clime of Care. 
 
 But now in higher numbers 
 Her living lyre is strung, 
 
 "Where blossoms never fading 
 On fairest trees are flung, 
 
 And highest hallelujahs 
 
 Are chimed by cherub tongue.
 
 MARIE J. E. FOTHERBY. 183 
 
 The harvest sun was shining 
 
 In glory on the grain, 
 And from the leafy thicket 
 
 Gush'd many a joyous strain, 
 As on the wings of angels 
 
 She left the land of pain. 
 
 Earth's trees and crystal rivers, 
 
 Its landscapes opening wide, 
 The sky, the solemn ocean, 
 
 Moss-nooks where fames hide, 
 And blessed spots of beauty 
 
 By stream or mountain's side, 
 
 She left for visions brighter 
 
 And fairer to behold, 
 Vistas which never wither, 
 
 And flowers which never fold, 
 And palaces, where harpers walk 
 
 O'er floors of solid gold. 
 
 On earth we were but strangers, 
 
 Our glances never met, 
 And scarce had Friendship budded 
 
 When, lo, her sun was set, 
 And clouds of black roll'd o'er me 
 
 Whose gloom is with me yet. 
 
 But in the star-land yonder 
 
 Shall we not shoi"tly meet, 
 And climb the heights of Eden 
 
 With firm, untiring feet, 
 And sing the victor's carol 
 
 Through Zion's golden street ?
 
 184 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 The Saviour was her refuge, 
 Her only hope and trust ; 
 
 On Him she calmly rested 
 To raise her from the dust, 
 
 And lift her to His temple, 
 To live among the just. 
 
 Farewell ! A little longer 
 I yet may linger here, 
 
 Perchance to fill with comfort 
 A fellow-traveller's ear, 
 
 Before our spirits mingle 
 In the eternal sphere. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MRS. PHILIPPA WILLIAMS. 
 
 Not in life's pleasant morning 
 
 Fell she, when buds have birth, 
 Or when the golden noontide 
 
 With hope-hues fill'd the earth, 
 And psalm and gentle lyric 
 
 Gush'd from each leafy glade. 
 But when the white corn rustled 
 
 Ripe for the Reaper's blade ; 
 
 The corn of fourscore summers, 
 
 With dew and sunshine blest ; 
 Then Death came like an angel, 
 
 And took her home to rest. 
 Not after years of pining, 
 
 And wasting with disease ; 
 But like an evening vapour 
 
 Among the darkening trees.
 
 THE DEATH OF MRS. PHILIPPA WILLIAMS. 185 
 
 How precious to the Saviour 
 
 The dying saint must be, 
 Who, guided by the Spirit 
 
 In all humility, 
 Bears fruit when thin locks hoary 
 
 Are scatter'd o'er the brow, 
 The fruit of faith and patience 
 
 Like her gone from us now ! 
 
 But, O, the change is sudden, 
 
 So sudden that we think 
 She '11 surely visit us again, 
 
 To cheer the souls that sink. 
 Hush, spirit, quell thy rising ; 
 
 The gloomy vale is trod, 
 And rests her spirit ever 
 
 With its Redeemer God. 
 
 She wiped the tear of sorrow, 
 
 And hush'd the throb of care, 
 Cheer'd with her love the widow, 
 
 And clothed the orphan bare. 
 Her bounty, like a river, 
 
 Refresh'd the world around, 
 And Want forgot his sadness 
 
 To hear the welcome sound. 
 
 Old age and pale affliction, 
 
 The weed-wrapp'd shivering poor, 
 The honest-hearted striver, 
 
 Were blest beside her door. 
 Her own hand fed the hungry ; 
 
 And when the thread was riven, 
 Which loosed her happy spirit, 
 
 Their cry rose up to Heaven.
 
 186 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Iii the great congregation 
 
 Her voice was often heard, 
 Speaking of Jesu's merit, 
 
 The ever-living Word. 
 And sweet her soft notes sounded 
 
 O'er the rough vale of strife, 
 Like Mercy's earnest pleadings, 
 
 " Come to the Well of Life." 
 
 The labourer's task is ended, 
 
 The pilgrim's journey done, 
 The shadows have departed, 
 
 And endless day begun. 
 High on the hills of Eden 
 
 White-robed she glides along, 
 Where beauty ever brightens, 
 
 And every note is song. 
 
 Fain, fain would we detain thee 
 
 A little longer here, 
 To cheer us on our journey 
 
 To the unchanging sphere. 
 But, no ; thy Saviour calls thee : 
 
 Then hasten to thy Love. 
 Farewell, sweet sainted spirit, 
 
 Until we meet above. 
 
 OLD JOANNA. 
 
 A dirge for old Joanna, 
 
 Rejoicing in the skies ! 
 She was not born to honour, 
 
 Such as the world would prize :
 
 OLD JOANNA. 187 
 
 Along the vale of labour 
 With weary feet she sped, 
 
 Till Jesus call'd her to Him, 
 Where tears are never shed. 
 
 Her food was sometimes scanty, 
 
 And hard life's earnest fight ; 
 But angels brought her manna 
 
 Upon then - wings of light. 
 The weeds she wore were homely, 
 
 Her dwelling poor and small ; 
 The presence of her Saviour 
 
 Made rich amends for all. 
 
 Upon her face contentment 
 
 Was shining like the sun, 
 And there it ever rested 
 
 Till life and toil were done. 
 She fought the fight of patience, 
 
 And sin was trampled down, 
 Till oped the gates of glory, 
 
 And she possess'd a crown. 
 
 Her cottage was her closet ; 
 
 Here evermore she fed, 
 In secret heart-conmiunings, 
 
 On Christ the living Bread ; 
 And this her favourite saying, 
 
 While gazing day by day 
 In faith upon her Saviour, 
 
 " I 'm on the King's highway." 
 
 The Bible was her volume ; 
 
 From it she daily read 
 How Jesus Christ was wounded, 
 
 How on the cross He bled,
 
 188 IN MEMOEIAM. 
 
 For sins which man committed. 
 
 Thus like a tree she grew 
 Beside the crystal river, 
 
 With Eden in her view. 
 
 For more than fifty summers 
 
 She walk'd the way of rest, 
 And laid her cares and sorrows 
 
 On her Redeemer's breast. 
 And when Death came, he found her 
 
 Upon the watch-tower high, 
 Where, shaking off her fetters, 
 
 She pass'd into the sky. 
 
 Religion ! O Religion ! 
 
 Thy comforts are the same 
 In every rank and station, 
 
 To every age and name. 
 Gilding the meanest hovel, 
 
 Supplying every dearth, 
 Uplifting its possessor, 
 
 And bringing heaven to earth. 
 
 'T is this that cheer'd Joanna 
 
 Along her lonely way, 
 And bore her through the valley 
 
 Where broke eternal day, 
 And flowers that never wither, 
 
 And wells that never dry ; 
 And now she dwells for ever 
 
 With angels in the sky.
 
 EPISTLES.
 
 EPISTLES. 
 
 TO MT BROTHER WILLIAM, 
 
 WHEN LEAVING HIS NATIVE LAND FOR NORTH 
 AMERICA. 
 
 My brother, companion of childhood, adieu ! 
 Too soon wilt thou haste o'er the waters so blue, 
 Too soon wilt thou turn from thy own happy hearth, 
 Too soon wilt thou leave the loved place of thy birth, 
 To contend with the world and thy sin- smitten kind ; 
 While thy brothers and sisters are weeping behind. 
 Too soon must we part. Thou art here but to-day, 
 And to-morrow art posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, I love to look backward, to trace 
 The sweet smile of childhood that lighted thy face, 
 When we hied off to school, with our books in our bag, 
 Nor heeded the sneer of the ignorant wag ; 
 When we crept to the moor with a rod and a dish, 
 To dip out the water, and catch the small fish ; 
 When we trundled the foot-ball, or hoisted the kite, 
 And play'd the sun down on our heath-cover'd height. 
 O dreams of bright beauty that rise from the past, 
 Now breaking, now melting, too fleeting to last !
 
 192 EPISTLES. 
 
 But I weep not for these, nor the tooth of decay ; 
 But to-morrow thou 'rt posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, when o'er the blue waters you flee, 
 And gaze with delight on the mystical sea, 
 Swelling over the grotto, the shell-cover'd cave, 
 The haunt of the mermaid, the. bed of the brave ; 
 And see there reflected the stars as they shine, 
 Like spirit- eyes smiling within the blue brine j 
 O think of your mother and father behind ; 
 O think of your brothers and sisters so kind ; 
 O think of your home on the crest of the hill, 
 Where the waters ooze out which are turning the mill ; 
 And believe we are praying that brother may be 
 Borne safely and fleetly across the wide sea. 
 Even now the tears fall while composing my lay ; 
 For to-morrow thou 'rt posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, if Providence bless thee with lands, 
 And richly repay all the work of thy hands ; 
 Ay, if thou shouldst prosper in basket and store, 
 Build houses, plant orchards, raise hillocks of ore ; 
 O do not forget us in friendship's green wreath, 
 The scions of labour, the sons of the heath ; 
 But often come forth at the eventide hour, 
 And muse on our mountain, my moss-mantled bower, 
 Our reed-cover'd cottage, thy mother, thy sire, 
 Thy brothers and sisters, beside the hall fire ; 
 And surely this dream will sweet feelings inspire. 
 And if through the forest thy footsteps are borne, 
 When oak-leaves are dropping, and blossoms are torn, 
 When flowerets are drooping, and all things decay, 
 O think of thy brother, and muse on his lay ; 
 For he then, perchance, may be mouldering in clay. 
 But if from our crag-cover'd mountain you roam, 
 And poverty presses, O, brother, come home :
 
 TO MY BROTHER WILLIAM. 193 
 
 We '11 stretch, forth our hands to the prodigal son, 
 
 And greet with delight the poor rambling one ; 
 
 We '11 clothe you, and feed you, and solace your pain ; 
 
 Embrace you, and call you our brother again. 
 
 I weep at our parting, I cannot be gay ; 
 
 For to-niorrow thou 'rt posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, how painful thus early to part ! 
 The sadness how heavy that weighs on my heart ! 
 We are anxious for thee. O remember thy God, 
 And think of the prayers offer'd up on our sod. 
 Remember thy Maker : He speaks in the breeze, 
 And will hear thy soft plaint 'neath the dark forest trees. 
 May vice never lure thee from virtue's sweet track, 
 To haunts the most gloomy, to scenes the most black ! 
 But walk with the good through this region of strife, 
 To the land of the angels, the city of life. 
 'T is for this that we now would invoke thee to stay ; 
 But to-morrow thou 'rt posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, 't is spring-time, the violets are come ; 
 
 The cowslips and primroses shine round our home ; 
 
 The grey lark is singing delicious on high, 
 
 Like an angel's rich strain gushing forth from the sky ; 
 
 The hawthorn is budding, the green blades appear, 
 
 And the breezes sing songs to the morn of the year. 
 
 But now I am sad at the coming of May ; 
 
 For to-morrow thou 'rt posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, well, go, and at evening's repose 
 
 Thy sisters shall gather the dew-dropping rose ; 
 
 Thy bi'others shall pluck from our favourite lea 
 
 A nosegay of wild flowers in memory of thee ; 
 
 Thy mother shall call her loved younglings around, * 
 
 And tell them with tears where their brother is found ;
 
 194 EPISTLES. 
 
 Thy father shall pace o'er the desolate wild, 
 
 Wiping off the salt tears for the thought of his child, 
 
 And wonder why thus in the spring-tide of bloom, 
 
 When the flowerets of hope shed their richest perfume, 
 
 His boy should be bounding away and away, 
 
 Like a spirit escaped from its prison of clay. 
 
 Go, brother, o'er mountains and woodlands to range. 
 
 I knew that this world was a sad scene of change ; 
 
 And I knew, though thou ever hast twined round my 
 
 heart, 
 That sooner or later we surely should part. 
 But I dreamt not so soon. Brother, why not delay ? 
 No ; to-morrow thou 'rt posting away and away. 
 
 My brother, I 'm with thee where'er thou may'st roam, 
 
 How far it may be from our heather- brush'd home, 
 
 Though bounding away from thy own mountain's breast, 
 
 Away to the uttermost wilds of the west. 
 
 But I want thee to pluck from the meads of my sire 
 
 One dear little violet which I admire, 
 
 And take it, and carry it over the sea 
 
 Enshrined in thy heart, a memorial of me. 
 
 Go, brother ; I '11 watch the big clouds rising black, 
 
 And pray that then* pall may not darken thy track ; 
 
 And when the wild winds round my lattice shall rave, 
 
 I '11 ask their great Maker to shield thee and save 
 
 Go, brother. On earth we may mingle no more ; 
 
 But, O, may we meet on the sun-lighted shore, 
 
 In the glory of Eden for ever to dwell ! 
 
 My brother, dear brother, farewell, and farewell ! 
 
 O could I, O could I, invoke thee to stay ! 
 
 But to-morrow thou 'rt posting away and away.
 
 HOWARD'S EPISTLE TO MISS S. B. 195 
 
 HOWARD'S EPISTLE TO MISS S. B. 
 
 'T IS eight o'clock, the fire burns bright, 
 
 November dies on his doleful height, 
 
 The rude gusts shake his rain- wet locks, 
 
 "While his face grows thin 'mid the tempest's shocks, 
 
 And his deep sighs through the keyhole come, 
 
 As we list secure in our sea-swept home. 
 
 You '11 think, no doubt, that little boys 
 
 At this late hour should leave their toys, 
 
 Repeat their prayers, and go to bed, 
 
 To sleep till morning rises red. 
 
 But I and Alfred still are here, 
 
 Making much work for mother dear, 
 
 Pulling the cotton from the reel, 
 
 Or dragging down the tongs of steel, 
 
 Or scattering papers on the floor, 
 
 And racing round with roguish roar ; 
 
 So that it surely doth appear 
 
 The Muses hold a revel here. 
 
 My father in his old armchair 
 
 Is going to tell some story rare ; 
 
 And so we both sit on his knees, 
 
 Well knowing that the tale will please. 
 
 And, O, it gives us all such joy 
 
 To hear when he was once a boy, 
 
 And caught the fishes in the rill, 
 
 Or kept the sheep upon the hill, 
 
 Or drove the horses in the plough, 
 
 Or took the fodder to the cow, 
 
 Or pull'd the rushes by the lake, 
 
 Or found the bird's nest in the brake ; 
 
 And how at holy Christmas hours, 
 
 When hovels look'd like laurel-bowers, 
 
 o 2
 
 196 EPISTLES. 
 
 He play'd at pins with Sam and Kate, 
 Beside the dear old parlour grate, 
 On which was perch'd a blazing log, 
 "Which even cheer'd the cat and dog ; — 
 To hear such stories on his knee, 
 We clap our hands, and shout for glee. 
 
 Tou know, perhaps, that Capern said 
 A deal about niy brother's head, 
 Pronouncing him, when in our home, 
 Comubia's bard in days to come. 
 I know not if you Ve seen the boy 
 Who gave old Devon's bard such joy ; 
 But mother, when you come again, 
 Will take him to you at Woodlane. 
 And won't you come to see us soon, 
 Before the shining Christmas ruoon ? 
 Lf brother Alfred's name should stand 
 Among my country's minstrel-band, 
 I must as far as in me lies 
 Endeavour to be good and wise ; 
 And this will, like the fragrant rose, 
 Be sweetest when my life shall close. 
 
 The time is once more drawing near 
 When Father Christmas will be here. 
 I like the old man very well ; 
 For he has pleasant tales to tell, 
 And always brings me cake and meat, 
 And many a little thing that 's sweet ; 
 And, if a good and quiet boy, 
 I sometimes get a tiny toy. 
 My father promised now that he 
 Would buy a knife and fork for me. 
 O happy, happy I shall be !
 
 AN EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER. 197 
 
 I wish ray friend Miss C. and you 
 A very happy Christmas too. 
 I oft repeat my prayers at night, 
 That God would soon restore you quite, 
 And hring you here in health again, 
 To live in quiet at Woodlane. 
 My mother sends her love to you, 
 And father, Jane, and Alfred too. 
 Miss O. will please accept a part 
 Fresh-gushing from each thankful heart. 
 I 've horrow'd father's lyre to sing 
 This simple song with feehle string, 
 And post it to our absent friend ; 
 So with a kiss my rhyme I end. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER. 
 
 Close shelter d in my cot alone, 
 Weary all day with carrying stone, 
 To build my new home on the moor, 
 So that my limbs are stiff and sore, 
 Jane gone to market safe and well, 
 And baby sleeps in slumber's cell ; 
 
 see the poet's earliest flower 
 Sweet-folded in her cradle-bower. 
 
 The hens perch on their roost-branch high, 
 The hog is grunting in his stye ; 
 And piggy has a curious dome, — 
 It may be, like your cabin-home, — 
 Sod-thatch'd and nettle-cover'd, one 
 
 1 built myself since you have gone.
 
 198 EPISTLES. 
 
 It has a door, a grating door, 
 
 Just eighteen inches high, or more, 
 
 Through which poor piggy pokes his snout, 
 
 Tossing too oft his bed about, 
 
 To eat his turnips boil'd or fried, 
 
 And grunt for many things beside. 
 
 This famous pigstye quaint can boast 
 
 Of one — it has but one — sidepost, 
 
 To which this patch'd door hangs a-jar, 
 
 Without a staple, lock, or bar, 
 
 Or any other bolt at all, 
 
 Except a huge rock by the wall ; 
 
 And through the riddled roof is seen 
 
 The first flash of Orion's mien. 
 
 It surely never had its match : 
 
 A wren might fly right through the thatch. 
 
 Well, wife is to the market gone, 
 
 And little Jane still slumbers on ; 
 
 The bird is roosting, and the cat 
 
 Growls gladly o'er a piece of fat ; 
 
 So all for joy I snatch my quill, 
 
 To pen a page for brother Will. 
 
 'T is pleasant by our own fireside 
 To sit and muse at eventide, 
 To close the favourite poet's page, 
 Which charms alike in youth and age, 
 And, on our elbow leaning, cast 
 An eye-flash on the changeful past, 
 Marking the havoc time hath made 
 Since we with satchels cross'd the glade. 
 I wish not to conduct you far, 
 Where Russia's hungry eagles are, 
 Or through the gloomy rifted rent 
 Of Grecian tower or battlement. 
 I care not if you stretch your eye 
 Where other lands untrodden lie ;
 
 AN EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER. 199 
 
 But calmly on your native heath 
 Gaze on the wrecks above, beneath. 
 
 Gone, root and branch, is the field thom, 
 
 Near the dear home where we were bom, 
 
 And oft beneath its fragrant shade 
 
 At even- shut we both have play'd, 
 
 Shooting our marbles slow or fast, 
 
 Or spinning tops with pleasure vast, 
 
 Not feeling then the fang of sorrow, 
 
 .And caring little for to-morrow, 
 
 Climbing with flower-fill'd hands life's steep, 
 
 Not knowing we were born to weep. 
 
 O then how sweet, at close of day, 
 
 When both were weary with then play, 
 
 What time the hedger's task was done, 
 
 What time had sunk the red round sun, 
 
 To mother's fond embrace to run, 
 
 To eat our evening meal, and creep 
 
 Into our pleasant bed to sleep. 
 
 But, brother, Time's rude blast hath blown 
 
 In fury here, with severing moan, 
 
 Scattering the flowerets fresh and fan, 
 
 And withering wights with hoaiy hair. 
 
 Thus we on life's bleak wild are cast 
 
 To bear the separation-blast, 
 
 To meet and smile with brighten'd eyes, 
 
 To part full soon in tears and sighs. 
 
 Forgive me for these notes so sere, 
 
 And o'er these changes drop a tear.
 
 200 EPISTLES. 
 
 JANE'S EPISTLE TO HER UNCLE. 
 
 Dear uncle, great thanks for your kindness to me ! 
 Your present of silver has cross'd the wide sea, 
 Meeting me at Troon-Moor from the wood-cover'd west, 
 The first piece of money I ever possess'd. 
 
 I 've a short leaden Cupid, which father has made : 
 By the by, I don't think he has studied the trade ; 
 For its eyes are projecting from oat its rude head, 
 And its fingers and toes are like rents in a shed. 
 
 I 've some gay gilded toys. I 'd send one, if I could, 
 By a miner of ours, to your babe in the wood ; 
 But father says, should we come over next spring, 
 He '11 buy me for cousin some beautiful thing. 
 
 Mother learns me to read. A and O I can tell, 
 And soon I shall surely be able to spell ; 
 And a sonnet we sing, now the evenings are brown, 
 When waiting for mother to come from the town. 
 
 I 'm fond of grandmother's grey cat with small feet, 
 Red apples, and sugar, and candy so sweet ; 
 And I relish a rock-stick, when one can be found, 
 As pleased with a part as I am with a pound. 
 
 I am put in the cradle sometimes when I cry, 
 And jostled and jostled I cannot tell why ; 
 But soon I give over to sob and to weep, 
 While mother sings by me, and rocks me to sleep. 
 
 I 've a smart-looking frock, as the neighbours all said, 
 Which mother bought for me, — a beautiful red. 
 I 've a pah- of new shoes, — 0, I fear they '11 be torn, — 
 Brass-buckled, brown-colour 'd, which yet are nnwom.
 
 THE SPEING-BtTDS I GAZED ON. 201 
 
 I slept on the hill-top a fortnight ago ; 
 But I 'd much rather sleep in my cottage below. 
 Grandmother was kind ; yet, though fondly caress'd, 
 I would rather be home in my own little nest. 
 
 'T was my birthday last Sunday : I 'm two years of age : 
 What a wonder am I to be walking life's stage ! 
 Much love to my kindred across the deep main ; 
 And at present no more from your niece, little Jane. 
 
 THE SPRING-BUDS I GAZED ON, O WHERE 
 ARE THEY FLED ? 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO MT BEOTHEE. 
 
 The Spring-buds I gazed on, O where are they fled ? 
 
 Pale clusters smile-cover'd upon the hill's head : 
 
 And the hopes I had cherish'd when childhood was fair, 
 
 where are they hasten'd and hidden, O where ? 
 
 And my own loving brother, my earliest and best, 
 Has built his log-hut in a dell of the West : 
 Away from his father and mother is he ; 
 Away from the land of the good and the free. 
 
 1 think, if he weeps in his briony dale, 
 
 His sighs might float here on the wings of the gale ; 
 And I think, if his cheeks should be moisten'd with 
 
 brine, 
 He knows they will be fit companions for mine. 
 
 Perchance in the wood, where the great trees are high, 
 For his home in old England he lifts up a cry : 
 In this forest sublime, spreading shadow afar, 
 The red-colour 'd chiefs held their councils of war.
 
 202 EPISTLES. 
 
 Perchance on the height, where the fresh breezes blow, 
 He dreanis of the land where the primroses grow, 
 Where the sky-larks on cloudlets deliriously sing, 
 And the violets peer forth at the wakening of Spring. 
 
 Perchance, where sublimity's volume is spread, 
 Where the eagle his eyre has built o'er his head, 
 Or the cataract thunders the precipice o'er, 
 Astounded he Lists to the terrible roar. 
 
 Perchance by the streamlet, meandering and clear, 
 
 The thought of his boyhood awakens a tear ; 
 
 And he weeps as he quietly muses alone, 
 
 And his tear-drops augment the slow rivulet's moan. 
 
 Perchance on the wings of his fancy he flies 
 To his dear Cornish home, where the granite rocks rise, 
 Far o'er the Atlantic's broad sky-colour'd tide, 
 Where father and mother and brothers reside. 
 
 Perchance he is silently musing of me, 
 And wondering wherever the rhymer can be, — 
 If wandering on earth, or, unsullied by time, 
 He rests from his toil in the sun-lighted clime ; 
 
 If he 's in the deep mine, where he digs for his bread, 
 Surrounded with darkness, and danger, and dread ; 
 Or if for the rambler he 's praying at even, 
 Uplifting his soul to the mercy of Heaven ; 
 
 Or if with his harp, which he loved from a child, 
 He wanders and plays o'er the heath-scented wild, 
 As sadly he lists, gazing up at the sky, 
 With a trace on his cheek and a tear in his eye. 
 
 Now, brother, you have it. I 've stolen an hour 
 To woo the dear Muse in my grassy-bench'd bower, 
 While Autumn comes creeping adown the long lane, 
 Flinging leaves in his travel all over the plain.
 
 THE LARK DICK. 203 
 
 And as on my harp-strings iny fingers I try, 
 I hear the gay laugh of my brothers hard by : 
 They know not I 'm here, my own treasures among, 
 Surrounded with fairies and seraphs of song. 
 
 They know not I 'm here, 'mid the gorse of our hill, 
 In my own darling corner attuning my quill ; 
 For I 've chosen to creep from our cottage and bower, 
 To a home on the moor with my paradise flower. 
 
 O blessed old cam ! wherever I be, 
 My thought will be tiu-ning delighted to thee ; 
 And when I lie down with the weary beneath, 
 My spirit shall hover above my dear heath. 
 
 Farewell, now, loved brother ! I 've nought else to say, 
 Except that we watch more, and earnestly pray ; 
 And when our dear Saviour in glory draws nigh, 
 We '11 shake off our garments and soar to the sky. 
 
 THE LARK DICK. 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO MY BROTHEK. 
 
 The cage hangs in its wonted place, 
 You know the comer, sure ; 
 
 But Dick has run his mortal race, 
 His carollings are o'er. 
 
 Poor Dick ! he caroll'd day by day, 
 Though caged and cabin'd he, 
 
 As blithe, and musical, and gay, 
 As if he had been free.
 
 204 EPISTLES. 
 
 How cheering was his morning song ! 
 
 How sweet at eventide, 
 When mother, listening to his notes, 
 
 Has sat her down and sigh'd ! 
 
 But now she hears no gentle chords 
 
 Vibrating o'er her head ; 
 On Friday morn she came down stairs, 
 
 And found the poor lark dead. 
 
 " He oft would cheer my hours of gloom, 
 Tour mother sad will say ; 
 
 " But now my singing bird is gone, — 
 He, too, has pass'd away ! 
 
 " Alone at noontide have I been, 
 My musings have been sad ; 
 
 Dick's gushing notes would intervene, 
 And make my spirit glad. 
 
 " I cook'd my food, and labour'd on, 
 
 Content from day to day ; 
 Dick, mounted on his grassy turf, 
 
 Would thank me with his lay. 
 
 " But now no sound of harmony 
 Does through my cottage sweep ; 
 
 I by my lone fireside sit down, 
 With none to hear me weep. 
 
 " The pig all on a sudden died, 
 
 The little kitten 's fled ; 
 True scarcely knows my fostering hand, 
 
 And now the bird is dead ! "
 
 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 TO MT MOTHER. 
 
 Mothee, accept a simple song, 
 Warbled the rocks and heath among; 
 And may it much augment your joy, 
 As caroll'd by your singing boy, 
 Who loves his mother's sacred name 
 Better than gold or poet's fame. 
 
 how that gentle word doth cheer 
 Tour musing one, my mother dear ! 
 
 My mother, ere you read these lines, 
 
 1 may be where the seraph shines, 
 And you may weep above my grave, 
 Where daisies bend and grasses wave. 
 'T is hidden all. Tour elder son 
 Has just the morn of life begun : 
 
 He forward looks, and fluttering fears 
 Start up and fill his eyes with tears. 
 Perchance dark sorrows may assail, 
 And wring his heart in earth's low vale ; 
 Griefs cold as clay may crash him down, 
 His friends may fail, and foes may frown : 
 But should all this be really true, 
 He '11 turn his thought to heaven and you.
 
 208 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 My mother, from his native home 
 Your mountain scribbler far may roam, 
 O'er rocky strands, and sterile steeps, 
 "Where Echo, watch'd by Silence, sleeps ; 
 Where Solitude, in wastes profound, 
 Lists only to the bittern's sound. 
 Even there his mother's form shall glide 
 In dear remembrance at his side. 
 "What, though your music-loving boy 
 Has never known the classic joy 
 Which academic shades impart ? 
 He trills his song fresh from his heart ; 
 And if you smile his verse to hear, 
 Why, this to him is richest cheer. 
 
 My mother, time may steal away, 
 
 Till you are bent with slow decay, 
 
 And I may look upon your brow 
 
 With eyes of love as I do now, 
 
 And weep to see deep furrows there, 
 
 And wonder at the sprinkled hair, 
 
 Which once thick on your forehead lay, 
 
 But now 't is wither'd all and grey. 
 
 And, mother, do you think that I 
 
 Could leave you at this hour, and fly ? 
 
 No, surely no. I 'm bound to you 
 
 By all that 's beautiful and true, 
 
 By all the ties of love which shed 
 
 A halo round a mother's head. 
 
 I '11 watch you in your wintry hour, 
 
 I '11 screen you from life's chilling shower, 
 
 I '11 cheer your drooping age with love, 
 
 Till you escape to heaven above. 
 
 My mother, should I live to see 
 The blossom blighted, and the tree
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 209 
 
 Bow'd to the dust, and Death's ice-blast 
 Congeal your loving heart at last, 
 How will I think upon your prayers, 
 And ponder on your anxious cares, 
 Your kindly voice and looks so sweet, 
 The simple tale with love replete, 
 The mild reproof, in kindness given, 
 .And follow mother x\p to heaven ! 
 O, when, in yonder solemn shade, 
 Beneath the green turf you are laid, 
 At evening's close I '11 hie me there, 
 And sit and listen to the air, 
 Which healing on its pinions brings, 
 Sweet with the murmur of your wings. 
 
 My mother, this is but a dream : 
 Before you I may cross Death's stream, 
 And leave you lingering still below, 
 In this cold vale of want and woe. 
 Hash, harp ! for I can sing no more; 
 " My song hath ceased," my task is o'er; 
 My heart is full, my eyes are dim : 
 Hush, harp ! seal up this pensive hymn. 
 But if you pass, at Heaven's command, 
 Before me to the spirit-land, 
 And I, far off from friends and home, 
 In utter loneliness should roam, 
 Or pine on some far torrid plain, 
 Where fever has its myriads slain, 
 Or sink beneath the seething wave, 
 And find at last a watery grave, 
 Haste through the gateway of the blest, 
 And guide my spirit home to rest.
 
 210 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 JANE FINDING A PRIMROSE IN FEBRUARY. 
 
 Ho, ho, pale flower, what strange mishap 
 Could throw thee here on Winter's lap ? 
 Jane saw thee by the village way 
 
 Look up with yellow eye, 
 'Mid cold snow-heaps that round thee lay 
 
 Beneath a frowning sky ; 
 And so she gather'd thee, and brought 
 The treasure where the snows are not. 
 
 She knew the biting, blustering storm 
 Would rave upon thy lovely form, 
 And pity could not bear to see 
 
 The little stranger pale 
 The savage sport of Winter's glee, 
 
 Rock'd by the frigid gale ; 
 She could not leave thee thus alone, 
 And so she made thee all her own. 
 
 She deem'd the pleasant lays of Spring 
 From thy sweet lips were murmuring ; 
 And as she gazed on thy wan face, 
 
 And thought of days to come, 
 She pluck'd thee from thy native place, 
 
 And bore thee to her home, 
 " To whisper hope " when griefs o'erpower, 
 And skies grow dark, and tempests lour. 
 
 Perchance she thought sad sorrow's tear 
 Did on thy yellow lids appear, 
 And so she could not leave thee there, 
 By cruel blasts defiled ;
 
 211 
 
 Batter'd with liail and chilling air, 
 
 In Winter's footprint wild. 
 She could not leave thee 'neath such skies ; 
 And now thou art her cherish'd prize. 
 
 If it were some unheeding boy 
 Who pluck'd thee in his freak of joy, 
 We might he angry with the lad 
 
 Who thus had stripp'd the bower ; 
 And it might make our bosoms sad 
 
 To lose thee, favourite flower ; 
 But when 't is Jane who roams the mead, 
 We only love her for the deed. 
 
 Farewell, pale flower ; thy reign was brief. 
 To see but not to savour grief, 
 On wintry wild to ope thine eye, 
 
 'Mid ice and chilling sleet ; 
 To taste the bliss of life and die 
 
 Thus early, village sweet ; 
 To lose thy place in Spring's loved throng, 
 And bloom a summer life of song. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 Melodious word, 
 Melting my colder passions into tears, 
 Rearing a bulwark round my shatter'd frame 
 
 And speaking joy. 
 
 Sacred to me, 
 Who own no mansion towering 'mid the trees, 
 But shelter'd in my father's hollow shed, 
 
 Straw-thatch' d,
 
 212 EAKLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 Do oft at eve 
 Peer through ray lattice on the rising moon, 
 Or gaze spell-bound on the bright western star. 
 
 Sinking to rest. 
 
 Or, stretch'd along 
 In the cool shadow of niy cottage eaves, 
 Woo the sweet twilight's song, and strike 
 
 My pensive harp. 
 
 Ay, even now, 
 When musing in my mountain's broomy bowers 
 Kiss'd with song-laden winds, I feel 
 
 " The spells of home." 
 
 My early home, 
 On the blue hill-top 'mid the lichen'd rocks, 
 Where Solitude in cells where fames chime 
 
 Rests undisturb'd ! 
 
 O spot empearl'd ! 
 Amid thy stillness it were sweet to dwell, 
 With bush and towering crag ; then die at last 
 
 In sight of heaven. 
 
 FREDERICK THE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Nestled among the crags 
 The shepherd's cottage stood, 
 
 Beside the falling cataract, 
 
 And near the pine-green wood ;
 
 FREDERICK THE SHEPHERD. 213 
 
 And on the topmost rocks, 
 
 Scarce noticed from below, 
 Where shrieks the spirit of the blast, 
 
 The goat leaps to and fro. 
 
 Straw-thatch'd and ivy-clad, 
 
 The lonely dwelling stood, 
 And not a sound of discord rose 
 
 To break the solitude. 
 The nrumiur of the stream, 
 
 The ripple of the rill, 
 The song of bird from bush and brake, 
 
 Swept o'er the shepherd's hill. 
 
 A hundred hardy sheep 
 
 Were on the nioiuitain fed ; 
 The keeping of this fleecy flock 
 
 Procured the shepherd bread • 
 And, resting on his crook, 
 
 He sang the livelong day, 
 Attended by his faithful dog : 
 
 Thus pass'd his time away. 
 
 It is not meet that man 
 
 Alone should spend his life ; 
 And so the mountain peasant call'd 
 
 His dear Lavinia wife. 
 He loved her when the flowers 
 
 Were shining in the glen, 
 Green summers gone ; and now he feels 
 
 The happiest of men. 
 
 Lavinia caroll'd blithe, 
 
 And spun her carded wool ; 
 At eve received him with a smile ; 
 
 Then* home was never dull.
 
 214 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 And he attuned his reed 
 
 Under the aged thorn ; 
 Thus happily old Time pass'd by, 
 
 And Frederick was born. 
 
 A little ruddy lad, 
 
 So like his sire he grew, 
 And soon he kept his father's flock 
 
 Upon the mountain blue ; 
 And with his mother's kiss 
 
 Mingled the father's prayer : 
 Thus lovingly along life's path 
 
 Each other's load they bear. 
 
 One sultry day in June 
 
 The shepherd watch 'd his flock, 
 Seated upon a frowning peak, 
 
 A tenrpest-rifted rock. 
 His sheep around him grazed, 
 
 And everything was still ; 
 When suddenly a lightning-flash 
 
 Hiss'd o'er the heated hill. 
 
 The sheep together ran 
 
 Within a hollow dell : 
 'T was then the shepherd-boy went forth 
 
 To see if all were well. 
 A band of rovers rude 
 
 Had driven them away, 
 And on the rock, asleep in death, 
 
 His own deal* father lay. 
 
 Who is that beggar-boy 
 
 Bare plodding through the mire ? 
 
 Has he no home, no loving friends, 
 No mother, sister, sire ? 

 
 FREDERICK THE SHEPHERD. 215 
 
 His clothes in tatters hang, 
 
 No covering has his head, 
 And evermore, amidst his sobs, 
 
 He cries, " O give me bread." 
 
 'T is Frederick of the hill ; 
 
 Come, wipe his tears away, 
 And ask him where his mother is : 
 
 " She died of grief," he '11 say. 
 " I watch'd her on her bed, 
 
 And wiped her burning brow ; 
 She told me heaven was in her eye : 
 
 I know she sings there now." 
 
 At last he found a friend, 
 
 Who his distress relieved, 
 And shelter'd him beneath his roof, 
 
 And as a son received. 
 His tears were wiped away 
 
 Within the good man's cot, 
 And Frederick sang his early lay, 
 
 And half his grief forgot. 
 
 And oft in summer-time, 
 
 When winds and waves were still, 
 He climb'd the stony footpath up 
 
 His dear old native hill. 
 The cot in which he dwelt, 
 
 The tree beside the door, 
 The green on which he often knelt, 
 
 Look'd as in days of yore. 
 
 Look'd as in days of yore ? 
 
 No ; traces of decay 
 Were on his woodbine cottage, and 
 
 The flock had pass'd away.
 
 216 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 His mother was not there ; 
 
 No father cheer'd the lad ; 
 A shadow rested everywhere ; 
 
 The shepherd-boy was sad. 
 
 His master gave him leave 
 
 The dwelling to repair, 
 And much before the winter storms 
 
 He patch'd it here and there. 
 He train'd the sweet woodbine 
 
 Around the casement lone, 
 And kept the garden neat and trim, 
 
 And call'd the spot his own. 
 
 One day, amid the moss, 
 
 In musing mood, he stray'd, 
 Marking the alterations which 
 
 Time's rapid flight had made ; 
 When in a ragged rift 
 
 He heard a bleating lamb, 
 And soon he found the pretty thing 
 
 Lamenting for its dam. 
 
 Milk-white and innocent 
 
 As ever lamb could be, 
 It danced among the mountain grass 
 
 And flowers right playfully. 
 Young Frederick wept for joy, 
 
 And leaping from a rock, 
 " 'T is one," he cried, " I know 't is one, 
 
 Of my deai - father's flock. 
 
 " And see, this little lamb 
 
 Is gazing up on me, 
 As if 't would say, ' O, Frederick, 
 
 Let us companions be.'
 
 FREDERICK THE SHEPHERD. 217 
 
 Yes, little innocent, 
 
 1 11 be a shepherd-boy, 
 And sing again my pastoral song, 
 
 And sip the cup of joy." 
 
 Now on the blue hill side 
 
 A shepherd-youth is seen, 
 Resting upon his trusty crook, 
 
 His flock is on the green ; 
 And evermore a psalm 
 
 Is floating on the breeze, 
 " Blest be the God of Providence ; 
 
 For He has given me these." 
 
 Who climbs the green-clad mount, 
 
 Pah' as the rising moon ? 
 'T is the kind orphan girl who brings 
 
 Him bread and milk at noon. 
 He eats his homely meal 
 
 Beneath the spreading fir, 
 And oft she glances love on him, 
 
 And oft he blesses her. 
 
 Thus day by day she came 
 
 With Frederick's simple meal, 
 Then oft within the shady grove 
 
 They hand in hand would steal. 
 Till old Time jogg'd along, 
 
 With alterations rife, 
 And Maiy, the poor orphan girl, 
 
 Became the shepherd's wife. 
 
 Two little playful boys, 
 
 With voices like a lyre, 
 Grew up within the shepherd's home, 
 
 The image of then sire.
 
 218 EAELY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 Contented with their lot, 
 They sang their lives away 
 
 Within the honeysuckled cot, 
 Till Frederick's hair was grey. 
 
 His sons to manhood grew, 
 
 Grounded on virtue's rock : 
 Following their father's pastoral paths, 
 
 They kept the woolly flock. 
 And when old Frederick died, 
 
 They sorrow 'd for his doom ; 
 And now he sleeps by Mai'y's side, 
 
 Within the village tomb. 
 
 TALE OF THE EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 I left my cot one morn, to seek 
 
 Some bur-sting bud on moorland bare, 
 
 When, lo, rock'd by the north blast bleak, 
 I saw a gentle primrose fair. 
 
 Approaching slow, silent I gazed 
 
 With wondering rapture on the flower ; 
 
 Its yellow head it upward raised, 
 
 And seem'd to speak with thrilling power. 
 
 " Child, learn from me, or ere you sleep 
 In Death's cold arms, that man must die. 
 
 In this rude world he oft will weep, 
 And heave misfortune's pensive sigh.
 
 NIGHT. 219 
 
 " But He who framed, who fashion'd me, 
 Who raised me from this barren sod, 
 
 He also framed and fashion'd thee ; 
 Dear child, 't is thy Redeemer God. 
 
 " O love Him in the gentle flowers, 
 
 In all His works of every kind ; 
 And in Religion's sacred bowers 
 
 Partake the bliss by Heaven design'd." 
 
 It ceased to speak. The hurrying blast 
 Rush'd o'er the heath with ruthless ire, 
 
 Smote the sweet flower — its life was past ; 
 I saw it tremble and expire. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 I LOVE thee, Night, when thy majestic brow 
 Glitters with star-light as it glitters now ; 
 When Cynthia pours on all her silvery flood, 
 The mine and meadow, valley, hill, and wood ; 
 When Contemplation leaves her lone retreat, 
 And climbs the white crags where the Muses meet ; 
 When Peace broods o'er the earth ; when hope is high, 
 And heaven seems shining through the far-off sky.
 
 220 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 THE RETURNING BROTHER. 
 
 Dear brother, we 've heard of your coming ; 
 
 Tour kindred are out on the lea ; 
 They are stretching then eyes along the blue skies, 
 
 And listing the sound of the sea. 
 Dear brother, we 've heard of your coming. 
 
 Dear brother, we speak of your coming ; 
 
 Tour brothers are up with the lark ; 
 On mother they smile, murmuring music the while ; 
 
 They are talking about it till dark. 
 Dear brother, we speak of your coming. 
 
 Dear brother, we sing for your coming ; 
 
 What joy does it bring to your sire ! 
 Tour sisters rejoice, and your mother's sweet voice 
 
 Rings o'er the old hill like a lyre. 
 Dear brother, we sing for your coming. 
 
 Dear brother, all hail to yoiu' coming ! 
 
 We greet you with hearty good- will. 
 O, welcome once more to the happiest shore, 
 
 That ever the breezes did fill. 
 Dear brother, all hail to your coming ! 
 
 Dear brother, we wait for your coming : 
 
 Though change has dimm'd many an eye, 
 
 Unsinged is our cot, and the same is my grot 
 As when you last bade us good bye. 
 
 Dear brother, we wait for your coming.
 
 THE LOST DINNER. 221 
 
 Dear brother, we long for your coming ; 
 
 Impatient we list for your call. 
 Haste, climb the heath hill, where your mother lives still, 
 
 The queen of our straw-cover'd hall. 
 Dear brother, we long for your coming. 
 
 THE LOST DINNER. 
 
 One morn a poor youth went away to the mine, 
 Not late, — no, nor early, — betwixt seven and nine ; 
 His bag held his dinner, " in which he took pride," 
 Down deep in his pocket, and thumping his side. 
 
 He tripp'd down the mountain, and over the lea, 
 And through the long lanes, singing loud in his glee ; 
 Now blessing the flowerets, now pausing to mark, 
 And clapping his hands at the song of the lark. 
 
 He keeps his left elbow so close to his side, 
 
 One would think that in fancy he stroll'd with his bride. 
 
 O, no ; 't is his pasty he 's hugging so tight, 
 
 For fear he should lose it, or some one should bite. 
 
 The ploughmen and ploughboys that woi'k on the farm 
 Have seen him walk onward, and look'd at his arm, 
 And thought he had copper or silver, and hid it ; 
 O, no ; they were wrong ; 't was his pasty that did it. 
 
 A pasty ! a pasty ! I grant that the name 
 Has never roll'd far on the chariot of Fame. 
 Of Hebrew or Latin small knowledge had he ; 
 But a pasty — he knew it as well as could be.
 
 222 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 He passes the blind man's, and goes near the mill, 
 And walks by the stream on the side of the hill, 
 Steps round the wide tin-pits which darken the moors, 
 Soon reaches the mine, and is on his own floors. 
 
 He throws off his coat, one might think he would sweep 
 The work of ten tinners, ay, off at a leap. 
 His eyes how they pierce you, his words how they ring ! 
 I doubt if a blackbird were gayer in spring. 
 
 He walks on so briskly, the weight of a barrow 
 Seems nothing for him, he is blithe as a sparrow ; 
 The thought of his pasty inspires him like wine, 
 And he longs for the great bell to call him to dine. 
 
 On a cobbing-house * yonder he fixes his eyes ; 
 For there in his jacket the dinner-bag lies, 
 Full up to the top. " O soon I shall meet it ; 
 And then what a pleasure it will be to eat it ! 
 
 " Come, Mary, go on, let us strive to be winner ; 
 A few baiTows more, and then we shall have dinner." 
 Ding dong goes the bell : like an arrow he sped, 
 Where his pasty was left in the wood-cover'd shed. 
 
 Stock-still in the corner he trembles and sighs, 
 And the great shining tears are half out of his eyes. 
 His comrades were shouting and laughing aloud ; 
 But he looked like Sorrow closed under a cloud. 
 
 * A shed where the mining girls separate the mineral fxoin the 
 refuse, by breaking the stones with an iron hammer. 

 
 THE LOST DINNER. 223 
 
 But why all this sadness ? His dinner was gone ! 
 He search'd ; but he found not. His comrades laugh'd on : 
 At last they relented, and said they would try 
 To find out his pasty, and not let him die. 
 
 O could you have seen the poor fellow this while ! 
 The drollest comedian could not make him smile. 
 He paced up and down, with eyes fix'd on the roof, 
 With comrades and every one standing aloof. 
 
 Now he 's out at the door, he looks this way and that, 
 He shrugs up his shoulders, he pricks up his hat ; 
 He views every stamp-boy that swallows his crust, 
 And wrings his hard clutches, and kicks up the dust. 
 
 " No dinner to-day, what sad tidings for me ! 
 Before I leave work O how faint I shall be ! 
 Have pity upon me I wonder who will ; 
 But see they are coming down over the hill. 
 
 " A sight of my pasty new life would impart, 
 And sunshine again would be filling my heart." 
 He sigh'd as he spoke, and then laugh'd with a stare ; 
 For his dinner unbroken was brought to him there. 
 
 A hoax had been play'd by his mine-mates in toil, 
 At the trifling expense of this son of the soil, 
 Who leapt at his bag like a hound at a hare, 
 And shriek'd in his gladness, " O never despair ! 
 
 " The noon may be cloudy, and windy, and wet ; 
 At evening in glory the great sun may set. 
 To-day may be foul, and to-morrow be fair, 
 And morn follows midnight. O never despair ! "
 
 224 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN BOY. 
 
 Upon a mountain's brow 
 There dwelt a pensive lad, 
 
 Who was, as he is now, 
 By nature often sad. 
 
 O'er heathy hillocks high 
 He oft would steal to weep, 
 
 Though folks have wonder'd why 
 He would not rather sleep. 
 
 At eve's poetic hour 
 
 Through narrow paths he 'd pass, 
 And oft the dewy flower 
 
 Was shaken in the grass. 
 
 The tinkling brooklet's lay 
 Hath mingled with his song, 
 
 As onward he would stray 
 
 The wild thyme banks among. 
 
 His native meadows oft 
 Were Eden 'neath his feet, 
 
 And in his favoiuite croft 
 His dream-home was complete. 
 
 From busy man he stole 
 
 To Nature's altars rude, 
 And gave his thoughtful soul 
 
 To muse with Solitude.
 
 THE MOUNTAIN BOY. 225 
 
 To ramble was his choice 
 
 To Contemplation's lair, 
 Where zephyrs have a voice 
 
 To charm the ear of Care. 
 
 Where elfs and fairies play'd 
 Beneath the hawthorn tree, 
 
 And night's rare genii stray'd 
 In shadow, there was he. 
 
 O'er silent glens and glades, 
 Where lovelorn rustics sigh, 
 
 Through evening's solemn shades, 
 All lonely he would hie. 
 
 What was the world to him, 
 
 Its labour after gain, 
 When life's frail thread so slim 
 
 Would soon be snapp'd in twain ? 
 
 Time's heavy ocean-waves 
 Had beaten him and fled ; 
 
 Then, rushing from their caves, 
 Rebounded o'er his head. 
 
 Love came, and zephyrs play'd 
 Along the morning sky ; 
 
 But ere the evening shade 
 She laid her down to die. 
 
 Hope, clothed in laurel green, 
 Elate on tiptoe, stood ; 
 
 He saw her dazzling sheen 
 Plunged in the river's flood.
 
 226 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 And when affection's glow 
 In every heart seem'd dead, 
 
 Upon his mountain's brow 
 Big burning tears were shed. 
 
 What nymphs, in garments bright, 
 At day-dawn graced his side ! 
 
 But shadows from the night 
 Steal o'er his young noontide. 
 
 Dame Nature loves her own, 
 A voice is in the flower ; 
 
 And when her child is flown, 
 'T will lnurniur in his bower. 
 
 A FLOWER GATHERED AT EVENING. 
 
 Hail, blue-eyed child ! 
 At evening mild, 
 I pluck thee on my native wild. 
 
 The gentle wing 
 Of blushing Spring 
 Shook thee to earth, thou dainty thing. 
 
 Now with shut eye 
 
 Pale dost thou He 
 
 In twilight's dusky arms to die.
 
 TO MY LYRE. 227 
 
 Oft Beauty's power, 
 Like thee, sweet flower, 
 Is blighted in its April hour. 
 
 TO MY LYRE. 
 
 'T is sad to see thee hang so long 
 
 Upon the willow-bough ; 
 Thy rippling rill of simple song 
 No longer murmurs now. 
 The fitful breeze 
 Sighs through the trees : 
 Wake, lyre, and give my bosom ease. 
 
 Suspended on a hapless limb, 
 
 I see thee stripp'd and torn ; 
 While cold Neglect, with features grim,- 
 Stalks on as if in scorn. 
 Wake, little lyre, 
 Wake, wake, inspire 
 My bosom with its wonted fire. 
 
 Awake, awake, beside the bank 
 
 Where creeping glow-worms shine, 
 And leaves make music dewy- dank 
 To woo the maid divine, 
 Before thy song 
 Is hush'd among 
 The spoils of him who mocks the strong. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 I found thee when thy sparkling form 
 
 Was bright in life's fresh mora, 
 
 Or ere the ruthless, rushing storm 
 
 Of time thy strings had torn ; 
 
 And thy loved tone, 
 
 Though years have flown, 
 
 Grows dearer as we 're more alone. 
 
 Again thy murmurings, soft and slow, 
 
 Steal through the welkin wide, 
 And o'er the drowsy hamlet flow, 
 A-near my mountain's side, 
 Timing through cells 
 Of sweet flower-bells 
 And thyme- floor 'd grots where Poetry dwells. 
 
 The peasant in his chimney-nook 
 
 Beside the red peat fire 
 Is fix'd in many a wondering look, 
 When rings the miner's lyre, 
 By shaft or shed, 
 At evening red, 
 Or when the black winds march o'erhead. 
 
 Methinks on yon white fleecy cloud 
 
 A spirit of the sky. 
 Wrapt strangely in his silver shroud, 
 Peers forth with kindly eye, 
 Calling me where 
 The fields are fair, 
 And flowers are found so rich and rare. 
 
 My little lyre, we 've fondled long, 
 
 And yet are loth to pari ; 
 Again I feel thy artless song 
 
 Hath heal'd my wounded heart.
 
 THE BURIAL. 229 
 
 Now I must lay 
 My bird away, 
 To hear tb.ee sing another day. 
 
 THE BURIAL. 
 
 Will's ferret was buried tbis morn : 
 When Samuel came down from his bed, 
 
 He whisper'd, with aspect forlorn, 
 " O, Kitty, Will's ferret is dead." 
 
 And Kitty soon told it to Mark, 
 And Mark to the rest of his clan. 
 
 We sorrow'd with visages dark, 
 As if we were mourning a man. 
 
 " Come, Ann, let us lay her to rest, 
 And you must prepare us a bier : 
 
 We will heap the cold earth on her breast ; " 
 And we wiped from our eyelids a tear. 
 
 So Ann made a coffin so small, 
 
 Of cast- off brown paper and thread : 
 
 This served for a shroud and a pall, — 
 False trappings, unknown to the dead. 
 
 And Samuel was sexton and clerk, 
 And Benjamin bearer so brave, 
 
 While Kitty, and Jacob, and Mark 
 Soon bore her away to the grave.
 
 230 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 My mother was curious enow, 
 And so she came softly behind, 
 
 Well pleased with her children, I trow, 
 "Who to the poor brute were so kind. 
 
 'Neath the hawthorn its grave was dug deep, 
 With sharp-pointed pickaxe and spade. 
 
 Lie down, little ferret, and sleep 
 
 On the couch that affection has made. 
 
 THE CAMOMILE. 
 
 Flower of the moor, to Nature dear, 
 
 And sweet as thou art free, 
 I turn aside from crowded paths, 
 
 To muse in peace with thee. 
 
 Thou fillest with thy pleasant smell 
 
 The down in mosses dress'd ; 
 The gentle breeze flows freshly by, 
 
 And fans thy yellow vest. 
 
 The housewife loves thee, treasuring up 
 
 Thy fragrant form with care, 
 Should sickness come, or wounds, or sprains ; 
 
 For thou hast virtues rare. 
 
 How oft, when hands and head were tired, 
 
 I 've paced the common brown, 
 Or stretch'd me by your scented banks, 
 
 As the great sun went down ;
 
 PALL OF THE OLD MINE STACK. 231 
 
 And heard mysterious murmurs so^ud 
 
 Along the solemn sod, 
 The whispers of Omnipotence, 
 
 The silent speech of God ! 
 
 Dear child of Autumn, sweetest when 
 
 The rohin pipes his quill, 
 Among the early harvest sheaves, 
 
 Delicious camomile ! 
 
 FALL OF THE OLD MINE STACK. 
 
 Man's nohlest works will fall, 
 The strongest arches crack, 
 
 And Earth's proud cities all 
 Be like the old mine stack. 
 
 At February's end, 
 
 When clouds are often black, 
 In storm and pelting hail 
 
 It fell, the old mine stack. 
 
 For long, long months it shook, 
 
 As if upon the rack, 
 And then it toppled o'er 
 
 At night, the old mine stack. 
 
 Above the misty hill 
 
 Once rose its top. Alack ! 
 
 Old Ruin's hand hath pull'd 
 It down, the old mine stack.
 
 232 EARLY EFFUSIONS. 
 
 We watcli'd it day by day, 
 
 Smote with the storm -king black, 
 
 Till with a solemn roar 
 
 Down dash'd the old mine stack. 
 
 The highest peaks will fall, 
 
 Earth's mighty zones will crack, 
 
 And Nature's bulwarks all 
 Be like the old mine stack. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM NICHOLS, HOXTON SQUARE.
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Dr. George Smith, Trevu, Camborne, author of 
 
 " Sacred Annals," &c 20 
 
 Sir William John Alexander, Bart., Q.C., St. 
 
 James's Place, London 2 
 
 Sir Charles Lemon, Bart., F.R.S., &c, Carclew . 2 
 The Earl of Verulam, 14, Great Stanhope Street, 
 
 London 1 
 
 The Countess of Verulam, Great Stanhope Street, 
 
 London 1 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Verulam, Grosvenor 
 
 Square, London 1 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Caledon, 5, Carleton 
 
 Ten-ace, London 1 
 
 The Countess of Caledon, Carleton Terrace, 
 
 London 1 
 
 Louisa, Marchioness of Waterford, Ford Castle, 
 
 Northumberland 4 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Mexborough, Dover 
 
 Street, London 2 
 
 The Dowager Countess of Ranfurly ... 1 
 
 Miss Alexander of Caledon 8 
 
 The Lady Stuart de Rothesay, High ClhT, Christ- 
 church, Hants 1 
 
 R. W. Fox, Esq., F.R.S., E.G.S., Falmouth . 4 
 
 Mrs. Clara Lucas Balfour, Reigate, Surrey . . 8 
 
 Samuel Gurney, Esq., M.P., London ... 2 
 
 Jonathan Rashleigh, Esq., London .... 2 
 
 Captain Charles Thomas, Killevose, Camborne . 10 
 
 T. G. Baring, Esq., M.P., Hyde Park, London . 4 
 
 John St. Aubyn, Esq., M.P., Pendrea, Penzance 2 
 
 John Rule, Esq., Pare Bracket, Camborne . . 8 
 
 J. F. Basset, Esq., Tehidy, Cornwall ... 6 
 
 Henry Bath, Esq., Longlands, Swansea ... 12 
 
 J. S. Bickford, Esq., TuckingmiU ... 10 
 Mr. W. Catcott, Wells, Somerset, author of " The 
 
 Plough" 8
 
 234 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Rev. J. P. Allen, M.A., Congregational Minister, 
 Falmouth ........ 
 
 Mr. F. E. Renfree, Falmouth .... 
 
 Mrs. J. G. Barclay, Leyton, London . 
 
 John Budge, Esq., Camborne .... 
 
 B. T. Vivian, Esq.. L.S.A., F.R.S., Crowan, Hayle 
 
 Edward Burgess, Esq., Camborne . 
 
 Mrs. Captain Furse, Falmouth .... 
 
 H. G. Holman, Esq., Grove House, Topsham 
 Devon 
 
 Mr. J. W. Hosking, 1, Duke Street, Truro . 
 
 Mr. R. C. Richards, Bookseller, Falmouth 
 
 Mrs. E. Cock, Trengweath, Redruth . 
 
 Thomas Garland, Esq., Fairfield, Illogan 
 
 William Carne, Esq., Falmouth .... 
 
 T. Hutchinson, Esq., M.D., Camborne 
 
 W. Phillips, Esq., Bank House, Falmouth . 
 
 George W. H. Symons, Esq., Bar, Falmouth . 
 
 James Dennis, Esq., Redruth 
 
 M. G. Pearse, Esq., Basset Villa, Camborne . 
 
 W. F. Rock, Esq., Walbrook, London 
 
 Miss Lucy E. Lott, Barton Hall, Devon 
 
 Mrs. E. Wickmon, New Brighton, Cheshire 
 
 Mrs. C. Richards, The Bar, Falmouth . 
 
 Mr. J. J. Weave, Leiston, Suffolk 
 
 Miss Agatha Day, Upper Woodlane, Falmouth 
 
 W. Seccombe, Esq., Sydney House, Exeter 
 
 James Crocker, Esq., Burnley 
 
 Captain G R. Odgers, Camborne 
 
 Professor Hunt 
 
 Howard Fox, Esq., Falmouth 
 
 Rev. G. T. Bull, Incumbent of Treslothan 
 
 H. L. Brown, Esq., Barton Hall, Devon 
 
 Captain Anthony, sen., St. Ives 
 
 Mr. John Roberts, Jun., Falmouth 
 
 J. Elliott, Esq., Regent's Park, London . 
 
 Mr. Cobon, Berkeley Vale, Falmouth . 
 
 Captain W. Rutter, Jun., Tuckingmill . 
 
 The Misses Davy, Caledonia Terrace, Clifton 
 
 Miss "White, Queen's Terrace, Exeter 
 
 O. Allen, Esq., Florence Place, Falmouth . 
 
 W. Bell, Esq., Green Bank, Falmouth .
 
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 Lovell Squire, Esq., Falmouth .... 2 
 
 Joan Thomas, Esq., Manchester .... 2 
 
 James Baynard, Esq., Bar, Falmouth . . 2 
 
 T. Corfield, Esq., Stratton Place, Falmouth . . 2 
 
 Edward Read, Esq., Woodlane, Falmouth . . 2 
 
 T. Morcom, Esq., Mabe 2 
 
 Miss Capel, Green Bank, Falmouth ... 2 
 
 J. E. Downing, Esq., Bank House, Falmouth . 2 
 
 Mrs. Sharpies, Hitchens 2 
 
 Mr. John Venning, Liskeard 2 
 
 Francis May, Esq., Reigate 4 
 
 "William Bryant, Esq., Oakenshaw, Smbiton . . 4 
 Mrs. W. Bryant, Oakenshaw, .... 
 
 Wilberforce Bryant, Esq., Surbiton ... 1 
 
 Mrs. T. Chalk, Kingston 1 
 
 Mrs. G. Findlay, Surbiton 2 
 
 Miss Edith Carkeet, Surbiton .... 2 
 
 Mrs. Mead, Penryn . 2 
 
 John Mead, Esq., Penryn 1 
 
 Mr. Rundle, Penryn 1 
 
 Richard Hosken, Esq., Penryn .... 3 
 
 Richard Hosken, Esq., jun., Penryn ... 2 
 
 Mrs. Hudson, Merrion Square, North Dublin . 1 
 W. C. Bennett, Esq., London, author of " Baby 
 
 May" 1 
 
 The Rev. W. P. Chappel, Rectory, Camborne . 1 
 
 John "Wale, Esq., Kingskerswell, Devon ... 1 
 
 Mi-. Kempthome, St. Ives 2 
 
 Captain Anthony, jun., St. Ives .... 1 
 
 Miss Fanny Blee, Killigrew Street, Falmouth . 1 
 
 Edmund Fry, Esq., Brighton . . . . . 1 
 
 Mrs. Ingliss, London 1 
 
 Rev. H. Richards, Secretary of the Peace Society, 
 
 London 1 
 
 R. R. Broad, Esq., Mayor of Falmouth . . 1 
 
 George Withy, Esq., Bath 1 
 
 F. H. Smith, Esq., 14, Claremont Square, London 1 
 
 Mr. R. Snow, Falmouth 1 
 
 Mrs. James P. Chubb, Plymouth 1 
 
 A Friend, Falmouth 1 
 
 Miss G. Tregose, Mount Zion, Falmouth . . 1 
 
 Mrs. M. V. Bull, Marlborough House, Falmouth 1
 
 236 
 
 LIST OP SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Miss Bromhead, Marlborough, Falmouth 
 Mrs. J. B. Job, Truro .... 
 Mrs. R. O. Job, Truro .... 
 Mrs. G. Kingdon, Lammas Park House, Dawlish 
 Mr. E. S. Husband, Addington Place, Liskeard 
 
 Mr. Kenwood, Falmouth 
 
 Mr. H. Mitchell, Killigrew Road, Falmouth . 
 Dr. Bullmore, Green Bank, Falmouth 
 Mrs. Colonel Smith, Beach House, Dawlish . 
 Miss R. Sparks, Upper Woodlane, Falmouth 
 
 A. Murray, Esq., Higher Broughton, Manchester 
 W. J. Welsh, Esq., Wells, Somerset . 
 Lovell Squire, Esq., jun., Falmouth 
 Henry Jones, Esq., Wear, Gifford 
 Captain Bradfield, Berkley Yale, Falmouth 
 Miss Read, Woodlane, Falmouth 
 
 Mrs. Dyson, Penryn 
 
 Mrs. Batten, Exeter .... 
 
 Miss Kenwood, Exeter .... 
 
 Mr. Saundry, Falmouth 
 
 Miss Whitborne, Falmouth 
 
 Miss Hooper, Berkley Vale, Falmouth 
 
 John Hallamore, Esq., Falmouth 
 
 The Misses Tink, New Street, Falmouth 
 
 Miss Roberts, Falmouth 
 
 D. W. Barker, Esq., Melksham 
 
 J. G. Maxwell, Esq., By down, Barnstaple 
 
 Mr. W. Ahny, Parkstone, Dorset . 
 
 Mr. Joseph Knight, Green Bank, Falmouth 
 
 Mr. S. Tresidder, Wodehouse Terrace, Falmouth 
 
 Mrs. Francis, Green Bank, Falmouth 
 
 B. Forester, Esq., My lor .... 
 Mrs. Bentley, Falmouth .... 
 H. J. Fotherby, Esq., Trinity Square, London 
 Mrs. Bowman, North Parade, Penzance 
 Mrs. Cuthbertson. South Street, Exeter . 
 — Challis, Esq., Bystock Ten-ace, Exeter . 
 Mr. G. Husband, Trevecca Cottages, Liskeard 
 Mrs. L. G. Smith, Wodehouse Terrace, Falmouth 
 Richard Mitchell, Esq., Rinsey, Breage . 
 
 Mr. Richard Kendall, Jun., Helston . 
 
 Mr. Henry Nicholls, Breage .... 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 237 
 
 Mr. John Vivian, Jun., Hayle 
 
 Mr. James Vivian, Hayle 
 
 Mr. George Garland, Gweek 
 
 Mr. W. Johns, Gweek 
 
 Mr. John Blight, Marazion . 
 
 Mr. Sampson, Dryin, Crowan . 
 
 Mr. Richards, Kanegie, Breage . 
 
 Mr. B. Edwards, Herland, Breage . 
 
 Mr. B. Johns, Wendron, Helston 
 
 Mr. William Ellis, Breage 
 
 Mr. James Ounnack, Helston 
 
 Mr. James Kitto, Breage 
 
 Mr. J. B. Nichols, Breage . 
 
 Mr. Richard Wright, Hendra Breage 
 
 Mr. James Hebbard, Ninnis-Germoe . 
 
 Mr. Thomas Blackwell, Breage 
 
 Mr. F. Carter, Rinsey, Breage 
 
 Captain John Cnrtis, Breage . 
 
 Mr. G. H. Johns, Germoe . 
 
 Mr. James Bailey, Herland, Breage 
 
 Mr. N. N. C. Whear, Herland, Breage 
 
 Captain Joseph Vivian, Great Fortune 
 
 Helston 
 
 Captain John George, Great Fortune Mine 
 
 Captain Miners, Great Fortune Mine . 
 
 Mr. Thomas Sandiy, Breage . 
 
 Mr. E. Truscott, Ashton, Breage 
 
 Mr. W. Argate, Great Wheal Vor, Breage 
 
 Mr. M. Thomas, Breage 
 
 Captain E. Blewett, Wheal Prosper, Breage 
 
 Mi*. James Cock, Germoe 
 
 Mr. John Symons, Porthleven, Helston 
 
 Miss Cudlip, Swansea .... 
 
 Mrs. J. N. Tresidder, 4, Florence Place, Falmouth 
 
 Mrs. Brougham, Falmouth . 
 
 Miss Bullocke, Woodlane, Falmouth 
 
 Miss Vigtu-s, Falmouth 
 
 Miss Peters, Penwarne .... 
 
 R. H. Bamfield, Esq., St. Ives . 
 
 Captain W. Hollow, Lelant 
 
 Captain W. Dunstan, St. Ives 
 
 Captain R. Penberthy, Holsetown . 
 
 Mine,
 
 238 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Captain W. Barrett, St. Ives 
 
 Captain Pooley, Lelant . 
 
 Mr. R. Roach, Towednack . 
 
 Mr. William Martin, Lelant . 
 
 Captain W. Stevens, St. Ives 
 
 R. C. Craffcon, Esq., Croydon . 
 
 Mr. Albert Fox, Kingston . 
 
 Miss E. Crouch, Bath 
 
 Miss E. Richards, Bath 
 
 Mr. John Bastin, Hanley 
 
 Mr. Edward Bastin, Stoke Newington 
 
 Shepherd Ransom, Esq., Stoke Newington 
 
 Mrs. Isabella Harris, Paradise Row, Stoke 
 
 Mrs. A. S. Ashworth, Paradise Row, Stoke 
 
 Mrs. Martha Bowden, London 
 
 Miss E. Burgess, Stoke Newington 
 
 Miss Jenkin, Derby .... 
 
 Messrs. Crossman and Paulin, Berwick . 
 
 Miss Honet, Derby 
 
 Mr. William Harding, Derby . 
 
 Mr. Charles Dooley, Derby . 
 
 Mr. Henry Steer, Derby .... 
 
 Mr. Thomas Winfired, Derby 
 
 Mr. A. W. Pollard, Derby ... 
 
 Mr. George Lovejoy, Reading 
 
 Mrs. Emma Pollard, Reading . 
 
 Mr. J. Palmer, Reading 
 
 H. S. Gill, Esq., Tiverton 
 
 S. Staffurth, Esq., Ramsey, Hunts. 
 
 W. H. Hodge, Esq., Park Villa, Tiverton 
 
 S. B. Hodge. Esq., London . 
 
 John Row, Esq., Crewkeme . 
 
 E. Wethey, Esq., Ramsey, Hunts. 
 
 M. W. H. Snell, Tiverton 
 
 Mr. John Lane, Tiverton 
 
 Rev. A. Ransom, 42, George Street, Hastings 
 
 W. Burley, Esq., Suffolk 
 
 J. Le Gay Brereton, M.D., Suffolk . 
 
 J. W. Ebsworth, Esq., Suffolk . 
 
 Mrs. G. W. Stocks, Norwich . 
 
 Miss N. Robberds, Norwich 
 
 Captain James Mayne, Tuckingmill
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 239 
 
 Mr. William Vivian, Tuckingmill 
 
 Captain R. Pearce, Dolcoath Mine . 
 
 Mr. R. Pearce, Miners' Association of Cornwall 
 
 and Devon 
 
 Mr. W. R. Reynolds, Camborne . 
 
 Mr. G. B. Pearce, Dolcoath, Camborne . 
 
 T. Hart, P.S.A., Berkley Yale, Falmouth . 
 
 Miss Jones, Stratton Place, Falmouth . 
 
 Mr. W. Bartle, Camborne .... 
 
 Alfred Edmonds, Esq., Camborne . 
 
 Mr. Josiah Thomas, Railway Villa, Camborne 
 
 Mr. W. Crouch, Camborne .... 
 
 Mr. W. Temby, Camborne .... 
 
 Captain Edmond Rogers, Camborne 
 
 Hugh Allen, Esq., Camborne 
 
 Mr. J. H. Lean, New Road, Camborne . 
 
 Mr. T. Yincent, Trevu, Camborne 
 
 Mr. J. Sims, Camwinning, Camborne 
 
 Mr. A. Arthur, Carnwinning, Camborne 
 
 Mr. B. Harris, Troon-Moor, Camborne . 
 
 Mr. Wearn, Dunstone, Camwinning, Camborne 
 
 Mr. Thomas Vincent, Troon, Camborne . 
 
 Mr. T. D. Eva, Troon, Camborne 
 
 Captain John Pascoe, Bolennowe, Camborne 
 
 Mr. John Osborne, Bolennowe, Camborne . 
 
 Mr. Henry Blewitt, Troon, Camborne 
 
 — Zuppelli, Esq., 10, Wodehouse Terrace, Fal 
 
 mouth 
 
 Miss M. E. Habback, Palace Gate, Exeter . 
 Mr. R. Wheeler, Falmouth .... 
 W. Vercoe, Esq., Athenaeum Street, Plymouth 
 W. H. Dunston, Esq., Flora Place, Plymouth 
 W. Rowe, Esq., Flora Place, Plymouth 
 
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 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Beautifully bound in Cloth, with gilt edges, price 4s., 
 
 LAYS FROM THE MINE, THE MOOR, 
 AND THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PEESS. 
 
 " ' Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain,' is altogether 
 a high-toned collection of poems. We attach no value to the fact 
 that the poems are the compositions of a working man, the value 
 of every poem being intrinsic. Not because Mr. Harris is a miner, 
 but because he has the true instincts and perfect skill of the artist, 
 we welcome a second edition of his poems. No man can read these 
 poems without feeling that at least one luminous and gifted soul 
 dignities ' daily toil in the darkness of the mine.' No man can read 
 these poems without rising from their perusal a better man. A 
 beautiful contentment shines from every page. Would that every 
 King — and Bomba especially — were like this man ! 
 
 ' ! when at last I 'm sleeping in the grave,' &c. 
 
 " We are loth to part from these poems, which are so homely and 
 so ennobling ; but we have done good service, less perhaps to the 
 author than to mankind, if we have helped the sale of them. One 
 more extract, not because it is the cream of the volume, but because 
 it combines grace with brevity. 
 
 ' Welcome, welcome, little swallow, 
 Floating round my heathy hollow,' " &c. 
 
 The Critic, Oct. 1st, 1856. 
 
 " His writing to any other age would have been a marvel, and it 
 
 is a phenomenon even in our own earnest, strong, and sweet 
 
 with a father's love and all domestic affections. Though by no 
 means a favourable specimen of the book, we subjoin a tale of a 
 miner's heroism : —
 
 ti OPINIONS OF THE PBESS. 
 
 ' Come, let us leave the fields and flowers behind, 
 The murmuring brooklet where the poet walks,' &c. 
 
 The glorious sequel is, that the hero, after all, escaped. When the 
 blast burst, the brave fellow sat down in a corner of the mine, and, 
 holding a flat slab of stone before his eyes, awaited death. But the 
 fire passed him by, and he was saved. "When asked what induced 
 him to volunteer his life for his mate, he replied : — 
 
 ' His little children would be wet with grief, 
 Y\ bile I had none.' 
 
 The recital of such deeds as these, however simply told, stirs the 
 blood like wine, :md fills us with a fuller strength." — 7%,? Athenceum, 
 Vet. Uh, 1856. 
 
 " Mr. Harris is a Cornish man, and a man worthy to rank in the 
 same class with Samuel Drew, and other gifted spirits that have 
 derived their birth from Cornwall. The volume, now in the second 
 edition, has been well received, and it is probable it will at no distant 
 day appear in the third. The modest writer sends it forth desiring 
 it may be judged not as the ' polished production of a learned bard, 
 but as the simple effusion of one who daily toils in the darkness of 
 the nine.' Little do the great, the proud, and the more opulent 
 reflect o;i the sacrifices which multitudes of their fellow-men are 
 through life called to make, in order to procure them the fire which 
 warms, and the gas which illuminates, society above ground. It is 
 affecting to think of a man of piety and genius — such a man as 
 Mr. Harris — toiling and sweating, and wasting away life and time 
 in the bowels of the earth — a man so superior to countless multitudes 
 of those who, without thought and without thanks, profit by the 
 exertions of him and of the class to which he belongs. 
 
 " The volume opens with a piece of considerable magnitude, entitled 
 ' The Love of Home,' which is followed by another on ' Christian 
 Heroism,' and another, ' The War-Fiend.' These pieces possess 
 superior value, reflecting great credit alike on the understanding 
 and the heart of our brave Bard, and we might add on- the community 
 of Wesleyans to which he belougs, and to which, under Providence, 
 he appears to have owed everything. 
 
 "The minor poems, which are numerous, are largely religious, 
 and most of them excellent. The topics are well chosen, and such 
 as cannot fail to interest the millions. Among the many beauties 
 here presented, not the least captivating are ' Rhymes for ray 
 Children.' iMr. Harris, although a Christian man, a grave man, 
 and a man whose poems might be supposed to make sad even a 
 light heart, yet displays a blithe and joyous spirit, as he has shown 
 by those sections of his effusious entitled 'Humorous Pieces' and 
 " Epistles.' We are glad to have made the acquaintance of this 
 true son of song, and wish for him health, life, and length of days, 
 and a speedy emancipation from his poetical Pandemonium. Surely, 
 in Cornwall, there is employment above ground for such a man. If
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 6 
 
 the Wesleyan Ministers are not wauting in their duty, they will 
 find means amongst opulent laymen to secure him a fit and proper 
 place." — The Christian Witness. 
 
 "We spoke with warm praise (of these Lays) on their first 
 appearance, and are pleased to find that the artless verses of the 
 Cornish miner have met with more favour than falls to the lot of 
 most hooks of poetry in these times. When we find that works of 
 real merit have been written under outward disadvantages, it is 
 difficult to refrain from taking this iuto account in bestowing the 
 praise merited by their intrinsic worth. The poetry of Burns is 
 regarded with increased admiration from our knowledge that it was 
 the artless utterance of one who with his own hands held the plough. 
 It is with the same feeling that we have read these ' Lays of a 
 Cornish Miner,' which we are told are ' the first compositions of an 
 uneducated working man.' The lore of books he may not have ; 
 but there is a higher education through the knowledge of nahrre 
 and the human heart, when we read such lines as these in a poem on 
 * The Love of Home : ' — 
 
 ' 'T was one of England's ancient cottage-homes, 
 Straw-roof'd, and clasp'd with ivy,' &c. 
 
 There is true poetry, too, in the author's apostrophe to his own 
 British birth-place, some of the lines of which we give : — 
 
 ' There 's not a hedge-row gemm'd with ivy-leaves,' Src. 
 Some of the minor poems are very pleasing in their strains. Here 
 are three stanzas from a short piece entitled ' My Mother's Voice.' 
 Additional pieces are now published, which confirm our opinion as 
 to the merits of the volume. He has the heart of a true poet, and, 
 what is better, of an honest and devout man." — The Literary Gazette. 
 
 " An intelligent, warm-hearted, and religious man : and since he 
 addresses some lines ' To a Mouse which had eaten the Leaves of 
 my Lexicon,' we conclude he is not without some modest pretensions 
 even to ancient learning. There is real dignity in such a character ; 
 and we commend these simple, honest ' Lays ' to the kindness of our 
 readers." — The London Quarterly Review, November, 1856. 
 
 "The poems abound in pictures drawn from the life, and have the 
 freshness about them which only comes from the heart that is in 
 sympathy with the things it describes, — honest, sturdy, English, 
 vigorous, and terse. Mr. Harris has also a fine lyrical vein. We 
 are glad to have this opportunity of speaking in praise of the works 
 of a man so full of promise, and are also glad to gather from these 
 outpourings of a working man the fact that in Mr. Harris all the 
 domestic affections are nobly developed. The poems to his wife, his 
 children, aDd his brother, show a heart awake to the dearest and 
 holiest relations of life, and fully prove that their author is a noble- 
 hearted man as well as a true and genuine poet." — The Literary 
 Companion. 
 
 a 2
 
 4 OPINIONS OF THE PBESS. 
 
 " His songs have reached the hearts of his readers, and the pub- 
 lic have called for a second edition of his charming 'Lays,' and are 
 resolved to give due honour to this pure-minded child of nature. 
 As we read the effusions of the heart, how the soul is taken 
 away from the brick-built prison of the town, and made to revel in 
 the pure air of the wild woodland ! Here is an echo, as sweet as it 
 is true, to him who loves to linger in the sacred ways of home: — 
 ' Hail to thee, mountain birth-place ! Not a rock 
 Overwritten with the stanzas of the storm,' &c. 
 
 Sweetly has the miner sung of the love of home, and several of his 
 minor poems possess intrinsic worth. We have not room for fur- 
 ther quotations, and therefore take leave of our friend the miner, 
 hoping to see yet brighter gems extracted from the rich mine of his 
 truly poetic soul." — The Isorth Devon Advertiser. 
 
 " This volume contains poems of more than ordinary merit ; and 
 when the ordinary occupation of the poet is considered, these 
 ' Lays ' must be deemed to be extraordinary productions. The four 
 chief pieces are ' The Love of Home,' ' Christian Heroism,' ' The 
 War-fiend,' and ' Chanonchet and Wetamoe.' Something for all of 
 our readers. The first of these is, in our opinion, worthy of great 
 praise. The poet describes the love of country and of home as it 
 exists iu men of different ages and of different climes. ' Chris- 
 tian Heroism ' is truly replete with fine sentiment. His description 
 of his own occupation is most forcible. We assure the miner that 
 his ' Lays ' abound with some of the finest ideas we remember ever 
 to have read." — The Wesleyan Times, June 2Zrd, 1856. 
 
 " His poems are immeasurably superior to the working-class 
 poets of the last century. Mr. Harris's lyrical power is equal to 
 his descriptive. Our readers will remember his delightful little 
 poem on the ' Swallow,' which we published the other day. What 
 think they of the following ? — 
 
 ' Beside the village watering-place, 
 The beauteous Eda came,' &c. 
 We mo9t heartily commend this volume of poems to the attention 
 of all lovers of the ' Maid Divine.' " — The Birmi?igham Daily Fress, 
 October IQth, 1856. 
 
 " These effusions contain much that is beautiful, and more that is 
 truly Christian." — The Wesleyan Methodist Magazine. 
 
 " The genius exhibited in the book to which we are drawing our 
 readers' attention is of the highest order. They must see in un- 
 erring signs, written in letters of gold everywhere, that they are face 
 to face with no mere poetaster, but with a true genuine born poet. 
 and an upright, honest, Christian man. Campbell's ' Pleasures of 
 Hope ' will be fresh in the recollection of all. Keats has told us 
 that 
 
 ' A thing of beauty is a joy for ever ! '
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 5 
 
 Here is an extract, enumerating things of beauty more than enoi gb. 
 to render the ' adored earth,' as Goethe has it, a paradise : — 
 
 ' Earth is replete with nooks of happiness,' &c. 
 Another extract, and we have done. This time a sonnet addressed 
 to the ' Lark.' Shelley has in the best of all his minor poem3 
 addressed that bird. What little comparison may be instituted 
 between the lays of two poets so dissimilar, will not be to the 
 prejudice of the living one." — The Liskeard Gazette. 
 
 " He has seen bright visions beyond the rock that daily fronts 
 his material, without barring his intellectual, progress. The cha- 
 racteristics of his book are originality and simplicity ; — he modestly 
 claims as much for it, when he in good truth might have done 
 more. There is a purpose in all he writes. This volume we 
 recommend to those who love to mark what genius can effect 
 under no ordinary difficulties." — The Church and State Gazette. 
 
 " This is one of the instances in which real genius has overcome 
 the disadvantages of position and want of education, and enabled its 
 possessor to tread the flowery walks of poetry, amidst the toils of 
 an occupation apparently but little suited to the development of his 
 powers." — The Friend. 
 
 " The volume contains no small portion of very genuine poetry, 
 and is pervaded to a remarkable extent with a certain gentleness 
 and refinement of reflective thought, and with much amiable and 
 a great deal of strong religious feeling. The whole of the ' Rhymes 
 for my Children,' and in general also the ' Humorous Pieces,' are 
 extremely good, — showing an excellent vein of fresh thought, and 
 keen, shrewd observation. We have been particularly pleased with 
 ' The Truant Schoolboys,' ' The Two Boys and the Lamb,' and ' To 
 my Old Silk Hat.' We hope Mr. Harris's book will find its way 
 into the libraries of the rich, as well as into the shelves of the 
 humbler classes. The whole volume is remarkable." — The West 
 Briton. 
 
 '■' A poet from a mine is indeed a rarity. John Harris, of Cam- 
 borne, is a man of whom his brother British workmen may be 
 proud. The Cornish miner is as happy a man as any in the 
 British dominions. Nor are they without their sweet true poet in 
 John Harris, for many years a working miner, magnifying his 
 lowly condition by noble thoughts and pious deeds. His little 
 volume, ' Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain,' has 
 won him the approbation of many of the wise and good of his 
 native laud." — The British Workman, August 1st, 1858. 
 
 " It is his nature to blossom into song, as 't is a tree's to leaf 
 itself in April. We would advise all who love genuine poetry to 
 read it, and all who patronize native talent to buy it." — The 
 Cornish Telegraph. 
 
 " These ' Lays ' possess considerable poetical merit." — The 
 Watchman. 
 
 LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.
 
 Cloth, gilt edges, price Bs. 6d., 
 
 THE LAND'S END, KYNANCE COVE, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PEESS. 
 
 " Talent is a great leveller, and John Harris, the author of 
 
 1 The Land's End, Kynance Cove,' &c., legitimately follows Mrs. . 
 
 "What a wide difference between the miner, (such is John Harris,} 
 toiling day by day in one of the deepest mines in Cornwall, and a 
 lady delicately nurtured in the lap of luxury ! Yet, by a strange 
 coincidence, the names have jostled together. Mr. Harris 
 hardly now needs any encouragement from us, as perhaps he 
 needed, and which we earnestly awarded, when his first volume 
 appeared. Writing some of his earlier effusions on the crown of 
 his hat in the twilight, amid the heathy brakes of the Cornish hills, 
 descending to the darkness of the mine at the tender age of thir- 
 teen, and from that time toiling there almost every day, one can 
 easily see how a manly courage has supported him. ' He babbles 
 of green fields,' not exactly like Falstaff, but in the exuberance of 
 life, and with wonderful truthfulness, considering the brief time now 
 and always at his disposal for musing over the beauties of nature. 
 John Harris has not written in vain, if labour needed another gilted 
 soul of song to dignify it ! " — The Critic, February 19//*, 1859. 
 
 "Very local and not a little pleasant is a 'book of poetry* 
 entitled 'The Land's End, Kynance Cove,' by John Hams; the 
 poet having heretofore sung in the light of Davy's lamp, on the 
 mountains, aud wildly as the breeze on a moor. He is one to 
 whom we may give encouragement." — The Athenaum, September 
 llth, 1859. 
 
 "This little volume, which bears a resemblance to Byron's 
 • Hours of Idleness,' possesses a considerable portion of merit. 
 The writer is, beyond question, a man of genius, largely endowed 
 with the poetic spirit ; and nothing but time and labour are neces- 
 sary to raise him to a high place among the minor poets of his 
 country. The volume is remarkably multifarious, and will be in 
 high favour with voung people." — The Christian Witness, February, 
 1859. 
 
 " ' A poet is born, not made,' says Horace ; and certainly when 
 the poet happens to be a Cornish miner, it does appear as though 
 the adage were illustrated, if not proved. It is pleasing to read the 
 lays of men who, like Clare, Eloomfield, or Harris, ex jjrqfano 
 vulgo, and indebted but little to education, dived into the spirit of 
 minstrelsy, aud gave us transcripts of real nature, and undeniable 
 songs of the affections. To lovers of sentiment, such as a man of 
 true feeling may conceive, couched in the language of a powerful
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 imagination, we can safely recommend the poem9 of Harrij, the 
 Cornish miner. The following lyrical effusion is only a specimen of 
 the many beauties to he found in this unassuming volume. 
 
 'the glow-worm. 
 
 ' The mantle of twilight was flung 
 Over blossom, and beauty, and bower,' " &c. 
 
 — The Bedfordshire Mercury, August 8th, 1859. 
 
 " It is quite refreshing to meet with a true poet ; and the true 
 lover of nature will in this season of poetic fever hail the return of 
 the truly English muse in such calm, healthy, and sturdy verses as 
 those of John Harris. It is not often we see such strength as is 
 manifested in the blank verse of ' The Land's End,' and that exqui- 
 site poem, ' Kynance Cove,' rich in ' fancy pictures.' The granite 
 rock, the broken Cornish coast, the moor, the ' white-lipped waves,' 
 have a voice for him, which he interprets well. Mr. Harris is a 
 natural singer and a born painter. There is music in his blank 
 verse ; but it is the music of the storm. Hence, one is surprised 
 to see how he excels in lyric composition. His love for his 
 constant visitor and moorland friend, the robin, is touchingly 
 illustrated by him, and his ' Robin's Monody ' must become a great 
 favourite. Sparkling, musical, and original, there is a hallowing 
 tone in these writings which cannot fail to awaken in the heart of 
 the thoughtful reader a song of gratitude to Him who filleth the 
 earth with good." — The Torquay Directory, December 22nd, 1858. 
 
 " A man of whom Cornwall may well be proud, — a true poet, 
 whose whole life until the last twelve months has been passed in the 
 unvarying drudgery of mine labour. He has written and published 
 two volumes of poems full of lyric beauty, and with all the pas- 
 toral freshness of a pure-hearted child of nature." — The New Briton 
 Journal, America, April 2nd, 1859. 
 
 " A man whose soul glows with the fire of genuine inspiration 
 whose liar]) rings with tones caught from the eternal melodies. 
 Without funds, without books, doomed to daily drudgery in the 
 depths of a mine, dependent upon the scanty gains of a working 
 miner to provide for a wife and an infant family, simply by force of 
 a meditative mind, of feelings alive to all 'impulses of sight and 
 sound,' and, still more, the kindling life of pure and devout affec- 
 tions, has he made his upward way against all adverse and depress- 
 ing circumstances, and attained the reputation of a graceful and 
 melodious bard. One mark of true genius is most conspicuous in 
 him. He finds the sources of his inspiration at home. There is no 
 end to the beauties which the poetic eye of John Harris discovers in 
 a granite moor. The rain-drops gathered in the hollows of the 
 rocks are to him the crystal pools of a living Eden. Our mining 
 songster finds the spirit of poetry in the young faces that cluster 
 around his hearth. Their infant looks and tones touch the springs
 
 8 OPINIONS OF THE PEESS. 
 
 of feeling in his soul. The two longest pieces in the volume are 
 descriptive of places which figure conspicuously among the lions of 
 Cornwall, — 'The Land's End,' and 'Kynance Cove/ each written 
 in blank verse. With the limited space at our command we prefer 
 quoting from the minor poems : but cannot pass over the blank 
 verse without noticing its harmonious and masterly structure. 
 Indeed, nothing surprises us more in any of the poems than their 
 sweep and breadth of lyric melody. This was a striking feature of 
 the earlier volume, but iu the second there is a still more opulent 
 display of the treasures of sweet and solemn souud." — The West 
 Briton. 
 
 " Mr. Harris is a Cornish man, a miner, the author of a 
 volume of poems entitled 'Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the 
 Mountain,' of which a number of reviewers spoke in terms of great 
 praise. He himself claims for his poems ' the humble merit of 
 originality and simplicity ; ' to these we will add the claims of 
 freshness, joyousncss, aud true Christian feeling. He is an ardent 
 admirer of nature, an enthusiastic lover of home and the fireside, a 
 pious Methodist, a sincere and lively Christian. Had we space, we 
 could easily furnish proofs of this from the handsome volume now 
 before us." — The Wesleyan Times, January S\st, 1859. 
 
 " Many of our readers are doubtless familiar with the name and 
 writings of John Harris. He is one of the many living men, who 
 have, by the force of high talents aud unremitting labour, overcome 
 apparently unconquerable difficulties, aud won a name in the land 
 of song. His ' Lays from the Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain,' 
 gained for him the well merited praise of many of our highest 
 literary authorities ; and Mr. Harris, the Cornish miner, was at 
 once placed among the very first of the poets who have, in spite of 
 opposing circumstances, and most unpropitious surroundings, been 
 gifted with ' the vision and the faculty divine.' The present 
 volume fulfils all the promise of Mr. Harris's first. Our author's 
 singing is genuine and original. It is the poetry of a true, loving, 
 pious soul, — the song of one whose heart is alive to all the blessed 
 influences of the social relations of life ; and whose eye is open to 
 all the beauties of nature ; and in his own county of Cornwall 
 Nature has been lavish with beauty. Here is what he says of 
 ' Kynance Cove : ' — 
 
 ' I 've been to fairy-land, and seen the fays 
 Unvested in their workshop, ' &c. 
 
 This is descriptive power of no mean kind. Pictures of similar 
 grace and beauty are scattered about the two poems which give the 
 name to the volume. The following, from ' The Land's End,' is 
 equally good of its kind : — 
 
 ' In a lone vale, a few miles to the south. 
 An old tin streamer dwelt,' &c. 
 The volume has some excellent pieces, which prove how deeply the
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. V 
 
 poet sympathizes with all that is good and true. The home life 
 of our bard must be a happy oue. Wife, children, brother, sister, 
 all are the themes of his song. Finer poems of the affections have 
 but rarely been written ; and we only regret that space will not 
 allow us to quote. We can safely commend the volume to all. It 
 is a buok which age and youth alike can read and be wiser, happier, 
 tter for its perusal." — The Birmingham Journal., November 
 \Wi, 1858. 
 
 " It will afford me great pleasure to assist in promoting the sale 
 of a worthy mau's poems, in which I Hud much to admire." — 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 " A man whose genius, hallowed by the inspirations of religion, 
 dedicates the lyre of the Muses to the service of holiness and truth. 
 Throughout those simple effusions of Mr. Harris there reigns the 
 seutiment of the beautiful and the holy. They are original, and 
 not mere imitations. They are moreover distinguished by a 
 delightful freshness, altogether different in this respect from the 
 artificial inanities of modern versification. Above all, these poems 
 are instinct with the spirit of religion, both natural and revealed. 
 The writer is a Christian, and the best aspirations of his heart are 
 here expressed in melodious numbers, which will live, because they 
 are the vehicle of a principle which lives a deathless life, and tunes the 
 immortal songs that become the litauies of successive generations, 
 and swell softly on the still air of time." — The Liskeard Gazette. 
 
 " His second volume is superior to his first. His versification is 
 stronger, bolder, more musical. His blank verse has the compass 
 and power which his first efforts possessed, but it is richer, more 
 varied : in a word, he is a greater master of his instrument, and 
 plays upon it with a firmer hand. His love of nature, of flowers, 
 of green fields, sunny skies, the grand and glorious ocean, and the 
 influence of all these things on the heart of man, still inspire the 
 muse of this son of the soil. Equally pure and strong is his love 
 for all the sweet social relations of life ; and many of his best 
 pieces are dedicated to his home with all its joys. The purity of 
 his muse is as lovely as it is commendable. Mr. Harris's home 
 must be a paradise of love. But we must turn from the man to 
 his poetry. Our first specimen is in blank verse, and is a fine 
 example of our author's descriptive powers : — 
 
 ' Hail, fairy-featured, beautiful Kynance,' &c. 
 Of Mr. Harris's lyrical poems we select one, not the best, but 
 appropriate to the season, and especially adapted for our young 
 readers. It is 
 
 ' TO THE KOBIN. 
 
 'Little Robin, tell me now 
 Why thou warblest from that bough ? ' " 
 
 — The Literary Companion. 
 
 LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO.
 
 Beautifully bound in Cloth, with gilt edges, price is., 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN PROPHET, THE MINE, 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 orasrioiNS of the peess. 
 
 " We have before now had occasion to speak encouragingly of Mr. 
 Harris and his poems, and to admire the courage of a mind which 
 could cultivate verse under the most disadvantageous circumstances. 
 Mr. Harris was until lately a Cornish miner ; a hard worker, who 
 fouud food for fine fancies in the very bowels of the earth. What 
 we admire in his poetry is its simplicity, its honest piety, and the 
 limitation of its matter to the facts of his own experience. For 
 example, we have in the volume before us a collection of very 
 readable rhymes, all more or less confined to well-known associations, 
 and among them one poem of remarkable truth and beauty, ' The 
 Mine.' In this last attempt, which is written in blank verse, the 
 rise and progress of a Cornish mine is depicted with as much fidelity as 
 rigour. The following extract evinces a descriptive power, superior 
 to the power of sing-song : — 
 
 ' Below were caverns grim with greedy gloom,' &c. 
 
 Mr. Harris fully deserves the approval of all those lovers of self- 
 taught talent, who may subscribe to or buy his books." — The 
 Athenaeum, January 10//;, 1861. 
 
 " We do not hesitate to call John Harris, Cornish miner — the 
 author of the volume before us — one of the truest poets of our time. 
 The dreary moorlands of Cornwall appear to have been to him, as 
 those of Yorkshire were to Charlotte Bronte, almost the sole educators 
 of his genius. "We mean that his vigour aud refinement, his correct 
 ear aud consequent unfailing harmony, are due to no early training 
 instilled by man. What he has, he has seized for himself — very 
 much from nature, and in later life somewhat from literature — for 
 he evidently has his favourite models ; and the result, as far as 
 diction is concerned, is a resonance of Wordsworth and Tennyson. 
 Some of his best passages are to be found in the first piece, entitled 
 ' The Mountain Prophet.' Here are lines of which Wordsworth 
 would not have been ashamed, and which have a peculiar value as 
 coming from oue who has been accustomed to toil in the darkness of 
 the mine all the week, and knows the full blessing of the Sunday : — 
 
 'Jesus, I thank thee for the Sabbath day,' &c. 
 
 Again, is there not something Tennysonian in the following ? —
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 11 
 
 ' Night waned away in silence ; then the morn 
 Broke like a mystery o'er the ancient hills, 
 And fill'd the vales with music.' 
 
 And again in this : — 
 
 ' And, like the moon behind a summer hill, 
 Her spirit pass'd into the land of stars.' 
 
 Of an old mule-driver who has lost his occupation through the 
 introduction of railways, and has been compelled to turn his drove 
 out on the moor, where they gradually die from starvation and cold, 
 he says : — 
 
 ' He could not weep, for all his tears were gone,' &c. 
 We would willingly quote more, but our space forbids. He exhibits 
 three importaut qualities of a true poet — pathos, power of expression, 
 and simplicity." — The Literary Gazette, December 15///, lb60. 
 
 " Perhaps the best volume of the whole collection for its intrinsic 
 merit is that of John Harris, the Cornish miner; uot now known 
 to the public for the first time, but as the author of a volume of very 
 promising poems called ' The Land's End, Kynauce Cove,' &c, 
 and of another, entitled ' Lays from the Mine.' The preseut effusion 
 of the poetical miner is behind none of its predecessors in grace aud 
 strength ; in some respects it is even an advance. The following 
 description of work in the mine is an admirable specimen : — 
 ' Meanwhile the mine extended and grew rich,' &c." 
 
 The Critic, December 1st, 1860. 
 
 " Our readers by this time ought to be familiar with the name of 
 John Harris — not the author of Mammou, but of ' Lays from the 
 Mine, the Moor, and the Mountain,' and ' The Land's End, Kyuance 
 Cove, and other Poems.' The man is a genuine Cornish poet, and 
 one of Nature's making. He has had to thank teachers for very 
 little. To a country schoolmaster and to a Sunday school he is 
 chiefly indebted for what little lore he has acquired; but, like Pope, he 
 lisped in numbers. He tells us when he was a boy he used to write 
 rhymes for his playfellows on the clean side of cast-oil' labelled tea- 
 papers, which his mother brought him from the shop. At the age 
 of nine he went to work in the fields ; when he was twelve he was 
 sent to labour in the mine ; since then he has been digging night 
 and day, but all the while he was learning from 'Nature, aud found 
 time to write on the crown of his hat as he sat in the twilight and 
 amid the hcathbrake of his Cornish hills. Right worthy is he of 
 the fame he has acquired ! All lovers of good poetry will find some- 
 thing very fresh and vigorous in his writing. He has our hearty 
 sympathy and admiration." — The National Magazine, March, 1861. 
 
 "The author of these Poems, in his modest Preface, claims 
 nothing mure for them than ' the humble merit of originality and 
 simplicity : ' and we allow his claim with pleasure. He is happiest 
 in some sweet carol to a lark or wild flower, and is most at home
 
 12 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 when descanting on the heath or the mountain side, or describing 
 the dark caverns from whose dangers lie is now happily delivered. 
 His poem on ' The Mine ' contains an interesting description of the 
 operations of mining, and the habits of the miner. Parts of it, if 
 ' tagged with rhyme,' might almost rival the Dutch paintings of 
 C'rabbe. Amongst the Minor Poems there are many deserviug of 
 notice. We thank him for much that is good." — The London 
 Quarterly Review, April, 1861. 
 
 " The ' Mountain Prophet ' is the chief performance, and occupies 
 some forty pages. The thinking is sound, and the versification very 
 respectable. The next piece is the ' Mine,' which will frequently 
 remind the reader of Cowper's 'Task.' It is replete with beautiful 
 thoughts, indicating a close and penetrating observer. The miner 
 poems, which are numerous, arc all on interesting subjects, especially 
 those of humble life. They will constitute excellent reading for 
 young people." — The Christian Witness, December, 1860. 
 
 " This is the third time of our meeting with John Harris, the 
 Cornish Miner, in the flowery fields of song, On the first instance 
 we perceived that a true poet was before us ; and each subsequent 
 interview with him has confirmed and deepened that impression. 
 Probably enough, a modest elevation might be marked above which 
 he has not the strength of wing to soar ; but we cannot read his 
 successive effusions and doubt his participation in ' the vision and 
 the faculty divine.' He has the good sense and sound judgment to 
 keep within the sphere of his own observation and experience. 
 When he made his first attempts to give to his thoughts the shape 
 and fashion of verse, his occupation was that of a working miner. 
 At present, he pursues the avocation of a Scripture Header, in the 
 port of Falmouth. This change of employment has brought with it, 
 we suppose, better opportunities for the acquisition of literary 
 knowledge and more leisure. We think we can perceive evidence 
 of this in the volume before us. Still wisely confining himself 
 to the range of themes and illustrations presented by his 
 daily life, he is enabled to represent them with more variety 
 of language and allusion than was possible to him when 
 his access to books and conversation with men were more 
 restricted. Let him studiously limit himself to the use of new 
 advantages. If he should ever draw from books as from principal 
 sources, his compositions would lose their chief charm ; whereas, so 
 long as he makes his acquired learning ancillary to his personal 
 experience, that charm will be preserved, and may be heightened. 
 This suggestion does not forbid drafts upon that later experience 
 which has been derived from super-terranean occupations. On the 
 contrary, some of the choicest passages in 'The Mountain Prophet' 
 are obviously referable to the truths stranger than fiction which 
 woidd be likely to cross a Scripture-reader in a seaport town amidst 
 his daily visitations, just as the scenes described in the 'Mine' are 
 a reproduction of the author's earlier observations in real life.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PEESS. 13 
 
 " Mr. Harris distinctly apprises his readers thai; the pictures with 
 which his poetical gallery is hung embody 'real facts and living 
 incidents in the brief history of his life,' and, in a very modest 
 preface, he once more lays claim to ' the humble merit of originality 
 and simplicity.' His genuine originality he maintains by not 
 departing from his own peculiar resources. The first poem in the 
 book is garnished with many fine expressions, formed of the plainest 
 words not before combined to express the same ideas. We have 
 been particularly struck with some lines aud parts of lines in the 
 passages contrasting the blessings of peace with the horrors of war. 
 The slain on the lield of battle are depicted with a pencil dipped in 
 no other poet's colours, and in forms copied from the death. We 
 have ' a hapless gunner dangling stiff as steel,' and another ' with 
 stony eyeballs stares into the skies.' Here we read of 'the spade 
 of peace,' aud there we are told of ' Fame's red song.' The deluded 
 recruit is finely described as exchanging 
 
 'The flail-staff for the cannon, spades for spears,' &c. 
 
 In fact, Mr. Harris possesses that simplicity which, while most 
 consistent with real sweetness, is also most conducive to veritable 
 strength. Take as an example the following bit : — 
 
 ' He beheld 
 The war-god's funeral in the land of peace,' &c. 
 
 This may be word-painting, but it is so faithful to fact and so void 
 of artifice, as to be very different from much that runs off with that 
 applausive description. Here, again, are two lines conveying an 
 image at once appropriate, impressive, and original, — 
 
 ' And the thatch'd belfry in its ivy robes 
 Stands like a Druid o'er the epitaphs.' 
 
 We can assure our readers that this is a volume which those who 
 are familiar with Cowper and Montgomery may read with pleasure, — 
 in which they will meet with the same purity of Christian sentiment 
 combined with the same true spirit of poetry." — The Wesleyan 
 Times, December Uth, 1860. 
 
 "We can cordially recommend this unpretending little volume 
 to our readers. It gives evidence of true poetical feeling on the 
 part of the author, who was for many years (as we understand) a 
 Cornish miner. As the production of a working man, the volume 
 is certainly a remarkable one. It is characterized by much of 
 Wordsworth ian simplicity of diction, with much, too, of Words worthian 
 sweetness and power. We are glad to have in John Harris an 
 earnest and faithful exponent of the follies and crimes of war." — The 
 Herald of Peace, April 1st, 1S61. 
 
 "'Another volume of verse! ' we mentally exclaim, as our eye 
 glances over the profusely filled pages of this book ; but there is 
 something about its appearance which induces us to give more than a 
 cursory glance at its contents. In the volume we find a great deal
 
 14 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 to commend. There are passes of genuine poetry and great merit in 
 the poem which gives a title to the work, as will be seen by the 
 following descriptive passage: — 
 
 ' How sweet the music of the mellow morn,' &e. 
 
 The landscape of early morning is prettily sketched, and closes the 
 first portion of the most pretentious effusion. He is evidently an 
 intelligent, warm-hearted man, and, what is more, does not allow his 
 natural talent for verse-making to interfere with the duties of life. 
 We are now and then reminded of the strains of the great masters, 
 as in the invocation commencing, — 
 
 ' Jesus, I thank thee for the Sabbath day.' 
 
 There is a resemblance in style and matter to Coleridge's majestic 
 hymn \vritten in the Vale of Chamouui. But this is no disparage- 
 ment, it is rather a great achievement to write anything approaching 
 so magnificent a poem as that to which we refer ; but in this the 
 author of the ' Mountain Prophet ' has succeeded. Our space does 
 not admit of lengthy extracts, nor should we do Mr. Harris justice, 
 for the volume should be read and read carefully. Many of the minor 
 pieces are exceedingly graceful. The volume is well printed and 
 prettily bound, contains much that is earnest, beautiful, and 
 elevating." — The Poole and South-Western Herald, April Wth, 
 1861. 
 
 " John Harris has written his name indelibly among the poets of 
 the age. Toiling, a few years since, far down in the deep recesses 
 of a Cornish mine, supporting his wife and family by labour of the 
 roughest kind, this man was nourishing in his heart the fire of a true 
 poet and the aspirations of a genius that no adverse circumstances 
 could depress. He wrote by the fire-side of his Cornish cabin, with 
 his babes prattling on his knee; and there was a freshness, a grace, 
 and a fervour in the flow of his verse, that acquired for John Harris 
 the favourable verdict of critics and the love and admiration of all 
 who knew the poet, or understood him through his writings. We 
 commend this new volume of our Cornish friend to every reader of 
 the Bond, not only because it contains much true and beautiful 
 poetry, but because we find much that is valuable and instructive in 
 the poet's teaching upon the subject of peace and war. Here is a 
 passage of remarkable power, descriptive of the horrors of the 
 battlefield :— 
 
 ' The cruel war had ended : from the field,' &c. 
 
 The following little poem is an indication of the kindly, genial 
 disposition of the poet : — 
 
 ' KIND WORDS.'" 
 
 The Bond of Brotherhood, April, 1861. 
 
 " The?t; poems have a healthy tone, and the e is in them much of 
 the ring of genuine poetry. They afford very agreeable reading, and
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PKESS. 15 
 
 there is not a line of questionable tendency in all the volume. ■ It 
 would not only be a pleasant book for parents and teachers to place 
 in the bauds of young persons, but also a perfectly safe one. And 
 this is something in these days of ceaseless book-making, when so 
 often, underneath attractive titles, exciting plots, and charming- 
 exteriors, may be traced the trail of the serpent. Amid the dust 
 and din of labour, the excitement of politics, and the rumours of war, 
 it is refreshing and profitable to have the mind called back to 
 flowers and streams, to sunny lanes and breezy heights, and the green 
 pastures and still waters which God has made to abound in this 
 beautiful world. This Mr. Harris's poems will greatly help to do. 
 There is also an earnest piety in the book, expressed in winning 
 words. Among many other choice bits, these lines on the Bible 
 occur in ' The Mountain Prophet : ' — 
 
 ' No charter like the Charter of the skies,' &c. 
 
 And these on the Sabbath : — 
 
 'Then when the week is ended, and its sighs,' &c. 
 
 Many other extracts of equal merit might be given ; but, let the 
 closing lines of 'The Mountain Prophet,' book i., suffice in this 
 place, to indicate the quality and spirit of Mr. Harris's poetry : — 
 
 ' Yes, Jesus, Thou art all, and over all,' &c." 
 
 The Methodist Recorder, September 19M, 1861. 
 
 " Here is another work from the pen of the poetical miner, and, 
 like his former ones, full of strong, healthy thought, and fresh as 
 the breeze of his own wild hills. Cornwall owes a large debt to 
 John Harris. He has caught the spirit of the old county. He 
 wooed her as a bard would woo his muse. He went out early and 
 late, paced our wind-swept cams, drank in the music of the moors, 
 read the records of the storm on our broken coasts, and never felt 
 so near to heaven as when he worshipped his God on some heathery 
 height. Marking Nature in her most pleasant and playful moods, 
 numerous and very beautiful are the pictures he has given us, not 
 one of which is without its Coruish tints. The same desire that 
 Burns possessed to do something for old Scotia is found burning in 
 the breast of John Harris. 
 
 ' We are what winds and waters make us,' 
 
 is a sentiment finely illustrated in the poems before us, as also in 
 the works which our author has already published. The stern 
 sublimity of the Laud's End ; the wild beauty of the Cove where 
 his heart has leaped 
 
 ' to see 
 Dame Nature in her trickery,' &c. ; 
 
 and the deep mine, where he says, — 
 
 '' Danger lurk'd among the groaning rocks, 
 And ofttimes moan'd in darkness ; '
 
 16 OPINIONS OF THE PKESS. 
 
 have all given a character to his writings. Hear him as, standing 
 upon his native hill at Bolennowe, he exultingly exclaims, — 
 
 ' This mountain is my world, these crags my throne, 
 And glancing fairies are my retinue ; 
 The night-bird is my poet, and the rill 
 My sweet musician trickling down the rocks.' 
 
 What a royal pride is expressed in those lines ! Thus in his own 
 sweet words he is like his well 
 
 ' That bubbles up among the village huts,' &c. 
 
 We wish we could find space to give a more elaborate notice of this 
 work ; but before we close we must say that ' The Mountain Prophet ' 
 contains some of the finest lines in the language, whether we seek for 
 the beautiful or sublime. Both the ' Prophet ' and ' the Mine' are 
 thoroughly Cornish, and the picture of ' Old Tim, the mule driver,' 
 is a sketch so graphic that Goldsmith would not have been ashamed 
 of it. 
 
 " We must also say a word for the minor poems. How sweetly 
 simple is 'A Story for John Alfred!' and how touching is the poet's 
 appeal to the world, as he says in it : — 
 
 ' why despise the tuneful bard 
 Because he's lowly born, 
 And like the robin builds his nest 
 And sings beneath the thorn ? ' 
 
 And, again, how truly poetic and childlike is his petition when he 
 turns aside to see whether a favourite bird's nest is safe : — ■ 
 
 ' Don't blame me for a deed like this 
 By Nature's works beguiled : 
 With her in truth I know I shall 
 For ever be a child.' 
 
 Then there is 'Woodlands.' What a picture of quiet joy, and how 
 lovingly he sings of it at its close : — 
 
 ' I ask for nothing more,' &c. 
 
 We shall make one extract more. — 
 
 ' CAPERN'S VISIT TO CORNWALL, 1860. 
 COKNURIA TO DtVONIA GBEETING.' 
 
 We wish the book all the success it deserves, and that is great." — 
 The Cornish Telegraph, January 30th, 1861. 
 
 " John Harris is a working man. He must be an exemplary 
 character. He publishes his poetical effusions by subscription, and 
 obtains the sanction of such distinguished and general patronage as 
 would be highly honourable to any aspirant after literary fame. His 
 little book merits the auspices under which it is ushered into the
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 17 
 
 world; the first critics of the land join in commendation. This is 
 encouragement to a man of ardent spirit, of inquiring mind, and of 
 truth of judgment. The ' Mountain Prophet ' i3 a remarkable 
 production for one of the toiling million, and evidences the fact that 
 there is in all classes a mental mind which, well worked, would 
 produce valuable treasures. The readers of this and of the poem of 
 the second title will be charmed with the fervid feeling and moral 
 excellence they present." — Kee/ie's Bath Journal, November \tilh, 
 1S60. 
 
 " For the third time this son of the mine asks for our judgment 
 on his poetical productions. On two former occasions this judgment 
 has been decidedly favourable ; nor is there any reason to speak less 
 warmly of his powers as displayed in his present volume. Mr. 
 Harris still retains all his former claims to our praise, and adds others 
 not less important. He has still the same open eye for all that is 
 beautiful in nature and in life ; the same love for all that is noble, 
 unselfish, and heroic ; the same genial, loving, and affectionate heart ; 
 the same spirit of pure and practical religion ; and the same generous 
 sympathy with human nature. To these he has added the power 
 which practice and experience give over the mechanism of verse and 
 the beauty of expression. His blank verse is bolder, fuller, firmer, 
 and more musical ; his lyrics flow with a sweeter cadence ; and the 
 general construction of his verse, both as regards its rhythm and its 
 melody, is much superior to any of his former productions. 
 
 " The two poems which give the name to the volume are both in 
 blank verse, and are admirable in sentiment and construction. 
 Passages of exquisite beauty abound in this little volume. Here are 
 a few lines from an old theme which are charming: — 
 
 ' O gentle Spring, sweet maid of tears and sighs,' &c. 
 
 To our minds ' The Mine ' is the best of all Mr. Harris's poems. 
 It is graphic and natural. The pictures are drawn from the life, and 
 we feel that tho writer describes his own experience. It is the history 
 — the poetic history — of the mine, from the early struggles of the 
 poor seeker after the mineral wealth to his final triumph. The 
 picture of the first disappointment and the almost consequent 
 despair of the miner is Crabbe-like in its perfection and minuteness 
 of detail. We quote it : — 
 
 ' 'Tis no use, Maggie, digging any more,' &c. 
 
 His good wife, however, encourages him to proceed in his struggle, 
 •which he does, and wins. Here is a picture of things as they were 
 before railways were introduced : — 
 
 ' Old Timmy was the driver of the mules,' &c. 
 These passages will sufficiently recommend the volume to all who 
 love calm and natural poetry. Simple and original, they realize all 
 the aims of their author ; and judged without reference to their 
 writer's position and difficulties, are worthy of that success which 
 b
 
 18 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 we trust they will attain." — The Birmingham Journal, October 
 21th, 1860. 
 
 " It may be said of the poetic faculty, as of the wind, ' Thou hearest 
 the sound thereof, but no man knows whence it cometh or whither it 
 goeth ; ' for it is not alone in the higher walks of life, but beneath 
 the humblest cottage roof, beside the plough on the lofty mountain 
 side, in the rustic valley, in the darkest dens of vast cities and on 
 the breezy shoreward downs, the magical song is heard thrilling "the 
 hearts of men with chants of chivalry, tales of love, the sorrows of 
 the poor, and the narratives of all the varied passions and principles 
 which are common to mankind. It is difficult to say of what or 
 where the poet has not suug, either in the past or present. The 
 home of poetry is most especially in those temperate climes where 
 it is our privilege to dwell, wherein the genius of man has expanded 
 in a Milton and a Shakespeare to a height unknown in other regions 
 of the world. But, as if to convince us of the endless resources of 
 nature and art, a poet has now sent forth his notes, hidden far more 
 completely than ever was nightingale beneath the leaves, or skylark 
 in highest heaven ; namely, in the deep recesses of a mine. Mr. 
 John Harris, the Cornish miner, has already sent forth two volumes 
 of lyrics to the world, to prove the omnipresence of the 'spark 
 divine,' and has now produced another, which additionally entitles 
 him to take his place among the ranks of those poets of the people 
 who are dignified by the names of Bloomfield, Nicoll, Capern, Cox, 
 and Burns. The chief characteristics of Mr. Harris's style are an 
 intense and unvarying love of nature, which delights to dwell upon 
 the wayside flower, the mossy stone, or the sunny hillside, and draw 
 therefrom those gentle aspirations and calm moral teachings which 
 appeal at once to the heart of the reader, and that unfeigned sym- 
 pathy with the sorrows and struggles of the poor which indicates 
 the true heart of the writer. But although he leads us more com- 
 monly in the lowly pathways of life, he at times invests them with a 
 loftiness of thought and language which evinces an inward and 
 undeveloped power that may possibly in future stages of develop- 
 ment soar upwards to the level of the grand masters. Take the 
 following from ' The Mountain Prophet : ' — 
 
 ' I have learnt 
 In whatsoever state to be content,' &c. 
 This passage conveys an idea of that latent power which we 
 may hope one day to feel in all its force; aud perhaps it is still 
 more developed in a passage, which we will quote from another 
 poem, 'The Mine,' in which, with remarkable skill, the author has 
 invested with real poetry that which of all other things seems most 
 unpoetical ; namely, the interior of a mine : — 
 
 ' Below were caverns grim with greedy gloom,' &c. 
 This passage is really remarkable for its graphic force, and the 
 absolute sublimity with which the poet has so fcclinglv invested 
 it."— The West Briton, February ±$th, 18G1.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 19 
 
 " There are four things, among others, absolutely necessary to 
 constitute a poet, and he who lacks either of these is not entitled to 
 rank among those who bear that honoured name. The qualities to 
 which we allude are, originality, the power to sing, the gift to 
 paint, and, lastly, the perfect utterance, or the faculty to interpret — 
 language being the handmaid of the other three. We are well 
 aware that there are many who deny that we can have anything 
 original in this late age of the world ; but those who entertain such 
 a fallacy must also bear in remembrance that the minds of men are 
 as variously constituted as their powers are boundless. True it is 
 we have the same book to study which was read by the great 
 spirits of the past ; but nature is an infinity of charms, and when to 
 this we add the miracle of our own being, and the profound mys- 
 teries of God and eternity, there must ever remain paths to be 
 discovered in the untrodden realms of thought — to seek which will 
 be the privilege of the poet for evermore. There is another idea 
 which we must not forget ; although the same subjects have been 
 taken up by preceding writers, those subjects can never be 
 exhausted. Each poet possesses a thought-mould of his own, which 
 gives an original form to his ideas ; therefore, while there remains 
 a universe, and men to enjoy it, poetry will exist, and poets will 
 arise 1o interpret it. It is, then, because 'The Miner' possesses 
 the qualifications mentioned, that we have brought his work under 
 the notice of our readers ; and we will now give a few extracts, 
 leaving them to judge for themselves. He looks at hi» fellow-men, 
 and he sees them 
 
 ' Stumbling along the stony path of life.' 
 His thoughts dwell upon his early days, and childhood comes before 
 him, 
 
 ' Soft with sweets 
 And milk-white blossoms from the tree of May.' 
 He thinks of the past, 
 
 ' And many images of by-gone days 
 
 Lie in the chambers of forgetfulness 
 
 'Mid skeletons dust-cover'd.' 
 
 The dying chamber of a beloved mother suggests the following fine 
 thought : — 
 
 ' From the streets of gold 
 
 A glory beam'd upon her countenance, 
 
 And, like the moon behind a summer hill, 
 
 Her spirit pass'd into the land of stars' 
 
 In his description of storms the following passages occur : — 
 
 ' The lightnings strode the welkin with blue swords, 
 Follow' d by moauing thunder rattling loud. 
 ****** 
 
 The black clouds wander'd, weeping evermore 
 With thunder on their fronts, and wings of flame 
 b %
 
 20 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Dark were the moon and stars; the frantic winds 
 Rush'd down the mountains like a sea of waves.' 
 
 His first meeting with the Muse is thus described (and there is a 
 rhthym of a pebbly brook in the lines) : — 
 
 ' On a pensive eve, in May's perfume, 
 A meek youth sat in his bower of broom,' &c. 
 
 Here is a beautifully coloured picture, — the' author is describing a 
 poet musing : — ■ 
 
 ' He paused upon his harp, while o'er him wheel'd 
 A flock of sea-birds,' &c. 
 
 " Space will not permit us to follow the author through his exqui- 
 site little volume, and we must conclude our notice with this little 
 gem of a sunset : — 
 
 ' Eve changed to purple — purple were the skies,' &c. 
 
 Joined to a healthy, vigorous, and natural tone, there breathes 
 throughout Mr. Harris's writings a fine religions sentiment, which 
 will always secure for them a place iu the estimation of all who 
 admire what is good and beautiful in poetry. We wish the book all 
 the success to which it is entitled." — The Bideford Weekly Gazette, 
 November 20lh, 1860. 
 
 " John Harris, the greater part of whose life has been spent as 
 a labourer in the Cornish mines, is a true poet, who, in this little 
 volume, preseuts undeniable claims to the favourable verdict of the 
 critic, and to the esteem and honour of his fellow-countrymen. An 
 enthusiastic lover of nature, he finds inspiration for some of his 
 sweetest lyrics amid the charms of the moor, the mountain, and the 
 hedgerow ; nor has he failed to find materials for the muse in the 
 apparently uncongenial occupations of the miner's life. His sym- 
 pathies with suffering humanity are wide and deep, and he writes of 
 the toiling masses as one who has shared fully their privations, their 
 sorrows, and their joys. The following is a pleasing specimen of 
 his minor lyrics : — 
 
 ' THE PRAYING SLAVE GIRL.' 
 
 — The Anti-Slavery Reporter, May, 1861. 
 
 LONDON : HAMILTON, ADAM5, AND CO.

 
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