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 LONDON = 
 
 JOHN OHAPMAN, 14-2, STRAND; 
 
 J. AYER, LEICESTER; 
 
 AND ALL COUNTRY BOOt^SELLERS. 
 
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 / ' ' ^ ^ J . . -» -• '
 
 LEICESTER: 
 Phintrh bv Joseph Ayee, 35, Ai.hion-Hill. 
 
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 45?, 5^ 
 
 My Father — Mother ! — for as one to me 
 
 Your names, entwined, beloved must ever be ; 
 
 Linked to my being from Life's earliest day, 
 
 Nor severed more throughout Eternity : 
 
 Though realms now stretch and seas between us roar. 
 
 And I on earth shall clasp your forms no more. 
 
 Round your gray brows I twine these wildling flowers, 
 
 Emblems of Hope and Love forever ours ! 
 
 If aught of grace or feeling fill the line — 
 
 Hate of oppression — or of Faith divine, — 
 
 To both I owe the power who gave my youth 
 
 Example pure, and loftiest sense of truth : 
 
 So may this offering soothe your late decline — 
 
 Would it were worthier such dear love, and mine ! 
 
 43204^
 
 Many of the following Pieces have appeared in the 
 Leicester Chronicle, Mercury, and other Local and 
 Metropolitan Publications. They are now first 
 printed as a whole, to redeem a promise long since 
 made hy the Writer to his Friends. 
 
 The Critic may discover defects in the structure 
 and composition of the poems ; and in these days it 
 will, perhaps, scarcely be admitted as a valid excuse 
 for such defects, that this volume is the production of 
 one who may truly call himself a Working Man, 
 While, however, he is quite ready to submit to im- 
 partial criticism, he may state that his chief anxiety, 
 in everything he has written, has been less to achieve 
 a reputation as a Poet, than to aid, in his humble 
 sphere, in promoting the mental and moral elevation 
 of those whom he is proud to terra his brethren. 
 If those by whose kind aid he is enabled to appear 
 before the world as an Author, think he has, to 
 some extent, been successful in accomplishing this 
 object, his utmost expectation and desire will be 
 fulfilled. 
 
 Leicester. December. 1848. 

 
 ^mwMi 
 
 ,^<> 
 
 Hard is his task who would instruct mankind, ' 
 Or raise his fellows to a higher mood ; 
 Curses shall meet his blessings — ill his good— 
 
 His actions traced by every meaner mind 
 
 To basest motives ; till, forlorn, he find 
 
 His labour fruitless, and his pearls of thought 
 Swine-trampled on— his much-loved truth as 
 naught — 
 
 His hope a rainbow, scattered by the vnnd. 
 
 Yet will we toil for good ! that we may leave 
 
 A beauty on our path, like suns at eve ; 
 
 That we may tread His steps, who meekly smiled 
 
 On raging malice, and in mercy toiled 
 
 To bless the fiends who laughed his good to scorn. 
 
 And bound his brows at last with bloody thorn.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 My baby Boy of some few sunny hours ! 
 
 I take thee forth, and first into the air, 
 Beneath the tender skies, and mid the flowers 
 
 Of gentle June, breathing all odours rare ; 
 And while sweet tones from out the blossomy bowers 
 
 Come from the bird and honey-seeking bee, 
 And Beauty's spirit sheds its heavenliest powers, 
 
 To love and bless all that we feel and see, — 
 In Nature's name I now baptize thee. Boy, 
 
 Shaking her sparkling dew-drops on thy brow : 
 
 So may her woods, waves, hills, and valleys low, 
 Give inspiration of superior joy ; 
 So lift thy mind to that exalted state, 
 That, pitying custom's slaves, smiles at the vulgar 
 great. 
 
 III. 
 
 On seeing a Portrait of Hazlitt. 
 
 Hazlitt ! not thus I deemed thy spii'it looked; 
 Yet, looking thus, I deem thee more divine : 
 What deepened thoughts are marked on every line 
 Of those sweet features, as but ill they brooked 
 The sneers of pride, whilst thou didst feel a sense 
 Of inward greatness, scorning time and death.
 
 That eye is filled with gentlest influence ; 
 
 Those lips speak blessings, pure as Love's own 
 breath ; 
 Yet on thy brow a patient agony 
 
 Seems throned in sadness- — such as angels feel 
 When mourning for the lost — that men should be 
 
 But slaves or tyrants, making hope unreal. 
 Thej^ could not quench thy truth-like energy. 
 
 Nor turn thy heart-strings into strings of steel ! 
 
 IV. — THE WINDS. 
 
 At first, at distance heard, like the low hush 
 
 Of infant lullabies, they gently come 
 
 From their mysterious and eternal home ; 
 Then louder, like some forest fountain's gush, 
 
 A pleasant murmur in the deep blue night ; 
 
 But gathering momently their fearful might, 
 The leaves begin to stir, and now they rush 
 
 Like the roused ocean, when the uplifted wave 
 
 Rolls high as heaven ; — they swell, they roar, they 
 rave. 
 And fill all space, as they the world would crush ! 
 
 The roof-tree shakes, the tottering chimney falls, 
 The steeple bends, uprooted lies the tree ; 
 
 Their wolfish howl the very soul appals : — 
 Ruin is on the land — wo, wo, upon the sea !
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 V. 
 
 Work, Brother ! work while it is called to-day ; 
 
 Cometh the night, in which no man can work : 
 
 Thy task lies round, let navight impede or irk ; 
 But upward — onward — lit by heaven's bright ray, 
 Scatter some seeds of flowers along thy way — 
 
 Hew out some footsteps up Life's mountain side ; 
 
 So shall far followers in the track abide, 
 And young and weak sustain the scorching day. 
 
 Brother ! the life-web must be woven well ; 
 Thy thoughts and deeds are hues and threads therein. 
 Shewing thy labour for eternity : 
 
 Invest thine earthly with the spiritual ; 
 Let energy in love and truth be seen, 
 And from the Finite grasp Infinity. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When I first woke to life on this fair earth, 
 It seemed to me one scene of sunny joy ; 
 All men seemed brethren — every man's employ 
 To soothe distress, and wreathe with flowers of mirth 
 The brows of youth and age. Methovight that 
 worth 
 Was sure to be rewarded — that the great 
 Cared less for office than desert — that fate
 
 Spared the confiding — scorned not for her birth : — 
 This was a dream ; and it hath passed away ! 
 
 Life stands all naked to my burning gaze : 
 The sycophant gains power — the knave bears sway ; 
 
 Sweet girls seduced strew death in public ways : 
 A caste claims honour — wealth may worth reprove, 
 And lust, and hate, and malice do the work of love. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order." 
 
 Manfsed. 
 
 A LEISURE HOUR ! — I said, " I'll ivrite a rhyme ;" 
 And forth I walked into the blessed noon 
 Of yellow Autumn, to enjoy a boon 
 Too seldom mine ! — a walk in our loved clime, 
 " 'Tis sweet," I said, " to chronicle the time 
 With gentle words " — but all the scene around 
 Was so at ease, so tranquil, and so bound 
 With soul-subduing quiet, calm, subHme, 
 That I left go the golden clue of thought, 
 And gave my fancy to a pleasant dream 
 Of waking sleep ; — and as my vision caught 
 
 The soft gray cloud, the blue sky, and the stream. 
 And the delicious languor of the li^ht, 
 I felt how beautiful all things — but could not ivrife.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Things are not good or evil in themselves, 
 
 But as we make them are our joy or pain ; 
 Day 's the owl's darkness : and night's fairy elves 
 
 Are dancing devils in a madman's brain. 
 Can the rose taste its sweetness, or the flower 
 See its own beauty ? Can the twilight hour, 
 Flinging its hues of glory over heaven. 
 Feel the rich glow it hath so freely given ? 
 The dark moon hath no lustre of her own. 
 Though bright as all the stars. We tread upon 
 The weed, yet it hath sweetness for the hee ; 
 And there is music in the harmony 
 Of swelling storms ; and he is blest who knows 
 To take the fair and good of all — without the thorn, 
 the rose. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Come, blessed May ! and with thy smiles complete 
 The bliss and beauty of all earthly things : 
 How spring the flowers for thee — what joyful wing-s 
 
 Make glad the forest shade, thy welcome sweet ! 
 
 What though I join them not — what though my feet 
 Thread not thy green nooks where the shy thrush 
 
 sings ? 
 Yet as the fettered captive oft-times flings
 
 A langiiid eye from out his loathed retreat 
 On the fair earth and sweet face of the sky, 
 
 So I on thee, and feel thy blessed sway 
 Full o'er my heart. Oh ! never may my eye 
 
 Gaze undelighted, while thy daisies gay 
 Sheet every pasture, while thy fresh gales sigh 
 
 To dewy roses and white thorns. Come, blessed 
 May ! 
 
 On visiting the Cemeter}- at Konsal Green. 
 
 Roses and myrtles, cypress and gray willow, 
 And urns of marble hidden in green glooms. 
 And quiet paths 'mid nature's simple blooms, 
 
 And daisied green-sward for each slumberer's pillow — 
 
 Above, the lark in heaven's serenest blue, 
 
 And rural calm around, — have made the spot 
 
 Meet for the last repose. — 'Tis sad to view 
 
 How in our common churchyards dead men rot ! 
 
 But here such peace and placid beauty reign, 
 Such chastened sadness broods upon each tomb, 
 
 As half beguiles the mourner of his pain, 
 
 And cheers, if aught can cheer, the sleeper's gloom. 
 
 Pale love around her fitting gifts hath strewn — 
 
 The young have gentle flowers, the old a gratcfiil 
 stone.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XI. — TO SHELLEY. 
 
 O, DOVE-LIKE Eagle ! bear me on thy wings. 
 
 Far from the rage and scorn of passing things ; 
 
 And teach me what I long have sought to know — 
 
 Deep hate of tyrants, and the eternal glow 
 
 Of sympathetic love for all mankind, 
 
 And ceaseless toil to aid them, till they find 
 
 Truth, love, and gloiy, — and the all-seeing sun, 
 
 From his heaven-girdling path, beholds no spot 
 That owns a slave or tyrant, cell or throne, 
 
 Or chain, or prison-house, except to rot : 
 And by the lake, lone wood, and solemn sea, 
 
 Pour out thy music — sow the solitude 
 With thoughts, to spring in actions that shall free 
 
 Earth from its sweat and gore — man made one 
 brotherhood. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Keats, a little before he died, when his friend asked him how he did, 
 replied, in a low tone, "Better, my friend: I feel the daisies growing 
 over me." 
 
 Earth's beauty — truth's might — heaven's undying 
 love — 
 And the mind's music ever murmuring, 
 I felt, and, feeling, could not choose but sing : 
 
 And dreams I had that others dream not of. 
 
 10
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Feeding sweet thoughts, as dews the brooding flowers, 
 
 And flinging hues upon the passing hours 
 
 Too lovely to endure, until my eyes 
 
 Opened on all things as on Paradise ; 
 
 And if, as bees send forth sweet murmurings 
 
 To the young flowers they love from earliest birth, 
 My heart and mind breathed out their visionings, 
 
 Need a fiend's howl have hooted me through earth ? 
 But 'tis no matter — sweet my rest will be, 
 When the meek daisies blossom over me ! 
 
 XIII. — AUTUMN. 
 
 It is the Autumn ! beautiful the day ! 
 
 An almost breathless stillness fills the air, 
 
 And o'er the pale blue skies, long lingering there, 
 
 The white clouds stream like locks of silver gray. 
 
 How calm the trees — as waiting for decay ! 
 And round about aye drop their yellow leaves 
 So thicklj^, that the spirit inly grieves, 
 
 Feeling that all things change, and pass away : 
 
 Yet such a placid beauty gilds the west, 
 
 Flinging its radiance o'er each fading form. 
 
 Like faith that smiles from heaven upon the blest. 
 As it would woo, as by a gentle charm, 
 
 The world to quiet, and the heart to rest, 
 
 Pointing in death bright hope, and spring's smiles 
 through the storm I
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Composed in Burbage Wood. 
 
 And this is life to me ! How sweeter far 
 
 The harmony of nature than of man ! 
 The sweet hymns of the wood-bird, than the jar 
 
 And ceaseless strife of life's each bustling clan. 
 But onward, sons of men ! and I will turn 
 
 To the green shades — to pleasures which, when gone, 
 
 Shall leave no sting, but, as the hour flits on, 
 Still soothe and elevate ; for here I learn 
 The love of themes above the vulgar mind ; 
 
 The thought that dwells upon eternal things ; 
 
 The hope, whose consummating ^dsion brings 
 The deathless and the beautiful, designed 
 By heaven for man, and imaged to the eye 
 By all it looks upon — flowers, fields, woods, earth, 
 and sky ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 The birds sing cheerly from the forest shade, 
 Like joys embodied ; from the heavenly blue 
 The sunbeams dart, like living pleasures too : 
 The brook leaps onward, where its path is made 
 With diamond pebbles, as it felt a joy. 
 
 12
 
 The tlovvers come forth in beauty from the sod, 
 Wreathing with light and love the very clod : 
 To kiss them is the breeze's sweet employ. 
 The lamb skips down the slope ; the rampant bee 
 Boometh from flower to flower ; in stormy glee 
 Old ocean laughs : — man only is unblest — 
 Toils for the bread he eats not — breaks his rest 
 That knaves may slumber — feels disease and fear 
 Of death : — ^Ah ! wherefore, but that earth is not his 
 sphere ? 
 
 XVI. — TWILIGHT. 
 
 How many thousands at this blessed hour 
 
 Are looking forth upon the lingering west, 
 From peopled town, lone cot, and ancient tower, 
 
 T' enjoy, like me, its loveliness and rest ! 
 
 And 'tis a thought that makes me truly blegt, — 
 That unto all the glorious scene is o-iven — 
 That the green earth, cool air, and deep blue heaven 
 
 Impart a common joy, a common zest. 
 There is no breeze upon the stirless tree, 
 
 Shining in glory of the sunset ray ; 
 The small gray gnats are dancing merrily ; 
 
 With clustered speedwell all the path is gay ; 
 And such a gentle spirit fills the air, 
 'Tis as the world itself were kneeling down in prayer. 
 
 1:3
 
 XVII. 
 
 Written at Midiiiglit, Dec. Slst— Jan. Lst. 
 
 From yonder spire fortli peal the ancient bells 
 
 A s they have done before a thousand years ; 
 
 While flies the Old Year and the New appears, 
 Giving gay welcomes, and as sad farewells. 
 In yonder hall the merry beaux and belles 
 
 Are gaily dancing without cares or fears ; 
 
 And as the last night wanes, the new morn nears, 
 Each footstep quickens, every bosom swells. 
 
 From yonder chapel, prayer and anthem rise — 
 From yonder tavern, wassail and mad song — 
 
 While earth pursues her course beneath the skies, 
 And the moon shines and lig-ht clouds flit along. 
 
 And thus man dances, weeps, and sings, and dies, 
 While year succeeds to year, and nature still is 
 young. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Tlie Tomb of Nature and tlie Tomb of Jpsus. 
 
 The tomb of Nature is a ghastly tomb. 
 
 That fills the heart with grief, the eye with tears ; 
 
 The tomb of Jesus, sunlike, lights its gloom, 
 And soothes our sorrow, and consoles our fears. 
 
 The tomb of Nature makes all being vain ;
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 There lie the loved, the dear — lost evermore ; 
 
 The tomb of Jesus shall the dead restore, 
 And bid the dear, the loved, be ours again. 
 The tomb of Nature whelms us like the deep ; 
 The tomb of Jesus is a bed of sleep : 
 That throngs with spectres, shadows, fear, dismay ; 
 This angels tread in light and " white array ;" 
 There time is ended- — brightest hope undone ; 
 Here bliss made whole — eternity begun. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Written in Burbage Wood. 
 
 I LOVE to be alone, and in this mood ! 
 
 Oh, that the charm would last ! I feel not now- 
 
 Or rather I more deeply feel, and know — 
 The littleness of life, of man. Sweet wood ! 
 I oft have sought thy shades, so lone and dim ; 
 
 I love thy mingled sounds of bird and stream : 
 There is devotion in the woodland hymn. 
 
 There is religion — that which casts a gleam 
 On things unseen, or seen but in the mind ; 
 
 The wdll original of God — the plan 
 Of Nature, — for it gives that hope refined 
 
 Which elevates to heaven the soul of man. 
 " There is a spirit in the woods" and flowers — 
 When shall its inspiration pure be fully ours ? 
 
 15
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 When I look round upon this life of ours, 
 
 And on the broad green earth and lovelier sky, 
 Clad in all hues and forms of majesty, 
 
 And filled with glory, beauty, fruitage, flowers, — 
 
 Then turn to gaze where Want, the pale fiend, 
 lowers — 
 Upon the loom, the mine, the wheel, the plough, 
 Where human forms to toil and hunger bow, 
 
 And know no respite fi-om their sickening powers ; 
 
 When I look on the countless forms that sigh 
 For food and knowledge — both alike denied, 
 
 And see the rich and noble clatter by. 
 
 Bloated with luxury and steeled with pride ; 
 
 I cry, with deepening anguish in my prayer, 
 
 " How long shall those still suffer, and these bear ?" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " Here lies one whose name was written in water." 
 
 Keats' Epitaph. 
 
 No ! not " in water writ," — but in the heart. 
 Deep in the heart, and evermore to be 
 The household word of fondest memory ; 
 
 Thy name shall show, in spite of critic art. 
 
 16
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 How genius, love, and passion can impart 
 
 Eternal might, making for thine and thee 
 
 The Bard's sure dower, immortality ; 
 For thy meek death destroyed the censor's dart. 
 No ! not " in water writ," whilst on the night 
 
 " Endymion " gazes, and the " Nightingale " 
 Fills the old forest with such dear delight. 
 
 That we must hear to feel, or whilst the gale 
 Wafts to thy tomb lorn pilgrims from all skies, — 
 For " not in water writ ! " each fondly drooping cries. 
 
 XXII. — AUTUMN. 
 
 How lovely Nature in her every change — 
 
 Spring's spirit-cheering green, and Summer's flowers; 
 And Autumn now, far as the eye can range, 
 
 Is beautiful with thousand hueS' — her powers, 
 Like Hope's, are waked to beautify decay ! 
 How calm the breathless air ! upon the spray 
 No leaf is seen to stir, but now and then 
 One singly drops, and all is still again. 
 How beautiful ! and yet there seems to be 
 Something like sadness in the silent tree 
 And lightly-tinted clouds ; the wild bird's tone, 
 Lost its glad spring-song, tells of brightness gone : 
 Ah, robin ! I too deeply feel thy lay : 
 Change, change ! though lovely all things, all things 
 pass away ! 
 
 17
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXIII. — PROVIDENCE, 
 
 I SAW a loved one, with her little child ; 
 
 The bahe seemed fretful, and, for all her care, 
 So patient, gentle, motherlj^ and mild, 
 
 It still would weep, though no real cause was there. 
 She sang it tenderly, and laid it on 
 
 Her naked bosom — loveliest resting place ! 
 
 And soothed with woman's words, and kissed its face. 
 But still it brawled — the little wayward one : 
 And then she smiled to see its infant wo, 
 
 Yet loved it still ; — she knew that it was blest. 
 
 Thus Man, the baby ! causelessly distrest. 
 Murmurs at that whence oft his comforts flow, 
 
 Praying strange wants : — Heaven smiles, and grants 
 the best. 
 Like the fond mother — as both child and man shall 
 know. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 * 
 
 W^ritteii ill Clifton Grove, the well-knonu favorite haunt of Kirke 
 
 White. 
 
 On, 'tis poetic ground ! the very scene 
 Of rapturous feeling and exalted thought ; 
 Here the sweet bard, with holy musings fraught, 
 
 Retired to meditate— alone, unseen. 
 
 The lengthened lawn, the tall tree's shadowy limb, 
 
 18
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 The wild bird starting into fitful song, 
 
 And the dark Trent that ever rolls along, 
 Were thought, devotion, ecstacy to him ! 
 Ah, he is gone ! yet still his mind shall live 
 
 Embodied in these shades : the lonely grove 
 Still speaks of him ; the river waves revive 
 
 His numbers, for they sing of nature — ^love. 
 Young Bard ! I sigh o'er thy untimely doom ; 
 Green be the shades thou lovedst, and quiet be thy 
 tomb ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 On putting on a pair of" Noar-siglitotl " Spectacles. 
 
 Blest be the art, that, to the waning eye, 
 Can thus restore the beauty of the scene ; 
 The silver-coated sheep, the glossy sheei^ 
 Of the rook's wing, the tree, the mountain high. 
 How p^6'i^trt?-Z^^x' the objects round me lie ! 
 It is a new creation to my sight ! 
 The floweret is a gem, the cottage white 
 A fairy palace, and the distant sky, 
 
 Stretched out immense, hath on the very hue 
 I looked on when a child ; and charmed I view 
 The beauty of the human face divine ; 
 The stars, long lost, hke polished jewels shine. 
 Oh ! blest the art, that, as the rising sun, 
 Restores and beautifies all that I gaze upon.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Written in Btirbage Wood. 
 
 Ye beautiful green woods, well-pleased again 
 
 I seek your deepening shades, and leave the joys 
 Of poor humanity, whose forms restrain 
 
 The young ideas as they duly rise. 
 Here Nature sits on an unbounded throne ; 
 
 The soul expands, and of the ambient scene 
 Imbibes its plan and feelings scarce her own — 
 
 Boundless, and vast, and beautifully serene ! 
 The mind, uncircumscribed, roams over earth, 
 
 Asks whence the tyrant's power — -the pomp of 
 pride — 
 The law of faction — the parade of birth. 
 
 And feels to nature and to heaven allied." 
 Hail, ye gi-een woods ! ye have a lesson given — 
 To teach mankind of man, of nature, and of heaven ! 
 
 xxvii. 
 
 Written for the first page of an Album. 
 
 Now may the spirit of pure Poesy, 
 
 Like as the gentle Spring, that strews the flowers 
 O'er the green sod, and fills the circling hours 
 
 With light, and beauty, and sweet melody — 
 
 20
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 So may the spirit of pure Poesy 
 
 Strew gentle thoughts and feelings (mental flowers) 
 
 O'er these fair pages, which, like April showers, 
 Refreshing leaf and blossom, may supply 
 
 The o-entler mind meet nutriment : — and here 
 May Friendship, life's unfading starlet, pour 
 
 Its treasured gifts ; and Love, that knows no fear. 
 Tell of sweet meetings at the twilight hour ; 
 
 And Memory hoard fond names, too early riven ; 
 And Faith — since all of earth must fade — look up to 
 heaven. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 TiiEY err who deem no worship may arise 
 From Nature's altar — holy, vast, divine : 
 'Tis certes good in social prayer to join, 
 But earth 's my temple also, and the skies, 
 
 Fretted with clouds, or bright with summer shine, 
 The roofing of my everlasting shrine : 
 The lark, my chorister, soars up to heaven, 
 And with his notes my gladdest praise is given : 
 The wind is my high-priest ; the booming sea 
 My organ — pealing heavenly harmony : 
 These flowers, that to the waste a lustre give, 
 Shew how the beautiful in spirit live ; 
 And that lone brook is like a voice of prayer — 
 If dark and hidden now, now brightening in the air. 
 
 21
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 For Good FiiJiiy. 
 
 See, where He slow ascends the weary road, 
 
 And bears th' accurst and blessed Cross along ; 
 (Accurst to Him, it shed His precious blood, 
 
 But blest to me, by faith and hope made strong.) 
 Now meek and faint He bows on Calvary ; 
 
 His sweat-drops fall like midnight's heavy dews ; 
 
 And now they pierce His limbs, and bloody Jews 
 Shout out their scornful lips, and bow the knee, 
 And bid Him save Himself: — His agony 
 
 Pales His sweet brow, bathed with the purple rain ; 
 " My God ! my God ! why hast forsaken me ?" 
 
 He fainting cries — the rocks are rent in twain — 
 " Yet, not my will, but Thine, accomplished be ;" 
 
 He dies — 'tis finished ! sin and death are slain. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 On hearing Dr. Wiseman preach at the Catholic Chapel, Hinckley, 
 
 April 30, 1843. 
 
 " There shall he one fold and one shepherd." 
 
 Oh, might it be ! that throughout earth, all earth. 
 All men, all nations might bow down, and own 
 One faith, one hope — in will and worship one ; 
 
 In Ipve united by one heavenly birth ! 
 
 22 
 
 rT<
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 I scarce would ask what creed such faith must be ; 
 
 Could it be aught but pure — less than divine, 
 
 If all might meet around its mighty shrine, 
 And feel in love as one great family ? 
 How would the heart with holier feelings swell, 
 
 And want, and crime, and strife, and bloodshed cease. 
 And earth, no longer found a restless hell. 
 
 Each, under his ovm vine, should sit in peace : — 
 Oh, God ! in mercy send Thy mystic Dove 
 To teach all hearts Thy pity, truth, and love. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Say, France, who comes from yon small island's shore, 
 Suppliant thine aid in science to implore ? 
 Thou giv'st him knowledge from thy tomes well- 
 stored, 
 And now he grasps, with playful hand, a sword. 
 His brow is calm, but burns his heart below ; 
 His eye is gentle — for he veils its glow — 
 But deeply musing on the coming hour 
 Matures his aim, — 'tis ripe, — the helm of power 
 He firmly grasps, — thine armies wait his nod ; 
 Earth's sceptres tremble — kings are where he trod— 
 And from the Pole to Egypt's SAvelling flood 
 The heaving turf is watered with men's blood : 
 Thrones, altars shake — and whose the fame, the spoil? 
 Ask the lone sea-mew wailing round yon rocky isle ! 
 
 23
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXII. 
 On showing my Boy Ebenezer Elliott's Portrait. 
 
 Scorn to the scomer — to the sneerer sneers — 
 
 Hate to the tyrant — to the basely proud 
 Voiceless contempt ; — but Pity's gentlest tears, 
 Falling like clew or rain from summer's cloud, 
 On fainting flowers, for grief too deeply bowed, 
 And sighs breathed like the rose's fragrance forth : 
 Nay, like earth-shaking thunder, that on earth 
 Men should enslave God's image — mocking God : 
 But trust in truth, and hope in final good. 
 Firm as the centred hill ; and quenchless love 
 Of nature — fountained-valley, field and grove. 
 
 And twihght violet-scented, violet-hued, — 
 These, spite of toil and tax, he bravely won 
 Whom now thou view'st — Oh, be his mantle thine, 
 mj^ Son ! 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Written after a day's excursion in Wales, from Liverpool, r/a Menai Bridge. 
 
 Like as some dream of wild imaginings. 
 Of sweet strange sounds, and shapes of wondrous things, 
 That haunts the waking senses many a day. 
 When all that caused it long hath passed away — ■ 
 
 24
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 So on my mind float scenes of yesterday, 
 
 So on my ear sweet sounds : They rise again — 
 The beetling clifl", the white sea-fowl, the main. 
 
 The hanging bridge, the ship, the ruin gray ; 
 
 The steamy mountains lift their heads sixblime ; 
 The waterfall pours down its boiling snow ; 
 The hare-bell nods, the plummy fern stoops low 
 
 O'er the calm lake, deep-bosomed from all time : 
 While up the mount, to feast on all below, 
 
 Thy pilgrims wind, O God, of every faith and clime. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 V On visilhii,' the Exhibition Cor the Alechanics' Inslitulion, Leicester. 
 
 ) 
 
 Not for these works of nature or of art, 
 
 I linger with delight — though Avondrous all,— 
 Nor for those mingled strains, poured o'er the heart. 
 In swelling floods, like music's waterfall ; 
 But here I linger, held by some sweet thrall, 
 More potent than the spell of wizard's hall. 
 To muse upon the sports of by-gone years ; 
 The strength of thews, the fight, and blood and tears 
 Of the crushed slave ; the wild beasts' dying howl ; 
 And men with brutes contending, fierce and foul : — 
 These were the sports of polished Greece and Rome, 
 And of my country. — Fairer times are come ; 
 Men, now grown men, with art and science play. 
 And seek in scenes like these their holiday. 
 
 •>;-.
 
 XXXV. — (impromptu.) 
 
 It is the lark." — Shakspeare. 
 
 His song is not yet done ! — the sun hath set, 
 Large, round and red, and twilight passed away, 
 And over heaven extends one gentle gray ; 
 
 And yet the lark is singing — singing yet ! 
 
 As if too blest to sleep, and quite forget 
 
 The bliss and beauty of the long bright day. 
 How fresh the fragrance of the new-mown hay ! 
 
 How rich the rose, with early dew-drops wet ! 
 Mid the green corn the lark sinks slowly now. 
 Nestling with his loved mate ; while every bough 
 
 Darkens into a mystery — the leaf 
 
 Shivers with secret joy ; — and as for grief, 
 
 It never sure was in a world like this, 
 
 Where all is flower, and song, and love, and bliss ! 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 On seeing an Infant asleep at inidiiiglit with flowers in liis liand. 
 
 He grasps them yet ! his sweet self-gathered flowers ! 
 The silver yarrow, snowy clover heads. 
 And pearly daisies — stars of earthly meads — 
 
 The playthings of his suimy waking hours. 
 
 What a bright world a little child's must be ; 
 
 26
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 What innocent delight — what perfect love — 
 
 That flowers, and dreams of Howers, are round — 
 above — 
 Even in slumber's deep intensity : 
 My blessed Boy ! it was from such as thou 
 
 That fancy framed her world of fays and flowers- 
 Things of the tearless eye and sunny brow — 
 
 Seeking and Jindin<j '^oy through all the hours: 
 Alas ! that thy bright world must cease to be, 
 Or only gild the dawn of saddening memory ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 When I am dead — as I at length must be — 
 
 And thought and feeling leave the throbless heart, 
 Oh, let me then, as now, still be a part 
 Of the sweet elements ! — Give not to me 
 A cell of marble, that, in mockery. 
 Preserves our cold remains, but make my bed 
 Where the fresh daisy rears its dewy head. 
 And innocent lambs sport o'er the flowery lea ; 
 There let the wild bird's simple melody. 
 Poured from the sheltering thorn, be heard alway ; 
 Let the far west there leave its latest ray ; 
 And swelUng tempest speak its harmony : 
 These make my being now, and these should keep 
 My ashes evermore, or gently wake my sleep ! 
 
 •27
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Suggested by reading the Marquis of Northampton's beautiful Sonnet 
 
 to Memory. 
 
 Hope is a flatterer ; but she aye doth give 
 
 Her smiles ahke to crowned and lowly head, 
 
 Attending ever every path we tread : 
 And though none all, yet all some gifts receive. 
 With childhood she will play at make-believe 
 
 With mirth — her brow with flowers engarlanded ; 
 
 To youth she brings love's visions ; to the bed 
 Of sickness more than medicine to relieve ; 
 She swells the sail that bears the sea-boy home ; 
 
 And soothes tli' unwearied mother day and night, 
 Whispering for each loved one some kindHer doom ; 
 
 She wreathes life's storms with rainbows — clouds 
 with light ; 
 But her best smile 's her last, which cheers the tomb, 
 
 And, cheering that, makes all beyond aye bright. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Courage, my heart ! why this unmanly sigh ? 
 
 What if youth's dreams unrealized decay ? 
 
 What if the millioned mass be common clay, 
 Grovelling amid the clods where they must lie, 
 Without one thought, one hope, one energy, 
 
 28
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Beyond the business of their little day ? 
 Wilt thou, for lack of meet community, 
 
 Seek with the things called men their vulgar play ? 
 Hoard with the miser ; with the spendthrift game ; 
 
 The fevered wine-cup drain ; or, falsely gay, 
 Soil with bald-pated lust the spotless name. 
 
 Nor heed the trampled flowers along thy way ? 
 Nay, courage heart ! pursue thy hope, thy aim ; 
 Not vainly seeks the mind what purely it may frame. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Composed while getting b;vby to sleep. 
 
 How gently sleep comes on thee, baby mine ! 
 With stilly murmurings, like as bees repine ; 
 Upon my bosom thou hast made thy bed, 
 As conscious that a father guards thy head ; 
 One little gape, one gentle, long-drawn breath — 
 Gentle as fragrance breathed from flowers — and then 
 Thy blue eyes close, then half unfold again ; 
 And now they swim away in sleep's soft death, 
 Hidden, like violets, underneath their leaves ; 
 Thy limbs are quiet now, thy breast scarce heaves. 
 I look upon thee till I deeply sigh, 
 And memory's blinding tears suflFuse mine eye, 
 For, looking thus, I think upon the tomb 
 Where my first-born, thy sisters, sleep — and dread 
 thy doom. 
 
 29
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 On a Robin building its nest in the sliot-hole ol' a fragment of a man- 
 of-war that was placed in a summer-house. 
 
 And thus man mars ! and nature thus restores ! 
 
 Working by gentlest love she soothes and saves : 
 How soon the sea-wave drowTis the cannon's roars ! 
 
 How green the grass grows on war's wasted graves ! 
 'Twas a sad relic — shadowing wounds and blood, 
 
 And wanton death upon the savage sea — 
 
 But ill repaid by proudest victory : — 
 And thou dost hide it well ! Robin ! thy brood 
 Shall waken other scenes, and woo the heart 
 
 To the sweet inspiration of the flowers, 
 And the bland lesson nature's works impart : 
 
 And we will deem thy song, at evening's hours, 
 A requiem for the brave who fell afar ; 
 All ! rather learn how love hke thine may crush all 
 war ! 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Shame to the world's great Masters — utter shame — 
 That time and being, thrice a thousand years, 
 
 Have wasted, sunk — yet all things are the same ; 
 War's wounds unbound, unwiped want's bitter tears, 
 And savage lands still groan in vilest fears.
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Sliame to the Priest — he hath not calmed our dread 
 Of the pale monster, making heaven as clear 
 
 And palpable as th' light about his head ; 
 
 And throughout earth all men as brethren dear. 
 
 Shame to the Mass — the many and the strong — • 
 
 That still they bear and suffer basest wrong ; 
 
 Their limbs in chains, their minds in blackest night ; 
 When but one gentlest word of love and fear, 
 
 Would teach their masters where lie truth and might ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " And whatsoever shall befal, to-night 
 
 I'll visit you." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Shakspeare ! unlike the moody sons of rhyme, 
 I name not thy loved name in pompous lays — 
 Only thine own can be thy proper praise. 
 
 In which all hearts, all minds, throughout all time. 
 
 Utter their hope, their fear, their love, hate, crime ! — 
 Enough for me, I can enjoy thy plays. 
 And oft-times, at the close of toilsome days, 
 
 I snatch thee to my heart, and, rapt, sublime, 
 
 Forget in thine the soulless scenes of earth ; 
 
 Whiles now I melt wth grief, now shake with fear. 
 
 Now burst with laughter at thy madcap mirth. 
 Or wipe unseen the slowly trickling tear. 
 
 And feel a proud pre-eminence to be 
 
 In spirit bearing thine community ! 
 
 31
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XLIY, 
 
 As one slow rising from long langiiishment — 
 
 When Hope and Joy, her twin, had well-nigh fled— 
 Lifts, with wan smile, the yet half-drooping head ; 
 
 The heart and pulse with gentlest feelings blent : 
 
 So I, want-worn, and in the town long pent, 
 Feel, as if raised from death, as rapt I thread 
 These blessed pathways, where, around my tread, 
 
 Sweet wild flowers spring, by zephyrs scarcely bent : 
 
 And as the sick eye, with returning light, 
 Seeks its old prospect with untiring gaze. 
 
 And hangs enraptured on the meanest flower; 
 
 Thus, too, with most unutterable delight, 
 I linger mid these not untrodden wavs : — 
 
 Only the weary prize a leisure hour. 
 
 XLV. 
 Composed on tlie Spinney Hills, Leicester. 
 
 Green summer footpath ! dear thy winding track, 
 Skirted with liveried blooms and fragrant flowers : 
 The poor man's outlet to sweet sabbath hours, 
 
 When Nature to her bosom calls him back. 
 
 Stay not his step ! — His heart well-nigh a wreck. 
 From lost communion with congenial powers. 
 Shall find sweet solace from thy birds and bowers. 
 
 32
 
 And breezes, breathing of the new-mown stack. 
 Upon the sward, or where the brook runs by, 
 
 He flmgs him down and cools his fevered brow. 
 And feels kind Nature is a mother dear, 
 Till Hope relumes again his haggard eye, 
 
 As love and plenty smile around, below — 
 That haply these may yet his hearth-stone cheer. 
 
 XL VI, 
 
 " The Poet,— 
 
 He hath th' enjoyment of a flower 
 
 Before its budding." 
 
 Hood. 
 
 Ay, ever thus, while round me, dark and bleak. 
 The March winds blow, I feel upon my cheek 
 
 And at my heart the glow and joy of spring ! 
 
 I care not for those clouds which shade the sky ; 
 Long slips of azure skirt their sable shrouds, 
 
 And here and there the golden sunbeams fly, 
 Piercing with arrowy light the fitful gloom. 
 
 The lark is up — the thrush and blackbird sing, 
 And at my foot the early daisies bloom, 
 
 And deep blue violets 'neath the budding bush : 
 
 The pointed hail may bound — the wild blasts rush ; 
 These are but coursers, bearing far the clouds — 
 Those glittering gems.— O, first sweet glow of Spring, 
 How blest thine influence, brightening everything !
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 Written on my Birth-day. 
 
 Life's Rubicon is passed ! — but, thanks to Heaven ! 
 
 My heart and feelings still are fresh and strong ; 
 
 Still do I love the beautiful and young — 
 Still cling to Nature : morning, noon, and even, 
 And the four seasons, still impart delight. 
 
 If hope or passion lose a single ray, 
 My love and faith grow purer and more bright — 
 
 Glowing for all, and opening endless day ; — 
 Hate for the tyrant — pity for the slave — 
 
 For sorrow, sympathy — for beauty, love ; 
 These urge — inspire — and on my onw^ard way 
 I strew sweet flowers — free words — to soothe or save ; 
 
 That others, following in my steps, may move 
 With strengthened heart, and, "Here he passed," 
 might say. 
 
 XLVIII. — TO LOUIS PHILIPPE. 
 
 Strange blindness, madness — call it what ye will ! 
 To rule by threats, and blows, and meanest guile. 
 When the strong givers of all power, the while, 
 Asked but for justice — bade thee but fulfil 
 Their prayers for freedom ; — Despots lose their skill, 
 Hardened by ancient fraud and customs vile, 
 
 34
 
 And gold, and glory, and the flatterer's smile — 
 For Heaven infatuates whom it stoops to kill. 
 O, fallen for ever ! shall thy fate sufiice 
 
 To teach thy sceptred fellows that all power 
 Springs from the people ; shall crowned heads grow 
 wise. 
 
 And know they reign by sufferance every hour ; 
 Shall the red Rose fade as the Lily dies, 
 
 Or spring anew-^still Freedom's emblem-flower ? 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " Ut vivas, igitur, vigilin." 
 
 As toils the peasant on some home-side plot 
 He would improve and beautify, although 
 It long resist the work of spade and plough, 
 
 And thorns and thistles curse the barren spot ; 
 
 Yet still he strives — all former toil forgot — 
 Until, at length, he sees around him grow 
 Sweet herbs, and plants, and flowers, a goodly show, 
 
 To bless, and eke adorn, his little cot : 
 
 Thus let us labour as we pass along 
 
 In the vast moral field, and on our track 
 
 Sow more than dragons' teeth ; for shall not love. 
 
 And hope, and truth — for ever young and strong — 
 Restore the fallen, and bring the erring back — 
 
 Even as from the waste the trembling dove ?
 
 — ^ 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 L. — TO G. A. M. 
 
 On the composition of the Sonnet. 
 
 'Tis even thus, sole Friend : this little lay, 
 
 Complete in music, structure, phrase severe, 
 
 And filled with thought and meaning pure as clear, 
 Demands the utmost Art and Genius may, 
 Think'st thou the Hand that on their glorious way 
 
 Launched the bright orbs, that, in their wondrous 
 sphere. 
 
 Sing, cherub-hke, too high for mortal ear, 
 Evoked less power to bid the fire-fly play? 
 Myriads of leaves are on the forest trees ; 
 
 Myriads of trees make up the forests wide ; 
 And flowers, and stars, and sky-born melodies 
 
 Innumerable, delight on every side ; 
 Yet may'st thou trace in each — the least of these — 
 
 The power and beauty that o'er all preside. 
 
 LI. 
 
 On being a.sketl whetlier the Pensioners, (ixercising on the Cricket 
 Ground, Leicester, were not firing a "feu dejoie ?" 
 
 " Unfeu dejoie .'" — It is a harrowing sigh, 
 
 Wafted from long-passed fights and fields of blood, 
 When human gore, like Egypt's swelling flood, 
 
 Ran from Nile's banks to Moscow's troubled sky :
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 When shall men scorn war's empty pageantry, 
 And, piercing outward pomp, behold beneath 
 Its myriad victims — crime, and want, and death ? — 
 
 When hear, in these harsh sounds, their master's cry — 
 
 " On, dogs, to slaughter ! war is noble play 
 To us who reap its harvests ripe and red, 
 
 But never mingle in the murderous fray." 
 
 Toiler I — these men, if becked, would strike you dead ; 
 
 Soldier ! — what thanks ? — your lords but shoot and 
 flay ; 
 Christian ! — when shall this mummery be banished? 
 
 LII. 
 
 All night the seraph stars shower down their pearl ; 
 
 For ever shines that firmament of blue ; 
 The morning hours their radiant wings unfurl ; 
 
 The moon brings back her beauty ever new : 
 
 Bursts the young year in many a tone and hue 
 Of bud and blossom — sweet as from all time ; 
 Rushes the river — hangs the rock sublime ; 
 
 The little daisy freshly drinks the dew : 
 Yea, all tliina;s glow with beino; — live the life 
 
 As first created — all rush forth to share 
 The eternal now — to all with rapture rife : 
 
 But Man, the dupe of crime, and craft, and care, 
 Defrauds himself of Heaven's free gifts, to be 
 The slave of custom, rule, and rotten theory. 
 
 37 
 
 431304
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 LIII. — NUTTING TIME. 
 
 " The woods, the woods !" from out the soft bkie sky 
 A voice seems whispering, " To the woods, away !" 
 Perhaps the Robin's sudden autumn lay, 
 
 Or leafy murmurs on the breeze borne b}^— 
 
 Like half-remembered words of Poesy — 
 Awake the rural longing. — Round me play 
 Sweet dreams of childhood, when I'd filch a day 
 
 In Nutting-time, and to the green wood hie ; 
 
 Again the bearded nuts are on the spray, 
 
 And truant thoughts and feelings thither fly : 
 
 'Tis calm and gentle as a noon in May ; 
 
 The sun is shining, as 't were God's own eye : 
 
 Who can resist ? — ere Autumn's clouds grow gray, 
 The clustered boughs we'll bend, and give the noon 
 to joy. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 On seeing groups of Children playing in the dark alleys iu London. 
 
 Poor little Alchy mists ! how do ye strive 
 To ga,ther honej^ from the unyielding dust ; 
 
 Dried leaves and withered flowers surround your hive, 
 Still circumscribed by many a heartless thrust 
 
 Of thoughtless passers-by ; yet, reckless, there. 
 
 Though shut from sunny light and purer air,
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 With never glossy locks, and sunken e'e, 
 
 Ye seem as happy as the young should be. 
 Oh ! could ye, with our infant villagers, 
 
 Range the fresh meadows, by the blue-eyed streams, 
 And gaze upon the skies, when morning stirs 
 
 In light and music, or, on twilight's gleams, 
 That wake the night-bird's song — and none but hers — 
 
 How would your bosoms bound with rapture's 
 dearest dreams ! 
 
 LV. 
 
 " Home-sickness." 
 
 Home-sick, my heart ! already crav'st thou home ? 
 Already home ! — it is a weary time — 
 And through the air, like morning's golden chime, 
 
 I hear sweet voices, whispering " Come, oh, come ! 
 
 Dear Partner — Parent — while your footsteps roam 
 Our hearth is sad !" — and then, around, five faces, 
 Beckon me, smiling, to their fond embraces. 
 
 With love that yet no guile may fill with gloom : 
 Three have their eyes deep dipt in summer's blue, 
 
 And two make darkness visible and bright. 
 
 And round their brows, as beams the western sk}'^, 
 Hang glittering locks ; and over all the view 
 
 Peeps a white bosom, where my head might lie 
 
 In gentlest dreams ; — Loved ones, I come, to-night ! 
 
 39
 
 LVI, 
 
 " It is the lark." 
 
 Oft-times when I have long imprisoned been 
 In my dull rounds within the noisy town, 
 Where sights and sounds unnatural slowly drown 
 
 The mind, and many a gentle thought, I ween ; 
 
 Deep in the heart of that unlovely scene, 
 
 Far from sweet flowers, and fields, and vale, and down, 
 From bounding wave, glad river, forest brown. 
 
 And heaven's pure blue, and earth's soul-soothing 
 green, — 
 
 There, mid lone rural longings, I have heard 
 The Lark, fresh bursting on my eye and ear, 
 
 As palpable and joyous as the bird 
 
 In his own fields, — and as the mariner 
 
 Sees, in the mid-sea-wave, the kindling sward. 
 The tree, the cot — so rise these visions dear. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Suggested by reading Emerson's " Nature." 
 
 Ye seraph Stars ! if your soul-piercing rays 
 That nightly shine, to tell us of the home 
 Of spirits, angels, God — did only come 
 Once in a thousand years to fill our gaze, 
 How should we turn in reverent amaze,
 
 And scan tlie glories of your heavenly dome ! 
 
 How mark your white beams, like to sparkling foam, 
 Break on the ocean of that long night's haze ! 
 But as it is — so oft your dawnings rise, 
 
 And so profuse are Nature's wondrous powers, 
 Shewing God's might and our eternity, 
 That we look on ye with most leaden eyes, 
 
 Nor heed the miracles of bursting flowers, 
 Nor Nature's supernatural wonders see. 
 
 LVIII. — THE IVY. 
 
 A Sonnet, by Thos. Doubledav, Esq. 
 (From the " Literary Souvenir," lor 1827.) 
 
 Metiiinks I hate the Ivy ; for it clings 
 Not in affection. Like the parasite. 
 Its close embrace brings but a surer blight : 
 Death lurks amid the intertwisted strings. 
 And round about its treacherous arms it flings — 
 As Delilah the unsuspecting might 
 Of Samson. Ay: and say it mocks the sight 
 With specious greenness, when the winter brings 
 Its withering breath o'er all the world beside ; 
 
 Then least of all the Ivy pleaseth me, 
 Despite its seeming. 'Tis still Envy's way, 
 
 Smilino; the desolation round to see, 
 When others droop, to wax in double pride, 
 And only in their fruitage find decay ! 
 
 41
 
 THE IVY. 
 
 Contrast to the foregoing. 
 
 I LOVE the aye-green Ivy ; for it creeps 
 
 As if in pity up the rain gray, 
 
 To give it grace and beautify decay ; 
 Smihng, like Hope, when all beside it weeps : 
 And as Affection fondly throws its arms 
 
 Around the dying, thus its leafy folds 
 
 Embrace the pile, and thus its finger holds 
 What else would waste or totter to the storm. 
 And then, in Winter, when the blade and flower 
 
 Have lost their hues and fragrance, and the world, 
 Shorn of its beauty, feels his withering power, 
 
 The Ivy still, like Hope's bright flag unfurled, 
 Looks beautiful — its green leaves whispering. 
 To the chill blast, of sunshine and of spring !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 M^^Mmtmm tMrnm^ 
 
 STANZAS TO 
 
 It matters not what voice hath sung, 
 
 Or who the Age may lead ; 
 So Truth and Nature urge thy tongue, 
 
 Thou must and wilt succeed. 
 
 "Want themes to sing"? — while Man, the same, 
 
 And Woman still is found, 
 And wealth is worth, and want is shame. 
 
 And might, not right, is crowned ? 
 
 Is not a flower always a flower, 
 
 And truth for ever truth ? 
 The shark, corruption, follows power — 
 
 Beauty still maddens youth. 
 
 45
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Tliinkst thou the lark that shall be heard 
 When Spring unfolds the lea, 
 
 Because we listened last year's bird, 
 Less beautifol will be ? 
 
 'Tis Nature bids her minstrel sing — 
 
 Hence every note is dear ; 
 And if her finger tune thv strin" 
 
 Who hath an ear shall hear ! 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 O, BEAUTIFUL SPRING ! thou art come again, 
 And all things speak of thy milder reign ; 
 The primrose looks out from the sunny view, 
 And the violet there hangs its bells of blue, 
 As if they had caught from the clearer sky 
 The first bright tints of its summer dye, — 
 To seal the dear feelings and hopes that come 
 When Nature wakes up from its winter-tomb. 
 O, beautifiil Spring ! thou hast thrown again 
 Wreaths round the tree — flowers on the plain ; 
 And those northern gems that bloom everywhere. 
 On mountain, on vale, and in desert bare, 
 Sweet daisies, Earth's stars, all around thee rise. 
 Till the smooth sward glows like the midnight skies ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 
 
 The many-toned leaves of tlie forest trees 
 
 Are whispering again their low melodies, 
 
 Like those sweet harps the winds play upon, 
 
 Awakening dear feelings with every tone : 
 
 The streamlet more brightly leaps on its track. 
 
 And the lake, like the heaven it images back. 
 
 Is gentle and clear, — across it are heard 
 
 The notes of the cuckoo, that merry gay bird. 
 
 The prophet of Spring — he is ever there 
 
 Where the flowers are blowing and the skies are fair. 
 
 O, beautiful Spring ! a hundred harps have wreathed 
 
 Their garlands for thee — a hundred lips have breathed 
 
 Praise to thy name — and still shall breathe and twine — 
 
 For all sweet colours, and scents, and sounds are thine ; 
 
 Flowers of a thousand hues, that every hour 
 
 Grow sweeter and lovelier — and breeze and shower 
 
 That deepen thy green, and the sunny blue, 
 
 The vesture of earth and heaven, that to the view 
 
 Looks brighter the more we gaze — and thy voice 
 
 Is whispering from streamlet and bird, " Rejoice !" 
 
 O, beautiful Spring ! by thee is given 
 
 The beauty of earth and the glory of heaven ; 
 
 How rich are the beams of thy morning ray, 
 
 And thy twilight blushes, how richer than they ! 
 
 And still added charms the green earth displays, 
 
 Like a beautiful maiden, the longer we gaze. 
 
 The yellow laburnum unfolds on high 
 
 Her golden banner — thine ensignry ; 
 
 The butterfly, like a winged flower, sports on — 
 
 47
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Or has the breeze shook the pea-blossom down ? 
 
 A hundred insects are on the wing, 
 
 And soothe us with pleasant murmuring, 
 
 As cheerly they play through the jocund hours, 
 
 Like living sun-beams amid the flowers ; 
 
 The swift is out on his tireless flight — 
 
 That living arrow— from morninir till night 
 
 He is on the wing, and his merry shrill cry 
 
 Is heard as he shoots the old ruin by ; 
 
 The king of the flowers, the bee, is flying 
 
 From blossom to blossom, as if he were trying 
 
 To number their host— he hums on in haste, 
 
 As day were too short all their sweets to taste. 
 
 O, beautiful Spring ! it is sweet to be 
 
 In the green fresh field — ^'neath the sunny tree, 
 
 And read in the flower and the sparkling brook 
 
 Sweet morals, like those in a poet's book ; 
 
 To mark how thy morning beams are spread 
 
 In glor3^-wreaths round the mountain's head ; 
 
 And how, when the sun flings his warmer beam. 
 
 All beings look up, and rejoice with him ! 
 
 And at eve when he sinks, not to night away. 
 
 But to bless other worlds with his living ray, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hope from the thoughts that rise 
 
 From this passing scene — one that never dies ; 
 
 To feel, from the bliss which Earth's scenes supply, 
 
 The pledge of a bright Immortality !
 
 STANZAS 
 
 On hearing that John Clare was confined in a Lunatic Asylum. 
 
 Ah me ! it is a fearful thought, that they 
 
 Whom Nature fashions in a finer mould, 
 Tempering with fire of heaven the mortal clay, 
 
 Should soonest feel their inmost hopes grow cold ! 
 
 Wherefore should Love or Beauty e'er unfold 
 Diviner charms, if but to fade away ? 
 
 And Fame and Glory loose their witching hold, — 
 While on the eye, once bright with Rapture's ray, 
 Darkness comes deeply down, like thunder-clouds on 
 day? 
 
 The worldling laughs — the libertine looks gay — 
 The wealth-amasser feels nor doubt nor care^ — 
 
 The sleek voluptuary enjoys to-day. 
 
 Heedless if morn should bring him foul or fair — 
 The selfish, too, hath seldom found despair ; 
 
 But they whose works make life not all in vain — 
 Who show how lovely Truth and Beauty are — 
 
 They droop, they wither ; — witness Bloomfield's pain. 
 
 Burns' utter listlessness, and Byron's burning brain ! 
 
 As some sweet instrument, too sharply strung, 
 
 More brilliantly awhile may haply sound, 
 But sooner snaps each cord thus over-wrung ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And thus the high-toned tender mind is found : 
 It looks on earth as viewing heavenly ground, 
 Till Love, and Hope, and Fear — yea, every sense — 
 
 Becomes a passion^ — -but to be consumed 
 By its own feelings, they are so intense, 
 And life can yield at last so little recompense. 
 
 " And thou ! hast thou too felt the barbed dart — 
 
 Have the mean sneered, and little great ones 
 frowned, 
 While the ' cold iron' entered in thy heart, 
 
 Fixing within ' th' immedicable wound ' ? 
 
 The madman's senseless mutterings — must they 
 sound 
 In lieu of thy wild wood-notes ? — must the dreams 
 
 Of frenzy fill thy mind ; and rolling round 
 On empty space, thine eye, with leaden gleams. 
 Behold no glory there, nor aught that lit its beams ? 
 
 " Could thy so innocent pleasures fade away. 
 And Nature lose her freshness and her power ? 
 
 The break of morn, the tmlight's lingering ray, 
 The blackbird quiring at the evening hour, 
 The seraph-shapen cloud, the simple flower, 
 
 The squirrel jumping from the old oak tree — 
 
 Scared by the shepherd sheltering from the shower; 
 
 These were thy sinless joys, and could they be 
 
 Less lovely in thine eyes ? — Then what remains for 
 thee ? " 
 
 50
 
 Let not the maniac's wail, the madman's cry, 
 
 The idiot's senseless moan, or shriek of fear. 
 Vex his tuned ear with sinless blasphemy ; 
 
 For that indeed were frenzy should he hear. 
 
 Let Nature soothe him — she is ever dear — 
 And lull him with her voice of melody, — 
 
 Recal the smile of Hope, and Rapture's tear, 
 And those loved scenes that to his heart and eye 
 Brought Eden back to earth, and sweetest Poesy. 
 
 Oh ! lead him forth around his native home, 
 
 When Spring returns to woo the blushing earth ; 
 When the bee leaves the hive with merry hum. 
 
 And the gay cuckoo fills the vale with mirth ; 
 
 AVhen blooms the whitening thorn ; when from the 
 hearth 
 Go happy groups to gather all the flowers ; 
 
 When snowy lambs are bounding o'er the turf, 
 And pebbly waters flow mid rural bowers 
 That catch the morn's first beams, and eve's last lin- 
 gering hours. 
 
 Lead him, reposing on some gentle arm. 
 
 Where the green corn-fields wave beneath the 
 eye, 
 
 ( And the calm heavens, with spirit-soothing charm, 
 ) Unfold above their blue immensity ; 
 
 ) And let him breathe the new hay's fragrancy.
 
 And list awhile the mower's jocund lay, 
 
 And sweet lark singing in the summer sky, 
 Until the " rural Muse" wake memory, 
 And make a holy " sabbath of each common day." 
 
 But if in vain her voice — if never more 
 
 His ear may listen Nature's minstrelsy — 
 The robin's "tootle" at the cottage door, 
 
 Or wild thrush warbling from the budding tree ; 
 
 If Spring's enlivening green unmoved he see, 
 K Summer's soft blue sky bring no delight, 
 
 If Autumn's yellow leaf no sympathy, 
 If Friendship's name no blessing — Love no light, — 
 If, blank mid all, he look like Winter's gloomy night- 
 Then lay him down upon his grassy bed, 
 
 In silence evermore to rest — to sleep ; 
 And his loved flowers shall blossom round his head. 
 
 And the gray swallow o'er his slumber sweep. 
 
 While the long sabbath of the tomb he keep ; 
 Until again he ope his kindling eye. 
 
 And from that rest, at length refreshed, he leap, 
 To seize once more his harp with rapture high, 
 And swell the joyful songs that fill eternity ! 
 
 52
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Supposed to be spoken by a Sister, on planting Violets on ber Brother's 
 
 Grave. 
 
 " I know the language of the flowers, 
 
 And love to hear them grieve ; 
 When crimsoning to the eye of morn, 
 
 Or drooping to the eve." 
 
 RuFus Dawes. 
 
 Dear Brother ! on thy grave I kneel, 
 To plant sweet flowers I brought from far ; 
 
 Their simple beauty shall reveal 
 What ever now my feelings are. 
 
 Dear Brother ! they shall shed around 
 Undying memory, sweetness, grace ; 
 
 I would not that a weed be found 
 Upon thy last long resting-place. 
 
 Dear Brother ! as they blossom here, 
 
 In native hues as on the wild, 
 Me thinks they make the tomb less drear, 
 
 And soothe thy spirit, bland and mild. 
 
 Dear Brother ! may no rude hand bear 
 The living garland from thy head ; 
 
 I'll nurse the flowers with many a tear, 
 When none beside approach thy bed. 
 
 53
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Dear Brother ! this shall be a spot 
 For sacred, holiest sympathy ; 
 
 To make the Past be unforgot, 
 And ope the Future to the sky. 
 
 Dear Brother ! if, as says the heart, 
 
 Blest spirits seek their once loved home, 
 
 Oh, when the day's last beams depart. 
 Oft let me feel thee at thy tomb. 
 
 Dear Brother ! shall I never see 
 
 Thy form, nor hear thy voice again ? 
 
 Must hope be turned to memory, 
 And only memory now remain ? 
 
 Dear Brother ! oft at silent eve 
 
 To thy lone rest my steps shall turn ; 
 
 And never purer love might grieve, 
 And never dearer filled the urn. 
 
 And, Brother ! through the deep blue night 
 My dewy flowers shall weep thy doom ; 
 
 And rise each morn in beauty bright, 
 To show how Faith may bless the tomb ! 
 
 Sleep, Brother ! in thy silent bed — 
 
 Not lost, but only gone before ; 
 Blow, gentle flowers, around his head, 
 I And conquer Death with Beauty's power ! 
 
 54
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 
 
 SPRING BIRDS. 
 
 " 'Tis wise to let the touch of Nature thrill 
 Through the lull heart." 
 
 Howitt's " Forest Minstrel." 
 
 They are come ! they are come ! from a far-off sky, 
 With life in their motion, and joy in their cry; 
 And the space above, that was void and dull. 
 Is peopled and gay with the beautifal ; 
 And the heart leaps up, and the pulses fly, 
 As on buoyant wing they first hurry by. 
 
 Now they sweep along o'er the kindling earth, 
 
 To see if the vnld flowers are coming forth ; 
 
 And the daisy hath opened its pearly mouth. 
 
 To drink up the dews of the golden south ; 
 
 And the wind-flower and cowslip are turning to May, 
 
 And the primrose and violet are passing away. 
 
 Hark, the Cuckoo ! he speaks from the heart of the 
 
 vale — 
 Like an echo of music borne far on the gale ; 
 And the lark is come back to his favorite tree, 
 And the white-throat is singing — how happy is he ! 
 For the heavens have opened their gateway of blue. 
 And the seraphim Hope and delight circle through.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 O, sweet is the promise of Spring's early hours ! 
 Her buds have more beauty than all Summer's flowers; 
 The wheat-ear, when greenly it waves on the view, 
 In glory surpasseth its last yellow hue ; 
 And when was the depth of the sunshine so bright, 
 As the soft liquid hues of an April twilight ? 
 
 They are come ! they are come ! and bring joy in 
 
 their flight, 
 And the " green weather" fills every sense with delight; 
 The bee is abroad, mid the sloe-blossoms flying. 
 And city-bound groups to the woodlands are hieing ; 
 And the feelings renewed break in accents of bliss, 
 " Oh, never was Spring half so lovely as this ! " 
 
 "HORA SOMNI." 
 
 Oh ! gently comes the twilight hour, 
 And gently Sleep comes on thee ; 
 
 Bringing, as breezes to the flower, 
 Its sweetest balm upon thee. 
 
 Thy little tones have died away, 
 Like home-bee humming lowly ; 
 
 And, as sweet flowers at fall of day, 
 Thy blue eyes close — how slowly !
 
 Tliou seem'st like marble cherub now, 
 
 Above some altar holy ; 
 Too pure to die, yet slumbering low, 
 
 In death-like silence wholly. 
 
 I ne'er can see thee turn thy face 
 To sleep, without a shiver — 
 
 It so reminds me of the place. 
 Where some are sleeping ever. 
 
 How like to death ! — calm, silent, fair, 
 Yet senseless, thou art lying ; 
 
 Pain, hatred, anguish, I could bear. 
 But not my baby dying. 
 
 The tired wing, and the weary head, 
 Now seek sweet rest from sorrow ; 
 
 And gladly in thy little bed 
 I lay thee — wake to-morrow ! 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 O, SWEET was the time when I first felt the beauty 
 
 Of Nature rush over my heart ; 
 When the field and wild flowers, and soft winding river, 
 
 Would call from my fellows apart !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 How sweet in the depth of the wild wood to wander, 
 
 And feel a new sense of delicjht : 
 How buoyant the breezes that woke up the morning — 
 
 How soothing the yellow twilight. 
 
 I roamed on thy far southern shores, lovely Island ! 
 
 And dear was each new-coming spring ; 
 I sat at the door of our cot in the twilight. 
 
 To hear the sweet nightingale sing. 
 Though language had brought no expression to feeling, 
 
 Yet Nature to me was divine ; 
 She awoke in my bosom the thrill of devotion 
 
 And beauty, no words may define. 
 
 Through the copse, half afi'aid, I would steal in the 
 summer, 
 
 The pathway deep shaded with trees ; 
 And the quiet green gloom, it enchanted my spirit. 
 
 And soothed with its wild minstrelsies. 
 I pulled down the woodbine, and rose from the briar, 
 
 In the triumph of rapture sincere ; 
 And gazed on the sunset that reached into heaven, 
 
 And saw it depart with a tear. 
 
 Then the slow reeded sluice I would trace o'er the 
 common, 
 
 And make its small minnows my prey ; 
 Or watch the sweet lark till it passed from my vision, 
 
 And then from my hearing, away. 
 
 08
 
 What eager delight would arise in my bosom, 
 To mark the wild things stirring round, — 
 
 The gay jumping squirrel, the fox, and the pheasant, 
 Or deer springing by with a bound. 
 
 Then I strayed by the river where drooped the gray 
 willow, 
 
 And silver trouts leaped from the stream ; 
 Or breathless with awe climbed the old chancel window, 
 
 Where the dead slept sans sorrow or dream. 
 The swift caught my view round the ivied tower 
 screaming. 
 
 Or bat with the first peeping star : 
 The long summer noon was too short for my pastime, 
 
 Still lingering with Nature afar. 
 
 The ocean-voiced tempest awoke a deep feeling, 
 
 As the thunder-bolts toppled from heaven. 
 And the diamond hail bounded like golden grain flying, 
 
 By the strokes of the sturdy flail driven. 
 What a nameless delight I have felt in the forest, 
 
 When the winds made the ancient oak sigh ; 
 Like a choms of spirits to me seemed their voices. 
 
 And I mingled my own with wild joy. 
 
 The ruin, slow mouldering in simshine and shower, 
 With awe my lone footsteps would stay ; 
 
 The snake mid the fragments lay coiled like a necklace. 
 The owl in the ivy grew gray.
 
 Then I mused on the days when the brave and the 
 lovely 
 Dwelt there, in their manhood and bloom, 
 Till startled from thought by some knell slowly 
 booming, 
 Or fox barking low mid the gloom. 
 
 And still with the ardour of cliildhood I cherish 
 
 The love of sweet Nature and Truth, 
 And sigh — but in vain — ^for the leisure of childhood 
 
 To roam mid the scenes of my youth. 
 Still they live in my mind — the green copse and the 
 river. 
 
 The low-steepled church and white mill ; 
 And still at my hearth I CDJoy them in fancy, 
 
 If not as I wish, at my will. 
 
 THE REMEMBERED AIR. 
 
 " And slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
 Aside lor ever : — it may be a sound — 
 A tone of music." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 O, TOUCH no more that sweet sad air — • 
 
 Its sweetness now is gone ; 
 Its sadness — deepened to despair — 
 
 Assumes a fearful tone.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 I cannot bear those notes again, 
 
 They tell too sad a doom ; 
 The lips that sang me once that strain, 
 
 Are silent in the tomb. 
 
 It was the first time that I stood 
 
 A mourner o'er the grave ; 
 I felt I then was flesh and blood — 
 
 Mortality's poor slave. 
 The day-dreams that amuse and please. 
 
 And cheat, like some fond spell. 
 Are they indeed realities ? — 
 
 The Dead can answer well. 
 
 We walked abroad — there .was no gloom 
 
 On flower, or tree, or sky ; 
 Who then mi^ht fjuess earth held a tomb. 
 
 Or human hearts a sigh ? 
 A leaf will fall in summer time, 
 
 Though nothing shake the bough ; 
 Some secret power will sap its prime — 
 
 And thou art sleeping now. 
 
 The grass we trod on yesterday. 
 
 With dewy daisies bright, 
 To watch our rosy child at play, 
 
 Now wraps thee firom our sight : 
 
 61
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And she Avill often lisp thy name 
 
 Amid her heartless glee, 
 That, swifter than the kindling flame, 
 
 Brings back our thoughts to thee. 
 
 Those notes recal the banished scene 
 
 Enjoyed, loved one, Avith thee. 
 And tell us all that once hath been. 
 
 And all that may not be ; 
 And forms so palpable flit round, 
 
 Such voice-like tones we hear. 
 That saw Ave not thy '■ narrow mound," 
 
 We still had deemed thee near. 
 
 Ah ! sing no more — why wake the Past ? 
 
 Its joys were rainbowed stoniis ; 
 Why love we joys that may not last — 
 
 The dead as living forms ? 
 Yet, wherefore not ? — no thought, no word, 
 
 No hope, no memory, 
 But bids us all thy love record, 
 
 But tells our love for thee. 
 
 Then sing again — and that SAveet air 
 Shall be my heart's fond spell, 
 
 To charm its sadness from despair, 
 When SorroAv's fountains swell : 
 
 -^ 
 
 62
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And I will deem its tuneful breath — 
 Erewhile so dear to me — 
 
 As from the dead, and conquer death 
 With more than memory. 
 
 MAY-SIGNS. 
 
 When clustered primroses look gay, 
 
 And twinkling wind-flowers star the woods, 
 And violets, on each sheltered way. 
 
 Unfold their sweet and azure buds ; 
 When daisies, leaning head to head, 
 
 Sheet o'er the pasture in a day. 
 And cowslips tremble round the tread — 
 
 Oh ! then begins the gentle May ! 
 
 When silvery blossoms wreathe the thorn, 
 
 Far thicker than its early leaves. 
 And listening hares steal mid the corn, 
 
 And bats come darkling from the eaves ; 
 When far, where earth seems touching heaven, 
 
 A bright light lingers after day. 
 Oh ! deem it as a pathway given 
 
 To lead us back the gentle May.
 
 When far o'er hill and sunny sea 
 
 The swallow on swift wing comes hack, 
 And from the green wood suddenly 
 
 The cuckoo shouts upon your track ; 
 When screaming, as for very joy, 
 
 The swift pursues his devious way. 
 And the quaint crake 'gins his employ — 
 
 Oh ! then it is the gentle May. 
 
 When pink-eyed peach-flowers are decayed, 
 
 And plum-trees cast their early bloom, 
 And milk-white cherry-blossoms fade — 
 
 Giving the evening air perftime ; 
 When blushing apple-trees look red — 
 
 Like beauty'^ cheek or opening day, — 
 Oh ! then, in triumph garlanded. 
 
 Around you smiles the merry May. 
 
 When wall-flowers scent the dewy air, 
 
 And tulips catch heaven's purest light ; 
 When wood, and field, and everywhere 
 
 Grows sweet to sense and fair to sight ; 
 When hawthorn buds are silvering through, 
 
 Bending with starry bloom each spray. 
 And speedwell opes its eyes of blue — 
 
 Oh ! then it is the full-blown May.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 
 
 THE " PARTING AT THE BROOK." 
 
 " My Mary ! my dearest ! 
 
 My feelings thou knowest ; 
 Thy loved form still nearest, 
 
 Wherever thou goest. 
 There needs no expression 
 
 Of feelings like ours, 
 Too blest in our passion 
 
 To forget its first hours. 
 How toiled we together 
 
 In sun-li«'ht and ffloaming. 
 Mid corn-head and heather, 
 
 And brook's furious foaming ! 
 The fields we were reaping, 
 
 Seemed radiant in glory, — 
 Still near to thee keeping, 
 
 With some gentle story. 
 And when eve was coming — 
 
 That came and went fleetly, 
 How blest was our roaming 
 
 In secret — stol'n sweetly ! 
 'Tis past ! — the spring swallow 
 
 Hath bidden good morrow ; 
 And thou too must follow. 
 
 And leave me to sorrow. 
 The leaf's in the yellow, 
 
 The plough in the fiirrow ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Our hearts are not fallow, 
 
 And love Hope shall borrow. 
 No vow shall be spoken — 
 
 No oath of vain folly ; 
 Be this our sole token — 
 
 This book* ever holy. 
 Its truths cannot perish — 
 
 Its hopes are Elysian ; 
 Thus the passion I cherish — 
 
 Thus bright is its vision. 
 Once more to the mountain, 
 
 Though winter grow dimmer ; 
 Then back, like its fountain, 
 
 When comes the sweet ' simmer. 
 Farewell ! — must we sever ? 
 
 One blessing — another" — 
 They parted, and never 
 
 Again saw each other. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 It was the Sabbath, and the twilight hour, 
 And calm and beauty filled the soft blue sky, 
 
 As it would woo, with a celestial power, 
 
 The soul from sadness, and from tears the eye, 
 
 * It is scarcely necessary to say, that tlje " Keepsal;e" which Burns 
 gave his " Higliland Mary" was a Bible.
 
 And fill the heart with tenderest sympathy. 
 I traced the spot where lie the silent dead, 
 
 And, in that calm and deep serenity. 
 Felt half to reconcile me to the bed 
 Where all at length must lie with an unaching head. 
 
 And, as I pondered, wonder and surprise 
 Subdued my mind, to mark how many lay 
 
 In earliest childhood ; — drops at morning's rise, 
 Or stars that pave with light the eternal way. 
 Are not more thickly strewn, than round me they — 
 
 The span-long tombs, where little infants slept : 
 It was a grief to think that pale decay 
 
 So many early blooms away had swept. 
 
 That scarce looked forth on life ere they to darkness 
 crept. 
 
 But as I mused a still small voice arose — 
 In music such as angels make — and near 
 
 A band of infant cherubs, bright as glows 
 The sunset cloud, thus chanted in mine ear : 
 " We pass from earth ere guilt and grief appear, 
 
 Or love and passion weave their subtle ties. 
 Around the Almighty's throne for aye to veer. 
 
 And pluck the sweetest flowers of Paradise — 
 
 Unstained, unsoiled on earth, hence happiest in the 
 skies." 

 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written under some pencil marks on a slate. 
 
 Wipe not these shapeless lines away — 
 Thou may'st not haply heed them ; 
 
 To me they sweetest thoughts convey. 
 As oft I sit to read them. 
 
 The little hand that traced them o'er 
 In childhood's mere vagary, 
 
 Can hold the pencil now no more, — 
 She's dead — my own pet fairy ! 
 
 And now not sweetest poesy 
 
 Can breathe such loved revealings ; 
 
 They are a talisman to me, 
 
 To wake past forms and feelings. 
 
 I see her, small and beautiful, 
 As when around me playing ; 
 
 Her eyes, like violets, dewy, full — 
 Her hair like sunbeams straying ; — 
 
 Her tiny laugh — her shout of joy — 
 Her mirth my care beguiling — 
 
 That might an angel's self employ. 
 Or set an angel smiling.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And then I think — and is this all 
 That of my babe remain eth — 
 
 This frail, this evanescent scrawl — 
 That thought nor word containeth ? 
 
 The light curve of some passing wave, 
 The glow-worm's tiny glory — 
 
 Though they may not such beauty have, 
 Are scarce more transitory. 
 
 Yet linked to memories ever dear, 
 
 To hopes unquenched, unfailing — 
 And might I but transfer them here, 
 
 O'er time and death prevailing 
 
 I 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Supposed to be spoken by the Spirit of Napoleon from his tomb. 
 
 Cease, lone waller, 
 
 Vain thy song ; 
 Cease, proud railer, 
 
 Thou art wrong. 
 If Ambition 
 
 Fired my mind, 
 'Twas perdition 
 
 To the blind. 
 
 69
 
 If my action 
 
 Brought but death, 
 Did not faction 
 
 Stop its breath ? 
 If my glory 
 
 Streamed with blood, 
 Was it gory 
 
 But for good ? 
 Th' Eagle swooping, 
 
 Pounced its prey ; 
 Despots, drooping. 
 
 Felt my sway. 
 Did I falter 
 
 When Fame spoke ? 
 W here's the altar 
 
 That I broke. 
 But its mission 
 
 Gave for faith 
 Superstition, 
 
 Torture, death? 
 Now I slumber 
 
 Mid the waves, 
 Can ye number 
 
 Less of slaves ? 
 Does Ambition 
 
 Lower his crest ? 
 Is Sedition 
 
 Lulled to rest ? 
 Now my spirit 
 
 70
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Slumbers here, 
 Who inherit 
 
 Earth's wide sphere ? 
 Think' st thou battle 
 
 Shall no more 
 Urge its rattle — 
 
 Shed its gore ? 
 By the slavery 
 
 Of the hour — 
 By the knavery 
 
 Of all power — 
 By my pillow 
 
 On the wave — 
 By the billow 
 
 On my grave, — 
 Kings ! I shew you 
 
 Deeds to pass : 
 Death shall mow you 
 
 Down like grass ; 
 Till earth over 
 
 Freedom reign ; 
 Till her red flag cover 
 
 Turf and main. 
 
 71
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 A REMEMBERED FACE. 
 
 'TwAS one of those faces, and one of those forms, 
 
 We meet in life's journey, but never may know ; 
 Yet a memory is left, and a sense of its charms, 
 
 That bear a sweet sadness wherever we go : 
 Like a flash of rich sunshine that suddenly comes. 
 
 To light some dear prospect unnoticed before. 
 And to whisper, amid all its shadows and glooms. 
 
 How lovely were earth, might we meet and adore. 
 
 Such lot is denied us, — and wherefore is given 
 
 A sense of delight we may never enjoy ? 
 Can the mind only image some future bright heaven, 
 
 Above and beyond all of earthly employ ? 
 The flower it comes forth in its far forest home — ■ 
 
 The bird hath its mate in the summer green tree ; 
 But many— how many '.—through life's journey roam. 
 
 With only a glance at what pleasure might be ! 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 She hath laid down her head 
 On her calm quiet bed. 
 In the sleep of the dead, 
 Mid summer's full beauty and light
 
 Her cheek's placid paleness, 
 Her frame's growing frailness, 
 Her spirit's deep stillness, 
 All told of the long silent night. 
 
 We lift our sad eyes 
 To the spirit-lit skies — 
 And earth 'neath us lies 
 
 O'erladen with beauty and bloom : 
 The sweet lark is singing, 
 The wild flower is springing , 
 The gale sweetness bringing — 
 
 Yet sorrow is ours, and the tomb. 
 
 In Life's early dawn, 
 Like dew from the thorn, 
 Or first tint of morn, 
 
 She passed from its threshold away ; 
 The falling star's fleetness. 
 The spring-blossom's sweetness, 
 The wasting snow's whiteness, 
 
 Are types of her early decay. 
 
 We have laid her to rest, 
 With Hope in our breast — 
 Though tears, ill represt, 
 Will steal from the heart's swelling core : 
 
 73
 
 O, Faitli ! kindly given 
 To soothe us, thus riven — 
 Faith, worthy of Heaven, 
 That vehispers, "All meet on eternity's shore. 
 
 A FATHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 When the summer noon sparkling with beauty and 
 
 mirth, 
 Fills the heart with delight, and makes Eden of earth ; 
 When the sweet thrush is singing amid the wild flowers. 
 And merry young children enjoy the bright hours; 
 Then I bend o'er their ashes, and mournfiilty sigh. 
 Mid the beauty of earth, that my children should die. 
 
 When the twilight is fading away in the west, 
 
 And the flowers fold their bells, and the bird seeks its 
 
 nest; 
 When the ewe calls the lamb, and sweet home-feelings 
 
 rise. 
 As repose and serenity steal from the skies ; 
 Then I mounfully sigh as I think of their tomb. 
 And long for my dead — but they never come home. 
 
 When the moon, like a spirit, is brooding on high, 
 And fond thoughts fill the heart, and sweet tear-drops 
 the eye ; 
 
 74
 
 When the pillow of sleep by the weary is prest, 
 And the baby is laid on its mother's calm breast ; 
 Then I sigh o'er their tomb in the silent moonlight — 
 How long ere I leave them ! — and whisper, " Good 
 night." 
 
 When the storms of December beat chilly and loud, 
 And snow-drifts are coiling like many a shroud ; 
 When the hearth-stone is bright as the lire blazes high. 
 And each, as the storm grows, draws nigh and more 
 
 nigh ; 
 Then I mournfully sigh that my children can be 
 In their snow-covered grave, all unmindful of me. 
 
 And what, since I never shall meet them again, 
 What still links their memories in passion's strong 
 
 chain ? — 
 Their names still repeated — their palpable forms 
 Still filling mine eyes, but eluding mine arms — ■ 
 'Tis Nature that whispers re-union at death — ■ 
 'Tis the visioned hereafter — the promise of Faith. 
 
 The Sceptic loud laughs, and the Infidel rails — 
 Let them bend o'er the tomb — there philosophy fails 
 Affection, Love, Hope, bid us turn to the skies — 
 Are the heart's dearest feelings the veriest lies ? 
 No ! — I'll cherish the dream — for it is not in vain — ' 
 My children are blest — I shall see them again !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 I know the greensward hath long covered their head, 
 And the dust claimed its own, and the worm blind 
 
 and red ; 
 But their spirits are winging some happier sphere, 
 Where the rose hath no thorn, and the bosom no fear — 
 Ever growing in beauty and bliss, bright as sure, 
 And the hope of this life is fulfilled and secure. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 The fame 
 That fills the world is thine ; 
 
 Such name 
 I dare not dream as mine. 
 
 Say, thou, 
 The price thou paid'st for this ? 
 
 I know — 
 Loss of all other bliss ! 
 
 The pain 
 That forced fii-om all to sever ; 
 
 Thy brain 
 Burning with thought for ever ; 
 
 Till thou 
 Becam'st a lonely thing. 
 
 Thy brow 
 Scathed with untimely withering ;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Thy mind 
 Lifted — how high ! — above 
 
 Mankind 
 In all things — thought, hope, love. 
 
 But Pride, 
 That seems great as our need. 
 
 When tried 
 Is but a broken reed. 
 
 Thy thought 
 Pierced all — defeat — success — 
 
 That taught, 
 Too soon, life's nothingness. 
 
 This mind 
 Hath, too, a spark of fire : 
 
 Resigned, 
 It shall no more aspire. 
 
 I feel, 
 Alas ! I feel too much. 
 
 And reel 
 Back from the maddening touch. 
 
 'Tis vain, 
 Since we must breathe and hear, 
 
 To aim 
 Beyond our being here !
 
 MY LILACHS. 
 
 On ! break not a branch of my beautiful trees, 
 
 My white and red Hlachs, all fragrance and bloom ; 
 
 How they fling back the light as they wave on the 
 breeze, 
 And pour on eve's dewy gale all their perfume. 
 
 Oh ! break not a branch, for I know every bough — 
 Every pyramid flower, as it nods from on high ; 
 
 How lovely to sit, as I love to sit now. 
 
 And peep through their stirring leaves into the sky. 
 
 Oh ! break not a branch, for I make them my friends — 
 They tell me of time as the seasons steal on ; 
 
 I watch every bud as it greenly unbends, 
 
 Till round me a leaf- woven curtain is drawn. 
 
 I scarcely would bend a wee bough from the form 
 Which Nature had given in her moodiest freak ; 
 
 But mark, in their foldings, the sunshine and storm, 
 And mourn if a branch in the tempest should break. 
 
 I would never maintain that a joy is more dear 
 Because I could boast of possession alone ; 
 
 But look through the street— can you see, far or near, 
 A tree-shadowed door in the heart of the town ? 
 
 78
 
 MISCELLANEOUS FIECES. 
 
 The jessamine, too, with its banner of stars, 
 
 Creeps up and abroad on the warm southern wall ; 
 
 Its flowers in the moonlight, like beautiful spars, 
 Shine twinkling like foam on the gale's waterfall. 
 
 Its dark waving branches around me are curled, 
 As the ringlets that shadow some lovely one's 
 brow ; — 
 
 Sure a spirit of beauty flies over the world, 
 
 To cheer and renew both the bosom and bough ! 
 
 Oh ! break not a branch of my beautifiil trees — 
 Too soon will their glories all wither away ; 
 
 And their yellow leaves eddy round Autumn's chill 
 breeze. 
 And silently speak of the hour of decay. 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 With a branch of the Michaelmas Daisy. 
 
 Loved One ! — this flower of tender blue 
 Was gathered from a lonely spray. 
 
 Where late a thousand blossoms grew — 
 So sweet, how could the}^ die away ? 
 
 But all except this lingering bloom 
 
 Lie dead, or withering to the tomb.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Loved One ! — I send the simple flower — 
 An emblem of my own sad heart ; 
 
 Its joys, like gems of summer hour, 
 Are gone — yet one will not depart, 
 
 But, like this lingering blossom, bless 
 
 What else had been a wilderness. 
 
 Sweet gem of hope — of memory — 
 
 It speaks of passed — of future flowers ; 
 
 So the dear love I bear to thee 
 
 Still looks upon its vanished hours ; 
 
 And as this tells of Spring's fresh bloom, 
 
 Hope points to pleasures yet to come. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 A TEAR will sometimes bliss impart 
 
 To him who flies from pleasure's charms ; 
 The wise man finds it in his heart, 
 
 The warrior in the noise of arms ; 
 The lover owes it to sweet thought ; 
 
 The young girl to her jewelled hair:- — 
 'Tis nowhere, by the vicious sought. 
 
 But to the virtuous, everywhere ! 
 
 80
 
 SARAH THE SUICIDE. 
 
 " Afin que cette application vims foryat ile penser a autre chose." 
 
 " Tins shall not be ! — I will no longer live ! — 
 O God ! take back my spirit and forgive ; 
 Forgive, that blows I can no longer bear, 
 That threats and curses drive me to despair. 
 Have I not toiled with that dead mother's love, 
 To fulfil duties that I dreamt not of? 
 To nurse her babes as 'neatli her watching eyes, 
 That, laid in dust, gaze on us from the skies ? 
 And that dread prayer which breathed alone to me, 
 ' Oh ! I shall sleep in peace if thou wilt be 
 A mother to my babes :' — Have I not striven 
 To seal the compact, as in sight of heaven ? 
 When she was dead — sent to her timeless grave 
 By nameless pangs, imparted by the slave — 
 Her husband and my brother — and his heart 
 Fled from his babes, did I not act my part ? 
 A mother's prayer for them went up each night ; 
 A mother's blessing hailed the opening light ; 
 A mother's eye watched o'er them through the day ; 
 A mother's gentle warning shaped their way ; — 
 Till love, increasing, like a mother's known, 
 Lost in their peace and comfort all mj own. 
 And what my thanks ? — to see life's sweetest hour 
 Pass imenjoyed, like some down-trampled flower ; 
 
 M 81
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 To hear reproaches hurled upon my head, 
 And blame for pity — hate for love repaid ; 
 While pleasures, that are lurongs to me, allure 
 Their steps aside, who should my own secure ; 
 And threats, and blows, and curst ingratitude 
 Oppress my spirit, till life's crashing load 
 I can no longer bear, — Oh ! when I lie 
 Calm in the grave, no more to weep or sigh. 
 Then will ye think upon me — then will prove 
 A sister's friendship and a mother's love 
 Inspired my feelings — then too late will look 
 On the warm bosom that ye harshly strook. 
 And thus to pour affection's tide for ever, 
 With no returning stream, dries up the river ; 
 Joy furls her ^vings, though once as rainbows bright, 
 And hope deferred grows sick and takes her flight ; 
 And kindness, long repulsed, despised, opprest, 
 Turns her sweet milk to wormwood in the breast ; 
 And in the distance, that no eye may see 
 But mine, stands grinning fearful poverty ; 
 And youth's fond friends pass by me with a sneer ; 
 And love deserts me — nothing holds me dear. 
 I see no beauty in the summer vale, 
 I hear no music in the summer gale, 
 I draw no fragrance from the summer's breath ; 
 Life's ties are snapped — my only help is death. 
 Forgive, great God ! — that I must turn my eye 
 From Thy fair earth and beautifiil blue sky : — 
 This wraps me, like a shadowy pall, with gloom. 
 
 i<^~ 
 ^ 
 
 82
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIEOES. 
 
 And that a pathless desert is become. 
 Forgive, great God ! — that I must fling Thee back 
 Thy gift of hfe, and shun its onward track, 
 Where human forms, Hke fiends, deride and sneer. 
 And those who should have loved me fill with fear. 
 Forgive ! — that death, and death's dark scene, can be 
 More dear than all that life now holds for me. 
 Foro-ive !" — But, see ! her hand has grasped the cup — 
 Her wild eye flashes as she drinks it up, 
 Deep to the bottom, in the middle night : — 
 Pale is that flower when comes the morning light. 
 Death works his way— and friends, who deeply love, 
 Rush to her couch, their helplessness to prove ; 
 Death works his way — and those who dug her grave, 
 Would vainly now impart a world to save ; 
 Death works his way — art tries its power in vain. 
 And burning tear-drops flow, to pass like rain ; 
 Death works his way — and now her waning eye 
 Sets in its socket on vacuity, 
 
 And these last breathings from her lips are heard. 
 Like angels' whispers, " Friends, judge not too hard !" 
 Then, as the last hue of the evening sky, 
 Fading, still fading, leaves at length the eye, 
 And all is darkness — so her waning sight 
 Sank in the shadow of the last long niglit. 
 
 Every censure suppressing. 
 
 All her memory caressing, 
 
 O, lay her down gently to rest ! 
 
 ^™
 
 And deeply may slumber 
 Soothe the hours she shall number, 
 While the wild flowers bloom over her breast. 
 
 Not fearful and lonely 
 
 We think on her only, 
 For He who created can tell 
 
 How deep was the sorrow 
 
 That rushed through the morrow, 
 To gaze on the Invisible ! 
 
 O ! deem not that ever 
 
 Poor mortal would sever 
 The ties from this beautifril world, 
 
 Unless wild insanity 
 
 Had made all a vanity. 
 And frenzy the brain overwhirled. 
 
 How know ye her feelings ? 
 
 Have ye read the revealings 
 That called her from all once so dear ? 
 
 If life had grown dreary, 
 
 What made the grave cheery ? 
 Strange whispers that silenced her fear ! 
 
 How dreadftil the vision 
 That could see aught elysian 
 In the horrible home of the grave ; 
 
 84
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Where Death is the fellow 
 That shakes up Sleep's pillow, 
 And his the embrace she will have. 
 
 Think not the heart's duty, 
 
 Or earth's music and beauty, 
 And deep sense of virtue and truth, 
 
 Would have slackened their rein 
 
 Over bosom and brain. 
 Had reason remained, and mild ruth. 
 
 The star that is fleetest, 
 The flower that is sweetest, 
 
 Are ever the first to depart ; 
 
 And hearts that love cherish, 
 Bleed in silence and perish, 
 
 And none prize their worth or desert. 
 
 Earth now is her pillow. 
 
 And the grave's little billow 
 Points out where she holds her deep rest ; 
 
 And the long grass, and clover, 
 
 And daisies, shall cover 
 The greensward that mantles her breast. 
 
 If aught the heart's feelings 
 Unfold true revealings, 
 Or pity and love still survive. 
 
 85
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The robin at even, 
 And sweet spirits from heaven, 
 Shall come when the white stars arrive. 
 
 But when Winter's starkness 
 Brings horror and darkness, 
 
 The night-bird shall prophesy there ; 
 And tell the deep ruin 
 Time heaps on wrong-doing, 
 
 And bids the wrong-doer despair. — 
 
 " The home, whence ye sj)urn me, 
 
 Too quickly shall scorn ye, 
 And give the cold stranger its glee ; 
 
 No more there ye gather, 
 
 Nor your children call, ' Father ;' 
 Fled — menials — and what, Brothers, ye?" 
 
 LYRIC. 
 
 If LoA'^e be sweet and Beauty dear, 
 What matters, though for many a year 
 
 My dark locks mingle with the gray ; 
 Shall I not hide these falling snows 
 With myrtle-wreath and burning rose, 
 
 While genial thoughts and feelings play ? 
 
 86
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Sweet is the lasting power to love — 
 Surviving youth — all change above — 
 
 And endless as our lives can be ; 
 Whether to press our " white swan's neck," 
 Or lean on Friendship's faithful cheek. 
 
 Or kiss the brow of Infancy. 
 
 O, ever may my heart give birth 
 
 To Love, and Hope, and harmless mirth, 
 
 And trust in Man for greater good ; 
 No more we need, in earth or skies, 
 To make the scene a Paradise, 
 
 And men a holy brotherhood. 
 
 VERSES, 
 
 Written untler a " Furget-ine-not." 
 
 Sweet emblem of feeling, 
 
 Dear pledge of the heart, 
 When love is revealing 
 
 More than words can impart. — 
 Thy sky-tinted blossom 
 
 Can picture fall well 
 The hope of the bosom, 
 
 When sighing farewell. 
 
 Sweet Forget-me-not ! 
 
 ^~- 
 
 87
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 
 
 When young hearts must sever, 
 
 And hope's golden ray 
 Is extinguished for ever 
 
 On life's future way ; 
 One thought then may cheer us, 
 
 Through memory's tear, — 
 Thy clustered flowers near us, 
 
 That make the past dear. 
 
 Sweet Forget-me-not! 
 
 Nor only in sorrow 
 
 Love nurtures thy flowers ; 
 Best gift for the morrow, 
 
 For life's brightest hours, — 
 Thou tell'st of the greeting 
 
 When dewy stars come. 
 Of the absent soon meeting. 
 
 Of childhood's dear home. 
 
 Sweet Forget-me-not! 
 
 Ah ! when I am sleeping 
 
 Beneath the green sod, 
 And loved ones are weeping 
 
 That man is a clod ; 
 Thy flowers fondly given 
 
 Shall bloom o'er my head ; 
 And to earth and to heaven 
 
 Shall speak for the dead. 
 
 Sweet Forget-me-not !
 
 It may be weakness, but I deem 
 Them weak who call it so, 
 
 That I should sigh whene'er I see 
 The Speed-well in full blow. 
 
 'Tis not that it hath on the hue 
 It takes from summer skies ; 
 
 Or that its clustered blossoms seem 
 Like fairies' tiny eyes. 
 
 There are a thousand flowers beside, 
 
 In garden and in field, 
 Might well surpass this lonely flower, 
 
 And sweeter perftime yield. 
 
 The violet hath a deeper hue, 
 
 The rose a richer wreath, 
 And the wild-brier, at evening hours. 
 
 Sends forth a sweeter breath. 
 
 But when ive last went forth a-field — 
 
 My little girl and I — 
 To enjoy the blessed scenes, that come 
 
 When June is in the skv
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 We stopped beside the Speed-well flower- 
 (Her eyes like that were blue). 
 
 And then she bade me pluck her one, 
 She was so pleased to view. 
 
 And she is now within the tomb— 
 A stone's throw from our door : 
 
 And I shall hear her baby voice, 
 And see her face no more. 
 
 And, " clustered smiler," when I see 
 Thy spikes of sapphire bloom, 
 
 Her form springs up before my sight— 
 I think upon the tomb. 
 
 The time, the hour, the blessed scene, 
 Comes back with life-like glow ; 
 
 And hence I sigh whene'er I see 
 The Speed-well in full blow. 
 
 How things all lovely in themselves 
 
 A sadness can impart. 
 If linked to former joy or wo 
 
 Within the bleeding heart. 
 
 90
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 THE FAIRIES' CALL. 
 
 Come ! come ! 
 'Tis the Fairies' hour, 
 And our play-tasks now begin ; 
 We must help home the honey-bee to his bower, 
 
 Ere the blue night setteth in : 
 He hath sported so long, mid the woodbine blooms — 
 
 Such a happy reveller he — 
 He hath quite forgotten, when evening comes, 
 How laden his wings will be. 
 
 Come ! come ! 
 Where the violets unclose ; 
 They are fainting for want of dew : 
 And we will catch as we pass, for the opening rose, 
 
 The twilight's last loveliest hue. 
 The jessamines have breathed all their perfomes away, 
 
 And store of fresh sweets we bring 
 From the rainbow* we hung over head to-day, 
 When the tempest was vanishing. 
 
 Come ! come ! 
 For the dewy star 
 Is giving its gentle light, 
 To show where the sweetest of wild flowers are — 
 
 * The ancients believed that the rainbow left behind a " sweet and 
 heavenly odour." 
 
 ^ __.. 
 
 ^ 91
 
 And the sweetest we pluck to-niglit ; 
 We will strew fresh daisies, all tipped with red, 
 
 Where the young bride sleeps too well ; 
 And white violets at morn shall spread 
 
 O'er the infant's span-long cell. 
 
 Come ! come ! 
 For our own queen Moon 
 Peepeth down the forest glen ; 
 And a knight is there, full an hour too soon, 
 Though he knows when tliey meet again : 
 We bear him sweet hopes, and memories 
 
 Of his own immortal fair ; 
 And an image of love shall fill his eyes, 
 Till she come herself — she is nearly there ! 
 
 Come ! come I 
 Earth is now at rest. 
 And the moon-lit waves asleep ; 
 We will dive like sea-birds into their breast, 
 
 Down a thousand fathoms deep : 
 The coral we seek for the nymph's white neck, 
 
 And a comb of pearl for her hair ; 
 And spotted shells, and red gold from the wreck, 
 And sea-flowers ever rare. 
 
 Come ! come ! 
 Through the universe, 
 Wherever we list, we go ; 
 We glide on the sunbeams, and with them pierce 
 
 92
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The rock, and the wave, and the mine below. 
 Ye can tell at morn where we passed at night, 
 
 By the frehness of the dews ; 
 Ye can tell at evening our morning flight, 
 
 By the twilight's lingering hues ! 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 On hearing an Anl'.ieni sung at Hinckley Church, finisliing with the 
 words — " Oh, Grave ! where is thy victory ? Ob, Deatli ! where is 
 th)' sling? " 
 
 And the horrible smiler, Death, replied, 
 
 With a steadfast and eyeless stare, 
 And a conscious sense of his power all-wide, 
 
 Through ocean, and earth, and air ; — 
 " Ye know my victory, mortal race, 
 
 Though ye 'd scorn what ye must endure ; 
 But the little red worm can leave a trace 
 
 That makes it aye firm and sure. 
 
 " Ye can feel my victory at the hearth, 
 
 Where the circle once was bright ; 
 I have closed warm hearts and fond tones of mirth, 
 
 And eyes of spirit-suffiising light. 
 Ye may see it there — ye may feel it there — 
 
 Every parent and child, I wis ; 
 In the broken ring, in th,e vacant chair, 
 
 And the lips ye no more may kiss. 
 
 93
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 " My victory over the couch I spread, 
 
 Where I beat the old gray-beard down ; 
 And pillow beside him the baby's head, 
 
 And the young mothers ravings drown : 
 The strong man proclaims my victory, 
 
 As I waste his flesh away ; 
 And the lip of beauty is blanched and dry, 
 
 When I touch it with pale decay. 
 
 " Ye may witness my conquest in war's mad strife, 
 
 Where the many fools fall for one ; 
 As 1 mow them in masses away from life. 
 
 When the battle is lost and won : 
 My trophies I bear from the field and flood 
 
 Where the slaughtered hosts lie low ; 
 And a crimson halo of vapoured blood 
 
 Is the glory of my brow. 
 
 " The marbles ye rear o'er many a cell, 
 
 To keep loved names from decay ; — 
 Oh ! these are my tropliies that proudly tell 
 
 Of the might of my victory ! 
 The old, and the young, and the beautiful, 
 
 The beggar and sceptred king, 
 In the grave shall slumber cold and dull, 
 
 And the living fear my sting. 
 
 " The youthfiil widow with anguish wild, 
 My victory knows lull well; 
 
 94
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And the parent who mourns for his first-fallen child, 
 
 May feel though he cannot tell. 
 I trample the slave, crush the mitred head, 
 
 And the king's brow pales at mine ; 
 And ever where man may be I tread, 
 
 From the pole to the burning line." 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Nothing is wholly good, 
 Nothing is wholly ill ; 
 
 The honey-bee hath a sting — 
 The wasp hath a honey-cell. 
 
 Nothing will cease to be, 
 Everything must die ; 
 
 Change is for all we see — 
 Tears for the brightest eye. 
 
 Sweet is the summer flower — 
 Lovely the virgin's bloom ; 
 
 Cometh the wintry hour — 
 Cometh the silent tomb.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 WINTER SCENES. 
 
 What a change is wrought in a few swift hours ! 
 
 'Twas summer, 'twas autumn, — and now 
 Where the shy thrush sang, 'mid the woodbine flowers, 
 
 And the wild briar wreathed its bow ; 
 Where the green leaves played in the sunny ray, 
 
 And morn's dewy diamonds hung. 
 And the brooklet leaped on its sparkling way, 
 
 Like a thing with life and tongue : 
 Now all is snow— cold white dazzling snow. 
 
 As earth in her winding-sheet lay ; 
 And the red berries, coated with silver, glow 
 
 Like coral in some foamy bay. 
 The winged ones are come over hill and sea, 
 
 From their desolate northern homes ; 
 The robin returns to the home-side tree, 
 
 To the garden the blackbird comes ? 
 And thick grows the fog as the sun goes down 
 
 At noon to his cloudy bed, 
 And at night it weaves with the rime-frost a crown 
 
 For the blade and the tall tree's head. 
 How changed the scene, as the passing gloom 
 
 Gives its " fairy frost-work " to view ! 
 The tall tree looks like an ostrich plume. 
 
 Every branch is a feather too. 
 The hawthorn is clad in a feathery pall. 
 
 96
 
 And earth shines with the diamond frost ; 
 And the sun he comes forth like a golden ball, 
 
 Through the haze by some giant tossed. 
 Now colder and colder looms the day, 
 
 And colder and colder the night ; 
 And the winds spring up on their viewless way, 
 
 As, gathering all their might, 
 O'er the fields they sweep — through the woods they 
 dash — 
 
 Uptorn lies the shattered tree ; 
 And every limb in the lonely ash 
 
 Seems writhing with fearful agony. 
 The fire it burns with a redder hue, 
 
 As the clear frost crisps the night ; 
 And the deep blue skies are doubly blue, 
 
 And the bright stars doubly bright. 
 And the drift-snow has made up its pillowy beds, 
 
 By the leeward bank and dell, 
 Where the little storm-fiends lay down their heads. 
 
 And laugh at the tempest's yell ! 
 Alas ! for the sick, and the poor, and the old. 
 
 For the wild things in grove and glen : 
 What hand shall protect them from want and cold, 
 
 Till the bright spring comes again ? 
 Have mercy, ye rich, on the old and poor, 
 
 Wlien in pity's tones they call : 
 And the blast shall be tempered on waste and moor. 
 
 By Him who marketh " the sparrow's fall !"
 
 THE OLD PENSIONER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Oh ! evil was the day 
 When in youth I ran away, 
 And sold myself to slay 
 
 For the Judas price of blood ; 
 I left my childhood's home, 
 In many a clime to roam, 
 But there no more to come 
 
 In my childhood's happy mood. 
 
 They whirled my brain with drink, 
 
 And tutored me to think 
 
 That France was hell's own sink, 
 
 And the French made to be shot ; 
 I roared the drunken stave, 
 Of the king or other knave. 
 Till all heroes I could brave — 
 
 Though in truth a worthless sot. 
 
 O, Glory ! was the cry, 
 
 And my boyish blood ran high 
 
 To reach some unknown skv, 
 
 And to cross the foaming waves ; 
 Oh, Christ ! my bosom bleeds 
 When I think on soldiers' deeds, 
 And the wo that soon succeeds, 
 
 And their wounds, and groans, and graves. 
 
 98
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 On Egypt's burning sand, 
 And on red Corunna's strand, 
 And at Waterloo so grand. 
 
 How I mingled in the fray ; 
 It was there I lost a leg, 
 And an eye crushed like an egg — 
 And now I starve and beg, 
 
 Or must dine on parish pay. 
 
 I have sought our village cot, 
 But I long had been forgot — 
 Strangers share the envied lot 
 
 Of my childhood's happy home ; 
 Near the quiet village spire 
 Sleep my mother and my sire, — 
 I wished I could expire 
 
 As I wept upon their tomb. 
 
 And this is Glory's way 
 
 To the veteran blind and gray, • 
 
 Turned adrift on parish pay 
 
 When his strength and hope are gone 
 And now my family, 
 They must pine in poverty, 
 For to toil I cannot see, 
 
 And my days are dark and lone. 
 
 What boots their paltry pelf? 
 Not enough to keep myself.
 
 Though my limbs I gave the Guelph, 
 And my manhood's golden prime ! 
 
 Ye hard unfeeling powers, 
 
 May a ten-fold curse be you^s ; 
 
 Ye have taken life's best hours, 
 And I'm left the wreck of time. 
 
 Ye have robbed me of my youth, 
 Ye have drained my heart of ruth, 
 And I value not the truth, 
 
 For my mind ye brutalized ; 
 The game of lust and blood 
 Hath so drowned the sense of good. 
 That I fear the name of God 
 
 As the past starts undisguised. 
 
 The last word of my tongue, 
 
 It shall warn the thoughtless young — • 
 
 " Never join the soldiei'-throng — 
 
 There is ruin in the deed ; 
 Let your kings, and dukes, and lords. 
 Draw themselves their bloody swords, 
 But, no ! the arrant cowards ! — 
 
 'Tis the commoners must bleed ! 
 
 " By a life of quiet toil, 
 
 By the maiden's blessed smile. 
 
 By her children's many a wile 
 
 Round the cottage hearth at night ;- 
 
 1(10
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 By the frequent simple joy, 
 By the cares that purity, 
 By old age that seeks the sky 
 In religion's holy light ; 
 
 " By the murders, fierce and fell. 
 By the lash, and chain, and cell, 
 By all crimes that people hell. 
 
 Shun the Soldier's wretched fate ; 
 Unless like me you'd mourn 
 O'er life's worse than wasted morn, 
 And an age of want and scorn. 
 
 With small hope at mercy's gate. 
 
 " 'Tis true, to soothe my pride. 
 They hung a medal on my side. 
 But I dash the curse aside 
 
 In the anguish of my heart : — 
 Give me back my cottaged vale, 
 Give my wife and children pale 
 From the Bastile and the jail — 
 
 Friendless — homeless — I depart !" 
 
 RIVER TESTE, HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 My name by my own silver-tide is exprest, 
 
 For compared with all others I shall still stand the Test. 
 
 101
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 ;'^- 
 
 MARY'S DEATH— MY TWIN-SISTER. 
 
 The Anthor is tlie second son of a familj of sixteen, and the 
 eldest of four born within one year. 
 
 In a low little cottage not far from the jail, 
 Whose lordly walls bounded the view of the vale, 
 I found my Twin-Sister — in sickness she lay — 
 Life's light from her eye was fast fading away. 
 
 Four brothers, we came from the far east and west — 
 We came at the summons of Death in sad haste ; 
 We leaned o'er her pSlow — but what met our view ? 
 A relic- — a shadow — that none of us knew ! 
 
 We sought for some token — some object to prove 
 The thing that we saw was the form we should love : 
 A picture hung near that we knew in our youth. 
 And we felt the deep anguish of sadness and truth. 
 
 In silence we looked, but the pang of a dart — 
 " Oh, God ! can it be ?" filled in silence each heart, 
 As slowly came back to our sorrowful gaze 
 Her form and her features through death's gathering 
 haze. 
 
 102
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Then flashed on our memoiy life's many flown years, 
 All the joys of our childhood — its pleasures and tears, 
 When happy we played, like the flower-roaming bee ; 
 And the swing in the twilight beneath the pear-tree. 
 
 Unbidden, pressed round us each earlier scene — 
 
 The copse and the common, the sluice and the green ; 
 Tufts of primroses leaned from the bank's sunny breast. 
 And the old ivied-oak where the wren built its nest. 
 
 They came like a vision — a moment they seemed 
 Invested with being, but fled as we dreamed ; 
 And the dark tide of years that swept childhood away. 
 Rushed around us like phantoms, their work to display. 
 
 Sire, and Mother, and half their long race quit the 
 
 shore ; 
 Farewell ! and farewell ! we shall see ye no more ; 
 And some are now dwelling beyond the far wave. 
 And some are asleep in the Indian's lone grave. 
 
 All scattered — all severed — as clouds by the thunder, 
 And wide as the distance of earth is asunder ; 
 And thou, my Twin-Sister ! for poverty's crime 
 Art fainting and dying — worn out in thy prime. 
 
 Thy motherless children must buffet the world 
 Without thy protection : — and calmly unfurled, 
 Though weak is the wing of the soft-cowering dove. 
 It can shelter and nestle the things of its love. 
 
 10:5 
 
 o\
 
 M1SCELLA>"E0US PIECES. 
 
 And such is the lot of the lowly and kind — 
 They toil without hope, and the guerdon they find 
 Are days that grow darker as age draweth nigh, 
 And the anticipations of passion a lie. 
 
 And such is the conquest of crosier and crown — 
 The lofty still rise, but the lowly sink down, — 
 Till energy, hope, and aifection are riven. 
 And all, save the faith in the glory of heaven. 
 
 But wherefore intrude ye, loved scenes of the past, 
 Or crowd as it were all our lives in the last ? 
 Twin-Sister, with anguish we ask, " Can nought save ?" 
 But feel that no power can arrest from the grave. 
 
 We read her sweet words in the Volume Divine, 
 And prayed that God's mercy upon her might shine, 
 And fore-views of heaven illumine her path. 
 And lighten the vale of the Shadow of Death. 
 
 Tis past ! and, Twin-Sister ! sweet answers I find ; 
 A vision of thee fills the heart and the mind ; 
 Not that which we witnessed in sadness and tears, 
 But such as thou wert in thine earlier years. 
 
 And the cold snow may fall on thy lone silent grave, 
 That is far from our Mother's beyond the salt wave ; 
 But spring shall return, and her wild flowers be shed, 
 And her gay sweeping swallows shoot over thy head. 
 
 104
 
 And brightly the last morn shall scatter the gloom 
 That shadowed thy life, but ne'er darkened thy tomb ; 
 And glad shall we meet on Eternity's shore, 
 Where sorrow and suffering are known never more. 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 Down with thee, blasted Leaf I 
 
 Last of the dying year ; 
 Type of false hope and grief, 
 
 Why dost thou linger here ? 
 Never again to thee 
 
 Sunshine or dew shall come ; 
 Never the parent tree 
 
 Give thee thy summer bloom. 
 Morn with its rosy beam, 
 
 Twilight with gorgeous ray, 
 Blue sky and starry gleam, 
 
 From thee have passed away. 
 Wherefore then longer stop ? 
 
 Is it to mark how all 
 Leaves of the forest drop — 
 
 Weaving for earth a pall ? 
 Wo ! to the heart like thee 
 
 Doomed to outlive its race — 
 Last of a family, 
 
 Left in a lonely place. 
 
 105
 
 What were life unto such — 
 What but a lingering death, 
 
 Feeling its icy touch 
 
 At each suspended breath ? 
 
 When the heart fades with grief, 
 Like thee 'twill hear its doom : 
 
 Down with thee, blasted Leaf — 
 Lonely one ! seek the tomb. 
 
 Here doth the likeness stop — 
 Parting for earth and skies ; 
 
 Ever the Leaf must drop- 
 Never the Spirit dies. 
 
 BIRMINGHAM CEMETERY. 
 
 THE FIRST GRAVE. 
 
 When recently surveying this " Jiou.se appointed for all living," I ob- 
 served a monument that records the simple and touching fact, that 
 the first interment was a little child of three years o( age. 
 
 'Tis a beautifiil thought that an infant should come. 
 
 The first to repose in this haven of rest ; 
 To show us that Death has no terror or gloom. 
 
 If such can find slumber upon his cold breast. 
 I hear from its resting a gentle voice rise, 
 
 That whispers of hope, and affection, and faith ; 
 " Will ye fear, fellow-mortals, the path to the skies. 
 
 Or shun, since I dread not, the entrance of death ?" 
 
 lOG
 
 " Infants' graves are the snow-drops of tombs ; and I 
 come, 
 
 Like the snow-drop that first lights the winter's dark 
 hours, 
 To lead on her sisters 'mid tempest and gloom, 
 
 And tell of the season of gladness and flowers ; — 
 So lead I the way to my followers here, 
 
 First bud of Death's blossoms — first gem of his sky : 
 Do ye look on my tomb with a smile and a tear ? — 
 
 If I sadden the heart, I would brighten the eye." 
 
 " Come on, fellow-sleepers, sweet rest shall ye find, 
 
 Undisturbed by the sexton's cold spade ; and the 
 flowers 
 That Love shall plant round ye, shall bear ye in mind. 
 
 When the little red worm hath exhausted its powers. 
 The parent, the sister, the lover, shall see 
 
 The tombs they have reared, through the long- 
 coming years ; 
 The marbles unbroken, and green the rose tree. 
 
 And plucked not the violets low-bending in tears." 
 
 107
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A COLUMN TO 
 COBDEN, BRIGHT, AND FOX. 
 
 When England, famished, groaned beneath her lords, 
 Her peasants serfs, her artisans pale hordes ; 
 When want was crime — truth falsehood — and the poor 
 Cursed their own steam and fired the yellow moor ; 
 When stack and homestead lit the midnight fire, 
 And murder tracked the steps of lord and squire ; 
 When trade was crushed, yet toil spurned from the 
 
 door. 
 And shame and crime ran down the true and poor ; 
 And many a flower-wreathed cot was battered down. 
 That Union Bastiles might contain a town ; 
 When forms with raven locks, or age with gray, 
 Shared the same fate — to dine on parish pay ; 
 When on his war-horse reared Monopoly, 
 Cheered by his sire, fierce Aristocracy, 
 Tore child from mother, wife from husband's arms, 
 And cursed the bantling of unmarried charms ; 
 When mortgaged magnates on each title-deed 
 Wrote " Bread Tax," for security and need ; 
 When food and knowledge to the mass denied. 
 The mob mocked God — Altar and Throne defied ; 
 And patriot love and home affection gone. 
 Fierce Revolution lowered on England's dawn : — 
 Then rose, to heal their country and to free. 
 
 108
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Cobden, Bright, Fox — the strong- immortal three ; — 
 The first, by truth and reason, foiled a easte^ — 
 The next, by sense and wit, — by all — the last ; 
 And star-girt shapes and coroneted brows 
 Fled from their vengeance like thrice-routed foes. 
 And all this toil for what ? Oh, God I to buy 
 The Poor Man's Bread beneath the cheapest sky ; 
 That Trade, with unbound pinions like the dove. 
 May seek all lands, exchanging gifts of love ; 
 That Labour may not pine, while Idleness, 
 With clamorous curses, gains the pauper's dress ; 
 That Knowledge may strike through the nation's night, 
 Like as when God first said, " Let there be hght ;" 
 That Steam may bear its boon from shore to shore, 
 And the swift Wire bid warfare be no more ; 
 That honest toil might live, nor weeping know 
 Life's best gifts — children — turned to curse and wo ; 
 That Wealth might rise unenvied, and the great 
 Secure the poor man's blessing, not his hate ; 
 That England once again, as erst, might be, 
 First in the nations. — Thanks, immortal Three ! 
 
 loy
 
 THE CHEKUB AND THE CHILD. 
 
 From the French. 
 
 With radiant brow, an Angel fair 
 
 Leaned o'er a cradle's side, 
 And seemed to view his image there, 
 
 As in some streamlet's tide. 
 
 "Come, lovely Babe!" the Angel cried, 
 
 " Oh, come ! resembling me ; 
 Thou shalt be happj^ at my side — 
 
 Earth is unworthy thee. 
 
 " There good unmixed is never found — 
 Mirth leaves the heart to sigh ; 
 
 Joy's echo hath a saddening sound — 
 To pleasure grief is nigh. 
 
 " And, ah ! shall care and sorrow come 
 
 To shade that gentle brow, 
 And bitter tear-drops fill with gloom 
 
 Those eyes of heavenly blue ? 
 
 " No, no ! through yon bright fields of sj)ace 
 
 Away ! away with me ; 
 For Heaven in mercy spares the daj'S 
 
 That life had marked for thee." 
 
 no
 
 MISCELLANEOUS FIECES. 
 
 And at these words, his snow-white wings 
 
 For flight the Angel spread ; 
 Toward the eternal home he springs — 
 
 Mother ! — thy Babe is dead ! 
 
 HAY-TIME. 
 
 The voyager tells of the sweet-scented gales 
 
 That breathe in the twilight from Araby's strand, 
 
 But give me the breeze of our own summer vales, 
 When the new-tedded hay is spread over the land. 
 
 The green-house is sweet, but a faintness creeps there. 
 As from tropical climes, while we scent its strange 
 blooms ; 
 
 But freshening as fragrant is eve's dewy air, 
 When over the new-tedded clover it comes. 
 
 The musk-breathing cowslip and primrose are sweet ; 
 
 And what can the wild briar and woodbine surpass ? 
 Thou shalt find it when threading with fond-lingering 
 feet 
 
 The little blind path through the new-tedded grass. 
 
 The Jioivers, like the birds of the tropics, for hues 
 May challenge our blossoms and songsters, I trow ; 
 
 But listen, and breathe in the twilight's fresh dews — 
 Such music and fragrance they never can know.
 
 Come, Children ! — come, Sick Ones ! — there's health 
 in the breeze ; 
 
 Worn Workers ! — a moment desert the hot town ; 
 Come, Lovers ! — the throstle is loud in the trees ; 
 
 Come, all ! — for the new-tedded clover is down ! 
 
 SPRING LYRIC. 
 
 I LOVE to roam by the old wood's side 
 
 On a clouded April day. 
 And mark o'er the grass the swift shadows pass, 
 As the}'^ seem like lambs at play : 
 The soft wind bloweth, 
 The bare tree boweth, 
 As they feel of the fast-coming May. 
 
 I love to steal on an April morn 
 
 Where the sunny slopes look gay ; 
 How the diamond beams flash out in rich gleams, 
 Then as suddenly die away : — 
 The sun-shower falleth. 
 And to the leaf calleth. 
 Buds and blooms bringing every new day. 
 
 I love to wend in the April noon 
 
 O'er the southern and sheltered mead, 
 
 And watch the scene till the very green 
 Seems velveting 'neath my tread :
 
 The early thrush singeth, 
 The white daisy springeth, 
 .^nd the brooklet flows on with fresh speed. 
 
 I love to be out in the evening hours 
 
 Of April's closing reign ; 
 Heaven, blue and bright, giveth Earth its light, 
 And the swallow flits by again : 
 The cuckoo cometh, 
 The wild bee hummeth, 
 And Beauty and Hope free the heart from pain. 
 
 Oh, April ! — she swayeth with magic power, 
 
 And changeth all things that are ; 
 Like gems fall her showers, to spring up in flowers; 
 Like Beauty's eye comes eve's star. 
 The mountain cloud whiteneth, 
 The deep heaven brighteneth. 
 And the twilight extendeth —how far ! 
 
 TO MARY ANNE. 
 
 The evening star is in the sky, 
 
 And near the crescent moon reclining. 
 
 So soft, so bright, that but thine eye 
 In beauty can be theirs outshining : 
 
 113
 
 Oh ! were those eyes but gazing here 
 With mine into the boundless blue ; 
 
 Earth then would seem as calm and dear 
 As the far heaven we may but view ! 
 
 The jessamine, sweet twilight flower ! 
 
 With dew is freshly, purely blooming ; 
 Its stars, like heaven's at evening hour, 
 
 Are out, and all the air perfuming. 
 Oh, for thy gentle bosom ! — sure, 
 
 The star-like gems would suit it well ; 
 Beauty and sweetness to the pure — 
 
 And only thine can these excel. 
 
 There's beauty in the still serene 
 
 Of silent earth — of shining heaven ; 
 The lingering twilight yet is seen. 
 
 As 'twould not die with closing even. 
 Oh, love ! — one charm, and only one ! 
 
 To these around my heart would call ; 
 'Tis this — thy tongue's beloved tone — 
 
 Thy gentle smile — to brighten all ! 
 
 r' "-.^r 
 
 ^v<^ 
 
 
 114
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 RAMMOHUN ROY. 
 
 Whence are these feelings that absorb the mind, 
 
 That fill the soul with hopes that may not die, 
 When fall the great — -the friends of human kind 
 
 Sink on the pillow where the pale dead lie ? 
 
 I knew him not, and yet I mourn a sigh, 
 While dark November shortens still the day. 
 
 While his bleak winds go muttering through the sky. 
 And yellow leaves are whirled from every spray. 
 And startled blackbird screams, and robin trills his lay. 
 
 Even as stirs the little stone the lake, 
 
 Thrown on the centred silver, whence, around, 
 Rino- after rino; their widening circles take. 
 
 Till all is moved unto its utmost bound ; 
 
 So from the mind an answering thrill will sound, 
 When stirred with deep emotion, for it makes 
 
 Its own bright Paradise, wherein are found 
 Earth's gentler spirits, and no star forsakes 
 That purer sky, but all the world of spirit quakes. 
 
 Far from his own bright land — his own dear home, 
 On strange but kindly shores he finds a grave ; 
 
 Like that young Prince who breasted ocean's foam 
 To gaze on art, and polished man a slave : 
 As some far-travelling beam of light, or wave 
 
 116
 
 Of twilight glory, that afar must fade 
 
 From its own rosy fountain ; — nought could save ; 
 Art tried its best but unavailing aid, 
 And filial love and female tenderness assayed. 
 
 Oh ! could the soul-sent sigh, — the fervent prayer, — 
 
 The child, the friend, have snatched from death 
 awhile, 
 Disease might well have smoothed her ruffled hair, 
 
 And called back health with life-renewing smile. 
 
 Death's wave sweeps onward and knows no recoil ; 
 His sands are numbered, and his journey now 
 
 To its last step is finished : — Ocean's isle 
 Must be his final home, — fades from his brow 
 The light — all light, save that the living may not know. 
 
 Star of his own far land, — what few may be, — 
 The moral hero rose: — in warfare strong, 
 
 He dashed to earth the shrines Idolatry 
 
 Had reared to Nature's worship ; — swift along 
 All creeds, all systems glanced he, and the wrong 
 
 He threw behind him, while his prophet eye 
 Seized on this glorious truth, amid a throng 
 
 Of errors, loved for their antiquity — 
 
 " God is one God — unseen, yet traced in all we see." 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a proud and noble thing to be 
 Our country's benefactor — not by sword,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 
 The vulgar hero's weapon — but to free 
 
 From error, from false faith, from things adored 
 As their Eternal Maker ; — with a word 
 
 To crush opinions hallowed by long years, 
 Unswayed by wealth, by malice undeterred, 
 
 And feeling in the soul no servile fears 
 
 From Friendship's frown, Love's sighs, or toad-like 
 Envy's sneers. 
 
 And this he wrought — this every act records ; 
 
 The wise he won, the evil he withstood : 
 There are more Caesars than have wielded swords. 
 
 More battles to be gained than those of blood. 
 
 And it is coming, like the mighty flood 
 Of some disgorging mount — the moral fight, 
 
 When, in one rank arrayed, the wise and good 
 Shall pour on kindling mind resistless might — 
 Shall strike to speech the dumb — the blind to vision 
 smite. 
 
 His father's faith he left : — Oh ! do not deem 
 
 From childhood's worship he could lightly turn ; 
 But deeply musing by the sacred stream, 
 
 And following Nature, Reason — whence we 
 learn 
 
 To break the inward chain, the slave to spurn, — 
 He saw how fallen his countrymen, how vain 
 
 The bigot's creed, aye circumscribed and stern, 
 
 1J7
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And Superstition's soul-debasing reign, 
 Oppression's bloodiest scourge, and Tyranny's worst 
 chain. 
 
 He saw — ^lie spoke ! — Think not upon that word. 
 No curses breathed, no vile suspicion frowned ; 
 
 A thousand bosoms, like an ocean stirred 
 By unexpected breezes, at the sound 
 Started to furious hate, — but he was found 
 
 Rock-like ; and as some bright world of the sky 
 Lights its own path, with native glory crowned, 
 
 He onward moved, or, if he felt a sigh, 
 
 'Twas that a sire should frown, a mother turn her eye. 
 
 Ye little know, ye who have never known. 
 
 What cruel thoughts flash through the burning 
 brain, 
 When they — our loved, our dearest, and our own — 
 
 They who should read our motives all so plain. 
 
 Not only not appreciate, but strain 
 By dark surmise, by falsehood, to malign ; 
 
 When but one smile would chase all other pain, 
 On the loved brow to see no fondness shine — 
 Oh ! this is life's worst pang — to bear unmoved, 
 divine. 
 
 Unmoved he bore — and lived to hear the voice 
 
 That once could censure, loudest in his praise ; 
 And what still bade his gentle heart rejoice, 
 
 118 
 
 ''^
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Through evil and throiigh good report — through 
 
 ways 
 In exile wandered, cheered by no kind rays 
 Of friendship, home, or kin? — what hand still showers 
 
 Glory and light around him ? — King of days ! 
 A portion of Thy spirit soothed his hours, 
 Love — love! — the earthly, heavenly, all its milder 
 powers ! 
 
 Oh ! that the world were governed but by love — 
 
 How mig-htier far its influence than all fear ; 
 How powerful to instruct — how strong to improve — 
 
 How gentle to rebuke — how kind to cheer — 
 
 How tireless — evermore to persevere 
 In all ffood works, — till man's whole race arise 
 
 From chains and darkness, and tlirough earth appear 
 One holy brotherhood, bound by no ties 
 But Love, like that which fills with joy earth, sea, and 
 skies. 
 
 This spirit blest him — firmly he pursued 
 
 His God-like labour ; — as earth's Saviour, whom 
 
 He loved, " he went about aye doing good ;" 
 He snatched the widow from her burning tomb. 
 And trod the creatures down that dared assume 
 
 The great Creator's matchless deity ; 
 
 He laughed to scorn the tales of heathen gloom, 
 
 Their ugly idols grinning blasphemy. 
 
 And Seva's childish threats, and Thibet's mummery.
 
 Ah me ! how few of all the human race 
 
 Look up or onward to a better fate ; 
 How fewer still outstep the narrow space 
 
 Of their owti little lives ! The vulgar great 
 
 Live while they live ; the mass still bear and hate, 
 And, if they find a tongue, they have no sting : 
 
 Oh ! what shall lift man to his proper state ? 
 Grind him, grim Priest, and trample on him. King, 
 Until the passive clod start up a Uving thing. 
 
 Yet, as the rainbow ever and anon 
 
 Flings its best glories o'er the darkest cloud ; 
 And as from darkest clouds are ever drawn 
 
 Heaven's brightest bolts, and from their murkiest 
 shroud 
 
 Leaps the loud thunder, louder and more loud, 
 Until the hills shake, answering to its voice — 
 
 So Truth is born, and so from out the crowd 
 Starts forth the purer spirit, to rejoice 
 The coming ages with her heavenly prophecies. 
 
 " The Truth shall make you free :" — how nobly great 
 Who feel their empire Knowledge— kingdom Mind ! 
 
 How smile they at those names that until late 
 
 Have claimed earth's homage ! — Tyrants ! ye shall 
 
 find 
 The chains ye Mreathed for freedom, all unbind 
 
 Beneath the influence of increasing light, 
 
 120
 
 © — 
 
 ( MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Till every link is loose, of every kind — 
 Even as young rose-buds, to the summer bright. 
 Unfold their crimson leaves and laugh away the 
 blight. 
 
 o 
 
 "The Truth shall make you free I" — He wisely 
 deemed 
 
 Pure faith, pure worship, must precede reform ; 
 And having crushed some errors which had seemed 
 
 Immortal truths, and braved the furious storm 
 
 Of hoary Bigotry and Zeal's red arm. 
 He turned to Britain : — Lo ! o'er Ocean's foam 
 
 Flies the fair vessel like a spirit's form. 
 And fast beliind recedes his native home. 
 And other scenes arise. — To England he is come ! 
 
 o* 
 
 What welcome hailed him to the island shore ? — 
 The shout of millions gathering like a storm, 
 
 And all alive, like him, at every pore 
 
 For man's true weal; — "Reform !"* it was Reform 
 That filled his ear, and thrilled through hearts all 
 warm, 
 
 All unopposed save by some selfish few, 
 
 Now trod to earth, even as we tread a swarm 
 
 Of loathsome locusts — nameless be the crew ; — 
 
 The adder's sting's most fell when skies have deepest 
 blue, 
 
 * The Rajah arrived in England during the Reform Agitation. 
 
 121
 
 Oh, 'twas a glorious and a "bloodless fight ! 
 
 Our hearts were filled with proud, stern feeling 
 then ! 
 And we stood gathered in a nation's might 
 
 From wave to wave ; — the very mass were men, 
 
 And every man resolved ;— again, again 
 We asked Reform, and in that conquering word 
 
 Came fear and terror to a sordid train. 
 And hissing noble, and race-loving lord 
 Quaked into silence, and the foiled chief sheathed his 
 sword. 
 
 We shed no blood — we sought no blood — and yet, 
 One spake of quelling us in angry guise ; 
 
 Where is the boaster of that savage threat ? 
 Hallooed by boys, not men — they but despise : 
 Away with such unhallowed blasphemies ! 
 
 What ! — ^tread a people down ? — where is the force, 
 Less than th' Almighty Thunderer's, 'neath the 
 skies 
 
 Can quell a nation ? — Stop the headlong course 
 
 Of waves and whirlwinds — then prate of your hireling 
 horse ! 
 
 I well remember — never shall forget — 
 How joyously we spent that festal day ! 
 
 At length came forth the sun, though morn was wet, 
 And flung upon us his life-giving ray : — 
 How sprang the trees along each stony way, 
 
 1-22
 
 And arches crowned with flowers of ever}^ hue ; 
 
 How waved the flags, with thousand mottoes gay ; 
 How pealed the bells as if our joy they knew : 
 And over all one shout — 'twas Freedom's glad halloo ! 
 
 I watched the old man's eye grow to a smile. 
 
 As, conscious of the change, he proudly deemed 
 Corruption had been tracked, through all her guile, 
 
 To her strong holds, now shaken first it seemed ; 
 
 And as the future brightly on him gleamed, 
 "My children," cried he, " shall see better days ;" 
 
 And, like old Simeon when the glory beamed. 
 His heart burst forth in fervent prayer and praise — 
 " I shall die happy now — the coming all repays !" 
 
 No vulgar revel and no vulgar brawl 
 
 Vexed the glad ear from morn till latest even ; 
 'Twas the Mind's jubilee — the Spirit's call 
 
 To purer joys, and all shall feel their leaven. 
 
 I saw the Many pleased ; the Few were riven 
 With no kind feelings — but we let them pass ; — 
 
 Can the owl gaze upon the light of heaven, 
 The bat leave darkness for day's liquid glass. 
 Or wolves their prey, though making all a wilderness ? 
 
 Our joy he witnessed, and with kindred hope 
 And kindred feeling glowed his gentle mind ; 
 
 How saw he in that change a mighty scope 
 For Freedom's work — for all of human kind — 
 
 123
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Shall not his native land its blessings find ? 
 Shall not his own right hand achieve her glory ? — 
 
 Heavens ! how the nations yet can lag behind ! 
 The world's six thousand years tell but one story : 
 Man savage — polished — then corrupt — and then all 
 gory. 
 
 But Mind shall conquer — for the Eternal Mind 
 Is light from heaven, and quenchless evermore : 
 
 It may burn dimly, like a spark confined. 
 
 But as the fire-damp, where the miners bore. 
 Gathers and gathers till, with awftil roar, 
 
 Like Heaven's own thunder, it bursts forth in flame, 
 Blasting the things who should have known its 
 power, — 
 
 So the Mind, crushed with ills that bear no name, 
 
 Glows, sparkles, blazes, till it reach its heaven-ward 
 
 aim 
 
 I love to think upon the coming age ! 
 
 The progress of the past, though small and slow, 
 Yet gives a brightening hope, when dies the rage 
 
 Of vulgar minds for glory and vain show ; 
 
 When the red hireling strikes his final blow. 
 And the dark priest lays by his mystery ; 
 
 Then Peace, that wanders now no rest to know, 
 Shall spread her snow-white wings o'er land and sea, 
 And all shall live in love and heaven-like harmony. 
 
 124
 
 Dream of the Future I — though our aching eyes 
 See not thy bright fulfilment — still make plain 
 
 Thy glorious vision, for its truth supplies 
 
 Light for our pathway — solace for our pain — 
 Strength still to toil — benevolence to gain ; — 
 
 Thy glories lit Ins eye, though now it close. 
 O, Son of God ! — advance Thy blessed reign, 
 
 And, as the wise and good sink to repose, 
 
 Inspire the purer spirit, labouring for Thy foes. 
 
 " Retired and rural" is his narrow cell ; 
 
 Alone he sleeps upon the lap of earth ; 
 And it is meet that he alone should dwell 
 
 In death from common clay — for from his birth 
 
 He rose above his race ; their wo, their mirth 
 Gave not his inspiration : — great — alone — 
 
 Nature's high-priest and prophet, he walked forth — 
 Surveyed his fellows, heard the nations groan 
 In one long-gathered sigh — 'twas Superstition's moan. 
 
 He heard — he spoke — he called mankind the way 
 To higher joys which yet they scarce might guess: 
 
 " Down with your idols ! — God is one alway : 
 And Jesus' precepts guide to happiness." 
 Though his eye see not, yet his words shall bless ! 
 
 Enough for him — not us - -his life hath been : 
 With Nature now he slumbers — she shall dress 
 
 His honoured sepulchre with freshest green, 
 
 And wild rose wave her head in morning's dewy sheen. 
 
 1:25
 
 The robin, winter minstrel ! shall be heard 
 
 On the lone spot to trill his sweet, sad lay, 
 When lark is silent — still the forest bird — 
 
 And summer's swallows all have passed away ; 
 
 And there the daisy, in all seasons gay. 
 Shall shed its simple beauty o'er his tomb. 
 
 And strangers turn from far, and kindly say, 
 " Here sleeps Man's Friend, who left his far-off home 
 To serve his fellow man — nor vainly hath he come." 
 
 For Freedom toils with thrice a thousand hands, 
 And every word they breathe, and blow they smite 
 
 On turf or billow — yea, throughout all lands. 
 
 Bears on her general work ; — the deep blue night 
 Gathers from thousand starry lamps its light — 
 
 No little ray is lost in all the sky : — 
 
 So Freedom strengthens in the patriot's might, 
 
 The poet's vision, captive's soul-set eye. 
 
 And exile's dream of home, and pilgrim's patient sigh. 
 
 And thou, his only cliild ! — when thou shalt go 
 
 To thy far home beyond the sunny wave, 
 Tell thou his kind — though suns like theirs ne'er 
 glow. 
 Nor graeeM palm-tree nods above his grave, — 
 Yet he shall sleep in peace, and glory have, 
 Like flowers of amaranth, a deathless wreath; 
 
 Tell them, dear friends beloved him — sighed to 
 save — 
 
 i.^^- 
 
 126
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Watched his calm couch — hung o'er his dying breath — 
 And wept to know such babe-Hke silence could be 
 death. 
 
 My lay is finished,— I could fondly deem, 
 
 While musing thus along my favorite wood, 
 While the sun lingers with a parting beam, 
 
 And murmurs at my foot the brook's swoln flood ; 
 
 While far-returning rooks, a numerous brood. 
 Like a long cloud, come to their nightly rest, 
 
 That Nature felt with me a kindred mood. 
 Mourning her prophet fallen ; — and it is best 
 To nurse such gentle thoughts that make the owner 
 blest. 
 
 And it may tell how virtue, genius, love, 
 Can touch the spirit when their owner dies : 
 
 I saw dark Death two mighty kings remove, 
 And ranks of heroes, but their fall supplies 
 No fond regret — no gentler memories — 
 
 Like twilight beams thrown back from day's far goal ; 
 And did I pity not, I should despise 
 
 Such heartless beings who through life can roll. 
 
 Nor leave behind one thought to soothe th' immortal 
 soul. 
 
 Farewell, benignant Spirit — now, farewell ! 
 
 Thy memory still we hold — still love thy name ; 
 May thy example cheer when doubts would swell,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And animate with Love's undying flame ! 
 
 Thine is the Christian's heaven — thine earth's best 
 fame, 
 Ranked with her wise and good— for all may scan. 
 
 In all thy words and works one god-like aim — 
 And on thy tomb we will inscribe the plan — 
 " The true way to serve God, is to do good to man !" 
 
 LINES TO 
 
 " La pudeur s'est enfuite des coeurs, et s'est refugee sur les levres. 
 
 Lips of brass and lungs of leather, 
 Stony eyes, ne'er shut together, 
 Staring mankind through and through, 
 Every fellow deemed a foe ; 
 Words and feelings meant to bless 
 Turned to gall and bitterness ; — 
 This thy coming life shall teach — 
 Youngling ! — can'st the lesson reach ? 
 
 Not the swift hath quickest pace ; 
 Jostle ! — if thou'dst win the race ; 
 Tact not truth, and words not deeds, 
 Backwards forwards, best succeeds ; 
 
 128
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Janus-featured wear thy mind — 
 Angel foremost, fiend behind ; 
 Double-tongued and double-faced, 
 What hath conquered or disgraced ? 
 
 Think' st thou Right shall gain the right ? 
 Boy ! I tell thee, 'tis in might ! 
 Outside fair, within be hell ; 
 Do thy worst, so none can tell ; 
 Shun no act thou wouldst achieve, 
 But with virtue make-believe ; 
 Life's whole secret is — conceal, 
 Only fools run mad reveal. — 
 
 Such the wisdom of To-day — 
 Such the secret of all sway — 
 Self and Lucre governing 
 Priest and noble, scamp and king : 
 But To-morrow, Boy, shall come 
 Better aim and better doom ; 
 Love and Truth shall conquer yet — 
 May no ill their influence let !.. 
 
 129
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Where the stream, poureth, 
 Where the stream roareth, 
 And the spray soareth, 
 
 There would I roam ! 
 
 Where the tree groweth 
 Which the bird knoweth, 
 Where the flower bloweth, 
 
 There would I dream ! 
 
 Where the brook stealeth, 
 Where shade concealeth, 
 Where the heart feeleth, 
 
 There would I muse ! 
 
 Where the lark singeth, 
 Where the dawn springeth, 
 And morn her dews stringeth, 
 
 There would I list ! 
 
 Where the sun setteth, 
 Where grief regretteth 
 That love forgetteth, 
 
 There would I stray ! 
 
 130
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Where the leaf turneth, 
 When Autumn mourneth, 
 And the heart yearneth, 
 
 There would I weep ! 
 
 Where the lone sigheth, 
 Where the sick lieth, 
 Where the blest dieth, 
 
 There would I watch ! 
 
 Where the dead sleepeth, 
 Where silence keepeth, 
 No heart that weepeth, 
 
 There would I sleep ! 
 
 TO THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 Speed on, Stormy Petrel !— speed on in thy flight ! 
 Speed on to mid ocean ere fall of the night ; 
 There is tempest and storm in the brooding sky — 
 Speed on to the ship with thy prophet-like cry ; 
 The seamap will bless thee, thou bidst him prepare 
 To meet the wild conflict of ocean and air ! 
 
 It comes ! — on the breath of the rising blast, 
 And ocean's wide wilderness now is cast 
 
 131 
 
 '-^
 
 Into fiirious foam — like a giant in wrath, 
 He rolls up his waves in a movmtain swath : 
 But safely the bark cuts the billow along — 
 The seaman prepared him while hearing thy song. 
 
 The fish is gone down to the depths of the sea, 
 Where quiet still reigns though such tempest there be ; 
 The lightning-shaft darkens all sights by its own, 
 The mad waves are lost in the thunder's loud tone ; 
 And nothing is seen but thy wing on the wave, 
 And the fast-rocking ship which thy warning shall 
 save. 
 
 'Tis past ! — through the darkness stream red beams 
 
 of light. 
 The winds close their pinions like birds from their 
 
 flight; 
 The clouds break away — heaven laughs out again — 
 Glassy smooth is the billow — all ocean a plain ; 
 And there floats the Petrel, yet wet with the foam, 
 Hope's beautiftil herald, now telling of home. 
 
 Prophet-bird of the Storm I still thy path be the Deep, 
 When stoutest hearts pause, and the fearful must 
 
 weep, 
 For sure thou art there mid the storm and the spray, 
 To tell of dear homes and loved ones far away ; 
 So far from all land if thy "wee" wing can dare, 
 Shall human hope die, or the weakest despair ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Still out — still be out — in the storm and sunshine, 
 
 The moon-clouds thy palace, thy foot-place the brine ; 
 
 What sweeter to know when the billow rolls high. 
 
 That thou, bonny Bird, like a spirit art nigh ? 
 
 A spirit unfearing, the heart to inspire, 
 
 And cry, mid the storm, " Never fear — never tire ! ' ' 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Beautiful ! — it is the noon 
 Of the sunburnt gipsy, June, 
 And I throw me on the green 
 To enjoy the lovely scene. 
 
 Man springs up and dies away — • 
 Nature never can grow gray ; 
 But the circling hour and year 
 Come and come, and still appear, 
 Scattering sunbeams, strewing flowers ; 
 O, the joy of summer hours ! 
 
 There they cluster at my feet, 
 Like a snowy bridal sheet, 
 Silver daisies 1 — stars of earth ! 
 Surely they feel love and mirth ; 
 
 133
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 For so thick they crowded be, 
 Like some joyful company 
 Of young children dancing forth, — 
 Surely they feel love and mirth ! 
 
 Farther now I cast mine eye; 
 Beauty of another dye 
 Wins attention — gently rolled, 
 Like a lake of molten gold, 
 Wave the meadows' yellow flowers : 
 More in number than the showers 
 Of white daisies, or the drops 
 Thrown upon the mountain tops, 
 From the dewy April's showers, — 
 More in number are these flowers, 
 For, where'er you turn, behold ! 
 All the mead a mass of gold. 
 
 Turn we now along the wood — 
 Sweet the voice of solitude : 
 From the brook-side hazel tree, 
 Flows the blackbird's flute-like glee, 
 And from out the sweet-briar bush 
 Chants by fits the wilder thrush ; 
 And the woodpecker, that seems 
 Laughing at the jay's wild screams ; 
 While the goldfinch, whose best tune. 
 Hails by starts the merry June, 
 
 134
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And the cuckoo — that winged joy — 
 Tire not in their sweet employ. 
 
 If the silver-footed May 
 Sweep the snowy thorn away, 
 See the pastoral eglantine, 
 And the honey-bee's woodbine. 
 Open to the golden hours 
 Rainbow wreaths and honied flowers. 
 
 THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE. 
 
 On ! mourn o'er the grave of the young Suicide — 
 Ye know not the feelings that rushed through his 
 heart; 
 
 Ye know not the passions that plucked him aside 
 When reason had bidden her bright beams depart. 
 
 What anguish must sadden that dim-closing eye, 
 What torture must throb through that heart and 
 that brain. 
 Which could turn from the green earth and beautiful 
 
 sky. 
 And never more wish to behold them again ! 
 
 135
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 How fearful the beat of the pulse that could dare 
 The hand to the deed that should stop it for aye ! 
 
 From friends and from parents and loved bosoms tear, 
 As the billow that hurls the wrecked fragment away. 
 
 One moment in beautiful horror he stood, 
 The reckless — ^the resolute— bent to destroy ; 
 
 'Tis done ! — he is senseless — the life-streaming blood. 
 Gushes through the black locks of the self-slaugh- 
 tei'ed boy. 
 
 I knew him from infancy's earliest day, 
 
 'When his lip and his brow were all laughter and 
 light :— 
 The morning that comes with the loveliest ray, 
 
 Full oft will descend in the gloomiest night. 
 
 " His spirit ivas in him'^ — his young thoughts at war 
 With reason, with self — and o'ermastered his mind ; 
 
 He erred from his path like a bright-falling star, 
 And left, like the fallen star, darkness behind. 
 
 Now calmly he sleeps in the old chapel yard ; 
 
 Cold his heart— glazed his eye — in death's shadow- 
 less gloom ; 
 The stranger stops there with a solemn regard, 
 
 And drops a warm tear as he thinks of his doom.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The moon looketh down from a half-lighted cloud ; 
 
 The conscious stars silently watch the lone spot ; 
 And the mind is subdued, and the spirit is bowed, 
 
 Lest reason desert us — lest such be our lot. 
 
 Let none harshly censure — none ruthlessly spurn ; 
 
 His motives, his feelings, his thoughts, were un- 
 known ; 
 But rather, in chastened humility, turn, 
 
 O, Father of all ! to thy merciM throne. 
 
 There lowly, subdued, like as night-closing flowers 
 Turn into themselves, mav we feel our frail state. 
 
 And pray that, while life and its blessings are ours, 
 Thy light may still guide us — thy reason elate. 
 
 And peace to his ashes — no judgment we breathe ; 
 Why mark his calm cell with man's stigma or 
 pride ? 
 Kind Nature, when comes the glad summer, shall 
 wreathe 
 His tomb like his fellows that stretch at his side. 
 
 The green grass shall wave, and the daisy shall spring, 
 The swallow sweep by in the golden sunshine. 
 
 And the moth in the seeded flowers spread its white 
 wing. 
 As, when thou art dead, they shall ever on thine ! 
 
 137
 
 LULLABY. 
 
 O, COME ! —little fairies and fays ! 
 
 And sing me your sweetest of lays ; — 
 
 Bring airs from the silver sea-shells, 
 
 Bring tones from the hyacinths' bells, 
 
 The hum of the honey-bees' wings. 
 
 The song that the water-gnat sings, 
 
 The tink of the wether-sheep's bell, 
 
 As it floats from the depth of the dell. 
 
 The whisperings of forest-stirred leaves. 
 
 The drip-drop of summer-showered eaves — 
 
 And weave them in harmonies deep, 
 
 To lull my sweet baby to sleep. 
 
 Softly ! — softly ! — my sweet baby sleeps ; 
 
 Her eyes swim away, Uke the peeps 
 
 Of violets, that close at the song 
 
 Of the golden moth as it flits along, 
 
 Lit by the stars of the hawthorn flowers. 
 
 In the moony light of the evening hours : 
 
 Now softly I nestle my baby girl 
 
 (She looks like a cherub cut in pearl). 
 
 And slowly she heaves one low, long, breath, 
 
 As she quiets down in sleep's sweet death. 
 
 O, come ! — little elfins and elves ! 
 
 Bring dreams that ye witness yourselves, 
 
 138
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 As ye slumber long minutes for hours, 
 In;^the hooded tents of the flowers ; 
 Let the glow-worm's gentle light, 
 Bring a dream of day i' th' night ; 
 And busy her little brain 
 With the tricks of your fairy train ; 
 Bid them threadle the buds of blossoms. 
 To garland their brows and bosoms ; 
 Let them dance in the magic rings. 
 Where the five-leaved clover springs. 
 And chase her through far-off' dells, 
 Where the violets ring their bells, 
 And the primroses are seen 
 From the southward bank to lean, 
 And the golden butterfly, 
 Like a pea-blossom flutters by : — 
 Sure she dreams of such pastime now, 
 By the smile on her lip and brow. 
 Oh, thanks ! little fairies and fays ! 
 
 And thanks, little elfins and elves ! 
 Tend her sleep till the morning's rays, 
 
 And she wakes like one of yourselves. 
 
 W0!PM 
 
 139
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 I DO not ask a single joy this world cannot supply ; 
 I only ask the joys we have may not so quickly die : 
 Sweet lips they smile upon us, and warm bosoms rest 
 
 the head, 
 And little ones arise around like flowers beneath the 
 
 tread. 
 
 And could the lovely always love, unchilled by pride 
 or death, 
 
 And friendship's blessings aye be ours, unscathed by 
 slanders breath. 
 
 We should not see, still day by day, our dearest plea- 
 sures fall, 
 
 Like the gold ffreen leaves of Autumn's trees, that 
 drop and wither all. 
 
 The young bride's tomb is seen beside the altar's holy 
 
 shrine. 
 Where yesterday she gave her hand, and seemed a 
 
 form divine ; 
 And the old friend we truly loved, whose fire-side was 
 
 so dear, 
 The fool of calumny's dark lie, now passes with a 
 
 sneer. 
 
 140
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 How many from life's path are gone, like summer- 
 gathered flowers, 
 
 And they we loved are in the grave — there they are 
 ever ours ; 
 
 The old to whom we fondly clung, like ivy to the tree, 
 
 And little ones who leaned on us — how have they 
 ceased to be ! 
 
 A saddening memory springs from all our backward 
 
 thoughts explore, 
 As time he slowly takes away the joys he brings no 
 
 more: 
 The echo of the finished dance hath music strange 
 
 and sad. 
 And the cadence of the closing song, doth it make the 
 
 bosom glad ? 
 
 Ah, me ! I feel life's once fair tree is not an evergreen. 
 Some leaves they fall in summer, and in autumn none 
 
 are seen ; 
 The bare and withered trunk at last death's storm 
 
 must overthrow. 
 Yet hope still hovers o'er the root, and asks if it shall 
 
 grow. 
 
 I do not weep to see around the tender flowers decay ; 
 I do not mourn that spring must wane, and summer 
 pass away ; 
 
 @- 
 
 141
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 For these shall surely come again and bid the sweet 
 
 birds sing — 
 But when the heart hath lived its time, it feels no 
 
 second spring ! 
 
 TO THE NEW-BORN. 
 
 Gentlest words, 
 
 Like the chirp of birds, 
 Or sounds that come from the fairies' song. 
 
 When they swell 
 
 The lily's white bell 
 With tiny revel and " wee " ding-dong. 
 
 Softest airs 
 
 That the sea-shell bears. 
 Or wdnd-harp that listening we scarcely hear. 
 
 Like breath that swells 
 
 From the hyacinth's bells 
 When they pray for dew-drops, must fill thine ear. 
 
 Mildest ray 
 Of the curtained day, 
 Through the blind's green folds on thy eyes may shine ; 
 Moon-beams white. 
 And the far stars' light, 
 That gazing, like seraphs' eyes, rest on thine. 
 
 142
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Purest prayer 
 
 That the cherubs bear 
 To the throne of mercy on wings of fire, 
 
 When they sigh 
 
 Over babes that die, 
 Or smile as their spirits to heaven aspire. 
 
 Bosom dove ! 
 
 Sure a father's love 
 Is purer and gentler than even this : — . 
 
 Holiest prayer — 
 
 " Heaven shield vrith care ! " — 
 Is more than breathed in the first warm kiss ! 
 
 "QUELLE EST LA VIE?" 
 
 I SAW a Child, a beautiful child, . 
 
 At play in the sunny air ; 
 'Twas binding with flowers, it had plucked fi^om the 
 wild, 
 
 The wreaths of its beaming hair : 
 And I asked that child to tell me then 
 
 What Life was in its young eyes ; — 
 " 'Tis to laugh and play, through the live-long day, 
 
 With the birds, and the flowers, and the skies !" 
 
 143
 
 miscella>:eous pieces. 
 
 I saw a Youth, with an ardent eye, 
 
 Musing mid the forest flowers ; 
 And he flung him down where the brook leaped by, 
 
 Making music through all the hours : 
 I asked him to tell me what Life was ? 
 
 " 'Tis Love ! Oh, 'tis Love !" he cries, 
 " The world is bright with its heavenly light, 
 
 And my heart is a Paradise." 
 
 I met a Man in the busy world — 
 
 There was sweat upon his brow ; 
 Suspicion his nether lip had curled, 
 
 Where deceit lurked far below : — 
 " What is Life ?" I asked, as he hurried by, — 
 
 " Get gold and a name !" said he ; 
 And he whisked along through the motley throng,— 
 
 " Ho ! money and fame for me !" 
 
 Then an old Gray-beard came on my sight — 
 
 Feeble, and bowed, and pale ; 
 His eyes looked not on the blessed light, 
 
 He felt not the sweet spring gale : 
 " Old man !" I cried, " tell me what is Life ?" 
 
 " 'Tis to have," quoth he, " the power 
 To fear dark Death, yet with every breath. 
 
 To sio-h for the mortal hour." 
 
 144
 
 ©-' 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 I NEVER saw a sweet flower fade, 
 
 A lovely blossom die ; 
 Or gentle infant bow the bead, 
 
 But sadness filled mine eye. 
 
 And when I gaze upon the 'glow 
 
 The fading twilight brings. 
 'Twould be with tears, but that I know 
 
 A lovelier dawn soon springs. 
 
 Oh I I could listen evermore 
 
 The mountain-pipe's sweet tone ; 
 
 But sadness comes, and grief the more 
 The sweeter 'twas, when gone. 
 
 The loveliest things the soonest die. 
 The best have sadest doom ; 
 
 And never yet did gentle eye, 
 But weep some new-made tomb, 
 
 'Tis sad in Autumn's scene to view 
 
 The leaves discoloured all ; 
 Ah ! never half so fast they grew 
 
 As then they fade and fall. 
 
 14.j
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And when along the forest dell, 
 At evening's twilight hour, 
 
 I hear some fellow mortal's knell, 
 How deep I feel its power. 
 
 A star just breaking midnight's gloom. 
 
 The rainbow on the cloud, 
 A floweret springing from a tomb, 
 
 A voice in solitude ; 
 
 A bird far win^'^iinto space. 
 
 The forest-shaking vnnd, 
 And dreams of worlds no eye can trace — 
 
 Are things that move the mind. 
 
 And sad at eve alone to lean 
 
 Beside some ruin gray. 
 And think of all that once hath been — 
 
 Of all that fades away ; 
 
 And from these griefs, that come from heaven, 
 That ought should mourn or die ; 
 
 I feel sweet proofs, in all things given, 
 Of Immortality ! 
 
 146
 
 MISCELLANKOUS I'lKCF^S. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 " I would not change tny tree thuiiglils for a throne." 
 
 Byron. 
 
 A Vision filled my mind, 
 
 Which reason sure had planned ; 
 I saw as one all Humankind 
 
 In one assembly stand. 
 Like sea-waves to the shore, 
 
 Like sere leaves from the wood, 
 They came, and came for evermore. 
 
 And swelled that living flood. 
 
 All strength, all energy 
 
 Inspired those countless men, 
 And Christian love and charity 
 
 Made one their purpose then. 
 " No tyi'ant !'' rose a cry, 
 
 That shook the earth and sea ; 
 " No tyrant !" echoed through the sky- 
 
 And where was tyranny ? 
 
 A king leaned on a rock, 
 
 A priest frowned dark as hell ; 
 
 But at that shout, and at that shock, 
 They shook — they bowed — they fell.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The mitre and the crown 
 
 Were trodden into dust — 
 What needed man of either's frown, 
 
 When men were wise and just ? 
 
 Throughout the laughing earth, 
 
 One holy brotherhood 
 United all ; and joy and mirth 
 
 Filled land, and wave, and wood. 
 The mind that willed was free, 
 
 The hand that toiled was fed, 
 And Virtue was nobility, 
 
 And Knowledge, power— how dread ! 
 
 The falchion was a share, 
 
 The sword a shepherd's crook ; 
 The lamb played in the lion's lair ; 
 
 The slave his cell forsook. 
 " And this might be," I cried, 
 
 " If might and right were known !" 
 " And this shall be," those men replied, 
 
 " When right is might alone !" 
 
 148 
 
 — ©
 
 SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO 
 
 I GAZED upon her in her prime, a sylph-Hke dream of 
 
 light; 
 A form of perfect loveliness, a phantom of delight : 
 Her cheek had beauty's blended hues, and raven black 
 
 her hair ; 
 And as 1 gazed I could have knelt in blameless wor- 
 ship there : 
 For Nature held not vainly given the beautiful in 
 
 form, 
 Her spirit too was lovely and her mind a ceaseless 
 
 charm. 
 And gentleness — so gentle — shone in action, word, 
 
 and deed ; 
 She seemed endearment's self, and formed to heal all 
 
 wounds that bleed. 
 
 The skies had on their loveliest hue, the flowers were 
 
 in their pride. 
 Whose beauties we were marking when I last stood 
 
 by her side ; 
 
 149
 
 The clove-like scented pink we plucked, and roses 
 sweeter yet ; 
 
 And love-in-idleness, that seems like gems in silver 
 set; 
 
 And as she smiled and chatted down the summer twi- 
 light hour, 
 
 And gazed upon their charms, she seemed herself the 
 fairest flower ; — 
 
 " And blest were he," I said, " who calls so sweet a 
 form his own. 
 
 To pass the future years with her till mortal life were 
 done." 
 
 And she was blest with earthly love, if blest such love 
 
 may be. 
 And wed to one whose dearest bliss was her felicity ; 
 And sooth it were to tell their love, but let it now 
 
 suffice 
 To say, that brightest honour wooed and wove its ten- 
 
 derest ties : 
 There was no beauty unto him but in her gentle 
 
 smile ; 
 No light that beamed out from her eyes, resting on 
 
 his the while ; 
 And she was worthy well I ween that gentlest love of 
 
 his, 
 Who would so well repay him all with tenderness 
 
 and bliss. 
 
 150
 
 The summer had not passed away, I looked on her 
 
 again ; 
 And if I saw with joy before, how great was now my 
 
 pain ! 
 Declhie with thin transparent hand had touched her 
 
 fragile form, 
 And wasted her like April snow, or lily in the 
 
 storm ; 
 The roseate hue had left her cheek, and from her 
 
 glassy eyes 
 A brightness — all too bright for earth — told how the 
 
 lovely dies: 
 She smiled upon me when we met as conscious of her 
 
 doom, — 
 I dashed the unseen tear away, and thought upon the 
 
 tomb. 
 
 Heaven spare thy feelings, youthful one ! — I know thy 
 
 love was true, 
 
 I And Hope, a bird of Paradise, around thy vision flew; 
 And prophet-like, and blamelessly, she sung of future 
 
 years. 
 Her wing was as the rainbow bright, — to pass in 
 
 clouds and tears ; 
 One thought alone may soothe thy pangs, and deepest 
 
 grief refine, — 
 That thou wast ever kind to her — that she was wholly 
 
 thine : 
 
 1.51
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And she hath fallen in life's best bloom, aye in thy 
 
 mind to be 
 A form of love and dream-like joy, a sun-lit memory ; 
 And never through life's changing years can change 
 
 or coldness come, 
 To show^ how love and beauty fade ere age unlocks 
 
 the tomb. 
 
 What recks to say how day by day. Death stole some 
 
 brighter trace 
 From out that form of loveliness, — from out that 
 
 lovely face ? 
 Or how we vainly strove to save, and pillowed soft 
 
 her head ; 
 The last sand fell, — the spirit passed, — and she was 
 
 with the" dead ! 
 And then a placid beauty came and settled on her brow, 
 As if Death half relented that he laid such beauty low; 
 But soon he shewed his secret work — yet in the grave's 
 
 last dress 
 Death could not all subdue the form that wore all 
 
 loveliness. 
 
 Remains no more for love to do, but tend her last 
 
 request. 
 That she beside her mother's tomb within her own 
 
 should rest ; 
 And in the village-yard she sleeps, beside the chancel 
 
 aisle, 
 
 1.32
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And love shall lean upon her mound, and weep the 
 past the while ; 
 
 And green the turf, and bright the flowers, upon her 
 grave shall be, 
 
 And oft an eye shall seek her there, but never more 
 shall see ; — 
 
 Within the mind alone she lives, like twilight's lin- 
 gering ray, 
 
 That never more may come again, yet never pass away. 
 
 "GOLDEN AGES." 
 
 The " golden age " of days of yore 
 
 Was but a dream of Poesy : 
 Look not behind — look on before ; 
 
 It has not been, but it shall be ! 
 
 The " golden age " of Nature— Earth — 
 Was — is — and will be one sweet prime : 
 
 Flowers spring, stars glow, streams leap in mirth, 
 As fresh and fair as from all time. 
 
 The " golden age " of Tyranny, — 
 
 Thanks to the Press — the Press — ^is o'er : 
 
 Who now to Baal bows the knee — 
 
 Who thrones and crowns, but knaves adore ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The "golden age" of Priestly Power, 
 Like morn's star, sinks in purer light : 
 
 No longer, Pope, thy curses shower. 
 For none thy curses now affright. 
 
 The "golden age" of glorious Truth 
 Is coming, but scarce yet begun : 
 
 Some dreams have stirred the giant youth. 
 But still he sleeps — a clouded sun. 
 
 The "golden age" — the pure — the true — 
 When Man shall walk a holy thing ; 
 
 When Crowns are shells, and Sects are few- 
 No lazy Priest, no bloody King: 
 
 This " golden age " is coming on — • 
 
 I see afar its glories shine, 
 Like the bricjht glance of summer dawn — 
 
 How blest the world when all divine ! 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 " The moment comes — I must away ; 
 
 Scorn thou with me the parting pain ; 
 Nor bid me now prolong my stay, 
 
 But only bid me come again : 
 
 UA
 
 Thou knowest 'twere death to linger here, 
 Should morn our meeting, love, reveal ; 
 
 But soon as night again draws near, 
 We thread the path its shades conceal. 
 
 " Say not the storm is raging high — 
 
 The raging storm is nought to me ; 
 'Tis not that I must go I sigh — 
 
 I only sigh at leaving thee ! 
 Thy blessing, love, before I go 
 
 Shall nerve my arm to brave the blast ; 
 The wave, my courser, well I know, 
 
 And ride him till the gulf be passed. 
 
 " Nay, look not thus ! — to-morrow eve 
 
 Again shall place me at thy feet ; 
 And we will smile, that we could grieve 
 
 At parting thus, so soon to meet : 
 Let not the storm thy soul depress ; 
 
 My arm shall beat aside the spray ; — 
 And thus — and thus — thy hps I press, 
 
 And bear their sweet, warm, print away ! 
 
 " The rain may hiss, the wild wind rave ; 
 
 I heed not, so thy limbs they spare : 
 Thy torch shall gild the distant wave. 
 
 And, if that fail, the lightening's glare 
 
 155
 
 Shall strike the gloom from Helle's sky : 
 And gentle thoughts of thee inspire 
 
 My bosom when the sea rolls high. 
 And bid me scorn to fear or tire. 
 
 " I stay till moments urge my flight ; 
 
 And here my heart shall ever dwell : — 
 My love — my life ! — good night — good night ! 
 
 My life — my love ! — farewell — farewell !" — 
 And he hath reached the dark sea-shore, 
 
 And wildly waves her torch on high ; 
 And he is mid the fearful roar 
 
 Of foamy wave and angry sky. 
 
 All night the storm beat fierce and loud, 
 
 But with the slow morn died away : — 
 A fearful light its dawning showed — 
 
 There pale upon the beach they lay. 
 The fisher leaned him o'er the dead, 
 
 And, where the sand slopes to the south, 
 He laid them in their narrow bed — 
 
 In Manhood one — in Beauty both. 
 
 The day comes on with gentle shine. 
 Bathing in light the rock and tree ; 
 
 The eagle's in the hyaline, 
 
 The gray gull on the deep blue sea ; 
 
 156
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The pansiecl-sward is all in bloom — 
 How beautiful their innocent eyes ! 
 
 Sure scenes so blessed hold no tomb — 
 Sure nothing loved or lovely dies ! 
 
 Ah, see that mound ! — Sleep, gentle pair ! 
 
 Your lives were rapture, breathed in bliss ; 
 Ye cannot fade from what ye were, 
 
 And sigh in age for youth's warm kiss : 
 The fret — the fever of the mind — 
 
 And passions worn — but not to rest — 
 Which all, surviving youth, must find. 
 
 Shall never canker in your breast. 
 
 Life's dew and freshness were your own, 
 
 And Passion, true as feeling, taught : 
 And here your names shall be a tone 
 
 By every breeze and billow brought : 
 The bird — the tree — the twilight grove — 
 
 The dashing wave — the springing flower — 
 Shall tell of Hero's gentle love, 
 
 Leander's truth, and Passion's power.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 COFFIN FLOWERS. 
 
 Brixg Roses — red roses ! 
 
 For lovelier was her cheek ; 
 And sweeter her ruby lips, 
 
 That never more to me speak. 
 
 Bring Violets — blue violets ! 
 
 Her gentle and heaven-hued eyes 
 Outshone all their azure bells, 
 
 'Neath the brightest summer skies. 
 
 Bring Lilies — white lilies ! 
 
 Her bosom and marble brow — 
 That brought me a father's joy — 
 
 Are colder and paler now. 
 
 Bring Blossoms- — frail blossoms ! 
 
 That wither while they bloom ; 
 She dropped from our arms away, 
 
 Ere we feared so sad a doom. 
 
 Bring Nightshade — dark nightshade ! 
 
 Our secret pangs to tell. 
 And the sadness that sinks the heart, 
 
 As we open her " narrow cell." 
 
 158
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Bring Amaranths — rich amaranths ! 
 
 Let her hold the immortal flowers : 
 We cannot now think her dead — 
 
 She has passed to heaven's green bowers. 
 
 ISABELLA. 
 
 How many a blossom is swept from the tree, 
 
 Ere it show half its beauty and bloom ! 
 And sad was the fate that awaited on thee — 
 
 Too lovely and young for the tomb. 
 Our fears had pourtrayed, and our tears inly mourned 
 
 Such a doom for thy brother beloved ; 
 But the " pale horse " passed on — and then stealthily 
 turned 
 
 To the circle again : — who is ever removed ? 
 
 The sister, the child, the young mother, the wife — 
 
 These ties are all severed in one ; 
 And darkness comes down — and the heart's burning 
 strife. 
 
 That asks for the loved ever gone. 
 How fearftil the pang, and how fruitless the prayer, 
 
 That swells o'er the dying to save ! 
 All that love can effect in the hope of despair. 
 
 Is to cast a last look in the g'rave. 
 
 159
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Her beautiful form slowly wasted away, 
 
 Like a snow-wreath 'mid April's warm tears, 
 Or rose turning pale in its gentle decay, 
 
 Till its last lingering leaf disappears ; 
 So, chilled and subdued by Decline's icy hand, 
 
 She feels the near summons of Death ; 
 And the loved at her pillow in mute anguish stand. 
 
 To catch her last whispering breath. — 
 
 " Dear Mother ! I am dying fast, 
 My bosom feels Hke wasting snow ; 
 
 Think of me. Mother, for the past. 
 And I will love you where I go. 
 
 " Father ! I'm sinking to my rest, 
 The chill sweat gathers on my brow ; 
 
 I would I could have longer blessed 
 Thy love — I feel thou lov'st me now. 
 
 " Sweet Sisters ! we must sever now. 
 Though never we have parted been ; 
 
 But ye my silent grave will know, 
 
 And dress with flowers the pillowed green. 
 
 " Loved Brother ! weave one little wreath, 
 To bless my memory, and my tomb ; 
 
 For it will soothe my soul in death, 
 And I will thank thee 'mid its gloom. 
 
 160
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 " Dear Partner ! bless my babe for me 
 Not e'en your tireless love can save ; 
 
 Bring him sometimes my tomb to see, 
 And I will love you in the grave." 
 
 The billow rolls on till it breaks on the shore, 
 
 And the gale bears the white cloud away ; 
 And the moment is come, and the dead is no more, 
 
 And the living is sleeping in clay : 
 The angel that guides gentle spirits to rest. 
 
 Hath spread its white wings for its home ; 
 And the delicate frame, like a lily compressed, 
 
 Unconsciously whispers, " the last change is come." 
 
 In a calm lonely village, upon the church green. 
 
 Where stranger-steps seldom pass by. 
 The tomb of the young bride and mother is seen, 
 
 And oft shall the loved wander nigh : 
 For brightly as Faith lights the hope of the heart, 
 
 And true as Love's prophecies breathe, 
 A shade clouds the bosom, that will not depart. 
 
 That is touched by the finger of Death. 
 
 And sweet is the thought that our loved ashes lie 
 
 In repose, undisturbed and serene ; 
 And here shall the swallow in summer fleet by, 
 
 And the blackbird be heard o'er the green: 
 
 161
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The daisy entwined in the grass-waving wreath, 
 In Spring shall her tomb duly dress ; 
 
 Beloved in her being — lamented in death — 
 While pity can soothe or affection can bless. 
 
 TO THE FIRST SWALLOW. 
 
 Welcome, thou winged arrow, 
 
 Welcome to April's sky ! 
 Joyfiil thy good morrow, 
 
 Joyful to ear and eye. 
 
 Herald of bright summer. 
 Voice of the balmy breeze, — 
 
 Welcome, thou first comer, 
 Over far lands and seas ! 
 
 With thee the daisy cometh. 
 
 Blossoming everywhere ; 
 And the sweet bee hummeth 
 
 Where the peach blossoms are. 
 
 Passed is the stormy hour, 
 Passed is the gloomy night ; 
 
 Cometh the gentle shower, 
 Cometh the rich twilight. 
 
 162
 
 Now may the bruised bosom 
 Fearslessly wait for Spring ; 
 
 And all the flowers blossom 
 Under thy sunny wing. 
 
 Sweet 'tis to watch thee, Swallow 
 Skimming the pool and mead — 
 
 Swift as the eye can follow, 
 Swift as a bullet's speed. 
 
 Welcome, thou winged arrow, 
 Welcome to April's sky ! 
 
 Joyful thy good morrow — 
 Joyful to ear and eye ! 
 
 TO AN EARLY FLOWER. 
 
 I WOULD not have plucked thee, thou beautiful flower, 
 
 Thus early fore-blooming, first gem of the year ; 
 Too soon must have vanished thy lonely, sweet hour, 
 
 Thy loveliness gone ere thy sisters appear. 
 Uncompanioned and lonely, yet lovely and gay. 
 
 Thou cam'st as to call the spring-flowers from earth ; 
 But the hand that first met thee has borne thee away, 
 
 And thy moment to fade was thy moment of birth ! 
 
 163
 
 I would not liaVe plucked thee but cherislied thee much, 
 
 And shielded thy form from all tempests that blow, 
 From the moon's icy ray and the night-air's cold touch, 
 
 That ruthlessly wither wherever they go : 
 Thy sweet voice of fragrance had whispered me dreams 
 
 Of sunlight and summer and daisy starred green ; 
 Where the thrush pours and pours his rich music, like 
 streams 
 
 In some far haunted forest, aye heard, but unseen. 
 
 I would not have plucked thee, — but such is the fate 
 
 Of the early and loved — of the youthful and dear : 
 They spring to our view, and we grasp them elate — 
 
 Their beauty is faded — the smile is a tear. 
 'Tis a sorrowful doom to possess or aspire 
 
 Beyond or above the sole things of our kind : 
 Thou fall'st but a prey to the eyes that admire, 
 
 And Beauty and Love — were they ever combined ? 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Let none the Poet's gift despise, 
 
 Though lowly it may be ; 
 The tiniest star that gems the skies, 
 
 The lowliest floweret on the lea. 
 The traveller's lonely path may cheer 
 With Light^and Beauty — else all drear. 
 
 \(U
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 A little pebble from the brook 
 
 Laid low the giant vast ; 
 And rain-drops, falling on the rock, 
 
 Pierce to its inmost heart at last, — 
 And thus his softest sigh or prayer 
 May conquer Crime or soothe Despair. 
 
 The slightest vow by Freedom given, 
 
 And Pity's lowliest sigh ; 
 The " cup of water" marked by heaven ; 
 
 The tear that dims the exUe's eye, — 
 Shall crack some link in Slavery's chain- 
 Shall brighten Hope, or solace Pain ! 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 The visits of these beautiful birds in the neighbourlioorl of Hincldey, 
 like those of augels, are " few and far between." 
 
 " Dans ces instans oil le coBur pense, 
 Heureux qui pent rentrer en soi ! 
 De la nuit j'auie le silence : 
 Doux rossignols, chantez pour mni." 
 Beranger. 
 
 Beautiful Nij^htingale ! — I have not heard 
 
 Thy strain of strains, for many a lengthened year ; 
 
 I give thee joyous welcome, thou sweet bird ! 
 
 Welcome to shades which thou alone mak'st dear. 
 
 ©- 
 
 165
 
 The swift — that winged arrow — shot through 
 heaven ; 
 
 The swallow came — we felt that it was Spring ; 
 And many a blessing, many a prayer was given, 
 
 As lovelier came the morn — eve — everything ! 
 We saw — we loved — but life so much absorbs, 
 
 We gaze on Nature with a reckless eye ; 
 Flashes the sunlight — shines heaven's nightly orbs, 
 
 And at our feet a thousand beauties lie 
 Almost unheeded : — Minstrel, pour thy song ! 
 
 Sweeter than spring-gales, or a forest brook ; 
 Now piping soft and slow, now swift and strong — 
 
 Hath human hand such notes of passion strook ? 
 It wanted thy pure strain to touch the heart. 
 
 To turn it unto Nature, aye divine ; 
 The dullest listen — who can choose but start ? — 
 
 For words like these are thine, if words are 
 thine : — 
 
 " Come to the meadows 
 All fresh with new flowers : 
 
 Twilight's rich shadows 
 Are over my bowers : 
 
 " Westward it lingers 
 
 On earth and in heaven — 
 
 As seraphim's fingers 
 
 The pure hues had given.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 " Come, while 'tis summer ! 
 
 And seize the sweet hours ; 
 Heaven will grow dimmer, 
 
 And wither earth's flowers. 
 
 " Come ! eve reposes 
 
 In beauty undying ; 
 And over my roses ( 
 
 The cool air is flying. 
 
 " Think not, in sadness 
 
 I sing the night hours ; — 
 All glory, and gladness. 
 
 And beauty are ours ! 
 
 " When can day show ye 
 
 Such scenes of deep feeling ? — 
 The fresh earth below ye — 
 
 The blue sky a ceiling. 
 
 " White stars are gUstening 
 
 In heaven's own glory ; 
 And silence is listening 
 
 The Nightingale's story. 
 
 " The rich-scented briar 
 
 To the dew-fall uncloses ; 
 The glow-worm's " wee " fire 
 
 Has lit up its roses.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TIECES. 
 
 " Perfiimes are creeping 
 From out every blossom ; 
 
 Dew-drops are weeping 
 To soften the bosom. 
 
 " Now let the spirit 
 
 Unshackle opinion, — 
 The wide world inherit — 
 
 All space its dominion ! 
 
 " See ye no vision 
 
 Of glory, far-dawning 
 On scenes more Elysian 
 
 Than man is yet forming ? 
 
 " Come, to my bowers ! 
 
 And seek Nature's treasures ;- 
 The fields and the flowers 
 
 Have sweetest of pleasures ! " 
 
 AN OLD TRUTH RE-TOLD. 
 
 Nay, never despond ! — why should we fear ? 
 
 " Whatever is, is right ;" 
 The maiden is borne on the silent bier, 
 
 But another comes up as bright. 
 
 168
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The old man drops from his good arm chair, 
 
 In an apoplectic fit; 
 But, quaff away ! — for another is there, 
 
 As good a man every whit. 
 
 The widow is starched in her mourning weed, 
 
 But the knell is silent now : 
 And the bells ring out a blithe peal indeed. 
 
 For the happy married two. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis a truth but seldom told, 
 Though dropping from every tongue : 
 
 The world is ever both sad and old, 
 'Tis ever merry and young ! 
 
 The wind it blows on the winter tree, 
 
 But the green leaf comes again ; 
 And change and decay are for all that be, 
 
 Yet Beauty and Youth remain ! 
 
 WHAT IS POETRY? 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 It is the beauty of all things ! 
 The light that flashes from woman's eye, 
 
 And the hues of the sky-lark's wings : 
 
 169
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 It is the shooting of morn's red beams 
 
 Over the giant mountains ; 
 The foam of waves, and the dash of streams, 
 
 As they leap from their caverned fountains. 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 Look through the laughing Spring ! 
 The first ray that darts from the weeping sky, 
 
 The first leaf the forests bring ; 
 Summer, too, speaks it in thunder tones, 
 
 In far-flashing lightning storms ; 
 Winter in winds and the blast that moans, 
 
 In snow-wreaths, a thousand forms. 
 
 * 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 'Tis heard in the Autumn wood 
 When the yellow leaf eddies from the tree, 
 
 And the brook swells to a flood ; 
 When the fitful breeze grows to a blast, 
 
 And the white clouds turn to rain, 
 And the winds, that at length come rushing past, 
 
 Like fiends pour a wizard strain. 
 
 Poetry !■ — what is Poetry ? 
 
 Stretch thee out on the July grass ! 
 Birds pour it from boughs, bees in humming by — 
 
 Just kissing the flowers they pass : 
 
 170
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The moon lights its red lamp on the hill, 
 
 And the gentle twilight star 
 Brings to the bosom its sweetest thrill, 
 
 When all things loveliest are. 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 Ocean shows all its might 
 When the gull's a-shore and the petrel a-sea. 
 
 And the boiling waves are white ; 
 How they foam along the misty shore, 
 
 Billows and bubbles breaking ; 
 But still they come — there are thousands more— 
 
 As ocean to earth were taking. 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 Oh, gaze on the sea-like cataract ! 
 How it comes and comes like Eternity, 
 
 But never a drop is backed : 
 Over thee circles the seven-hued bow, 
 
 Spanning the smoke-like spray ; 
 And the tortured waters look like snow, 
 
 As they fearfully rush away. 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 Roam o'er the Alpine mountains, 
 And scale Mont Blanc with his head in the sky. 
 
 With ice-bergs for his fountains ; 
 
 171
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 But speak not a word, and breathe not a breath, 
 
 As ye flit through the dark ravine ; 
 Lest the avalanche come — the pale horse of death, 
 
 And nought where ye were be seen. 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 It is the mind's swift glance 
 On the years that long have vanished by, 
 
 In the prophet's holy trance ; 
 'Tis to call up the past and the ftiture years, 
 
 And to ponder the present well ; 
 And to dash to earth all coward fears, 
 
 By Truth's everlasting spell. 
 
 f 
 
 Poetry ! — what is Poetry ? 
 
 It springs from the forest shade 
 The stars have written it on the sky, 
 
 And flowers beneath the tread ; 
 Its symbols and sounds are all around — 
 
 In ocean, and earth, and air ; 
 But its feelings alone in the heart are found, 
 
 By long self-communing there. 
 
 Poetry ! — this is Poetry ! 
 
 To hold within a power 
 To beautify all that we hear or see. 
 
 And to sweeten even a flower : 
 
 172
 
 MISCELLAXEOUS PIECES. 
 
 To embody the dream and the hope of the mind 
 
 With the beautiful and bright, 
 And to feel the good and the true combined 
 
 With the majesty of might. 
 
 Poetry ! —this is Poetry ! 
 
 To breathe a charm around, 
 Till the tyrant grows pale, and the captive free, 
 
 And earth is holy ground : 
 To see i' th' bud the fall-blo\vn flower — 
 
 Bright day in the blush of morn ; 
 And men, of eveiy clime and power, 
 
 A brotherhood free-born ! 
 
 MY OWN DEAR NATIVE VILL. 
 
 I HAVE gazed on splendid palaces and lingered on far 
 
 shores, 
 I have scaled the lofty mountain and have roamed 
 
 o'er barren moors ; 
 I have tarried with the stranger where no kindred face 
 
 was known, 
 And a blessing on his welcome though it was not like 
 
 my own ; 
 For still where'er my pathway leads, and tarry where 
 
 I will, 
 The fairest spot in memory is my own dear native vill. 
 
 173
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 There the sun shines out the brightest when he 
 
 bringeth back the spring, 
 There the hawthorn looks the greenest, and the 
 
 sweetest thrushes sing ; 
 The lark goes up at morning like a spirit to the sky, 
 And o'er our cot at evening peeps the first star like 
 
 an eve ; 
 While the chimes are sounding sweetly from the low 
 
 church by the rill, — 
 Oh ! the fairest spot in memory is my own dear native 
 
 vill. 
 
 'Twas there I played in childhood, and with spirits 
 
 ever gay — 
 The longest day in summer seemed for sport too short 
 
 a day ; 
 There smiled the happy faces that from earliest time 
 
 I knew. 
 That linked to every feeling, made my joys and shared 
 
 them too ; 
 We roamed the woods together, and together climbed 
 
 the hill ;— 
 Oh ! the fairest spot in memory is my own dear native 
 
 vill. 
 
 There first I felt a mother's love, — a father's kindred 
 care, 
 
 And youth's capricious feelings grew to ripened friend- 
 ship there ; 
 
 174 
 
 -©
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 There the first smile of beauty filled my bosom with 
 
 delight, 
 And made the scene an Eden which, before, had seemed 
 
 as bright ; 
 These blessings of my early love like sweet dreams 
 
 haunt me still ; 
 Oh ! the fairest spot in memory is my own dear native 
 
 vill. 
 
 'Tis a fond and foolish thought I know, but it ever 
 
 seems to me 
 The self-same flowers still blossom there that I loved 
 
 in infancy ; 
 The same old bat comes darkling from our lowly 
 
 cottage eve. 
 And the fond starling still returns when the swallow 
 
 takes his leave ; 
 The sweet-briar and the yellow stock are near the 
 
 do or- way still — 
 Oh! the fairest spot in memory is my own dear 
 
 native vill ! 
 
 There sleep my loved forefathers, where the lime-trees' 
 
 branches wave, 
 And though no tomb-stone marks the spot, I know 
 
 each quiet grave ; 
 There the daisy earliest blossoms, and there latest 
 
 gleams the sun. 
 
 175
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And there too I would slumber when my pilgrimage 
 
 is done ; 
 For could I by some magic power life's golden cup 
 
 re-fill, 
 My days should end as they began — in my own dear 
 
 native vill. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 " Let not the thought of fame give you or rae hopes, 
 Shice not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops." 
 
 Don Juan. 
 
 The shooting star will fling behind 
 A stream of glory on the night ; 
 But look again, and can ye find 
 Where passed the light ? 
 
 The rippling wave, as if in play. 
 
 Will leave a curve along the shore ; 
 Another sweeps its furious way — 
 'Tis seen no more. 
 
 The yellow leaf, torn from the tree. 
 
 Awhile sports gaily with the blast ; 
 But on it flies, till none may see 
 It grew or passed.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The sun, as loth to leave the eye, 
 
 Flings back the lingering twilight's hue ; 
 But clouds of midnight veil the sky : — 
 Was it e'er blue ? 
 
 And thus the wit, the bard, the sage, 
 
 Mark proudly on Time's scroll their name ; 
 'Tis folded for another age, — 
 And where their fame ? 
 
 Like dew-drops from the eagle's wing, 
 
 These stars of earth are dashed aside ; 
 A moment ends their glittering — 
 None may abide ! 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Occasioned by the Sudden Death of a young Friend. 
 
 And art thou departed ? 
 
 What bosoms shall bleed ! 
 Death's arrow hath darted 
 
 Like lightning in speed. 
 
 The ruin is shaken 
 
 Through years in decay ; 
 But man, he is taken 
 
 In glory away. 
 
 A A 
 
 177
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 
 
 One moment he revelled 
 
 In beauty and glee ; 
 The next he was levelled 
 
 As is the hewn tree. 
 
 I looked, and with gladness 
 He smiled in his bloom ; 
 
 But now, in deep sadness, 
 I sigh o'er his tomb. 
 
 I feel from his slumber, 
 
 So early, so deep, 
 That Death next may number 
 
 A couch for my sleep, 
 
 I scarce could believe thee 
 Thus faded and fled ; 
 
 These clods undeceive me — 
 I feel thou art dead ! 
 
 Alas ! for thy mother, 
 And sisters, beloved ; 
 
 For father and brother — 
 Too fearfully moved ! 
 
 No words tell their feelings, 
 Nor solace aught gives ; 
 
 Save Hope's pure revealings, 
 That whisper he lives ! 
 
 178
 
 Youno- Friend ! thou wert riven 
 From life in thy prime ; 
 
 Be the blessings of heaven 
 Eternally thine ! 
 
 TO A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Sweet flow^er of hope ! I cannot pray 
 
 For thee a parent's prayer ; 
 A parent's heart alone might say 
 
 The blessing cherished there. 
 
 But I can wish thee every bliss 
 
 This goodly world supplies ; 
 Love, pure as is thy infant kiss, 
 
 Hope, bright as thine own eyes. 
 
 Oh, formed for love ! — may that young heart 
 
 Be ne'er by love deceived : 
 Nor those sweet lips a kiss impart. 
 
 Then sigh that they believed. 
 
 But be thy life the lengthened life. 
 
 That now is on thy view ; 
 With sunshine, smiles, and beauty rife. 
 
 And bliss each moment new. 
 
 179
 
 Too fond the prayer ! — ^those eyes must weep, 
 
 That heart must learn to sigh : 
 Oh ! then may Hope bid Sorrow sleep, 
 
 And point Eternity ! 
 
 BLACK-BERRYING. 
 
 Wild Bramble-tree ! — how, when a boy, 
 
 I loved thy coal-black fruit, 
 And scarcely now feel less of joy 
 
 To meet thee in such suit ! 
 For though not for myself I pull, 
 
 As erst, thy treasured pride, 
 The sweetest, blackest, best I cull 
 
 For loved ones at my side. 
 
 And in their laugh and tiny shout — 
 
 That speak the heart's full glee — 
 I feel, while searching thee about, 
 
 Once more a boy to be. 
 Wild Bramble ! — oft I've wondering thought. 
 
 When meeting thee afar, 
 What power thy tiny seed had brought, 
 
 To plant thee everywhere ? 
 
 180
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 In grove and wood, by green path-side, 
 
 In field and sunny mead, 
 Mingled with gorse on commons wide, 
 
 Skirting the village dead ; 
 By winding brooks, mid ruins lone, 
 
 On spots of all else bare, — 
 Where'er young footsteps ramble on, 
 
 Well-pleased they meet thee there. 
 
 Do birds in their fantastic flight 
 
 Oft drop thee on their way ; 
 Or youngling villagers delight 
 
 To scatter thee in play ? 
 The squirrel, in his merry jaunts 
 
 From hedge to forest free, 
 Thy berries drops in secret haunts, 
 
 To spring next year a tree ? 
 
 Black-berries ! — 'twas a magic sound 
 
 In Autumn's golden weather : 
 Come, play-mates, come ! — off with a bound 
 
 We sought the woods together. 
 And now, in this calm, sunny noon. 
 
 Beneath the soft blue sky, 
 I feel my spirit leap in tune, 
 
 As in days long gone by. 
 
 181
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The downy peach and luscious plum 
 
 Hang from the rich man's wall. 
 But everywhere thy berries come — 
 
 For ever and for all : 
 Sweet lovers pluck thee on their way, 
 
 And travellers in the hot noon-shine ; 
 And children, happiest in their play, 
 
 If thou but make the feast and wine. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Written in the Woods. 
 
 £■' 
 
 % 
 
 '^. 
 
 ^- 
 
 And this is life to me — though not the life 
 Fate ties me to ; but I will break his chain, 
 And steal an hour with Nature. — Beauteous wood ! 
 Thou art the sanctuary of all holier thoughts ; 
 Thine influence soothes the soul, and lifts the mind 
 Above the uncongenial cares of life, 
 And bids me feel I am indeed a man ! 
 
 Now will I sit beneath this milky thorn, 
 That bends with clustered wreaths of blossomy snow, 
 And give my heart to Nature, and mine eye 
 Unto the beauty everywhere beheld. 
 
 The cuckoo, like an echo of winged joy, 
 Or bliss embodied, wakes the wood to song ; 
 Reveller of earth ! he floats around the world, 
 
 182 
 
 ;^ 
 
 ■J
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Aye 'neatli the blue sky, ever with the flowers, 
 His season summer, and his life one prime : 
 The black-bird mocks him well — the shyer thrush, 
 Far in the forest, makes its echoes ring 
 With ever varied melody, and every spray, 
 Articulate with joy, pours forth a song ! 
 
 Like wooing lover, or impassioned nun, 
 As fearful to be heard, and all unseen, 
 From out the bosom of the ivied ash, 
 The pigeon sends his streamy coo of joy : — 
 Is that the nightingale or wood-lark's voice, 
 That from the hazel vrith soft music comes ? 
 Methinks the birds are at their vespers now, 
 So many are their notes, and all so tuned 
 In sweetest harmony ; 'tis as they felt 
 Deep gratitude, and poured their hymns to heaven. 
 
 And now they die away, no little tone 
 Floats on the silent air,, that breathes of balm 
 Stolen from the dewv briar or silver thorn : 
 No leaf stirs on the trees, that lift their heads 
 Yet lighted by the twilight's summer glow, 
 Which shows their darkening shadows deepening still, 
 As if in silent prayer. — I linger yet : 
 The twilight will not die — its golden hair 
 Streams like an angel's locks along the sky, 
 And reaches far into the soft blue night ; 
 While peeping through the leaves, the dewy moon. 
 In beauty ever new, lights up the scene. 
 And, as she threw a charm of silence down 
 
 183 

 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 To wrap the world in peace, serenity, 
 As deep as that which clad the infant earth. 
 Ere voice or sound was heard, invests all things :- 
 How beautiful is Nature ! 
 
 A PLEA FOR THE WIDOW AND ORPHANS. 
 
 From an Address written lor a Local Widow and Orphan's Friend 
 
 Society. 
 
 Again we meet, and form the social ring, 
 To enjoy Love's feast and Friendship's offering : 
 Again we meet : our twentieth year to-day 
 Completes its date — how quickly passed away ! 
 But twenty years have only passed to prove 
 The strength of Friendship, and the power of Love ; 
 While deeds, alike to hope and memory dear, 
 Along the travelled space of life appear. 
 
 What sight so fair, as one whom we have blessed ? 
 What sweeter sounds than gratitude expressed ? 
 How strong our friendship, let the Widow show ! 
 How powerful love, her helpless Orphans know ! 
 Wise was that monarch, and as good as wise, 
 Who, in the hour of Nature's severing ties, 
 Whispered with joy that woke Hope's cheering ray, 
 " All I have lost, but what I gave away." 
 
 184
 
 And ours no random charity — our aim 
 To soothe the hour of death, and crush the shame 
 Of hopeless want, that, in these poHshed times, 
 Is man's worst vice — the unpardoned crime of crimes. 
 
 Shall they whose love made dear life's early day, 
 Who gave the hand that gave the heart away ; 
 Who scattered sunshine o'er the social board, 
 And lightened labour with love's rich reward ; 
 Who made our joy, and half subdued our pain, 
 And added " Father" to the Husband's name ; 
 Shall they be left, when o'er Death's silent bourne 
 Some brother passes, never to return ; 
 Shall they be left to feel the added wo 
 Of helpless want — unpitied, fallen and low ? 
 Shall none attend the Widow's hapless sigh, 
 No ear be opened to the Orphan's cry ? 
 Shall none arrest Death's' unrelenting blow, 
 But mth the tree the ivy perish too ? 
 
 No ! — this our task, to turn Death's stroke aside, 
 And e'en when dead for living loves provide- 
 To soothe with kindliest care life's bitterest doom. 
 And fling a ray of radience from the tomb. 
 Oh I long as human hearts shall deeply know 
 The thrill of rapture, and the throb of wo ; 
 Long as the sacred name of Wife is dear, 
 Or infant wiles can bless the eye or ear ; 
 
 B B 
 
 18.5
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Long as aifection soothes the manly heart, 
 
 And Love and Friendship life's best joys impart; — 
 
 So long may conscious right our hearts inspire, 
 
 Our will to realize — our hope to fire ; 
 
 So long may sure success attend our plan, 
 
 Bind friend to friend, and man to brother man. 
 
 And thanks, kind Patrons, who with generous aid 
 Assist our efforts ! Be your love repaid 
 With conscious joy by gratitude expressed. 
 And the sweet truth—" To bless is to be blest." 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 Oh sowing some Mignonnette seed in the open fields. 
 
 I SOW ye ! — I sow ye ! — sweet Mignonnette seed. 
 And breathe a spell o'er ye while doing the deed, 
 
 Shall make ye spring mid our wild flowers ; 
 For the sunny moss bank I will make your warm bed. 
 And the blue sky of April shall o'er ye spread, 
 
 And her diamond beams mingled with showers. 
 
 Spring forth, Mignonnette ! and around ye shall grow 
 Sister-flowers, half as sweet as yourselves, I well know ; 
 
 Fresh violets, the blue and blush white, 
 And primroses peeping from out the warm dells. 
 And hyacinths ringing their sky-coloured bells. 
 
 And wind flowers like sparkles of light. 
 
 186
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 I should love, little Darlings, in summer's blue hours. 
 To find ye sweet springing amid our own flowers, 
 
 By pathway, and meadow, and grove ; 
 Merry children would meet ye with many a shout, 
 And the shepherd, when eve's dewy star peepeth out, 
 
 Would search ye to bring to his love. 
 
 WHO ARE THE DEAD? 
 
 Oil ! they are not the dead that lie 
 In their own native village yard ; 
 
 Where friends and kindred come to sigh. 
 And Spring renews the pillowed sward. 
 
 Year after year, age after age, 
 
 They know and guard each sacred cell ; 
 Their names, as in some lettered page. 
 
 Fond hope and memory treasure well. 
 
 The quiet lamb may haply come 
 And nibble o'er their silent rest ; 
 
 And murmuring bee, -with mournftil hum, 
 Visit the wild flowers on their breast. 
 
 They are the dead whose mouldering bones 
 Minsrle in battle-fields unknown ; 
 
 187
 
 Whose dust no sorrowing brother owns, 
 Whose wide grave hath no mark nor stone. 
 
 The plough drives o'er the sacred skull, 
 Mixing with clay the warm red mould ; 
 
 And laughing harvests, fair and full. 
 Alone their burial-place unfold. 
 
 Tliey are the dead who 'neath the wave 
 Down many a darkening fathom sleep ; 
 
 Where spongy sea-weeds form their grave, 
 Mid monsters of the " lower deep." 
 
 What though by coral groves they lie, 
 In palaced pearl, mid rare sea-flowers ? 
 
 No living form may linger nigh, 
 
 Whispering in sadness — " These were ours ! " 
 
 They are the dead who sleep alone, 
 
 By pathless forests old and dim ; 
 No sound above them but the moan 
 
 Of hollow winds, or birds low hymn. 
 
 The bird may seek their tomb at Spring, 
 And wild flowers blossom sweet and fair ; 
 
 But there no loved one bids him sing, 
 
 No hand hath placed the sweet flowers there. 
 
 188
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The Indian mother mourns the dead 
 
 When, 'neath the moon's unclouded beam, 
 
 She sees her Hly flower —her babe, 
 Float down the Ganges sacred stream. 
 
 And they who in the crowded caves 
 
 Of crowded cities hourly come, 
 Whose bones are torn from out their graves, 
 
 To make fresh comers hourly room. 
 
 No graves are drest throughout the isle ! — 
 Life's feast is gay — death has no fete ; 
 
 Our graves are green — our gardens smile, 
 The tomb alone looks desolate. 
 
 I would our last long homes might be 
 Adorned with trees and fragrant flowers ; 
 
 That we may love, not grieve, to see 
 The dwellings that must soon be ours. 
 
 White lilies where the young girl sleeps. 
 
 And heart's-ease round the good man's tomb, 
 
 Forget-me-not where Love aye weeps. 
 And violets here of freshest bloom ! 
 
 189
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 TO THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 " Yield as tboii fad'st, for the use of mankind, 
 This lesson to mark thy decay." 
 
 Lily of France. 
 
 Again thou com'st, thou lovely gem, 
 While March winds round thee blow ; 
 
 Thou art the young year's diadem, 
 The first wreath of its brow. 
 
 As the first of a family. 
 
 Thou com'st first of the flowers, 
 
 To spring, to bloom, and cease to be, 
 Ere laugh their sunny hours. 
 
 I know not why, sweet Primrose flower, 
 
 But much I love, like thee, 
 The wood's wild haunt — the lonely bower, 
 
 Where all is fresh and free. 
 
 Wherefore, within the lonely wood. 
 
 Where seldom foot but mine 
 Breaks in upon thy solitude — 
 
 Wherefore thus lonely shine ? 
 
 190
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Why is there beauty where no eye 
 
 Looks on the beautiful ? 
 And tones of sweetest melody, 
 
 Where hearing all is dull ? 
 
 It is a sadness unto me, 
 
 To think such things as these 
 
 In pathless woods and wilds can be, 
 Where no one hears or sees. 
 
 Yet wherefore not ? They gently rise 
 Where seldom foot hath trod. 
 
 To lure the heart to purer joys, — 
 To Nature and to God. 
 
 The mind is part of that around ; 
 
 Of all it hears and sees. 
 An echo in the heart is found. 
 
 As harps sigh back the breeze. 
 
 The beautiful will leave a trace 
 
 Of its own beauty there ; 
 And gentle sounds, a kindred grace, 
 
 Of something still more fair. 
 
 The wall-flower wreathes the ruined wall, 
 
 As if to hide decay ; 
 Or else in mockery of all — 
 
 Of all that fades away. 
 
 191
 
 MISCELLAJ^'EOUS PIECES. 
 
 The lily, with her mitre on, 
 Comes forth in summer hours ; 
 
 But her we scarce can look upon, 
 There are so many flowers. 
 
 But thou, the prophet-flower of Spring, 
 
 Com'st first and lonely forth. 
 To whisper of her visiting — 
 
 Of lovelier hours on earth. 
 
 Flower of the wood ! I loved to tread 
 
 Thy haunts from infancy ; 
 And though my boyish dreams have fled, 
 
 They still are dear to me. 
 
 'Tis here the spirit learns to trace 
 
 Its own bright destiny ; 
 And snatch from Nature's charms a grace 
 
 Beyond mortality. 
 
 And hence, it looks forth on the world 
 
 With pity — if not scorn — 
 To see how men — the slaves ! — are hurled, 
 
 Like leaves on tempests borne. 
 
 The monarch's pomp, the warrior's blood, 
 
 The lover's treachery, 
 And love of gold, as earth's best good, 
 
 Are things that should not be. 
 
 192
 
 And things that will not be, if earth 
 
 May shadow aught again, 
 The paradise that blest its birth : — 
 
 Or is the dream in vain 
 
 That peoples thy lone haunts, sweet gem. 
 With something far more dear 
 
 Than men pursue, yet meant for them — 
 Seen but to disappear ? 
 
 Oh, not in vain ! — blossom lone flower, 
 And draw their steps to thee ; 
 
 For soon shall dawn a better hour, 
 K better hopes might be. 
 
 MARY ELIZABETH. 
 
 I FEARED that death would lay thee low 
 
 Thus early, blessed child. 
 But not the less I feel the blow, 
 
 Now earth is on thee piled. 
 
 Thy slender frame could not withstand 
 
 The fever's burning blast 
 Two little days : — thy golden sand 
 
 Was filtered to the last. 
 
 c c 
 
 193
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 I sat beside thee all the night 
 
 To beat away dark death, 
 But had no power to stay his might, 
 
 Or to prolong thy breath. 
 
 Yet, as it short and shorter grew, 
 
 Still firmer grew my grasp ; 
 And was it all that love could do, 
 
 To catch thy latest gasp ? 
 
 Oh, pang of pangs ! — no heart may brave, 
 Though all must bear the pain, 
 
 To wish — ^yet have no power to save. 
 To strive — yet know it vain. 
 
 My baby girl ! — thy little tomb 
 
 Is all that's left of thine ; 
 Sweet daisy ! scatter there thy bloom, 
 
 And dew-drop, brightly shine ! 
 
 On Sunday noons I sometimes go 
 
 To look upon thy rest ; 
 But scarce can think thou art below — 
 
 Thy grave is in my breast. 
 
 i,® 
 
 194
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 THE TOMBSTONE. 
 
 I PLACED this stone upon the spot 
 Where my loved babes must lie and rot, 
 And cried in Love's and Grief's deep spite — 
 Death shall not tear their names from sight, 
 But here at least my babes shall see 
 In stone an immortality. 
 
 Few years have brought their sun and rain, 
 Beside their tomb I stand again, 
 And sadly mark and deeply mourn 
 Time's " wear and tear" on turf and urn. 
 The chiseling frost and scorching ray 
 Have worn their very names away ; 
 And browsing brute and trampling tread 
 Have battered down their narrow bed, 
 Till none, but he who placed, may know 
 Whose bones — whose ashes rest below. 
 
 Dear babes ! — as on your grave I kneel, 
 Too palpably I see and feel 
 How worse than vain my strife to save 
 Your dust — your memory from the grave ; 
 For who, when I like you am gone, 
 Will e'er retouch the shattered stone ?
 
 IMISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And, as it drops piecemeal away, 
 Whose hand shall Time's cold finger stay ? — 
 With love the flattened mound repair, 
 And bid the wild-flower blossom there ? 
 
 Oh ! could my fervent prayer but turn 
 To adamantine stone your urn, 
 Then should it storm and blast defy, 
 While earth swings 'neath the blackening sky ; 
 And flowers that children love and seek — 
 Red daisies and the primrose meek, 
 Lone cowslips whispering low their fears. 
 And violets wet with lingering tears ; 
 And here, to consecrate the spot, 
 Should bloom the sweet forget-me-not, 
 And blue-eyed speedwell, grouped together. 
 Like happy children in " green weather :" 
 All wildling flowers should bless your cell, 
 Because in life ye loved them well. 
 
 Vain ! — vain ! — few years when I am gone 
 Shall batter down the turf and stone ; 
 And rampant nettles rear their head. 
 Deep rooted in the coffined dead, 
 Till lost your very name and race ; 
 The spot shall be a resting-place 
 For other forms, like yours, to be 
 Mourned — cherished — lost in Death's wide sea.
 
 Yet, as some lone bright single star 
 Shines out amid nisj-ht's o-loora afar, 
 That ever bright and brighter glows, 
 As this still dark and darker grows ; 
 So in my seared and withered heart, 
 One hope that never may depart — 
 What though it springs from my despair ? — 
 Lights up and cheers the darkness there ; — 
 'Tis this, that as mi/ hand would save, 
 If it had power, from out the grave ; 
 So deem I that some higher care. 
 That wakes the wish — that prompts the prayer, 
 Shall bid again my loved ones be, 
 And realize the dream of entity. 
 
 PHANTASY. 
 
 I WOULD I had wings and a power like my will, 
 
 I would fly from the desolate shores of the north, 
 O'er its wild heaving billows, and many a hill, 
 
 Till I reached the far sunnier islands of earth — 
 Where the orange in open air lifts its soft head. 
 
 And olive and myrtle their glories displiiy — 
 Where the grape and the fig on the way-side are spread. 
 
 And the nightingale pours through the whole year 
 her lay. 
 
 197
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The east-wind it blasts me like blight upon corn, 
 
 And I shrink from the frost like some delicate 
 flower ; 
 I feel, amid thousands, alone and forlorn — 
 
 My fellows but show the clime's coldness and 
 power. 
 But warm are the hearts of an ever-blue sky — 
 
 Their friendship is dear as affection's caress ; 
 And the smile of the lip, and the glance of the eye, 
 
 But turn to delight us, but open to bless. 
 
 How lovely to wander 'mid groves ever green, 
 
 And mark no decay in the year's gentle change, 
 Where fruitage and blossom together are seen, 
 
 And wild-flowers are springing wherever we 
 range ! 
 The rich birds of Paradise people the trees, 
 
 The wave on the shore breaks on dusky-wreathed 
 shells, 
 And fairy-like humming-birds float on the breeze. 
 
 And golden bees dive in the lily's deep bells. 
 
 But, oh ! Fwould turn, when the spring-time came 
 back. 
 To the elm-shadowed vales of my dear native 
 home : 
 What pathway so sweet as the daisy's loved track, 
 What woodlands like those where the primroses 
 bloom ? 
 
 J 98
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 I should miss the sweet thrush in the twilight of 
 morn, 
 And the blackbird where violets half hide from the 
 sight ; 
 And the gay lark at noon sparkhng up from the com, 
 And the woodbine and briar in the summer's blue 
 night ! 
 
 INVOCATION TO MAY. 
 
 Come, loved of all bosoms — come beautiful May ! 
 Why dost thou so long in the south islands stay ? 
 They have ever one summer, the isles of the south, 
 'Neath thy blue sunny eye, and thy warm breathing 
 mouth. 
 
 Come, loved of all bosoms — come beautiful May ! 
 The pale blooms are falling like snow from the spray ; 
 The daisy scarce peeps from the night-frosted sod. 
 And the cowslips, half closed in the chilly gales, nod. 
 
 Come, queen of the flowers ! — come back to the west ; 
 All blue be the heavens, and be earth newiy drest ; 
 The south-winds thy coursers, thy chariot a cloud, 
 Shot through with red light, with a rainbow o'er- 
 bowed !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 The swallow that like a live arrow shoots by, 
 Now brushing the sward, and now sweeping the sky ; 
 The cuckoo that hath but two notes in his song, 
 Thy heralds shall be, — send thy heralds along. 
 
 Full well may'st thou linger with passing delight. 
 Mid citrons, and myrtles, and lilies all white ; 
 Where the sunny wave breaks into quieksilver bells. 
 Over reefs of red coral, and jewel-like shells. 
 
 But come to the isles, the green isles of the west. 
 For short are our summers, the brightest and best ; 
 Yet cheered by thy smile, and awoke by thine eye, 
 There is beauty beneath, and around, and on high. 
 
 The daisy shall sheet every pasture with white, 
 The honey-bine breathe its rich incense at night, 
 The wild briar bloom with thy own fragrant thorn, 
 The throstle sing sweet in the twilight of morn. 
 
 And dear are thy haunts where the shy pigeon broods. 
 In the old ivied oak in the depth of the woods ; 
 Thy brooklets that sparkle mid sunlight and song, 
 And thy yellow twilights that stay all the night long. 
 
 Come, loved of all bosoms — come beautiful May ! 
 We shrink from the cold, as we mourn thy delay ; 
 The dark clouds appear, and the damp blossom dies, 
 Come, queen of the flowers ! Cheer all bosoms — all eyes ! 
 
 200
 
 EMILY'S BIRTH. 
 
 Our olive hath another leaf, 
 
 Sweet — dear as any on the tree ; 
 
 May never blight or cankering grief 
 
 Bring withering ere such change must be. 
 
 My babe, I place thee on my knee, 
 And draw thee gently to my breast. 
 
 And lift a father's prayer for thee, — • 
 May such be aye thy bed of rest. 
 
 Thou'st sprung to life, my bonny flower, 
 In the sweet spring-time of the year ; 
 
 The woodbine makes a pleasant bower, 
 The bean, its perfume sheddeth near. 
 
 The robin, in the doorside brier, 
 Is pouring forth his evening hymn ; 
 
 And o'er the far west, bright and clear. 
 Float twilight clouds, like cherubim. 
 
 I would, that from this placid hour, 
 I might thy future lot presage ; 
 
 And catch its influence and its power. 
 To cheer thy youth — to bless thy age. 
 
 D D 
 
 201
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Blithe as the thrash in yonder hedge, 
 Thy heart should sing for very glee ; 
 
 As free from care, and pain, and rage, 
 As happy all thy life should be. 
 
 TIME AND DEATH. 
 
 Myriads of rain-drops fall into the ocean's middle 
 waves. 
 Myriads of hailstones pierce their way into the pass- 
 ing river ; 
 Thus, cried I, human beings pass into their silent 
 graves. 
 Missed, too, as little — seen on earth no more for 
 ever. 
 
 Where are the countless names that lived before the 
 flood? 
 Only the mummy's form defies the flight of ages ; 
 Temples .and tombs are crushed, and fond glory's 
 spots of blood, 
 Washed by the rain of years, show not where the 
 battle rages. 
 
 202
 
 ABSALOM. 
 
 O, Absalom ! my son, my son ! 
 Art thou the first of many a one 
 To leave thy father's merry home, 
 
 And bring us tidings of the tomb ? 
 What power hath turned thy heart to stone, 
 
 And filled thine eyes with fearful gloom ? 
 
 We miss thy gay and boisterous mirth 
 
 Around the board, and at the hearth ; 
 
 And in the fields thy merry word. 
 
 Mocking the cuckoo like a bird : — 
 
 Thou goest not with thy fellows forth, 
 
 No more with them thy voice is heard. 
 
 Thou wert so happy in thy glee, 
 
 And I so happy viewing thee, 
 
 It never once had struck my heart 
 
 That thou couldst die — couldst hence depart. 
 
 But thou art lying now by me — 
 
 I fear to think how changed thou art. 
 
 And as I look upon thee now, 
 
 Cold, mid June's sunshine, as the snow, 
 
 203
 
 With flowers around, and bright blue sky, 
 I wonder that my boy can die : 
 The bud is swept from off my bough — 
 My bird, in Spring, hath left the sky. 
 
 Thou wert the first, in merry mood, 
 To bring the primrose fi'om the wood ; 
 
 And when sweet spring the thorn had drest. 
 To search with cunning eye the nest ; 
 To dash into the summer flood. 
 Or skim across its frozen breast. 
 
 The aged, gazing on thee, say, 
 " 'Tis good the boy hath passed away. 
 Ere sin and darkening sorrow blight : 
 Such, dying, wake as angels bright." 
 They never bent them o'er the clay. 
 That made life seem a dear delight. 
 
 I dare not think upon thy ways, 
 
 Thy words, thy wiles, thy love, thy praise ; 
 
 I only think that thou art gone, 
 
 I only feel my heart is lone : 
 Thy grave is all that with me stays — 
 
 O, Absalom ! my son, my son ! 
 
 204
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF SPARTA. 
 
 A Sketch from Rollins " Ancieut History." 
 
 " Morning breaks blood-red in heaven, 
 Up ! — with its first glory given ; 
 Ere it vanish from the sky, 
 Earth shall wear as deep a dye. 
 Spartans, arm ! — and to the wall ! 
 Never shall the city fall 
 While one hand can wield a sword — 
 While one bosom beats ungored. 
 Think of all your glory won — 
 Thessaly and Marathon ! 
 Never in the city yet 
 Foreign foe his foot hath set ; 
 Never yet did Grecian bow — 
 Pyrrhus shall not conquer now. 
 Hand to hand, and man to man, 
 Where the foe shall conquer then ? 
 Think for what ye battle now — 
 Hearth-stone, Altar, Love and Vow ! 
 Onward ! while the trumpets wind, 
 Hearts that love you are behind; 
 Closer than the foe before, 
 Pressing on ye evermore : 
 
 205
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And our hands shall shafts supply, 
 Aim them well, and bid them fly. 
 Husband ! Father ! boldly press, — 
 Wife and Child your deeds shall bless 
 Lover I sternly join the fight, 
 Sweet shall be your rest to-night !" 
 
 They have met, the Spartan band 
 And the foemen are at hand ; 
 Not the Mede, the Persian not. 
 But the sturdy Epirot ; 
 Hardened by a thousand scars, 
 Desperate from a thousand wars. 
 Thick as hail the arrows fly 
 From each closing enemy. 
 As they leaped along for blood, 
 Like the scorpion's fiery brood ; 
 For each arrow, ere it fell, 
 Did its dreadful errand well. 
 
 Sparta never saw till then 
 Such a fight, nor shall again ; 
 There was sire beside his son, 
 And the hoary headed one. 
 Long unused to battle brand. 
 Took the sword again in hand, 
 With a stern determined mood, 
 As he knew there must be blood ; 
 
 206
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 As he knew all actions past, 
 Should but faintly show his last. 
 Nearer now each livdng line 
 Wheel in battle till they join, 
 Then the fight grew thick and hot, 
 Spartan closed with Epirot ; 
 Arm to arm, in dreadful twine. 
 Like the serpent's twisted spine, 
 When he draws his victim's gore — 
 They have met, to part no more ; 
 Enemy to enemy 
 
 Closer pressed than friends to die. 
 Hundreds on the ground are lain 
 By the battle's hurricane ; 
 Hundreds more are rushing on — 
 But, a moment ! — they are gone ; 
 Mixed with those, in dust and gore, 
 Who, a little space before. 
 Glanced upon them with a look 
 Warriors' eye might never brook, 
 And would fly, might foes retire ; 
 But they meet like flames of fire. 
 As if drawn by some strong spell 
 To the battle's hottest hell : 
 There they lie, in ruin red. 
 Helm, and sword, and severed head ; 
 Up-turned eye, and lip all wide. 
 Tell how desperately they died. 
 
 207
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 And the horse, pierced through and through, 
 All unmanageable grew, 
 Heaving, snorting, plunging on, 
 Like an Arab's untamed one. 
 Falls the rider from his back, 
 In his heart's red cataract ; 
 Soon himself the earth shall span, 
 Staggering like a drunken man ; 
 Life is rushing with his gore. 
 And his veins can give no more ; 
 Down he falls — the strong of birth, 
 With his nostril deep in earth. 
 
 Who looked on that all-day fight, — 
 Who had hope, and who affright ? 
 Spartan wife and child were there, 
 Maiden beautifully fair, 
 Feeble matron, and old sire 
 Who could only feel his ire ; 
 Who could only feel in thought. 
 What in youth his hand had wrought ; 
 Heavens ! that he were young again. 
 Thousands more should swell the slain : — 
 Sparta shall not be undone 
 Whilst she has a living son ! 
 
 But the fray was hot and long. 
 For the foe was fierce and strong ; 
 
 ^^ 
 
 208
 
 --© 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 Many then, who fought too well, 
 Foremost rushing foremost fell ; 
 And the wounds the Spartan bore 
 Were, as wounds should be, before : 
 And no mother mourned her son, 
 Save, perhaps, a living one, 
 For each hand hath fearless been. 
 Witness else the bloody scene. 
 
 Vengeance is not sated yet, — 
 Who before has dared to set 
 Foot so near our citadel ? — 
 And the thought came like a spell 
 On each Spartan warrior then ; 
 Grows the battle hot again ; 
 All the Spartan host were seen, 
 Like a vast self-moved machine : 
 Every hand and every eye 
 Sought its purpose steadfastly ; 
 And the thought that was not heard. 
 Spoke in deed a louder word : 
 Death was seen in every thrust, — 
 " Down, ye damned foes, in dust ! " 
 
 It is ceased — the fight is done — 
 Ended with the setting sun ; 
 And his twilight hues apppear 
 On the broken shield and spear. 
 Flinging back to heaven his beam. 
 
 E E 2oy
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 
 
 With a softened lingering gleam : 
 Shine they for the victor's brow ? 
 Well hath Sparta conquered now ! 
 
 Glooms of evening ! thicker fall ; 
 Night ! come with thy shadows all : 
 Though the fallen fell gloriously, 
 Sleeping where the brave should be, 
 Yet the warrior's place of rest 
 Is a fearful sight, at best : 
 There they lie, together blent, 
 Horse, and helm, and implement : 
 Like his spent shaft, on the ground, 
 Lies the bowman ; and no sound. 
 Save th' involuntary sigh 
 From some heart that asks to die. 
 Smites upon the ear, — that past, 
 Death-like silence comes at last 
 O'er heaven all sullenly: — 
 Is it glory thus to be ! 
 
 210
 
 SONGS. 
 
 wi^g^TiM] TG411 mm\^. 
 
 ®SI©g.
 
 SONGS. 
 
 '^tua^o 
 
 SONG TO 
 
 On ! let no words fall from those lips 
 
 Less lovely than their own dear smile ; 
 No shade those gentle eyes eclipse, 
 
 Since shining thus, 'tis heaven the while. 
 I could not bear to find that heart 
 
 Less gentle than I fondly deem — 
 Love — love — sweet love, in every part, 
 
 And this its dear, its only dream. 
 
 I thought thee some sweet shape of light 
 Heaven sent my pathway to illume ; 
 
 Too pure to feel of passion's blight. 
 Too gently gay for aught of gloom. 
 
 213
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Then let me prize thee as thou art, 
 And find thee all I fondly deem — 
 
 Love — love — sweet love, in mind and heart. 
 And this thy dear, thy only dream. 
 
 OH, LADY ! TAKE THIS BEAUTEOUS 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 On, Lady ! take this beauteous rose, 
 
 And wreathe it on thy hair ; 
 'Twill picture, as it fondly glows, 
 
 A gentle story there. 
 I chose it fi:-om its parent stem, 
 
 The fairest of the tree ; 
 As Love's and Beauty's diadem, 
 
 For thee, loved one, for thee ! 
 
 Oh, Lady ! those dear charms it gives, 
 
 Shall faintly image thine ; 
 And its sweet sigh, from scented leaves, 
 
 Shall tell how pure is mine. 
 Like that, whose sweets undying prove, 
 
 When dead all else shall be. 
 My heart will hold its lasting love, 
 
 For thee, loved one, for thee ! 
 
 214
 
 SONG. 
 
 Suggested by the Frontispiece in the Sentiment of Flowers. 
 
 Rose — Ivy — Myrtle. 
 " To Beauty, Friendship, and Love." 
 
 The poet may boast of his wreath of renown, 
 The warrior his laurel — ^the monarch his crown ; 
 But the garland I weave shall entwine every brow 
 That hath manhood, or feeling, or passion's pure glow : 
 For my flowers (none are lovelier that summer bestows) 
 Are the Myrtle and Ivy and heart-glowing Rose : 
 Oh ! long may they; flourish in garden and grove. 
 Dearest emblems of beauty and friendship and love. 
 
 The Rose, flower of flowers, in all climes under heaven, 
 Meetest symbol of beauty, to beauty is given ; 
 The hue of her cheek, and the light of her eye, 
 Its starry-dewed splendours at morn may imply ; 
 And its fragrance imparted at twilight's loved hour. 
 Tell how sweet are the sighs from the depth of her bower : 
 Then cull me a wreath from the garden and grove, 
 Dearest emblems of beauty and friendship and love. 
 
 To friendship the Ivy shall ever be dear, 
 Unchanging in summer — in winter ne'er sere — 
 
 215
 
 Dewy freshness it flings round the time-shattered tree, 
 And the ruin it holds where no strength else might be. 
 The cloud may frown darkly, the storm fiercely rage — 
 No power may detach it, still strengthening with age, 
 Like feelings long cherished — too long to remove ! 
 Weave me emblems of beauty and friendship and love. 
 
 The Myrtle'is Love's gentle symbol and sign, 
 And dear is the flower, as the passion divine ; 
 Its sweet-scented leaves, and its blossoms of snow. 
 Love's pangs and Love's pleasures all artlessly show : 
 Then twine me a wreath of the flowers that unfold 
 All that life owns of sweetness, or manhood would hold ; 
 And long may they flourish in garden and grove, 
 Dearest emblems of beauty and friendship and love. 
 
 SONG FOR THE SEASON. 
 
 Come let us gaily circle now around the festive board. 
 The moments when their sands have fallen can be no 
 
 more restored ; 
 We'll pluck the flowers that deck our path before their 
 
 bloom be past 
 And turn life's clouds unto the sun, and gild them to 
 
 the last. 
 
 216
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Let social love and friendly mirth within each bosom 
 
 reign — 
 Why should we sadden Life's few hours with aught of 
 
 care or pain ? 
 Let Sect and Party now be lost in Manhood's holier 
 
 will, 
 And pleasure, like the electric spark, as one the circle 
 
 thrill. 
 
 Let no reproach escape the heart, no sneer be on the 
 
 Hp, 
 But hand-in-hand we'll crush Life's stings while we 
 
 its honey sip ; 
 For since we pass — for ever pass — like ocean's melting 
 
 waves, 
 We'll scatter sunshine on our way, and sweet flowers 
 
 on our graves. 
 
 Let mirth and music cheer the hours made bright by 
 Beauty's smile. 
 
 And wreathe the board with evergreens to image Love 
 the while ; 
 
 Like these, our feelings, fresh and young, with summer- 
 life shall glow, 
 
 Though winter's wild winds roar without, and chilly 
 falls the snow. 
 
 r F 
 
 217
 
 THE PEASANT'S HOME. 
 
 Oh ! nothing in beauty or worth can outvie 
 
 The Peasant's cahn home in the vale ; 
 With its wee bed of flowers, and small garden hard by, 
 
 And sweet-briar that scents the fresh gale : 
 The lattice, half hidden with ivy or vine, 
 
 Throws its green-shadowed light on the floor ; 
 And the porch, over-trailed with the delicate 'bine, 
 
 Makes gay the stone-seat at the door. 
 
 Ere the bridge strode the brook, or the forest grew old, 
 
 Ere the village spread over the green ; 
 When the vale was a heath — barren, desolate, cold. 
 
 There the Peasant's low cottage was seen : 
 Then labour came forth, and wherever he trod, 
 
 The waste was a Paradise fair : 
 And the orchardtreeblooms, and the white harvests nod. 
 
 And peace and sure plenty are there. 
 
 The Palace may moulder away stone by stone, 
 
 And ivy o'er-mantle the hall ; 
 The Castle with lichens and moss overgrown,' 
 
 May lean from the storm till it fall : 
 So the Cottage — the home of contentment and peace, 
 
 Look glad in the set of the sun, 
 I heed not — our glory then never shall cease — 
 
 My country be never undone. 
 
 218
 
 SONGS. 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Come, Baby, repose thee, the twilight is coming, 
 I see its long shadows thrown from the near tree ; 
 
 The wild little bird that all day has been roaming. 
 Comes home to the wall where it wintered with thee. 
 
 Come, Baby, repose thee, the breezes are dying, 
 That played all the noon 'neath the bright sunny skies ; 
 
 The honey-bee, too, from the last flower is flying, 
 The flowers are all closing their beautiftil eyes. 
 
 Come, Baby, repose thee, the swift and the swallow 
 Have fetched their last flight from the chapel and 
 green ; 
 
 The bat, too, is flitting away from his hollow, 
 And fairy-like children are gone from the scene. 
 
 Come, Baby, repose thee, my own cherub-deary ! 
 All lovely young things are gone home to their 
 bowers ; 
 And surely thy own little limbs are grown weary, 
 So long hast thou been with the birds and the 
 flowers. 
 
 Come, Baby, repose thee, for soft is thy pillow — 
 Thy young mother's bosom, sweet as thy own 
 mouth ; 
 
 219
 
 And gently she lulls thee, as woodbine or willow 
 Is waved, scarcely waved, by the breath of the 
 south. 
 
 Come, Baby, repose thee, thine eye-lids are jaded, 
 Half open, half shut, — shall they open again ? 
 
 No : thy blue eyes are closed, like young violets when 
 shaded, 
 And slumber and silence steal over thy brain. 
 
 Now, Baby, repose thee, through night's silent hours 
 An eye, that sleeps not, shall watch over thee, dear ! 
 
 And then in the morn, to the birds and the flowers, 
 For sunshine and beauty again shall appear. 
 
 "GOOD BYE!" 
 
 " Good-bye ! " — yes, this my lip can say, 
 Since fate ordains awhile we sever ; 
 
 " Good-bye I " — this hath a meeting-day, 
 It means not that we part for ever. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " — I could not say farewell, 
 It sounds too like some fearful token 
 
 Sighed only when fond hearts rebel 
 With feelings wounded — spirits broken. 
 
 220
 
 SONGS. 
 
 " Good-bye ! — I could not leave thee, love, 
 One moment, much less many a morrow, 
 
 Did I not know, that like the dove, 
 
 Thou soon wilt come to soothe my sorrow. 
 
 " Good-bye ! " — but still thy name shall be 
 My bosom's best and dearest treasure ; 
 
 The hope that mine were such to thee. 
 
 More than my thought, yet all my pleasure ! 
 
 WHEN IN THE LONELY BOWER. 
 
 When in the lonely bower. 
 
 Where last we fondly met 
 To live one lingering hour 
 
 Of love and fond regret : 
 When sadder thoughts are swelling, 
 
 As sinks the twilight ray- 
 Then let one sigh be telling 
 
 Of him that's far away. 
 
 And when thine eyes are glancing. 
 
 Where Love and Beauty meet ; 
 And fairy feet are dancing 
 
 To strains as fairies sweet : 
 When songs of bliss are swelling 
 
 To love's romantic lay — 
 Then let one sigh be telling 
 
 Of liim that's far awav. 
 
 221
 
 SONGS. 
 
 VICTORIA. 
 
 Hail, Queen of the Islands! — hail Queen of the 
 Ocean ! 
 No crown is so splendid, no i-ealm vast as thine ; 
 Warm welcome we give thee, with heart-felt emotion ; 
 And long may'st thou rule first and best of thy line. 
 May the deeds of thy reign match the deeds of old 
 story, 
 When EUza and Anne foiled our foemen's dark 
 wiles ; 
 And Peace and Reform be the gems of thy glory, 
 Loved Queen of the Ocean — loved Queen of the Isles. 
 
 Oh ! lose not in splendour the end of all power, — 
 
 To raise and enlighten, to bless and adorn ; 
 For know thou canst soften or sadden Life's hour, 
 
 To millions around thee, to millions unborn. 
 May the Wise and the Good point thy counsels — thy 
 duty, 
 
 And sycophants shrink from the light of thy smiles ; 
 So the Shamrock, and Thistle, and Rose grace thy 
 beauty, 
 
 Loved Queen of the ocean — loved Queen of the Isles. 
 
 Hail, Queen of the Islands! — hail, Queen of the 
 Ocean ! 
 Enthroned 'mid the fair, and the free, and the bold ; 
 
 222
 
 True homage we pay thee, and purest devotion, 
 For know in thy greatness our own we behold. 
 
 May the sword keep its edge though the sheath hide 
 its keenness, 
 And proudly thy flag sweep the billows' rich spoils ; 
 
 And the oak of Old England give shelter and greenness, 
 Loved Queen of the Ocean — loved Queen of the Isles. 
 
 Hope dawns on thy rising, and never may faction 
 
 O'ershadow its beams with the darkness of guile ; 
 May Peace, Commerce, Plenty, and many a proud 
 action. 
 
 Be fruits of thy wisdom, or gifts of thy smile. 
 May the Throne, and the Altar, the cot, and the palace. 
 
 Stand firmly — securely — from Party's base wiles ; 
 And this be our pledge, when we lip the bright chalice. 
 
 Hail, Queen of the Ocean — hail. Queen of the Isles ! 
 
 I LOVED AS FAIR A FORM AND FACE. 
 
 I LOVED as fair a form and face 
 
 As ever heart might treasure. 
 And found in every lengthened gaze 
 
 My dearest, only pleasure. 
 The only thought I could not bear. 
 
 From that loved one to sever ; 
 For she I loved was fond and fair, 
 
 And knew to win me ever. 
 
 223
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Sweet walks we stole by breathing thorns, 
 
 Where woodbines wreathed the bushes, 
 And evening dew-drops, bright as mom's, 
 
 Came forth with twilight's blushes : 
 No eve passed by but side by side 
 
 We traced the hill or river. 
 And when we parted fondly cried — 
 
 " How could we part for ever ! " 
 
 Sweet flowers will fade, bright suns will set, 
 
 And music cease in sadness. 
 And hope will change into regret, 
 
 And love to worse than madness ; 
 Strange feelings will possess the heart, 
 
 And crush each fond endeavour : — 
 Ah ! we who scarce an hour could part. 
 
 Are parted now for ever ! 
 
 LAMENT 
 
 In Memory of J. H., a beautiful child, who was deprived of life almost 
 iustautaneously by an accident. 
 
 But two short hours ago 
 
 My boy was at my knee. 
 Sunshine upon his brow. 
 
 His bosom foil of glee : 
 
 224
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Even as the merry bee, 
 
 When 'mid the flowers a-maying, 
 It was a joy to see 
 
 My boy around me playing. 
 
 I went my daily round — 
 
 Fearless of coming wo, — 
 I heard a voice — a sound — 
 
 That frenzied me to know : 
 They told me that a blow, 
 
 Without a moment's warning, 
 Had laid him ever low. 
 
 As home from school returning. 
 
 And now, my Boy — my Boy ! 
 
 Lies silent, moveless, dead ! 
 The light hath left his eye, 
 
 And pale his cheek so red. 
 Like as beneath the tread 
 
 Is dashed some earlier blossom. 
 Thus hath his spirit fled — 
 
 The bird from out my bosom. 
 
 I press his hand, — no press 
 His little strong hand gives ; 
 
 I call his name, — no " Yes" 
 Assures me that he lives ; 
 
 I gaze, — no gaze receives 
 
 My own with answering gladness ; 
 
 G a 
 
 225
 
 SONGS. 
 
 The past alone revives 
 
 To fill my heart with sadness. 
 
 I bend low o'er my flower, 
 
 But cannot think him cold — 
 My grasp it has no power 
 
 My love to life to hold. 
 As breaks the ivy's fold 
 
 From forest-tree or tower, 
 My feelings, thoughts, untold, 
 
 Are torn in one swift hour. 
 
 The grave may be thy bed. 
 
 And hide thee from my sight, — 
 The flowers may wrap thy head 
 
 With beauty half as bright ; 
 But while my own life's light 
 
 Shall view thy tomb's "wee" billow. 
 Thou canst not die, — thy sprite 
 
 Shall make my heart thy pillow. 
 
 LAY OF LABOUR. 
 
 Weave the life-warp and the woof — 
 Let the hues be strong and bright : 
 
 Every moment shall give proof 
 That we labour day and night. 
 
 '226
 
 Strike the anvil — clear the mine — 
 Ply the oar — the shuttle fling- — 
 
 Steam, surpassed but by the line 
 Of the electric wire, spread wing. 
 
 Poet ! higher, louder sing ! 
 
 Kaise our fallen humanity ! 
 Whisper — " Truth alone is king ! " 
 
 Thunder — "All alike are free !" 
 Toil all hands ! till hag-born crime 
 
 From man's heart and earth be driven ; 
 Hearts and hands ! — ye toil in Time 
 
 For the Evermore in heaven ! 
 
 VACATION SONG. 
 
 Written at the request of, and addressed to, the Young Ladies at 
 Miss Critchley's School, Hinckley. 
 
 What a beautiful world is the woi-ld of our youth, 
 When Life " stands on tip-toe," when feeling is truth ! 
 And a veil as transparent as Summer's blue sky — 
 When the stars are just peeping — hangs over the eye, 
 And folds in sweet mystery the prospect before. 
 While a little is shown to delight us the more, 
 
 227
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Oh ! long may that veil float as gaily as now, 
 
 Ere Age tear the covering from Time's withered brow: 
 
 I would not for worlds pluck the shadow aside, 
 
 To show how bright hope and young love can divide — 
 
 How friendship can wither — how memory decay, 
 
 Or only remember some former bright day. 
 
 No ! rather my wish — though my wish may be vain — 
 Should bid the bright world of life's spring-time remain ; 
 That never the scene of life's following years 
 May seem less delightful than now it appears — 
 That never the feelings that thrill through the heart, 
 And bid it beat lightly, as now, may depart. 
 
 I know the dear thoughts that call joy to those eyes, 
 And the tender emotions the season supplies, 
 For a low gentle voice like the bee's homeward hum 
 I hear, and it whispers, " Come home, loved ones, 
 
 come !" 
 And ye turn at that sound to the scenes of your birth. 
 As the flowers to the breathings of summer come forth. 
 
 Then well at a meeting — a parting like this. 
 
 May ye ask " something merry," to picture your bliss; 
 
 Be realized then the fond hopes and desires, 
 
 Which the moment calls up — which Old Christmas 
 
 inspires. 
 Dear meetings — loved faces — sweet visits, to tell 
 All the past — all the future. — Oh ! ever farewell !
 
 SONGS. 
 
 IF LIFE BE WORTH POSSESSING. 
 
 Writleti for the Anniversary of a AVidow and Orpliiui's Society. 
 Tune — " Ye Gentlemen of England." 
 
 If Life be worth possessing — • 
 
 As every bosom shows ; 
 If Death be still distressing — • 
 
 As every bosom knows, 
 Of that we'll seize each blessing— 
 Of this disarm the woes : 
 Join our ranks, 
 Love gives thanks 
 For the Widow, Orphan, Friend. 
 
 Shall they who made Life's morning 
 
 One scene of sunny light ; 
 Whose forms and smiles adorning 
 
 The hearth-stone, made aye bright ; 
 Shall they be left to mourning 
 When comes the last long night ? 
 No ! with pride 
 Here provide 
 For the Widow, Orphan, Friend. 
 
 Like some sweet fountain flowing 
 Beneath the hot sun's ray, 
 
 22i)
 
 SONGS. 
 
 That cheers the pilgrim going 
 
 His far and weary way ; 
 So shall our hands, bestowing, 
 A timely aid convey, 
 When deep grief 
 Asks relief 
 For the Widow, Orphan, Friend. 
 
 The withered rose-bud lendeth, 
 
 Though dead, a rich perfume ; 
 The parting twilight sendeth 
 A ray to cheer the gloom ; 
 And love like ours befriendeth. 
 And blesseth from the tomb ; 
 For with pride 
 We provide 
 For the Widow, Orphan, Friend. 
 
 And when Affliction's billow 
 
 Rolls hiojh on Life's roujjh sea,^ 
 And bears some kindred fellow 
 Where all at length must be, 
 We soothe his dying pillow 
 With kindest sympathy, 
 While our care 
 Heeds his prayer 
 For his Widow, Orphan, Friend. 
 
 230
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Then ere thy days grow dimmer, 
 
 Come aid our gentle plan ; 
 And long to him be summer, 
 
 Who hath the heart of man : 
 Oh ! when Life's last sparks glimmer, 
 How sweet in thought to scan 
 Graves of ours 
 Strewed with flowers 
 By the Widow, Orphan, Friend ! 
 
 MY OWN SONG. 
 
 As pass the dew-drops silently and unperceived away, 
 When they have soothed the dying flowers and blest 
 
 the fainting day — 
 So would I that my steps should pass, though none or 
 
 cared or knew, 
 And leave a freshness on their path, like the gently 
 
 cheering dew. 
 
 As the uncomplaining blossoms yield their honey to 
 
 the bee. 
 Albeit he but roughly seek their hidden fragrancy — 
 So should my heart with yielding love through all 
 
 Life's scenes be found, 
 Like the tree whose bark when wounded sheds its 
 
 sweetest perfiime round. 
 
 231
 
 SONGS. 
 
 As some soft strain of melody that, with its latest tone, 
 Will leave a sweetened sadness when it is forever gone — 
 So would I pass from earth away, when my last of 
 
 suns is set, 
 And leave with those who loved a grief too gentle to 
 
 forget ! 
 
 HONOUR TO THE TOILING HAND. 
 
 Set to Music by V^, M'Ewan, Esq 
 
 All honour to the toiling hand, 
 
 Or in the field or mine ; 
 Or by the harnessed fire or steam, 
 
 Or on the heaving brine : 
 Whatever loom, or barque, or plough. 
 
 Hath wrought to blass our land ; 
 Or given around — above — below, 
 
 We owe the toiling hand. 
 Then honour 
 
 honour to the toiling hand ! 
 
 It battles with the elements, 
 It breaks the stubborn sward ; 
 
 It rings the forge — the shuttle throws — 
 And shapes the social board : 
 
 It conquers climC' — it stems the wave — 
 
 232
 
 SONGS. 
 
 And bears from every strand 
 The sweetest, best of all we have. 
 Gifts of the toiling hand. 
 
 Then honour — honour to the toihng hand! 
 
 THE HOLY ALLIANCE OF THE PEOPLES. 
 
 From the French. 
 
 In vision I saw Peace descend upon earth ; 
 
 Gold she strewed on her pathway, and wheat-ears, 
 and flowers : 
 The air was serene, and the thunders of war, 
 
 Though heavy and long, into silence she lowers, — 
 "Frank, Briton, Russ, Belgian, and German," she cried, 
 
 " Ye are equally brave in your dear fatherlands, — 
 Form a Holy Alliance, ye Nations of earth, 
 
 And give to each other your brotherly hands. 
 
 "Poor mortals, what strife has annoyed and consumed ! 
 
 A broken repose, at the best, all ye own : 
 Share with kindlier feelings the circumscribed globe ; 
 
 Each should have a 'wee' spot where to sit in the sun. 
 But, chained to the chariot of power, ye quit 
 
 The road that true happiness ever commands, — 
 Form a Holy Alliance, &c. 
 
 " Each bears to his fellows sword, famine, and fire ; 
 The north wind awakes, and your roofs are laid low ; 
 
 H H 
 
 233
 
 And at length, when the earth would her seasons renew, 
 
 Labour's powers are destroyed, rusts in silence the 
 
 plough ; 
 
 Not a green blade is free from the blood of the slain, 
 
 Where the boundaries meet of your fair fatherlands — 
 
 Form a Holy Alliance, &c. 
 
 " In your cities in ashes, the Rulers of earth. 
 
 With the point of their insolent sceptres, presume 
 
 To mark and to i-eckon and re-reckon the souls 
 
 That the triumph of blood to their keepingmaydoom. 
 
 Poor Cattle ! defenceless ye pass from your bonds 
 That heavily press, into bloodier bands, — 
 Form a Holy Alliance, &c. 
 
 " Let War not in vain his red foot-prints arrest ; 
 
 In your suffering countries found laws, just and mild ; 
 No longer surrender your hearts' fountained gore 
 
 To kings ever thankless, to conquerors wild : 
 Bow not at the shrines of false glory and power — 
 
 Feared to-day, they grow pale as the morrow ascends: 
 Form a Holy Alliance, &c. 
 
 " Yes, chainless at length ! let the world breathe anew; 
 
 Fling over past ages a veil thickly wove ; 
 Till your fields and allotments to Music's glad voice, — 
 
 Art should kindle its incense for Peace and for Love. 
 Smiling Hope, in the bosom of Plenty, shall reap 
 
 Affection's sweet treasures, that Hymen commands : 
 Form a Holy Alliance, &c. 
 
 234
 
 OLIVE LEAF 
 
 For my unknown friend, Elihu Burritt. 
 
 Want, Crime, War — Love, Knowledge, Peace- 
 These shall flourish — those shall cease ; 
 Nature's better hopes are true — 
 Good all evil shall undo : 
 Love shall fill Want's craving mouth, 
 Knovrledge sun the world with Truth, 
 Peace her olive branch extend. 
 Whispering every nation — " Friend." 
 
 Sword, Crown, Crosier — Pen, Press, Steam, — 
 These shall be what those would seem — 
 Rays of gloiy, power, light, 
 Guardian spirits of the right : — 
 Dim the sword the pen shall make, 
 Press both crown and mitre shake ; 
 Steam and Wire all nations free, 
 Peace and Love sing jubilee. 
 
 WHY NEED WE SEEM OLD? 
 
 Why need we seem old while the feelings are young, 
 And Friendship and Beauty can brighten the eye ; 
 And why should the heart be estranged from the tongue, 
 
 235
 
 SONGS. 
 
 If it swell with a song — if it glow with a sigh ? 
 Not in years, not in years, will we reckon our time — 
 
 'Tis the cold 
 
 Who are old, 
 But the loving and gentle are ever in prime. 
 
 The evergreen smiles, though enwreathed with chill 
 snow, 
 And deeply and redly the winter-rose blows ; 
 And what if gray hairs should encircle the brow, 
 If the heart feels delight, if the spirit still glows ? 
 Not in years, not in years, &c. 
 
 Bring roses, bring myrtles, my white locks to wreathe — 
 These snakes of Old Time shall be hidden in flowers ; 
 Let Love lean around and rich Harmony breathe, 
 And Mirth hold his sides, and Wit shed his bright 
 showers : 
 Not in years, not in years, &c. 
 
 233
 
 Wtii^TTIHl TKIE lF@yiETlH] 
 
 siTiasi 
 
 237
 
 %^^mm^o 
 
 HYMN 
 
 For the Tissiugton Well-flowering. 
 
 Bring flowers, sweet flowers, from the mountain, 
 
 From the vale, and the gay parterre ; 
 Bring flowers, sweet flowers, to the fountain, 
 
 For most blessed its waters are ! 
 In spring-time it freshly playeth, 
 
 And its cool fresh waves are given 
 When the parching summer delayeth, 
 
 And there's no sweet rain from heaven. 
 
 Bring flowers, sweet flowers, to the fountain ! 
 
 The flocks and the herds afar, 
 As they come from the glen and mountain. 
 
 Know how blessed its waters are. 
 
 ■239
 
 The throstle at noon-day cometh 
 >.^ To drink of its silver tide ; 
 And the honey bee blithely hummeth 
 Mid the flowers alonff its side. 
 
 "& 
 
 Oh ! long as thy waves sweet fountain 
 
 Leap forth from their caverns dim, 
 So long shall the vale and mountain 
 
 Re-echo our grateful hymn. 
 And long as bright April's showers 
 
 Shall father " the bloomed May," 
 We'll deck thee with festive flowers. 
 
 And our children shall round thee play. 
 
 Still green be thy ferns and flowers 
 
 When summer sears all beside ; 
 And yearly these jocund hours 
 
 Renew both our joy and pride. 
 And praise to Thee, bountiful Giver ! 
 
 Who hollowed its depths below ; 
 May its pure waves flow for ever. 
 
 And ever Thy bounty show. 
 
 240
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 FOR A FRIENDLY SOCIETY. 
 
 Since our life is encompassed by sickness and sorrow, 
 
 And the Strong in a moment may bow; 
 Since the sun of to-day may be clouded to-morrow, 
 
 And each in his turn must lie low : 
 Hand in hand we will join, its dark scenes to relieve, 
 
 And to soften the cares of each other ; 
 For this is our aim, to bid sickness revive. 
 
 And to succour our Friend and our Brother. 
 
 When pale on the couch of disease a loved fellow 
 
 Lies racked with the woes he'd not speak, 
 Our gold shall relieve him, our love smooth his pillow. 
 
 And call back the rose to his cheek : 
 Honest Labour subdued, shall no longer repine, 
 
 And Poverty's cares we will smother ; 
 The blind and the old, in Life's last gray decline, 
 
 Shall feel they've a Friend and a Brother. 
 
 Oh ! sweet is the sigh that from gratitude's bosom 
 
 Low whispers of blessings received ; 
 And lovely is Hope as earth's first-springing blossom, 
 
 When we know its bright dreams are achieved : 
 Then strew we sweet flowers along Life's rugged road. 
 
 And its thorns we will crush for each other ; 
 For should Sorrow arise we will lighten its load. 
 
 And succour our Friend and our Brother. 
 
 I I 241
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 On the establishraeiit of a Floral and Horticultural Society. 
 
 " The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, 
 Though to itself it only live and die." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Bring flowers ! bring flowers of a thousand dyes, 
 
 And nurture and kindly store them, 
 Till the very earth look like the skies, 
 
 When the rainbow's wreath's thrown o'er them, 
 I wis that Nature no charm can show. 
 
 Amid all her self-sprung flowers, 
 But your care can add a grace thereto. 
 
 Caught from dew-drops and sunny showers. 
 
 Bring fruits ! bring fruits of every mould, 
 
 And from every climate bear them. 
 Till the clustered bough shames the mine's rich gold. 
 
 And asks every hand to share them : 
 I wis that Nature no gift bestows. 
 
 That Art has not won or is winning ; 
 He scatters a beauty wherever he goes, 
 
 Like a bird in the sunlight shining. 
 
 Bring herbs, bring plants ! ye can well explore 
 All that earth pours from her bosom ; 
 
 Who may tell what Nature has yet in store, 
 In dark root and sunny blossom ? 
 
 242
 
 Those flowers — the sweetest the garden yields — 
 Were wild weeds ere Art had nursed them ; 
 
 Those fruits, like the fruits of woods and fields, 
 When with thistle and thorn heaven cursed them. 
 
 Oh ! who can tell what treasure yet lies, 
 
 In the shadowy depths of the flowers ? 
 What glories may flash from their starry eyes, 
 
 When Art has evoked all his powers ? 
 He walks the world like a spirit of light, 
 
 And Eden behind him is springing ; 
 He smiles, and the sunbeams of heaven grow bright, 
 
 And Earth all her bounty is bringing ! 
 
 HARVEST HYMN, 
 
 W'ritlen after a liackwarcl seasou. 
 
 THxVNKSGIVIng, Lord, to Thee ! 
 
 And hearts as praise sincere ; 
 Thanksgiving, Lord ! again thy hand 
 
 Hath crowned the closing year. 
 The summer, cold and dark, 
 
 Had threatened waste and blight — 
 Thy glorious sun came forth at morn, 
 
 Thy full, fair moon at night. 
 
 Heaven gladdened — Earth grew fair 
 With sunlight, fruits, and flowers ; 
 
 ^Si 
 
 243
 
 And Want fled on the raiabowed-cloud, 
 And Hope and Joy were ours. 
 
 The orchard's golden stores, 
 The upland's yellow spoils, 
 
 Are ripened and are gathered in 
 Beneath thy gracious smiles. 
 
 Lord ! never since thy bow 
 
 Encircled Earth's wide wave, 
 Hath seed-time or hath Harvest failed — 
 
 Our fears alone misgave ! 
 Thanksgiving, Lord, to Thee ! 
 
 Our praise surpass our fear ; 
 Thanksgiving, Lord ! thy hand again 
 
 Hath crowned the rolling year ! 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 No more is heard the seraph-strain 
 
 That Judah's shepherds heard ; 
 No more appears the seraph train 
 
 That o'er its heights appeared ; 
 And where the beams of Bethlehem's star, 
 
 That marked His birth divine ? 
 On earth below — in heaven afar — 
 
 Hath ceased each natal sign. 
 
 2J4
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 Yet there are sounds and shapes that show 
 
 The Saviour's birth still dear ; 
 While human hearts a sorrow know, 
 
 Or human eyes a tear : 
 While sin and death — ill-fated pair — 
 
 Spread round their grief and gloom ; 
 While Love can languish — Hope despair — 
 
 Or earth unfold a tomb. 
 
 Then hail with joy the sacred day 
 
 That gave the Saviour birth ; 
 He came to wipe all tears away, 
 
 And open heaven to earth. 
 The fallen may now forgiveness find, 
 
 The pardoned mercy crave ; 
 The mourner soothe his wounded mind, 
 
 Though weeping at the grav^. 
 
 Then wreathe the hearth — the altar wreathe — 
 
 With cheerful evergreens ; 
 And wake the song — the organ's breath — 
 
 And liffht Love's social scenes. 
 Though storms descend and wild winds blow. 
 
 And sad are hill and grove ; 
 Our hearts with inward joy shall glow. 
 
 To feel the Saviour's love. 
 
 And sweetly sounds the seraph-strain 
 That filled the shepherd's ears, — 
 
 245
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 " Glory to God — good will to men," 
 " And peace on earth appears." 
 
 And Bethlehem's star with brightest beams 
 Lights up the scenes of earth, 
 
 For o'er the tomb its splendour streams — 
 Joy for the Saviour's birth ! 
 
 HYMNS, 
 
 Sung by Sunday-Sclmol Children at Cliristmas Tea-Gatlierings. 
 
 Now be our heartfelt thanks exprest, 
 Kind Friends and Teachers dear ! 
 
 Old Christmas, by your bounty blest, 
 Returns with " merrie cheer," 
 
 The season of the Saviour's birth, 
 Marked by your kindly love. 
 
 Tells us, indeed, of heavenly mirth — 
 Of hearts touched from above. 
 
 " Good will to men," the seraph band 
 Sang through the starry night ; 
 
 And, here fulfilled, the kind command 
 Gives every heart delight. 
 
 246
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 Glad " gatherings," such as these, deride 
 
 The show of pomp and war : 
 " Love one another," Jesus cried, 
 
 " If mine ye truly are." 
 
 O, may the precepts of his love, 
 
 Instilled with ceaseless care, 
 Our footsteps guide — our hearts improve — ■ 
 
 And shield from every snare. 
 
 Kind Teachers, Friends, your names we bless, 
 
 And be each gentle breast 
 Happy in giving happiness, 
 
 In blessing others, blest. 
 
 Chorus. — Audience and Children. 
 
 Father ! one family, we bow 
 
 Before thy equal throne : 
 "T' enjoy is to obey" — and now — 
 
 Thy holy will be done ! 
 
 II. 
 
 As flowers along some lonely way ; 
 
 As sunbeams on a winter day ; 
 
 So on Life's path your blessings smile. 
 
 So cheer our hearts, dear Friends, the while ! 
 
 247
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 WitJiout — all cheerless is the hour ; 
 Within — ^your love hath potent power ; 
 Bright evergreens, for flowers, hang round — • 
 For birds, our thankful voices sound. 
 
 Deep thanks for lessons kindly given : — 
 " Strive onward — upward — child to heaven ; 
 This life is fair, but must decay ; 
 And Jesus is the truth — the way. 
 
 " Let thought be pure — let faith be true ; 
 And seen in iiction ever new : 
 All Life is labour — each hath part — 
 With hand or head, with tongue or heart. 
 
 " The bud uncankered brings the flower — 
 The present marks the future hour — 
 To-day to-morrow's fate will tell — 
 The visible the invisible." 
 
 Chorus — Audience and Children. 
 
 Then sweet to hail the Saviour's birth, 
 With cheerful songs and social mirth ; 
 And learn from His diviner plan, 
 That love to God is love to man.
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 CHANT OF THE LOWLY. 
 
 God ! in mercy on the lowly, 
 Look in mercy from thy throne ; 
 
 Poor, despised, neglected wholly. 
 Thou canst raise us up alone : 
 
 O, Most Holy ! 
 Look in love and mercy down. 
 
 Toil is crushed, his teeth are gnashing 
 For the bread that perisheth ; 
 
 And our task-masters are lashing 
 Souls immortal unto death : 
 
 Crime abashing. 
 Shouts aloud with atheist breath. 
 
 Food and Knowledge both denied us, 
 Hope lies dead and Faith grows cold, 
 
 And the men who rob, deride us 
 When our pale forms they behold : 
 
 Tyrants chide us. 
 Though our sweat-drops coin their gold. 
 
 Trees are laden — fields are waving — 
 Plenty comes from every shore ; 
 
 Yet our famished babes are craving 
 Louder than our lords — for more : 
 
 O, All-saving ! 
 Bid their selfish hearts restore. 
 
 K K 249
 
 Plant the Tree of Life, whose blossoms 
 Heal the nations and the man ; 
 
 Give repose to wearied bosoms — 
 Lift the lowly up again : 
 
 Thy compassions 
 Shall assuage our grief and pain. 
 
 DOMESTIC MISSION HYMNS. 
 
 " If ye love me, keep my coniiiutiidraenls."' 
 
 When shall the Christian's heart display 
 
 The love of Christ indeed, 
 And chilling forms and creeds give way 
 
 To kind and gentle deed ? 
 
 When shall the path that Jesus trod, 
 
 His followers humbly tread ; 
 In joy and grief resigned to God, 
 
 And one in Christ their Head ? 
 
 Like Him, the suppliant's prayer attend, 
 
 And bid the poor rejoice ; 
 And o'er the bed of Sickness bend 
 
 With Mercy's pleading voice ? 
 
 250
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 Bright Morning Star ! arise and shine 
 
 Upon each erring mind ; 
 And, Saviour, fill our hearts, like thine, 
 
 With love for all mankind. 
 
 Then shall the world advance, improve. 
 
 Beneath thy blessed reign ; 
 The serpent change into the dove, 
 
 And Eden smile again. 
 
 II. 
 
 "Except a man be born again he cannot enter into the Kingdom of God.' 
 
 OxcE again a little child — 
 
 Born again I long to be ; 
 Meek, and merciful, and mild, 
 
 Trusting, Father ! all in Thee. 
 
 Thou art gracious, and wilt give 
 Grace to all that humbly pray ; 
 
 Bid the obdurate believe — 
 Take the heart of stone away. 
 
 All my will to thine subdued ; 
 
 Follower of thy own dear Son ; 
 Let my spirit breathe renewed, 
 
 Breathe like him, " Thy will be done." 
 
 251
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 Calm in sorrow — meek in wo — 
 Penitent for past offence ; 
 
 Prompt to succour friend or foe, 
 And for hatred love intense. 
 
 Thus in Christ a little child 
 Born again I long to be ; 
 
 Kind, compassionate and mild — 
 Trusting, Father, all in Thee ! 
 
 III. 
 
 " Come, Lord Jesus ! corae quickly !" 
 
 Come, Lord Jesus I quickly come ; 
 Make in every heart a home ; 
 Melt the proud — the meek assure — 
 And upraise the fallen, and poor. 
 
 Come, Lord Jesus ! bid thy word 
 Sheath the warrior's crimson sword ; 
 End the tyrant's ruthless reign ; 
 Break the bondman's triple chain. 
 
 Come, Lord Jesus ! hands that toil 
 Reap not from the teeming soil ; 
 Labour pines in deep distress — 
 Wealth still hoards, but not to bless. 
 
 252
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 Come, Lord Jesus ! heart and mind 
 Mourn for blessings more refined ; 
 Dash the drunkard's bowl to earth — 
 Quench the harlot's maddening mirth. 
 
 Come, Lord Jesus ! thou canst heal 
 All the miseries that we feel ; 
 Touch us with thy " border's hem " — 
 Weep anew, Jerusalem ! 
 
 HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 Lord Jesus ! spread thy reign abroad, 
 
 Fulfil the mission of thy birth ; 
 Be highest glory unto God — 
 
 " Good-will to men and peace on earth," 
 Hallelujah ! Hcillelujah ! 
 Amen. 
 
 Lord Jesus ! send thy heralds forth 
 
 Wherever man a home hath found ; 
 Let thy glad Gospel cheer the North, 
 And in the southern isles abound. 
 Hallelujah ! Hallelujah ! 
 Amen. 
 
 Lord Jesus ! haste the glorious morn 
 
 When War's red trump no more shall bray ; 
 
 253
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 When spears to pruning-hooks shall turn, 
 And babes with lamb and lion play. 
 Hallelujah ! Hallelujah ! 
 Amen. 
 
 Lord Jesus ! soften human hearts 
 With love and sympathy divine, 
 That Want may smile whilst Wealth imparts, 
 And Vice forsake its bosomed sin. 
 Hallelujah ! Hallelujah ! 
 Amen ! 
 
 Lord Jesus ! may our hearts rejoice 
 
 At this glad season of the year ; 
 And hearth and altar wake our voice, 
 To sing thy birth — to wish thee near. 
 Hallelujah ! Hallelujah 1 
 Amen. 
 
 SUNDAY-SCHOOL CHILDREN'S ANNIVER- 
 SARY HYMNS. 
 
 I. 
 
 If ever human hearts may be, 
 
 An offering. Father ! worthy Thee, 
 
 'Tis in the days of early youth. 
 
 Ere stained by crime, or warped from truth.
 
 '^ 
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 What holier sight than bended knee, 
 What sweeter sound than praise to thee, — 
 Our prayer — that thou would' st guard our lives ; 
 Our praise — for all thy goodness gives ? 
 
 Formed by thy hand, do thou protect ; 
 And through life's various scenes direct : 
 Teach us that Crime will bring distress, 
 That Virtue is true happiness. 
 
 Our Friends, our Teachers may we love, 
 Who here our hearts and minds improve : 
 And taught by them thy holy will, 
 May we thy wise designs fulfil. 
 
 Chorus. — Congregation and Children. 
 
 Parent of men and babes ! to Thee 
 Shall men, and babes, bow down the knee : 
 To all, thy love and care extend ; 
 From all shall prayer and praise ascend ! 
 
 II. 
 
 € 
 
 God of the infant ! hear the prayer 
 Thine infant offspring raise ; 
 
 Thou gav'st us life, O, may we share 
 Thy love through all our days. 
 
 255
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 God of all good ! our lives were given 
 
 For happiness and thee : 
 Teach us that happiness is heaven, 
 
 Thyself felicity. 
 
 God of the Gospel ! may we read 
 
 Its glorious page aright ; 
 To lasting joy its precepts lead, 
 
 Its truth makes all things bright. 
 
 God of the Saviour ! him who died, 
 
 To triumph o'er the grave ; 
 Teach us to follow that blest guide, — 
 
 To know thy power can save. 
 
 God of the fleeting hours of time ! 
 
 Our present wants supply ; 
 Our friends protect — preserve from crime- 
 
 And lift our hopes on high. 
 
 God of Eternity ! to thee 
 
 Our thoughts, our hearts are given ; 
 Thy presence is felicity, — 
 
 Our native home is heaven. 
 
 III. 
 
 O, Father of mercy ! 
 
 O, Parent divine ! 
 Our prayers and thanksgivings.
 
 We pour at thy shrine. 
 We bless thee for being, 
 
 For raiment and food ; 
 We pray for thy guidance, 
 
 Thou source of all good. 
 
 Though humble and lowly, 
 
 Thou wilt not despise ; — 
 All beings, all creatures. 
 
 Thy bounty supplies. 
 The light of thy glory. 
 
 The star's path illumes ; 
 Thy dew feeds the blossom 
 
 Though hidden it blooms. 
 
 Give, Father ! thy blessing 
 
 To Teacher and Friend ; 
 And may we with gladness 
 
 Thy precepts attend : 
 May Christ's deep compassion 
 
 Our gratitude move ; 
 His truth our obedience, 
 
 His pity our love. 
 
 O, bless each endeavour 
 To serve Thee, we pray ; 
 
 And guard us from error 
 
 Through Life's onward way ;
 
 Whatever thy goodness 
 Designed us to be, 
 
 Fulfil in thy mercy, 
 And bring us to Thee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Father of the young — the hoary ! 
 
 God of all the human race ! 
 Made by thee for thine own glory, 
 
 And for our own happiness : 
 Bless thy children ; 
 
 Only thou canst truly bless ! 
 
 God ! of all good things the giver, 
 Still protect us — guard us still ; 
 
 Safe from sin and death, deliver — 
 Safe, secure from every ill ; 
 
 While thy children 
 Learn to know and do thy will. 
 
 Thanks to thee for every blessing — 
 For the Bible's glorious page ; 
 
 Rich if but this gift possessing — 
 Treasure of our youth, our age ! 
 
 May thy children 
 Here their thoughts, their hopes engage. 
 
 258
 
 Let the precepts Christ has given, 
 Guide our steps, our actions guard : 
 
 And with choicest gifts of heaven, 
 
 Bless the friends who teach thy word ; 
 
 For thy children 
 All their love and care reward ! 
 
 Father of all ! thy name we praise, 
 
 Thy goodness marks our earliest days, 
 Life, health, and food, thy gifts, are ours ; 
 
 Thy goodness crowns the fields 
 
 With all that Autumn yields, 
 With Summer's fruits, with Spring's bright flowers ! 
 
 Source of true wisdom ! light impart — 
 
 Instruct our minds — renew the heart — 
 Constrain in love — in mercy bless ; 
 
 Direct our mental powers — 
 
 Be kind affections ours — 
 Our duty our best happiness. 
 
 O, may the kind instruction given. 
 
 Fall like the softening dew of heaven. 
 That we may grow in love, in truth : 
 
 Our Friends, our Teachers bless 
 
 With the sweet consciousness 
 Of doing good — of guiding youth ! 
 
 259
 
 And when Life's active scenes come on, 
 
 Still, by thy love, thy mercy dravv^n, 
 In all things may thy will be done ; 
 
 Preserve from every snare, 
 
 And guard with ceaseless care 
 Thy children, following thy Son ! 
 
 Chorus. — Congregation and Children. 
 
 Father of all ! thy name we praise. 
 
 Thy goodness marks our lengthened days, 
 Thine, all of good our hearts possess : 
 
 In mercy now behold 
 
 The youthful and the old ; 
 Our efiorts crown — our labours bless. 
 
 260 
 
 Leicester: Printed by Joseph Ayer, 35, Albion-Hill. 
 
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