THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 c
 
 A
 
 THE 
 
 VALE OF CALDENE; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE PAST AND THE PRESENT 
 
 IN SIX BOOKS. 
 
 WILLIAM DEARDEN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE STAR SEER," ETC. 
 
 "Omission to do wliat is nec-essary 
 Seals a coimiiisslon to a blank of ilan.iijer : 
 And danger, like an ague, subtly taints 
 Even then when we sit idly in the sun." 
 
 SHAKePE&RE. 
 
 LONDON : 
 LONGMAN & Co. : WALIvER, HALIFAX ; 
 
 AND TO BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 MDCCCXLIV.
 
 DEDIOATORY SONNET 
 
 TO 
 
 FREDERIC CHARLES SPENSER. 
 
 At/cato? elfj.L tovto TrpuTTdv. 
 
 TRUTH IS THE LAW OF FRIENDSHIP. HE WHO WALKS 
 
 THEREIN HAS LIGHT, AND SCORNS, WITH FULSOME BREATH, 
 
 TO WOO THE worldling's SMILE, WHICH OFT'NER BALKS 
 
 THAN CROWNS THE FAWNER'S HOPE, WHOSE LIFE OR DEATH 
 
 HANGS ON THE HORNS OF SUCH A FICKLE MOON. 
 
 TRUTH IS THE LAW OF FRIENDSHIP. BE IT MINE, 
 
 WITHIN MY LITTLE WORLD, THAT MAT FULL SOON 
 
 LOSE THE FEW STARS WHICH YET ABOVE IT SHINE 
 
 IN UNDIMINISHED FERVENCY AND LIGHT, 
 
 TO OFFER — FAR FROM SORDID SOULS APART — 
 
 THIS GRATEFUL TRIBUTE, IN THE HOLT NIGHT 
 
 OP memory's CLOUDLESS HEAVEN, TO THEE, WHO ART 
 
 WORTHY, O SPENSEK, OF A MEED MORE BRIGHT — 
 
 FRIEND OF THE GENEROUS SOUL, AND OPEN HEART ! 
 
 853601
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I was younger by some ten years than I now am, when 
 the eai'her portions of this volume were written. Most of 
 these have in the interim appeai-ed in various periodicals, 
 with some degree of public favour. On that account I should 
 not have felt justified in making any material alterations, 
 oven if such had been suggested to me, in the language and 
 structure of the fragments already published, whatever scope 
 may be found therein for critical emendation. 
 
 The feelings of ten yeai's ago I have not outlived : I have 
 the same love for what I loved then ; feel the same indigna- 
 tion, which is but an ' inverted love,' against all that was 
 hateful then : but in the latter case, I may take upon myself 
 to say, that my indignation has passed away from the indi- 
 vUiuals that excited it, and been transfeiTed to the p)'incipUs 
 which governed them — 'hating baseness,' I fain would hope, 
 * from a love of nobleness,' The development of this altered 
 feeling will not probably be traceable in certain parts of the 
 first Tlu-ee Books. When these were written they ivere, 
 who had boon unjust and cruel; against them was my
 
 VI. riiKlACK. 
 
 iiulignatiou then directed ; now they are not, I foi'give them, 
 but must forever detest their motives and evil deeds. There 
 is no merit in saj-ing this ; but there is satisfaction in feeling 
 it to be ti'ue. 
 
 Avarice I look upon as the monster-sin of the age ; and 
 as such I have attacked it, more or less, in the remaining 
 Three Books of the Poem. Were this life 'the be-all and the 
 end-all ;' were men sent into the world merely to toil and 
 moil for the wants of the body, and then to sleep an ever- 
 lasting sleep, the successful scramblers for the golden apples 
 of the commercial Hesperides might be venial, and the un- 
 successful ones pitied ; but, believing as I do, that there is a 
 spirit within 'this flesh which walls about our life,' that will 
 not perish with its earthly environment, that should know 
 and feel, and, in certain moments, does know and feel, that 
 there is an Hereafter, and an account to be rendered of all 
 talents used or abused before the face of the All- wise ; I can- 
 not but lift up my feeble voice against that great prevailing 
 sin, which blinds the eyes of the mass of mankind to their 
 .only true interest — the welfare of the infinite soul. " A man's 
 life," says One who spake as man never spake, "consisteth 
 not in the abundance of the things he possesseth." It is not, 
 then, by what a man has, but by what he is, that he ought 
 to be estimated, and is estimated by the wise and good. 
 ' Show me intrinsic worth, a life spent in virtuous action, 
 and I will love thee as a brother, though thou hast not a 
 rood of land, nor a coin in thy coffer.' So speaks enlightened
 
 PKEFACE. Vll. 
 
 Benevolence, aud her word becomes a deed. A beautiful 
 harmony subsists between the Loving and the Loved. Make 
 it universal, and earth would be heaven. And what hinders? 
 An old traditionary faith, found rotten at the core a million 
 times, yet believed in notwithstanding — Appearance ! ' Who 
 will buy of me ?' says the World, dangling her fruit with a 
 syren's smile. Straightway the multitude rush at her call ; 
 barter happiness and peace for her gilded apples, which turn 
 to ashes in their mouths ; and yet, strange to say ! their faith 
 in Appearance is steadfast as ever; and they press on for 
 more, and yet more of the delusive fruit, ' with an appetite 
 keen as the scythe of death I' How humiliating the spectacle ! 
 The visible, the transitory, the deceptive, alone the " all in 
 all"' of myriads of beings, whose life here is but a span, but 
 whose life hereafter is an eternity ! Strange infatuation ! to 
 make the Spiritual the slave of the Physical, the Infinite of 
 the Finite! But is it not so? Gaudy vesture, stately man- 
 sions, glittering equipages, knee-service and lip-service — 
 these must be obtained, or man is a non-entity, life is not 
 worth living fori The visible present is alone worth the 
 ambition of a human being ; he is laughed at and despised, 
 who makes not this his chief concern, and dreams of a future 
 in a world invisible. Such an one, however, is wiser than he 
 seems. There be a rare few scattered up and down on this 
 restless globe, that will hail him as a brother, and thank 
 God, that there is yet one more come out from among the 
 sons of Cain, from whose mental vision the scales have 
 fallen, and who is enabled to look down upon the present
 
 vill. rUEFACE. 
 
 and its busy toilers in tho dust with solemn pity, and up- 
 wai'ds and onwards with iuoeasing joy and hope — a man 
 erect before God and his angels. He has wealth and a will 
 to bestow it liberally, compared with which worldly riches 
 are but as dross ; he has thoughts bright and beautiful, like 
 Jacob's ladder, whose base is on eai'th, but whose top is in 
 heaven ; he has knowledge which no institution can give — 
 knowledge acquired by his own digging, exceedingly pre- 
 cious, because it is of Man, of Nature, and of God. He is 
 wise above what is written. He is a prophet of the latter 
 days, and speaks as one whom Truth has given authority 
 to speak. Hence his prescience is indubitable ; so the wise 
 esteem it, because they know the sublime Power whose 
 minister he is, has spoken with him face to face, and shown 
 him her counsels. Hence, too, his audience though 'fit,' are 
 ' few ;' for fools believe him not, and despise his words. 
 What marvel ? The spiritual can only be discerned by the 
 spiritual ; the foolish have but the ' case of eyes,' and there- 
 fore cannot see the glory he reveals. Nevertheless the seed 
 he has sown shall not perish, but shall bring forth fruit in 
 later days; for truth cannot die. In the meantime the 
 world's bauble-strife will continue, and he will pass on, but 
 not silently ; he has a work to do, and he must do it : at his 
 peril let him be silent! The hearts of men are alienated 
 fi-om the Old Worship, which has become ' weary, stale, flat, 
 and unprofitable;'' their faith is in things visible ; things spirit- 
 ual they find it hard to conceive — nay, shake their heads 
 when they are mentioned; like Thomas, they will toxich
 
 PREFACE. IX. 
 
 before they believe; and lay their hands upon their gold, 
 with a most knowing smirk, which, being intei-preted, says, 
 ' in this is our belief, doubt it who may.' Therefore, to re- 
 store the Old Worship, the worship of the Godlike^ the 
 Real, he, the Prophet, the Missionary of Truth, must speak, 
 even though the world stone him with stones, and leave him 
 in his rags to die. Like Luther, ' were there as many devils 
 in Worms as there ai-e roof-tUes,' he will on ; hke him, too, 
 he will declare before all principalities and powers, ' it is 
 neither safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience. 
 Here stand I, I cannot otherwise. God assist me. Amen.' 
 
 In the spirit of this heroico-sesthetic philosophy have I 
 warred against Avarice, expecting no meed but from the 
 wise and good ; for the world has little charity for him who 
 aims a blow at its favourite child. A time will come, when 
 the Telamonian shield will be withdrawn from this deadly 
 Teucer ; then will Love encounter him, and drive him hence 
 forever ; then will Love's " kingdom come," and man be re- 
 insouled. But though I have made war with tliis formidable 
 foe, not an arrow dipped in gall have I . discharged against 
 any one of God's making. I have but made me an image 
 of clay — not colossal like that of Frankinstein — but approach- 
 ing to humanity, and breathed into it the spirit of the world, 
 as an insensible mark for virtuous indignation. The ' ingre- 
 dients' used in the formation of my 'personage,' I have 
 selected from no particular locality ; I have gathered them 
 east, west, north, and south, and compounded thorn as best
 
 X. I'KiiFACK. 
 
 I could ; but it is quite possible, that some who may look 
 upon him, may fancy they see iu his features a resemblance 
 of their own, and thereat take offence. To such I would say, 
 in all good faith, the resemblance is purely accidental, and 
 would advise them to lave in a purer fountain than they have 
 been accustomed to frequent; and then the amaurosis — in 
 which alone the fancied resemblance exists — will quickly 
 disappear, and they will thank God that they have listened 
 to the voice of truth, and hold up their honest faces as men 
 that need not be ashamed. The mirage that has so long 
 deluded them will melt away, and glorious realities in a 
 kingdom that will become theirs, if they faint not, Avill be 
 revealed. They wiU find, that to have become dead to the 
 lying ' vanities of this wicked world,' and to have breathed 
 the air of that serener world — the intellectual — the spiritual 
 — is to live as beings but ' little lower than the angels' in 
 worth and dignity. 
 
 It is refreshing to see a few noble, right-hearted men 
 venture to proclaim aloud in the hearing of thousands, even 
 in places ' where merchants most do congregate,' a Philosophy 
 which, founded on Christian principles, aims at the elevation 
 of man in his social, moral, and intellectual condition, and 
 breathes the spirit of univei'sal good-will ; but it is still more 
 refreshing to see such assemblies, shaking off for a time the 
 trammels of faction and business, open their hearts to the 
 reception of the glorious truths which that philosophy incul- 
 cates, and reward its missionaries in the noblest way in
 
 PREFACE. XI. 
 
 which gratitude can be evinced, by a simultaneous resolution 
 to become more catholic in love, more prompt and extensive 
 in action. This is as it should be. There is yet hope for 
 Man; he is beginning to be appreciated; he is already 
 acknowledged to be something more than a spinning-jenny 
 and a ploughshare, and to possess ' senses, affections, pas- 
 sions,' which it is of importance to cultivate and govern. 
 Yes, there is hope for Man. Is it too much to say, that this 
 auroral flush is the harbinger of Millennial day? Avarice 
 has heard a voice, as of a silver trumpet, proclaiming good- 
 will, and honour, and exaltation to man ; and she trembles 
 in her stronghold ; her gold waxes dim ; her watchmen are 
 deserting her walls. May the spirit of this humanising 
 Philosophy soon banish her from the earth ! Hitherto its 
 steps are ' beautiful exceedingly,' as the sun on the moun- 
 tains, creating oases in the wilderness of Toil, and the breath 
 of its promise is fraught with the odours of the flowers of 
 Paradise. 
 
 Blessings be on them, that band of brave men I A na- 
 tion's heart has vibrated to the sound of their gifted tongues. 
 As was to be expected, however, all do not like their creed ; 
 a malignant few have charged them with uttering only ' old 
 truths;' as if truths were things of yesterday and to day 
 merely, and were not, like the stars, always old and always 
 young, though sometimes obscured during nights of gloom. 
 Old truths, such as these good men utter, become new to a 
 toil-crazed people, whose ears have seldom or never, in their
 
 xii. PREFACE. 
 
 generation, heard their welcome sound from hearts of sym- 
 pathy and love, and lips of wisdom and power. The buried 
 gold of half a century has been dug up, and melted in new 
 crucibles ; a beautiful coinage, with a now • image and super- 
 scription' — Man the noblest work of God — has been 
 issued, and passes current with the coin of the realm. 
 
 In the enlightened creed enunciated by this Philosophy I 
 have long been a beUever ; I have long seen there was no 
 hope for man till the partition-walls of faction were thrown 
 down, and he could meet his brother in fellowship and good- 
 will. Many a breach has already been made by that bravo 
 band ; and, erelong, at the sound of their 'ethereal trumpets,' 
 amid the shouts of approving millions, the old ramparts will 
 fall, and man will be free to enter the Promised Land. Lot 
 them " proceed," then, entitled to the ennobling appellations 
 which the poet gives to the illustrious harbinger of a New 
 Age— 
 
 Aggredere, 6 magnos, aderit jam tempus, honores, 
 Cara Deum sobolcs, magnum Jovis incrementum '. 
 Aspice convexo nutantem pondere mundum, 
 Terrasque, traetusquc, maris, coolumque, profuudum : 
 Aspico veuturo lajtentur ut omnia sajclo. 
 
 And I hope I may without presumption adopt the poet's 
 prayer — 
 
 O mihi tarn longm maneat pars ultima vita;, 
 Spiritus et, quantum sit tua dicere facta !
 
 PREFACE. xni. 
 
 One word in conclusion as to Commerce. I am not in- 
 sensible to its manifold blessings, nor unaware of the 'old, the 
 intimate, the natural alliance between it and literature ;' but 
 because Avaiice has converted many of those blessings into 
 a curse, and broken that beautiful alliance, I have spoken of 
 a corrupted Commerce as the genie-slave of the ' Old Lamp,' 
 as *tho Lucifer, son of the Morning, fallen from his high 
 estate.' Alas ! how different now are the ways of commerce 
 from what they were about two centuries and a half ago, 
 when the epithet " royal merchant" was given by Shakspeare 
 to Antonio, to indicate the high sense of honour and integrity, 
 which distinguished that individual, and the class to which 
 he belonged ! That there are many merchants whom I 
 know, and very many, I would fain believe, whom I do not 
 know, to whom that noble title might be justly applied, I 
 feel proud, for the honour of my country, to acknowledge ; 
 men whose word, according to the old phrase, is as good as 
 their bond, and whose munificence, both in public and private 
 is truly princely, in the furtherance of any cause which has 
 for its object the welfare and happiness of their fellow- 
 creatures. Such men, " royal" in heart and deed, I rever- 
 ence ; they are of that exalted class, of which Fuller, in his 
 ' Worthies,' vol. i. p. 290, gives the foUowiug illustiious 
 example : — " Peter Blundell, of Tiverton, in this County, 
 was a Cloathier by his profession ; and, through God's 
 blessing on his endeavours therein, raised unto himself a 
 fair estate. Nor was he more painfull and industrious in 
 gaining, than pious and prudent in disposing thereof ; erecting
 
 XIV. I'UHi'.vc'i;. 
 
 a fair Free School in the town of his nativity. By his will 
 he bequeathed thereto a competent maintenance (together 
 with convenience of lodging) for a Master and Usher. And, 
 lest such whose Crenius did encline, and parts furnish them 
 for a further progress in learning, should, through want of a 
 comfortable subsistency, be stopped or disheartened, he be- 
 stowed two Scholarships and as many Fellowships on Sidney 
 Colledge, in Cambridge ; carefully providing, that the 
 Scholars bred in his School at Tiverton, should be elected 
 into the same. I cannot attain to a certainty in the time of 
 his death, though it be thought to have happened in the 
 year 1.50G." How few of our modem " Cloathiers," apply 
 their gains in the same laudable way in which good Peter 
 Blundell disposed of his wealth I 
 
 The picture I have drawn of Commerce exhibits, I am 
 aware, its harsher features ; but in thus delineating, and 
 holding up these to view, I hope no one will blame me ; for, 
 as a wise man well observes, " it is in general more profitable 
 to reckon up our defects than to boast of our attainments." 
 
 I do not expect, nor have I tried, to please all ; but if I 
 succeed in gaining a ' fit audience though few,' that will 
 make common cause Avith me in the love of Man, and 
 hatred of all that militates against his happiness, and 
 retards his moral and intellectual progression, my end will 
 be gained, and I shall be satisfied.
 
 PREFACE. XV. 
 
 To all who have aided me iu the publication of this 
 Work, I return my hearty thanks, and say in the words of 
 Chaucer — 
 
 Go litle book, God send thee good passage, 
 Chase well thy way, be shiiple of manere, 
 Looke thy clothing be like thy pilgremage, 
 And specially let this be thy prayere, 
 Unto hem all that will thee rede or here, 
 Whei-e thou art wrong, after hir help to call, 
 Thee to correct in any part or all. 
 
 AV. T). 
 
 Iluddersfiekl, Dee. '.'n.l, 1.S14.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE; 
 
 OR, THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 " I am called Chyldhod, in play is all my myndi.', 
 To cast a coyte, a cockstelc, and a ball ; 
 A toppe can I set, and dryve in its kyiide ; 
 But would to God, these hateful bookes all 
 Were in a tyre brent to ponder small ! 
 Than myght I ledc my lyfe ahvayes in play, 
 Which lyfe God sendc mc to myne eudjing day." 
 
 Sir Tkoman Mute's Rvful Laiiifulaciuu.
 
 "CHILDHOOD, AND RATHER ITS TERRORS THAN ITS RAPTURES, TAKE WINGS 
 AND RADIANCE AGAIN IN DREAMS, AND SPORT LIKE FIRE-FLIES IN THE LITTLE 
 NIGHT OF THE SODL. CRUSH NOT THESE FLICKERING SPARKS ! — LEAVE US 
 EVEN OUR DARK PAINFUL DREAMS AS HIGHER HALF-SHADOWS OF REALITY! — 
 AND WHEREWITH WILL YOU REPLACE TO US THOSE DREAMS, WHICH BEAR US 
 AWAY FROM UNDER THE TUMULT OF THE WATERFALL INTO THE STILL HEIGHTS 
 OP CHILDHOOD, WHERE THE STREAM OF LIFE YET RAN SILENT IN ITS LITTLE 
 PLAIN, AND FLOWED TOWARDS ITS ABYSSES, A MIRROR OF THE HEAVEN V 
 
 Jean Piiitl.
 
 THE VISIT, &c.
 
 |)voem. 
 
 The rilgrim, after a lung absence, sets out on a visit to his Native Vale — 
 arrives in the evening, and apostrophises the Moon, but is called to re- 
 pose. The next evening summons liim to the Hills, which, in the en- 
 thusiasm of the moment, he addresses, warmed with the recollections 
 of childhood— discovers, however, that the devastating hand of man has 
 destroyed many of their beauties and solitudes. He then turns his 
 steps towards his Grandf.\tuek's Cottage, which he describes as it 
 stood when he was a boy — but finds it on his approach ruined aTid 
 desolate. Pained with the sad realities before him, he invokes 
 Memory to recal the scenes of the Past. Home, with its cherry- 
 tree and rivulet — his Grandfather and Grandmother, with tlieir 
 flower garden — rise to his view. He is a hoy-warrior again on 
 Chatscoct, and fights for the supremacy of his native river. Non- 
 he is a School-boy, and a Truant — is apprehended, and brought 
 before his Rev. Tutor, who punishes him for his delinquency — 
 Machpelah, with its honoured inhabitant, the Village Sage— the 
 village minstrels and their solemn music — charm his sight and ear. 
 The sounds of rural festivity on the return of Peace — the Soldier's 
 Uetdrn to his faithful Ellen and his good Old Sire— the Painter— 
 the Village Schoolmaster — the Empiric — the Dublin B.A. — close the 
 train of reminiscences in Book I.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE VISIT, &c 
 
 " It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me with all their 
 ileeds ! I seize the tales as they pass, and pour thciu forth in song."— 
 Ussian, 
 
 " Shall I thank God for the green summer, and the mild air, and the 
 flowers, and the stars, and all tliat makes this woi'Ul so beautiful, and not 
 for the good and beautiful beings I have known in it '. lias not their 
 presence been sweeter to me than flowers ? Are they not higher and 
 hoher than the stars ? Are they not more to me than all things else ?"— 
 Hyperion. 
 
 I. 
 
 Onward, my steed, at thy full career I 
 The home of my childhood now is near ; 
 Onwai'd fleet as the winged M'ind — 
 Sweet rest to-night, and keeper kind ; 
 And thou, on the morrow, shalt range at will 
 O'er flowery meadow, or sunny hill. 
 Jjravely, my Zephyr ! — now take thine ease. — 
 Yon sky-peering i-ocks, and those sentinel trees 
 Gleaming in moonlight, o'erlook the dear spot, 
 Where the Caldek rolls by my father's cot. 
 And thou, fair Empress of Night, dost come. 
 With thy wonted smile, to welcome home
 
 THE VISIT. 
 
 The Pilgrim who, when far away 
 
 From those sylvan scones ho was doomed to stray^ 
 
 Has felt in his hciirt ho could worship thee, 
 
 As the Parsee the sun, most fervently : 
 
 For thou as a spirit wast wont to move 
 
 Hallowing the haunts of his eai-ly love, 
 
 And touching the dew-gemmed leaves of the trees. 
 
 With thy silvery wand, as they shook in the hreeze ; 
 
 While jutting out from the foliage-screen, 
 
 Some old furrowed rock was greyly seen. 
 
 With its moss-tufted crown of varied hues, 
 
 And its numerous lamps of ci-ystal dews, 
 
 Lighted up by thee on wreathed pedestals, 
 
 For Faeries to dance by, at Oberon's balls. 
 
 When Titania in beauty came forth from her bower, 
 
 To trip the green circle at night's witching hour ; 
 
 The while, that the fi-olicsome stream would leap. 
 
 Beneath thy smile, down the craggy steep, 
 
 Mu'thfuUy throwing its fitful showers 
 
 Of luminous drops on the nodding flowers ; 
 
 Then stealthily winding away like a snake, 
 
 Till it silently slept in a little lake. 
 
 In whoso unsullied mirror true 
 
 Thou cam'st at midnight thy face to view, 
 
 Awaking the birds that slumbered on 
 
 The neighbouring boughs, with the light that shone 
 
 From that lakelet fan- ; so that cheerily they 
 
 Have sung awhile, as at dawn of day ; 
 
 And the hungry owl, that cowered above 
 
 The leaf-screened home of the nestling dove, 
 
 Scared from his pi'oy, hath speedily flown 
 
 To the Turret Rocks,* his eyry lone, 
 
 * These rocks are nearly oi)iiositc Oswald. Vide Star-Seer.
 
 MY NATIVE HILLS. 
 
 And brooded there, till Oswald hill 
 Hath shrouded thy form, and all was still. 
 
 Shine on, O Moon ! let thy bright beams faU 
 On spangled rock, and moss-grown wall ; 
 On beetling crag, with its whispering shade, 
 Where the lover woos his true-hearted maid ; 
 Let every tree, at this holy hour, 
 Have the meUow charm of thy luminous dower ; 
 Let lowly violet, and sweet wild rose, 
 And puq:)le-belled foxglove, that towering grows 
 On the sloping side of the mountain ridge, 
 Near the lonely and ivied Milcuin Bridge,* 
 That hoai'ily spans Cal's amber stream — 
 Let thy own cusped flower, that's lulled to sleep 
 By the falling waters the green rocks weep — 
 Let all have the speU of thy holy beam ! 
 But I must no longer tarry here. 
 For a well-known voice now greets mine ear. — 
 Good night I good night ! sweet moon, I'U rove 
 Next eve with thee o'er scenes I love. 
 
 IL 
 
 My native hills, rock-wardered hail ! 
 Once more I feel your cheering gale. 
 Which, laden with perfume of flowers. 
 Plays round me, as in childhood's hours ; 
 And, as I gaze upon ye, how 
 The Past revives bofoi'e me now I 
 I seem as though again a child, 
 And I were wandering, Uko a wild 
 
 * Vide note at the end.
 
 8 JIV .NATIVE I1IIJ,.S. 
 
 Young honey-bee, a happy rover. 
 
 Your gi-cen and ilowery swe(^ts all over ! 
 
 My benison rest on ye ! — Friends 
 
 May smile or fi-own, to serve their ends ; 
 
 But you are everlastingly 
 
 Leagued in true Friendship's bonds with me I 
 
 could I, for a moment, clasp 
 
 Your giant foi-ms within my grasp, 
 
 I'd prove that soul to soul ne'er grew 
 
 More close in love than I to you ! 
 
 But ye are changed I alas ! the thought ! 
 'Tis man, not Time, the change has wrought : 
 His devastating hand has been 
 Among your solitudes, and green 
 O'erhanging woods, where many a tree — 
 Beneath whose ample canopy, 
 Screened from the summer's mid-day sun. 
 Myself and mates have races run, 
 And mimic battles lost and won, 
 "While our fond parents seated near. 
 Each young .Vthlete's exploits would cheer — 
 Is by the ruthless axe cut down, 
 Due space to yield for smoky town. 
 
 Nor here stays devastation's hand : 
 Those storm-worn rocks, that erst did stand 
 In hoary majesty above 
 Eaves* flowery slope, and piny grove — 
 Those rocks fi'om which, pei'chance, of old. 
 The Druid would his lore unfold — 
 
 * A lofty mountain-riilgc, uoyth of UuUlene.
 
 THE COTTAGE OF MY GRANDFATIIEK. 
 
 Those rocks where nature's hand had made 
 
 Full many a seat, and sheltering shade, 
 
 To which in leisui'e hours, my sire 
 
 With cronies sage did oft retire 
 
 To read the news, and talk apart 
 
 Of politics and Buonaparte, 
 
 While o'er their heath-crowned bower sublime, 
 
 I loved in reckless mood to climb, 
 
 And seek birds-nests among the ling, 
 
 Or bilberries thread on grassy string, 
 
 Or, stretched supine, on cloud-land gaze, 
 
 And grand aenal castles raise — 
 
 Yes, these, the bulwarks of your strength. 
 
 My native hills ! man has at length, 
 
 Armed with a thunder of his own, 
 
 From their firm bases overthrown. 
 
 And down your sides the fragments hurled. 
 
 Like ruins of a recent world. 
 
 III. 
 
 Embosomed in yon darkling wood. 
 The cottage of my Grandsu'e stood ; 
 Around whose walls were wont to twine 
 The ivy and the eglantine : 
 And — seeming as if born of them — • 
 Moss-roses, from an unseen stem, 
 Peeped forth, like radiant eyes I've seen 
 Beneath a half-drawn veil of green. 
 A garden famed for lovely flowers. 
 Long winding walks, and shady bowei's, 
 Lay in rich amplitude before 
 The venerable patriarch's door ; 
 And close behind his home, a wild 
 And rugged mount of rocks was piled.
 
 10 THE COTTAGE OF MY CnANDFATUEK. 
 
 Whoso sides, I'vo thought, the fays of old 
 Had tinctured o'er with green and gold ; 
 And that the flower-festoons that hung 
 Adown them, faery hands had strung : 
 Beautiful spellwork, which the wind 
 Moved to and fro, and shewed hehind 
 Some niche, the coney's dwelling place. 
 Whence oft ho peeped with wistful face ; 
 Or the high fountain, whence the rill 
 Wandered, in rippling music, till 
 Its scattered waters, oozing through 
 Wild cress that on the rock's side grew, 
 In drops innumerable fell 
 Into a green and mossy well. 
 
 Such was tho sweet sequestered ground, 
 "VVliero virtue an asylum found ; 
 And, unambitious e'er to prove 
 
 What joys the warring world could give, 
 Dwelt ill this Paradise of Love, 
 
 And learned with Nature's God to live ; 
 Yet, though in rocks and bowers apart, 
 He thrice a-day poured out his heart 
 In fervent prayer, the Sabbath bells 
 Had scarcely wakened in the dells 
 The slum'bring echoes, ere ye saw 
 His spouse and him by old Llads Lowe,* 
 
 * Llads Lowe Balder. This is the name of a singular and magnificent 
 rock, north of Caldene. The antiquarian will at once perceive its British 
 derivation, and Druidical approiiriation. Tho words signify " The Slaugh- 
 ter hill of Balder,"— being, no doubt, the altar on which tho Cjinbric 
 sacrifices were performed. In so little estimation does this fine old rock 
 appear to bo held by the owner of the property, that he has suflfered it to 
 become tho back-stay to a ci'ane by which to wind up stones from the 
 adjoining (juarry, and allowed the workmen to deposit upwards of fifteen 
 feet of rubbish at its base .'
 
 INVOCATION TO MEMORY. 11 
 
 Climbing the well-known stcepy road, 
 That erst led to the house of God, 
 
 But yonder — no, it cannot bo ! — 
 Is this the all remains of thee, 
 Scene of my childhood? — Sure some spell 
 Of dii'e delusion o'er it fell 
 The moment when I sought to trace 
 Each beauty in its wonted place ! — 
 What now appals my aching view, 
 Alas ! is but too sadly true I 
 That dear abode is tenantless ! 
 That garden is a wilderness ! 
 Those guardian rocks — ah ! where are they I 
 Riven from their ancient site away I 
 And ruthless ruin reigns around 
 The whole of this once hallowed ground I 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oblivion ! mantle with thy shadowy pall 
 The thoughts that hold my sorromng soul in thrall, 
 Like those dire spells the wild weu-d sisters weave 
 Round Lapland hinds, that roam at shut of eve ! 
 And thou, sweet Memory, like yon dreaming moon, 
 Come in thy beauty, though at midnight's noon ; 
 And while the Present is with clouds o'ercast. 
 Relume the faery regions of the Past ! 
 But not alone its joys I crave to see — 
 Its sorroni.s — e'en its wronris — are dear to me : 
 Let all that cheered, and all that sunk my heart, 
 Be mu-rorod faithfully in every part ; 
 Let those dear scenes where boyhood's feats were done. 
 The football tossed, or immic battle \\on ;
 
 12 MY GUANBFATIIER. 
 
 And those still dearer — liill. and rook, and grove, 
 AVhere my youjig heart oft told the tale of love 
 To one fair listener, M'ho, though coy, h(^lieved 
 The youth that loved her would not have deceived ; — 
 Let hoary Oswald, 'neath whose rocky shade, 
 Vows to Eliza and the Muse were paid ; — 
 Let Caldek, on whose shelving banks I've stood 
 To lure the fish, or lave me in the flood : — 
 All these, as known in childhootl's brighter day, 
 Muse of the Past! on thy wild harp pourtray! 
 
 Propitious Power ! I feel thy witching spell ! 
 Changed is the scene — once more I seem to dwell, 
 A child in form and feelings, — blithe and free — 
 In the sweet home of my nativity. 
 
 There stands the tree, whose boughs, with wanton shoot, 
 Hung theii' too tempting, interdicted fruit 
 Close to my chamber window ; whence, like Eve, 
 I claimed, unknown, the privilege to thieve : 
 Here, like a vein of molten silver, still 
 Wanders, in ceaseless murmurings, the rill. 
 On which my thread-rigged, tiny barks were boiiie 
 Safe to their harbour, by yon blooming thorn. 
 
 V. 
 
 Beloved companion of my infant years ! 
 My tender guide, beguiler of my teai's ! 
 In whose fond breast my little griefs could e'er 
 Find that asylum never found elsewhere ! 
 Revered Instructor ! whose rich mind could cull 
 Delightful lore from all things beautiful 
 In nature, and insensibly could lead 
 Young minds the language of sweet flowers to read ;
 
 MY GKANDFATHEU. 13 
 
 Lcara fi'om the sweet- voiced minstrels of tlie grove, 
 To glow with fiUal piety and love ; 
 And, in the shining wonders of the sky, 
 A hand Almighty visibly descry. 
 My kind, good Grandsire I — in a leisure hour. 
 We both are seated in the i-ustic bowei-, 
 Near the bee-hives, on that delightful ground, 
 Where useful plants, and far-famed flowers abound, 
 Loading with richest perfume all the air, 
 In grateful tribute for thy guardian care. 
 Yonder, a fountain's bubbling waters play 
 Bright in the sun, then swiftly wind away 
 'Tweeu banks of lilies, that, like naiads, seem 
 Nodding in noontide slumber o'er the stream. 
 
 The good old man now lifts his hand aloof, 
 And from the bower's thick- matted ivy roof, 
 Draws forth that dear, yet interdicted hoard — 
 His pipe — all bronzed with frequent incense poured 
 In dreamy hours ; when, every care at rest, 
 Peace, dovelike, nestled in his aged breast ; 
 And, well replenished with the grateful weed 
 From the bright box that serves his casual need, 
 His ebon charmer with his lens illumes 
 At the clear sun, and straight his seat resumes : 
 Round his grey locks the curling vapours blue 
 A moment play, then vanish from the view ; 
 And he, the while, with anxious eye surveys 
 My .sports along the daisy-bordered ways ; 
 Breathes many a kind admonitory word 
 To mind my footsteps — but is heedless heard ; 
 Till, onuaid in play's petulancy led. 
 Some fragrant favourite falls beneath my tread ;
 
 14 MY OKANPFATIIEn. 
 
 Then, sudden ceasing from my sport and mirth, 
 I raise the crushed flower from the indented earth, 
 And hastily, with cautious cunning stoop, 
 Erect to place it 'mid a sister-group : 
 But, ah ! unseen, that moment, at the gate 
 My Gi'and-dame stood, and saw that floweret's fate ! 
 And now, indignant, she with hurried speed, 
 Hies to her spouse to tell him of the deed ; 
 Exerts her eloquence — but all in vain — 
 To win me pain, lest I transgress again. 
 lie, e'er indulgent when I sinned in play, 
 Secretes his pipe, and wipes my tears away ; 
 And, fearing wordy warfare to withstand. 
 Conducts me from the garden by the hand. 
 
 Far in the covert of a neighbouring wood 
 We stray, forgetting soon the recent feud. 
 I all my wonted playfulness resume. 
 And gather flowers that by the pathway bloom. 
 Presenting them the good old man to smell. 
 And all their names in quick succession tell ; 
 He smiles approval ; and, in accents mild, 
 Answers the queries of the tedious child, 
 A hoary rock hangs o'er a mossy grot — 
 The hallowed temple of this quiet spot. — 
 What strains are those that fill the noontide air V 
 The solemn breathings of a soul in prayer ! 
 There kneels that aged sire on grassy sod, 
 Pouring his orisons unto his God ; 
 That mute child wondering how that God could hear 
 From the far sky, when He appeared not near. 
 
 Sire of a better age ! sublimer creed ! 
 Christian in heart, and unobtrusive deed !
 
 CHATSCOUT. 15 
 
 Saint of the hills ! whoso prayers with fervour fraught, 
 
 Sprung from the fount of consecrated thought ; — 
 
 Who, Uko his sires, 'mid erring thousands stood 
 
 True to his Church, his King, his country's good ; — 
 
 Whose charity no limitary sect 
 
 Bade only kindred worshippers respect. 
 
 But, like its sacred source, rich, unconfined, 
 
 Bestowed its sympathies on all mankind ; — 
 
 Whoso mild religion ne'er reproved the mirth 
 
 To wliich young hearts in innocent sport give hirth ; — 
 
 Whose cheerfulness shone forth without control, 
 
 Bright, glorious mirror of the imclouded soul ; — 
 
 Whose winter of existence passed away 
 
 Serenely mild, and venerably gay ; 
 
 And o'er whose humble grave no tears were shed, 
 
 Save those which love and fiiendship pay the dead ! 
 
 Dear honom-ed Sire ! of all my friends the best ! 
 
 If happy spirits feel an interest 
 
 For those they loved, that on the earth yet live — 
 
 Look on thy child ! his waywardness forgive ! 
 
 Still hover o'er him as his guardian Mend ! 
 
 Visit his slumbers, on his steps attend ! 
 
 That he, while hero, like thee may humbly shine, 
 
 And his Ufe's sunset bo as blight as thifie. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yonder, with pensile birches round his brows, 
 *Chatscout frowns hoary through moss-silvered boughs, 
 
 * This remarkable pilo of rocks has been shorn of a great portion of its 
 sylvan loveliness by the cutting of the railway. Weasel Hall, at the foot of 
 it, where I spent the happiest days of my boyhood, has been removed to 
 another loc-ahty to make room for that strange intruder upon the sanctities 
 of my native vale.
 
 Id CHATSCOUT. 
 
 There iiatur(j's luvud has scoojiod a rustic shade, 
 The trystiiij; j)laco for lads and lasses made, 
 Who, ill their hest attire, oft thither rove 
 On Sunday eve, to whisper takis of love. 
 Along the laiw; that winds arouiid its base, 
 Behold a troop of pigmy warriors pace ; 
 Each proud to see his wooden spear and gun, 
 His cap and feather, pictured in the sun ; 
 And, ill gay sj:(londour, o'(>r his honoured head 
 The paper banner gallantly outspread ; 
 On whose white field, emblazoned as of old. 
 Red lions fight with unicorns of gold ; 
 Or, clad in crimson, brave St. George assails. 
 On his black steed, the fiery dragon's scales ! 
 While the drum beats the solemn Point of War, 
 And the shrill fife its music sends afar. 
 Whence is this armament, and M^hat its aim ? — 
 IIow! know ye not the Caldeji's knights of fame, 
 Marching to do dread battle with the train 
 Of sturdy foemen, ranged on yonder plain ; 
 And vindicate the honour of then' sti'eam 
 'Gainst those who Hebden dare superior deem? 
 
 Now front to front the hostile bands appear : 
 Each cliieftain foremost with his gilded spear. 
 The signal gives. — They meet — they fight — but see I 
 The Hedden cravens from the battle fiee 
 In wild dismay, by Caldkk's host pursued, 
 Far 'mid the coverts of that sloping wood ! 
 The victors now asseniblo on (Jhatscout; 
 Wave their plumed caps, and raise the exulting shout ; 
 Then 'neath green boughs, with pomp they march away. 
 To hold a revel on old Oswald grey.
 
 THE TRUANT. 17 
 
 VII. 
 
 Once more I am a schoolboy : on my arm 
 A basket's sluiig, that holds a mother's charm 
 To leai'niug — sugared cake and cherry tart, 
 And those sad things called tasks — unlearnt by heart ! 
 A pewter-bottle, once my sire's of yore, 
 Filled with new milk, hangs dangling down before ; 
 And thus equipped, on some bright morn in May, 
 I schoolward wend my solitary way 
 Along yon flowery lane, that winds between 
 Alternate woods and fields of freshest green. 
 In those the sweet bu-ds' melody I hear, 
 On leafy bough, or wild rose blooming near ; 
 And now I wish that I were such as they, 
 I'd live in woods and sunshine all the day. 
 They have no schools — where'er they list, they fly, 
 And live on flowers and fruits — and so could I ! 
 O'er these, the busy humming-bee I view, 
 Visiting flowers, and sipping honey-dew ; 
 Or the gay buttei-flies, on gaudy wing. 
 Each chasing other in a mazy ring. 
 From his green bower, o'erbcndiiig gz*ass among, 
 Up springs the lark, and trills his merry song, 
 In very mock'ry of his heart, who flings 
 Him joyless down, gay bird, to watch thy wings 
 Fanning the free air! that I, like thee, 
 Could soar away ! — then no more schools for me I 
 On daisied bank reclined, the sated cow 
 Lows for her young, that, heedlessly below. 
 Pursues with antics strange, and awkward bound, 
 Its pictured shadow, flitting o'er the ground. 
 My crested Charlie mounts that ivied wall, 
 Claps his white wings, and seems on nio to call ; 
 
 IS
 
 18 THE TIIUANT. 
 
 Then down Iio flies ; quick follow one by one. 
 His lovely cliargo, that, chuckling in tho sun, 
 Wander 'moug flowers, and peck, as on they pass. 
 Green-hooded seeds that tremble on the grass. 
 
 Ah ! happy things! to books and tasks unknown, 
 For lives like yours, I'd gladly change my own. 
 But list that sound! — alas! what woe is mine ! 
 Yon distant church- clock tolls the hour of nine ! 
 What must I do ? If I proceed to school, 
 I'm sure to smart beneath tlie dread ferule ! 
 To some lone spot my hasty steps I'll bend, 
 And happy there, the live-long day will spend. 
 My home shall be within this velvet glade — 
 How sweet to dine beneath yon moss-grown shade. 
 And have you, little birds, to carol round, 
 And share my meal upon the flowery ground. 
 
 There is a spell upon me: all things seem 
 Harmonious, beauteous — an elysian dream ! 
 The spell of sound! The birds this morn, in strife, 
 Carol theu- lays. Far off, tho ousel's fife 
 Mellowly trills ; the plaintive ring-doves coo ; 
 And the lone bullfinch beats his wild tattoo. 
 The spell of vision ! Near yon wandering brook. 
 In zig-zag lines, those fierce flies glide, which look 
 With their rich mail of gleaming green and gold, 
 Like guardian spirits of some fiiery hold. 
 Anon tlie redstart quits his secret nest 
 In that old wall, and shews his scarlet vest 
 And now — as 'twere a fieiy emerald sent 
 By Genii from that liquid element — 
 The bright kingfisher darts adown the stream ; — 
 'Tis here! — 'tis there! — 'tis gone! — 'twas but a dream !
 
 THE TRUANT. 19 
 
 The conies peep fi'om out the creviced rocks ; 
 And now they issue forth in numerous iiocks! — 
 Some crop the grass, and some are nimbly seen 
 Sporting in sunshine on the dappled green. 
 
 Oh ! that my dwelling ever were with you, 
 Ye merry revellers I Oft would we renew 
 Sweetest communion. Every mossy nook, 
 Where the lone wild bird builds, that wiU not brook 
 The touch of rude hands on its nest, — should be 
 Watched well, and kept from all intruders free. 
 I'd have a waU of stones, with moss o'ergrown, 
 In front of my abode ; its wicket known 
 To none save you ; and, in the space between, 
 A little plot of ground — so soft and green — 
 Bordered with choicest wild flowers — harebells blue, 
 Daflbdils, daisies — all of every hue : 
 And I would call you by dear names to come 
 And visit me, and round my sylvan home 
 Make pastime at each early dawn and eve ; 
 And fi'om my hand food fearlessly receive, 
 Culled in sweet places. Thus we'd live in song 
 And mirth, as happy as the day is long. 
 
 But heard I not a rustling 'mong the trees ^ 
 'Tis but some restless bird, or passing breeze. 
 Again ! — Some stealthy footstep must be near ! 
 A rush ! a cry ! — " Make haste ! the Truant's here !" 
 Loud riug the woods ; and soon a merry band 
 Of hatless schoolmates press on every hand. 
 Vain task to flee ! Behold me captive led, 
 Noisily guarded to the place I dread.
 
 20 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 
 
 Stern on his scat tho rov'rcnd *Tutor soo ; — 
 
 The ti'embling Truant suppliant at his knee, 
 
 Witli faltering accents ])lea(ling to assuage 
 
 The fearful tempest of his rising rage. 
 
 Ah ! bootless prayer ! The heavy blows descend : 
 
 The scourge must cure whom reason cannot mend. 
 
 Now the poor urchin, painful from the smart, 
 
 Is placed in penance, from the rest apart ; 
 
 And, couchant, with his book between his knees, 
 
 Must learn the task his swollen eye scai'cely sees ; 
 
 But soon, though thus exposed to scorners' view. 
 
 His thoughts — trees, fields, and flowers — are all with you ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IMachpelah ! why around thy sacred bower, 
 Throng the clean peasants, at this sunset hour ? 
 A boat lies moored along the sedgy strand, 
 Crowded with minstrels of the village band ; 
 But who is he — tho venerable Sage — 
 In velvet cap, descends with steps of age, 
 That sloping path, beneath those cedars tall, 
 Bestowing blessings, smiles of love on all ? 
 
 A hundred heads are bared! — From sire to son i 
 
 Runs the kind whisper — "Yonder comes Old John !" 
 And many a hand is stretched, with filial care. 
 To help the Patriarch to his wonted chair 
 
 * The Rev. Joseph Charnook, incumbent of Ileptonstall. lie is now, I 
 believe, above eighty years of age, but still continues to attend to his sacred 
 duties, both as a minister and teacher, with faithful assiduity. May the 
 blessing of his numerous pupils attend his gray hairs ! 
 
 t A little hamlet, now connected with llebdcn Bridge, and named Macli- 
 pelah by the late Dr. Fawcett, who resided there many years, and had a 
 private cemetery in a retired part of his grounds. 
 
 1
 
 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 21 
 
 Upon the deck ; — where, safely seated, now 
 
 Above the rest, appears his honoured brow. 
 
 Slow glides the vessel o'er the rippling tide : 
 
 The crowds move onward by the waterside 
 
 In solemn silence. On those tremulous lips, 
 
 Sealed with unutterable feelings, fix 
 
 The eyes of all. At length the welcome word — 
 
 " Praise God from whom all blessings flow !" is heard 
 
 Bursting in rapture from the full heart's urn 
 
 Of that true Israelite. — Hark! in return, 
 
 Voices on land and water, mingling meet 
 
 AVith instrumental music, lift the sweet 
 
 But solemn strains to heaven ! The echoes wake 
 
 From slumber 'mong the impending rocks, and make 
 
 The air all harmony. The whistling hind, 
 
 Slow wending homeward by steep paths that wind 
 
 Among the hills, the distant music hears, 
 
 And stands in silent wonder ; then he rears 
 
 His pack against a stone, and hastes to scale 
 
 Some tree or rock, that overlooks the vale, 
 
 From whence those sounds, in mellowed softness come. 
 
 Like strains angelic to his bosom's home. 
 
 With crowding listeners every rising ground, 
 And high hill-top, and craggy scout,* is crowned ; 
 But, by the spell of that soul-hallowing song. 
 Is charmed to stillness every rustic throng. 
 Each tender mother curbs, with whispers mild. 
 The loud out-brcakings of her restless child ; 
 
 * Scout is a term by which many rocky eminences are significantly Jis 
 tinguisheJ, in the nei(,'hbourliood of llebdcn Uridge. I'ide Webster's 
 Dictionary.
 
 22 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 
 
 Taps his red cheek, her lips so oft have kissed, 
 Points to the scone below, and bids him list ; 
 And maids, in round-eared caps, and russet slips. 
 Stand mute, with fmgor on their rosy lijis. 
 Hushing the munuui'ing music that would start. 
 If unrestrained, spontaneous from the heai't ; 
 Awed into silence by some saintlike sire, 
 Or pious mother, whom those strains inspire, 
 "Wliich now, each minstrel roused by music's spell, 
 Burst from the vale, with more ecstatic swell. 
 
 The song has ceased. A silent pause ensues. 
 The boat glides on : the accompanying crowd pursues. 
 Again all eyes affectionately turn 
 To the tranced Pastor, seated in the stem, 
 Whose soul, upborne on holy rapture's wings. 
 Still in the Heaven of Heavens the peean sings ! 
 But now, descending to its earthly shrine. 
 It glows with fervour more intense, divine, 
 Transtomiing with its own celestial light. 
 That mortal frame into a temple bright, 
 From which a voice, in thrilling accents, speaks : — 
 " My fav'rite hymn!" and, instantaneous, breaks 
 Forth into singing all the minstrel-train ; 
 The glad hills echoing with the holy strain. 
 
 who can tell the rapturous thoughts that roll. 
 At this charmed moment, through that Patriarch's soul I 
 With eyes upturned, whence sacred tear-drops come. 
 And quivering lips, most eloquently dumb. 
 He looks towards heaven ; where, o'er each silver cloud, 
 Fancy beholds angeUc watchers bowed ; 
 To waft, in crystal unis, to brighter spheres, 
 Those voiceless thoughts, too pui'e for human ears !
 
 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 23 
 
 But now the shades of evening darkling brood 
 O'er Oswald's rocks, and ousel-haunted wood. 
 Arrived where Beemond's * amber mountain-burn 
 Dark Calder joins, the choral crowds return, 
 Rending the air, as slow they move along, 
 With " Rule Britannia!" spirit-stirring song! 
 And as the vessel nears Machpelah's grove. 
 The Royal Anthem bursts, with notes of love, 
 From loyal hearts ; for Clmstian Britons feel 
 More for their King than common patriot zeal ! 
 
 Just as the bark its destined moorings gains, 
 Die the last echoes of those loyal strains. 
 Silence prevails upon this sacred ground. 
 Save the soft sighing of the trees around. 
 That overhang, with dark funereal shade. 
 The ivied cave whei-e holy dead were laid. 
 Slow fi-om his seat, like one inspired of old. 
 Rises the Shepherd of this peaceful fold. 
 And on the deck a moment speechless stands. 
 With streaming eyes, and elevated hands ; — 
 Down on their knees, uncovered, all the crowd. 
 As by some spell, fire in an instant bowed ! 
 Then in a voice, all ti'emulous at first, 
 Like a soft summer- wind, which, ere it burst 
 Into full music, timidly doth triU 
 Its harp among gi-een leaves to try its skill, 
 The pious Pastor pours the parting prayer ! — 
 A loud " Amen !" frona all assembled there, 
 Tells how each bosom, touched with hallowed fire, 
 Feels the warm glow which Goodness can inspire. 
 
 » A beautiful woodland glen, nearly opposite the Turret Rocks.
 
 24 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 
 
 In liappy groups tho poasimts homeward plod, 
 But frequout pause to bless that man of GoD ; 
 Who now, attended by a few grey sires — 
 Brothers in Christ — to his abode retires — 
 Abode renowned ! where oft the reverend Sage 
 To good young children, gave the pictured page — 
 O prized reward ! — for knowledge best displayed 
 Of God's blest word, and all that He had made. 
 Behold ai'ound that hospitable hearth. 
 Those hoary men — the excellent of eai'th I 
 In cheerful chat, with social pipe, and glass 
 Of good home-brewed, a genial hour they pass ; 
 (O Water- wisdom ! spare thy haggard fi'own! 
 In days like these, thy nostrums were unknown ;) 
 Then, while warm blessings from each heart ascend. 
 They part, as friends should part, reluctant from a fi-iend. 
 
 Hail, holy man I how poor compared to thee. 
 The wealthiest lord that rules o'er land and sea ! 
 Thou hadst a sway no earthly power imparts — 
 A throne of love in all thy people's hearts ; 
 And Calder's Vale, beneath thine empire sage, 
 Seemed to enjoy a second Golden Age. 
 E'en vice itself had learned thy face to fear. 
 And only triumphed, when thou wert not near: 
 The staggering drunkard, if thy name were heard, 
 Checked the lewd song, or curbed the unholy word ; 
 When passing thee, assumed a steadier pace, 
 And drew his slouched hat o'er his bloated face : 
 Rude, untaught children, quai-reling in play. 
 Beheld thy well-known cap, and slunk away. 
 Domestic feud, if but thy look were seen 
 Tm-ned to the portal, wore a milder mien ;
 
 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 25 
 
 And though not quenched, (alas ! it often glows 
 
 With fiercer fury after short repose,) 
 
 It durst uot prove a rebel 'neath thine eye. 
 
 But, awed, stood silent, when thy form was nigh ; 
 
 And raging cruelty's uplifted ann 
 
 Hath been arrested by the potent charm 
 
 Of thine appeal, in solemn tone, to Heaven — 
 
 " Forbear to harm the creatures God has given !" 
 
 But O, 'twas not thy highest praise alone. 
 That vice e'er trembled where thy presence shone — 
 'Twas thine whene'er conviction probed the heart, 
 With holy balsams to allay the smart ; 
 To win with love, not frighten with the rod, 
 The trembling spirit to the throne of God ; 
 And by thine own example brightly teach 
 What hirelings shrink from, though they dare to preach — 
 That the true pastor of a Christian fold. 
 Unlike the fabled deity of old. 
 Wears not two faces — one, all smiles within 
 Wealth's splendid halls, kind exorcist of sin — 
 The other, darkling like the clouded moon. 
 When Penury claims Religion's cheering boon ; 
 But e'er the same, let Want — let Grandeur call — 
 His looks beam love — a love that burns for all. 
 
 In lowly cot, or palace of the King, 
 Thy words were welcome as the voice of Spring ; 
 And had thy heart on earthly toys been set, 
 Thy brow had worn a Bishop's coronet! 
 But thou, o'er faithful to thy charge divine. 
 What royal kindness offered, didst decline ; 
 H(;aping more joy from one request obtained, 
 Than if a thousand mitres thou hadst gained.
 
 26 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 
 
 What didst thou crave ? — what did thy Sovereign seud ? — 
 
 A grcwious pardon for an erring friend ! * 
 
 The ensanguined deep, the dead-heaped battle-field, 
 
 Fame's fleeting guerdons, to the victor yield ; 
 
 But thy blest deeds alone in memory dwell. 
 
 Like precious gems enshrined in secret shell ; 
 
 Yet these, when burst earth's bubbles of renown, 
 
 Shall form bright jewels in thy heavenly crown. 
 
 As when Llangollen's vale and wizard stream 
 Smile in the glory of the sunset beam, 
 Which, like a golden scarf the lover leaves 
 To soothe the maid, who at his absence grieves, 
 The orb of day, at parting, gives to grace 
 The Edenic beauties of the enchanted place, 
 And long illume, memento of his love. 
 Each ivied bower, and consecrated grove ; 
 So, Fawcett, though thy life's bright sun is set, 
 Beautiful lingerings of its radiance yet 
 Gild many a cot among my native hills, 
 Whose aged inmates, with devotion's thrills, 
 Thank Heaven the precious privilege was theirs 
 To feel the unction of thy fervent prayers I 
 And long, long ! when these have ceased to be 
 The hoary chroniclers of thy deeds and thee, 
 May their descendants live with joy to tell. 
 That the bright mantle of thy virtues fell 
 On one who by his hfe and actions spake — 
 A second Fawcett, or a Hollinkake ! 
 
 Machpelah ! now what art thou but a name ? 
 What canst thou boast, but of thy former fame ? 
 
 * Fide note at the end.
 
 THE VILLAGE SAGE. 27 
 
 Thy cedar grove, whose feathery branches hung 
 
 O'er the sweet grotto, round which ivy chmg, 
 
 StaiTed with a galaxy of roses wild, 
 
 That through the dark green leafage peeped and smiled — 
 
 Is now despoiled of all its wonted bloom 
 
 By the black smoke-clouds that above it loom ! 
 
 The secret path, which wound among the trees, 
 
 Bordered with cowsUps and anemones. 
 
 Where often walked, in meditative mood. 
 
 The good old man — those cherubs of the wood. 
 
 The little bu-ds, blithe, hopping on before, 
 
 To pick the cnimbs he sti'ewed in ample store, 
 
 Or bending down from their green heaven above, 
 
 To hail their friend with songs of grateful love — 
 
 Deep buried 'neath black heaps of ashes lies — 
 
 Those sights so lovely to commercial eyes ! 
 
 And, haply, ere a few short years are o'er, 
 
 Machpelah, save in name, will be no more. 
 
 Where slept the Dead — where oft the voice of prayer. 
 
 The inspii-ing hymn, awoke the evening air, 
 
 Another tomb may rise, and sound may come, 
 
 To greet the inquirer for a Fawcett's home ! 
 
 Was there no filial hand upraised to stay 
 The usurping demon, Avarice, on his way ? 
 Was there no voice in all the valley heard. 
 No heart with grateful recollections stirred. 
 To save from desecration that retreat, 
 Once hallowed by a sainted Fawcett's feet ? 
 Alas ! I fear, sons of my native vale ! 
 Ye saw the demon's ruthless work prevail 
 Unchecked, unchiddcn I— Did ye thus repay 
 A lovo for you that never knew decay '•?
 
 28 THE soldier's ketuhn. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Dreams of tho past arise, on wings bcpcarhid 
 With the ricli lustrcis of your radiant world ! 
 Again I am your denizen, and live 
 Blest in the elysium ■which your spells can give. 
 Peace is proclaimed : and hark ! from vale and hill, 
 Incessant shouts, and sounds of gladness fill 
 The summer air. From every house and tree, 
 Nigh the gay scene of rural revelry. 
 Floats many a banner, with meet emblem fraught 
 Of peace and love, by village damsels wrought, 
 Who now, the reign of cruel warfare o'er, 
 Hope soon to meet, upon their native shore, 
 Those brave, but truant lads, whom glory's charms 
 (A long since pardoned fault) won from their aims. 
 But M'ho is she, that looks so sad and pale ? 
 'Tis gentle Ellen, lily of the vale, 
 Who, though transplanted from green Erin's isle, 
 Lives in the sunshine of her sisters' smile — 
 The maids of fair Caldene ; for she for one 
 Of two brave brothers, that had stood alone 
 On Albuhera's hill, to shield the form 
 Of their fallen leader, in the battle-storm. 
 Left her own land, since love forbade her stay. 
 Now that her Henry was afar away — 
 And sought his father's home, whose good and true 
 Old English heart received and blessed her too. 
 Yet why, when every bosom swells with joy. 
 Should cankering sorrow her kind heart annoy ? 
 Peace is restored — but ah ! will lie return, 
 Her own loved hero ? — In the ebon urn 
 Of buried hopes, the last she cherished lies ; 
 And something whispers : " Never must thine eyes
 
 THE S0LD1EK'3 UETUUN. 29 
 
 Behold him more I" How can she then be gay? — 
 
 The broken heart ne'er feels joy's holiday ! 
 
 'Mid sylvan glooms that suit her spirit's mood, 
 
 She roams, the angel of sad solitude, 
 
 To hold communion with her grief apart, 
 
 And hug more close his image to her heart, 
 
 Who now, perchance, upon some bloody plain, 
 
 Unburied lies, by foreign foemeu slain. 
 
 Beneath a pine, whose half-clad branches fling 
 
 A solemn shade o'er Beemond's golden spring. 
 
 Lorn Ellen sits upon a mossy stone, 
 
 And takes from out her bosom, one by one, 
 
 The treasured lines of love — to her more dear 
 
 Than aught — save him who sent them — can be hero. 
 
 But o'er that precious pledge, whose oft-raised seal's 
 
 Device and motto, scai'ce the wax reveals. 
 
 She pauses long and weeps — ah ! well she may ! 
 
 It was the last her Henry sent to say. 
 
 That he was wounded, but still cherished hope 
 
 God would enable him with this to cope, 
 
 And meet his Ellen at his father's home, 
 
 Never again from love and her to roam. 
 
 Sweet mourner wipe thy tears. Look up ! look up ! 
 A radiant angel, with a golden cup 
 Of nectared bliss, bends smiling o'er thee now. 
 And points to yonder mountain's sunny brow, 
 On which, attended by his lame old sire, 
 A warrior youth, in glittering attire. 
 Loans on his sword, and gazes all around, 
 As if expecting a fair form should bound 
 Into his arms, with welcomiiigs of love, 
 From some green bower in Beemond's breezy grove.
 
 30 THE soldier's return. 
 
 "VYhom dccm'st tliou liim ?— Poi-chanco a soldier who 
 Brings happy tidings— No ! such grateful dew- 
 So whispers grief that o'er thy bosom lowers- 
 Must never fall upon hope's withering flowers ! 
 But hark that voice! Is it, too, strange to thee? 
 And those fond words : " My Ellen, come to me ?" 
 With sudden cry, and outspread arms, the maid 
 Eushes all wildly from the pine-tree's shade ; 
 And ere her Henry, bounding o'er the heath, 
 Can clasp her form, down, like a snowy wreath 
 Loosed from a rock, by the first gales of spring, 
 She sinks insensible 'mid bowerinff lin"' 
 
 o to' 
 
 Few die of joy.— Behold! with martial pride. 
 The gallant soldier homeward leads his bride ; 
 Their good old father marching on before, 
 Waving his crutch, his lameness felt no more ; 
 While ranged before that happiest of homes, 
 The band strikes up " The conquering hero comes !" 
 Now smokes the feast ; and friends and neighbours crowd 
 Aj-ound the board, at which presides the proud 
 Kind-hearted sire, who, in tumultuous joy, 
 Upheaps each plate, as though he would destroy 
 AH futm-e cravings ; and oft pledges male 
 And female guest in draughts of amber ale. 
 From Albuhera* drawn at his command. 
 And passed in silver quart from hand to hand. 
 But there is one who, aU too happy, sits 
 By that brave youth, and smiles and weeps by fits ; 
 No food she tastes ; no proffered cup she sips 
 Save that first kissed by his beloved lips ; 
 
 * A large cask, so caUed in honour of his son's prowess.
 
 THE soldier's RETURN. 31 
 
 Absorbed in dreamlike ngony of bliss, 
 No voice she hears, no form she sees but his ; 
 Her gentle words are for his ear alone, 
 Breathed in that soft, and silvery undei-tone, 
 Which melts into the heart, deliciously, 
 Like music wafted o'er a moonlight sea. 
 
 Now to the hearth the welcome guests repair. 
 The damsels crowding round the soldier's chair, 
 Whose bride, in envied happiness they view 
 Throned on his knee — her beautifully blue, 
 Love-lighted eyes upon his featm-es bent 
 With earnest gaze, and raptui-e eloquent. 
 Inquiries fi-equent now ai'e made of those 
 Who went like him to quell Old England's foes ; 
 And many a bosom heaves with joyous swell, 
 At the glad news that each is safe and well. 
 And hopes ere long o'er the salt waves to come. 
 And all he loves meet happy at dear home. 
 Then, by request, with frank but modest mien, 
 The hero tells of climes where he has been ; 
 The battles fought ; the deeds of valour done ; 
 The dangers 'scaped ; the honours he has won. 
 The long recital o'er, elate with joy, 
 Upleaps his sire, and shouts, "My own bravo boy !" 
 And beauteous Ellen — frown not prudes at this — 
 Prints on the soldier's brow a fervent kiss. 
 Charmed with the tale, fond maids, and spinsters prim. 
 Wish Heaven had made them husbands just like him ; 
 O then they feel, that they had guilty been 
 Of that sweet bridu's involuntary sin ! 
 Each father could with joy from life depart 
 To clasp a son so worthy to his heart ;
 
 32 THE PAINTEK. 
 
 And many a boy could wish liinisolf a man, 
 To stand the foremost in the battlo's van, 
 And, home returning, crowned with laurels, prove 
 How sweet the welcome of his faithful Love ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Bright dawn of manhood ! — wanes, ah I much too soon, 
 At thy approach, blest childhood's lovely moon, 
 Whose soft eflulgence to my vision gave 
 A charm evanished, I in vain may crave ! 
 The dawn of manhood I — hail to all the strife. 
 Loves, joys, and woes, that chequer human life ! 
 With these, led on by thee, enchanting Hope, 
 My spirit bounds exultingly to cope ; 
 And tMnues its generous sympathies round all 
 That's left Morth loving since the primal Fall. 
 
 Hail to the art, whose talismanic power 
 Reflects the past, retains the present hour ! 
 To memory's eye recals, with dear delight, 
 Elysian visions from oblivion's night ; 
 Gives to aifection's gaze, bedimmed with teai'S, 
 The bmied treasure of ecstatic years ; 
 An"ests, pei-petuatos, nature's varying form. 
 Or robed in light, or darkling in the storm ; 
 "NVakcs from the silent sluniber of the tomb 
 Celestial beauty in immortal bloom ; 
 And, triumphing o'er Egyjst's boastful art, 
 Embalms each look that lightens fi-om the heart : 
 The dauntless hero for the battle glows ; 
 The lover's mien proclaims his secret throes ; 
 Unbronzed the cheek, the ruby lip unblenched, 
 The brow uuslaivollcd, and the eye unqueuched.
 
 THE PAINTER. 33 
 
 Enchantress hail ! — Though oceans roll between 
 Our present homes and childhood's ftieiy scene, 
 Thou bring'st to view, remembrancer beloved, 
 The liills we climbed, the valleys where we roved. 
 In youth's gay morn, by wonted wood or stream. 
 With our heart's hope, when love was all om- theme. 
 Immortal sister of the Muses, hail! 
 'Tis thine to please when tuneful numbers fail ; 
 With plastic hand to clothe with form and hue 
 What godhke Shakspeare, classic Milton, di-ew ; 
 And charm the man, o'er whose contracted soul 
 The minstrel's magic holds no sweet control. 
 
 All ! where is he, the Genius of the vale. 
 Who long has drooped beneath the withering gale 
 Of cold neglect, with which the sordid crew 
 That lord the valley, treat the Gifted Few ? — 
 A crew insensible to aught save gain. 
 And the dark joy of giving merit pain ; 
 Unskilled alike to appreciate or condemn, 
 Scorn those whom fortune has not dowered like them. 
 Vain fools that, hke the unbelievers, ween 
 A wealthless prophet is a Nazarene ! 
 
 The house in which his hopeful genius fii'st 
 In secret, stealthy solitude was nursed. 
 No longer hath the alluring spicery-lore 
 Guttering in gold above the well-known door. 
 Some pious sage, whoso mouth is satis a tooth, 
 Wishful in these bad times, our rising youth 
 'Gainst sins of taste determined war should wage. 
 And save their teeth and pence to comfort ago, 
 Has now couvoi'ted — when his taste is cool — 
 This spico-depot into a Sunday-school. 
 C
 
 34 THE PAINTER. 
 
 My elder brother ! who, ere bardic firo 
 Urged mo with trembling hand to strike the lyre, 
 Hadst oft in secret, with a minstrel's power, 
 Waked thy hai-p's sweetness in thy lonely bower. 
 And imaged both on canvas and in rhyme, 
 The painter's vision, and the bard's, sublime. 
 Ah! whither, gentle C — yt — n, hast thou fled* 
 Has Heaven no brighter prospects round thee spread 
 Than those uncheering at thy manhood's dawn, 
 When hope's faint star arose — but was full soon withdrawn ? 
 Say to what place, in times of dire distress. 
 Hast thou retired, with haply none to bless, 
 And, like a fettered eagle that no more 
 Must track the ether and the sun adore, 
 Foregone for cares of an ignoble kind. 
 The aspirations of thy heaven-taught mind * 
 
 Methinks I see, in some unplastered room. 
 Thy frameless pictures hang in mm-ky gloom ! 
 Thy sun-browned Barman * views no more the sun 
 With looks all redolent of wit and fun ; 
 But dark commvmion with the rafters holds. 
 His head enveloped in the spiders' folds ; 
 Thy lovely Gipsy with cerulean eyes, 
 On the damp floor, 'mid useless lumber lies ; 
 While crawling vermin with their nausea streak 
 Her brow's fair hue, the vermeil of her cheek. 
 Like mirror-fragments in a desert found. 
 Thy landscapes lie despoiled, and scattered round. 
 As by an earthquake in confusion hurled ; 
 And chaos revels o'er thy painted world ! 
 
 # This and the Gipsy alluded to in a suhsequent Une, were, when I saw 
 them some years ago, two highly creditable specimens of C— yt— n's genius 
 as a painter.
 
 THE PAINTER. 35 
 
 Thy mutilated easel's thrown aside ; 
 Thy colours cobwebbed, and thy pencils dried ; 
 Or made to span some pictured paper-pane, 
 And hold it there, to keej) out wind and rain ! 
 Thyself engaged in menial toils I see, 
 And woman's handicraft excelled by thee ; 
 As if thy genius were determined still, 
 Though held in thrall, to shew superioi- skill. 
 
 Arise thou Eagle of the Vale, arise ! 
 The paltry trammels of mean toil despise ! 
 Leave those for hands of rude, ungifted men. 
 And live the Painter and the Bard again ! 
 Think not, though thickening clouds around tlico lower- 
 Though friendless still — unblest with fortune's dower — 
 That Heaven ordained thy genius * should be made 
 A drudge degraded of a sordid trade ! 
 Beware lest thou perform a traitor's part, 
 And plant a dagger in her sickening heart, 
 And her dim ghost through life thy steps pursue. 
 Point to her wounds, and claim a vengeance due ! 
 Burst the dark clouds that hover o'er thy head ! — 
 Above them fields of azure are outspread ! 
 Full many a wight, less gifted far than thou, 
 Has won bright laurels to adorn his brow : 
 Then sure 'tis thine, to whom indulgent Heaven 
 The double dowry of the god has given, 
 To soar on high ; and if there laurels be 
 In fame's proud temple, win them yet for thee ! 
 
 * The Genius of Painting — unlike that of TrnJe— 1 liave personified as 
 feminine.— J^ide note, Book V.
 
 3(i THE I'AINXEU. 
 
 Track not my path. From childhood to this hour 
 I'vo boon the slave of Indiscretion's power — 
 Such is, at least, the only badij;e which fame 
 Has yet vouchsafed to deck my humble name. 
 'Twas never mine to boast thy talents rare, 
 (Like miser's treasures, buried 'neath thy care ;) 
 But I have felt — and trembled when it came — 
 A power mysterious lighten through my frame ; 
 And oft have burned, impatient of control. 
 To vent the ready thunders of my soul ; — 
 In vain ! — I've waited till the storm has passed, 
 Held by the shackles of profession fast. 
 
 The unhappiest he of all the sons of song — 
 The slave and monarch of the youthful throng ! — 
 Whose time and talents, all his pains despite, 
 Are spent in washing mental ^Ethiops white ; 
 While fond, discerning parents wisely rate 
 His store of knowledge by the scholar's pate. 
 
 The Muse disdains the thraldom of a school: 
 She loves the air of mountain, and the cool 
 Of sylvan covert in the sunny vale ; 
 The song of birds, of milkmaid o'er her pail ; 
 The lake's green margin on an eve in June, 
 When its blue bosom to the rising moon 
 Heaves raptm-ously, as bridegroom's, when his bride 
 Walks forth to meet him, in her beauty's pride ; — 
 Or she, in moments more sublime, her form 
 Invests in terrors of the midnight storm : 
 In the deep thunder's mighty anthem joys, 
 And plays with Hghtnings as a child with toys ; 
 Rides on the ocean-billows, tempest-hui'led, 
 Tiacks every clime, the empress of the world ;
 
 THE PAINTER. 37 
 
 Stands on Heaven's highest pinnacle subHme ; 
 Views the birth-morn — the tragic close, of Time! — 
 Hails the first ray of living light divine, 
 That visits darkness fi'om the eternal shrine ; — 
 Sees, rising beauteous from chaotic sleep, 
 Innumerous worlds, like bubbles on the deep ; 
 Each in the omnific hand of Godhead borne. 
 Creation's radiant ori'ery to adorn ; — 
 Hears the dread fiat — " Time shall be no more!" 
 Earth inly trembles to her farthest shore! 
 The sun grows dark, as furnace lacking food ! 
 The stars expire ! the moon is tui-ned to blood ! 
 
 Such, heavenly muse, in life's delightful spring. 
 The exalted themes I wooed thine aid to sing ; 
 And oft, e'en now, at still and deep midnight. 
 When gathering clouds have veiled the stars from sight, 
 I sit me down beneath some sheltering rock, 
 To watch the breeding storm ; and when the shock 
 Of the hoarse rumbling thunder bursts among 
 The startled hills ; and they, in echoes long, 
 Hail their loud challenger ; and flash on flash 
 Cleaves the black concave ; and with sudden plash, 
 Down teems the rattling rain — I call to thee, 
 Sweet Syi'cn, that, in all thy majesty 
 Of loveliness and light, thou wouldst descend. 
 And with my soul thy purer essence blend ! 
 Oh fatal prayer ! thou com'st in all thy charms, 
 As did the God of Thunder to the arms 
 Of mortal beauty, but to scathe the breast 
 That, loving thee, preferred the dear request. 
 Away ! away ! thy dang(aous spells remove ! 
 I inly burn with unavailing love ;
 
 38 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTEU. 
 
 Which, Hko a secret, subterranean flame, 
 
 Dries up my blood, and sei-es my feeble frame ; 
 
 So that, where'er I go, I shrink to see 
 
 The eye of health its glances turn on me. 
 
 Go, sweet enchantress, with thy sister, roll 
 
 The clouds away that loom o'er C — yt — n's soul ; 
 
 Urge him, too reckless of each magic spell. 
 
 To ply the pencil, and to strike the shell ; 
 
 To quit the spot where genius may not thrive, 
 
 Ere gathering peril's stormiest hour an-ive. 
 
 Friends let him seek — wherever he may roam, 
 
 He'll find the best, the most i-emote from home. 
 
 True are the words of Him who proved them true : 
 
 " At home no prophet meets with honour due I" 
 
 Home, once regardless of her nurseling's weal, 
 
 Puts on the mourner, and aflects to feel ; 
 
 A parent's anguish and regret displays ; 
 
 Erst prone to blame, gi-ows prodigal of praise ; 
 
 And deigns to shed a tributary tear — 
 
 When all the world stands weeping round his biek I 
 
 Builds the high tomb, and plants the sable yew 
 
 O'er honoured dust, whose worth she never knew ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 And where art thou, my sentimental friend ? 
 The bard in whom strange whims and virtues blend : 
 Before whose throne my muso has drooped her wing. 
 As in the presence of Parnassian King. 
 Still dost thou sit on thy majestic stool. 
 The dreaded monarch of thy motley school ? 
 Still teach each wealthier boor, and romping wench, 
 Fi'iond Mui-ray's syntax, and old Chaml>aud's French ^ 
 And for thy pains, from parents void of sense, 
 Receive the half-reluctant recompense ?
 
 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER. 39 
 
 Does thy fair spouse, in queenliko bulk and pride, 
 
 In her domain of squalling imps preside ; 
 
 And make each urchin in her presence live 
 
 In trembling awe of her prerogative ? 
 
 Symphonious still to Caldeu's constant roar. 
 
 Dost, on thy hai-p, thy thought-winged numbers pour. 
 
 Inspired by Cobbett's far-famed hippocrene,* 
 
 And sweet Havannah, bauisher of spleen ? 
 
 Comes Jane, with silver voice, and sylph-like ti'cad, 
 
 To warn thee still of thy neglected bed ; 
 
 When thou indulgest, with prolonged delight, 
 
 Thy moody vein, in solitude of night ? 
 
 Alas ! I fear, thy genius cannot save 
 
 Thy spouse and thee from misery's sweeping wave ! 
 
 Stem Cincinnatus of the mental soil ! 
 Thy days have passed in honourable toil — 
 Not like the merchant's, in acquuing wealth, 
 But at the peril of thine ease and health — 
 In cultivation of that godlike art, 
 Which sows instruction in the youthful heart. 
 I dread lest now thy labour's narrowed field 
 For thy support a scanty harvest yield ; 
 And thy once-portly cara spousa's form, 
 Like unaccustomed gleaner's in a storm, 
 Shiver and droop beneath the blighting gale 
 Of cheerless woe, that pours adown the dale. 
 
 The man whose sword with human blood is dyed, 
 Is hailed by millions as his countiy's pride ; 
 Fame blows his clarion, braids his laurel wreath, 
 And Britain's treasures glut the man of death! 
 
 * Small-beer.
 
 40 THE EMrilllC. 
 
 But ho, the nobler veteran who lias fought 
 In bloodless combat in the fiekl of thought ; 
 Spent a whole life of unremitting zeal 
 In mental toil for youthful Britons' weal ; 
 Receives no guerdon from his country — save 
 The bread of sorrow, and a martyr's grave ! * 
 Such for tliy M-orthies, Greece, didst thou decree ?- 
 Let guilty Britain blush and answer thee I 
 
 XII. 
 
 Shame on the land that boasts of noble deeds, 
 When vile empirics must jiurloin the meeds, 
 Which patient industry, M-ith skill combined, 
 Has earned by culture of the youthful mind ! 
 Is there a bankrupt-tradesman, who has lost 
 His all— and inoir— to thousands' bitter cost ; 
 Who at the mart dares not to shew his face, 
 For fear of curses and of dire disgrace ; 
 And who, from all the avenues of pelf 
 
 Cut off, shrinks back upon his sordid self? 
 
 Ho I there is one way open for him still 
 
 A last resource in this his day of ill — 
 
 He needs but turn a pedagogue to find 
 
 How all-forgiving, and how \ery kind 
 
 His former friends— when they behold the fate 
 
 Of one so " fallen from his high estate !" 
 
 Support and patronage they freely give 
 
 A brother — though a charlatan — must live ; 
 Though lost to all that can ennoble man, 
 His very name denounced by public ban ; 
 Though void of talent, save of low chicane ; 
 Though lost to virtue, ignorant and vain ; 
 
 * ride note at the end.
 
 THE DUBLIN B,A. 41 
 
 Though him they durst not trust with goods or gold, 
 
 (For roasons which their ledgers could unfold ;) 
 
 Yet to his care a treasure more divine — 
 
 Their children's education — they resign ! 
 
 While he, the drudge, well-known from youth to age 
 
 As a tried teacher, by experience sage. 
 
 Who, when for school they could their toils forego. 
 
 Taught them the little learning that they know. 
 
 Must to this upstart driveller bow the knee, 
 
 And starve by tutoring brats of low degree ! 
 
 'Tis well ! — just Heaven their folly laughs to scorn. 
 
 And gives them sons they wish had ne'er been born. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But shall wo pass his rubious Reverence by ^ 
 Let Erin's saints forbid ! who hovered nigh 
 His rough war-couch, when he in youth essayed 
 To earn a livelihood by the killing trade. 
 And bade him lay his rmjieshed weapon down. 
 And woo a wife in Dublin's famous town ; 
 Lay up at leisure some slight store of knowledge, 
 And honours win in its most learned college ; 
 Then, though of " little Latin and less Greek" — 
 Still less possessed of lore more needed — seek 
 His native land, which ho an idler left. 
 And try to enter, through some covert cleft. 
 The Sanctuary, as his proper sphere. 
 And preach — no matter if none went to hear — 
 The fee would save his stomach, if not souls, 
 From famine's dismal purgatorial howls. 
 
 All hail to th(!e. most reverend man of God ! 
 The path appointed thou hast boldly trod ;
 
 ■i'^ THE DUBLIN B.A. 
 
 Quitted the war-field (where thy precious life 
 Thou inightst have l(jst) and won an L-ish wife ; 
 Gained by her aid, benefacti-ess kind ! 
 A little light in thy benighted mind ; 
 Learned how to spell, and read 'gainst nature's will, 
 With tolerable orthographic skill ; 
 To demonstrate, beyond the reach of doubt. 
 That what is not within can ne'er come out ; — 
 Hast understood, though once thou didst despau', 
 That triangles ai-e not exactly square ; 
 Construed, by help of literal versions lent, 
 The Latin Vulgate, and Greek Testament ; 
 Or caught, upborne on Hamiltoniau wings, 
 A glimpse of regions where sweet Maro sings ; 
 Where Homer, throned in majesty sublime, 
 Peals the gi-and song that charms the ear of Time ; 
 And thus equipped, thou hast returned to say, 
 " Of Dubhn College, lo! I am B.A.!" 
 At the proud boast, within his pebbly bed, 
 Affrighted Calder shrunk and hid his head ; 
 And all the lambs around Warluley's hill, 
 B.A.'d loud and long, with sudden terror chill ! 
 The Church to thee, spontaneous, opened wide 
 Her sacred gates, which oft have been denied 
 To men who would have loathed thy craiding sin 
 Of entering, unprepared, her courts within — 
 Right-minded men, the latchet of whoso shoes 
 Thou wert not, hireling, worthy to unloose. 
 
 Now I beseech you listen, gentles all. 
 To the grandiloquent ecstasies that fall. 
 Extemporaneous, from that Preacher's lips, 
 In tones as melting as, in the eclipse
 
 THK DUBLIN B.A. 43 
 
 Of the full moon, at midnight's solemn hour, 
 The screech-owl's music from tho ruined tower ! 
 Mark how his gestures plmuje the emphatic words 
 Deep iu the heart, like double-edged swords I 
 And how — as when the oilless chariot- wheel 
 Takes fire by whirling round the axle-steel — 
 His ruddy features, with the rapid flow 
 Of pompous nothings, burn with redder glow ! 
 
 See where he toils up yonder spiral hill, 
 Intent his sacred mission to fulfil, 
 Bearing the pedlar's pack of rags and dross, 
 (Who slyly lauds the carrier of his cross,) 
 Blessed by each wondering cottager, who deems 
 His Reverence e'en the lowliness he seems ; 
 And hailed by children, that, like terrier dogs, 
 Run yelping after, iu their clattering clogs ! — 
 A sight far more delectable to see 
 Than when St. Sackcloth,* on his bare-worn knee, 
 Washed thirteen beggars, to convince mankind 
 Of his extreme humility of mind ! 
 But has the Church no recompense bestowed 
 Upon the saint who bore the pedlar's load V 
 Has she, ungrateful, passed his merits by, 
 And viewed his acts with unapproving eye ? 
 Sad, mournful truth ! — Save some chance Sabbath day, 
 No congregation hears him preach and pray ! 
 She found him hungering, thirsting for good things, 
 And still she leaves him to his stomach's stings. 
 Regardless of his talismanic name. 
 His Dublin laurels, and his deeds of fame I 
 
 # Thomas-a-Beukct.
 
 ■ii THE DUBLIN B.A. 
 
 But sliall his light He 'iioath a bushel hid ? 
 Ilis patron saints of noodlwlom forbid ! 
 "Pity the sorrows of a ciwe-less priest, 
 
 Whose cravings, Guardians, drive him to your door ! 
 O give some twenty — fifteen pounds at least, 
 
 And he will preach the gospel to the poor !" 
 And could the Bastile-rulers hear unmoved 
 This modest quest ? Alas ! they all approved, 
 With conscience economically nice. 
 Of preaching without money, without price ! 
 What thougli not oft his talents are required 
 To grace the pulpit, for the Sunday hired, 
 And charm the hearers with a semion sweet — 
 He well can teach the rising race — to eat, 
 Et ccetera — and train them in the way. 
 From which, hereafter, they will never stray !* 
 
 Kneel, kneel, ye pedagogues, both great and small, 
 And down before this wondrous Dagon fall ! 
 No more, presumptous, hope to gain your bread 
 By honest means — this vampire must be fed ! 
 Think not, henceforth, though ye have sown the field, 
 That ye must reap the harvest it will yield : 
 His Reverence comes, and with his secret scythe. 
 Cuts down the crop, and claims it all as tithe. 
 Sly chuckling, as he steals the well-eared sheaves. 
 To see you pining on the chaff he leaves ! 
 Resign your claims to patronage and pay ; 
 He lords the ascendant, and must have the sway I 
 Your strife with dunces, here, is at an end ; 
 Lo ! yonder comes their peace-maker and friend, 
 
 * " Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will 
 not depart from it." This might be an appropriate inscription for his 
 lieverence's temi)le of knowledge.— Printer's Devil.
 
 THE DUBLIN B.A. 
 
 Who soon, with kindred sympathy inspired, 
 Will lull those brains which ye so oft have tired ! 
 Leave then, like him— though with hjnohler aim— 
 The land o'ershadowcd by his mighty fame ; 
 Shoulder your ferules, quill-anmed cap-a-pie. 
 And join the rebel-ranks beyond the sea ;* 
 Or, tired of earth, ascend in Green's balloon. 
 And war with Gog and Magog in the moon ! 
 
 Truce to this theme : one word before we part, 
 I give thee, priest, all shameless as thou art — 
 Doff, doff thy sacerdotal robes, and cease 
 To be a herald of the Prince of Teace ; 
 For thou, in secret, hast his banners stained, 
 And warred 'gainst precepts in His word contained. 
 He bids thee love thy neighbour as thyself ; 
 But thou hast wronged him for the love of pelf ! 
 "Thou shalt not steal !"— this, haply, thou hast read, 
 But never felt within thy heart of lead ; 
 For thou, a wolf in clothing of a sheep. 
 Hast robbed the folds which skilful shepherds keep ! 
 'Tis written in the volume of that Book, 
 In which, save Sundays, thou dost seldom look, 
 " The righteous seed I ne'er saw begging bread ;" 
 But thou, a, priest! from house to house hast sped. 
 To beg, with wheedling wiles, which few could foil. 
 The hard-earned fruits of honourable toil I 
 Matchless impostor ! marvels not thy soul 
 The thunder, harmless, o'er thy head should roll ? — 
 That one who first, before the public eye 
 Upheld thy name in hues of brighter dye, 
 
 » rid>j note at the eml. 
 
 45
 
 46 THE DUBLTN B.A. 
 
 Should not, aroused by thy cold-blooded wrong, 
 
 Ere this, have scoui-god thee with satiric thong ? 
 
 A begging go ! — for this thy proper trade 
 
 Thou w^ell by "nature's journeymen" wert made ; 
 
 But that the world more sympathy may shew. 
 
 And give more loav(!s and fishes for thy maw, 
 
 Thy seemless garb of sanctity resign, 
 
 And, beggar-clad, with well-feigned limp and whine, 
 
 Of which to thee some brother in the art 
 
 In pity may the pi'oper knack impart. 
 
 Go forth with scrip in hand, a second Dan, 
 
 Twin-brother of the Irish Beggamian ; 
 
 Like him with fame and honours meet be crowned. 
 
 And in the wealth o( penny-rint abound. 
 
 Parents of England ! have you ceased to feel 
 An interest in yom* offspring's mental weal ? 
 Shall they, by pseudo-pedagogues like this, 
 Be Im-ed to ruin with a Judas' kiss ? 
 Broods o'er your judgments, starless, moonless night, 
 In times of boasted intellectual light, 
 That ye see not, hallucination-mad, 
 Empuic Ignorance, though in cassock clad ? 
 Shall cozenage usurp proud Honour's seat, 
 And tread down Science 'neath its cloven feet ? 
 Shall shameless Beggary in triumph lead 
 Your children captive to his house of need. 
 And chain their minds with speUs more dark and foul 
 Than deadly hell-broth of a wizard's bowl ? 
 Then from your thresholds spurn the beggar-brood, 
 From little Lighthead, down to great Drawblood ! 
 
 END OF BOOK I.
 
 NOTES TO BOOK I. 
 
 (Page 7, line 12.) 
 Near the lonely and ivied Milchin Bridge. 
 
 MiLCHiN. This word appears to me of doubtful derivation, but one thing 
 is evident, that the modern pronunciation " Milking" is a gross corruption, 
 inasmuch as the Bridge is at the bottom of two rocky and precipitous 
 woods, without any pasture for cattle, (except what has been reclaimed 
 from the Eaves within the last century), and is so narrow as not to admit 
 of the passage over it of a cow or any animal of equal dimensions. It may 
 be fi-om the British " Miolchoin" Greyhounds, and may mean " The Bridge 
 oftlie Greyhounds"— a very appropriate appellation. 
 
 Mr. riorner, of Halifax, has executed two very beautiful views of this 
 Bridge, illustrative of the following lines from the Star Seer :— 
 " There bows a hoary bridge, that seems to spring 
 From wild-rose stems which, entertwining, cling 
 With broad-leaved ivy, round its rugged form, 
 And, as the fringe-work of some faery charm, 
 Hang 'neath the arch in beautiful festoons. 
 Gemmed with white roses, that, like little moons. 
 Shine o'er the surface of the amber deep, 
 Where lies the trout in sUver-lidded sleep." 
 
 (Page 26, line 2.) 
 
 A gracious pardon for an erring friend ! 
 
 The circumstance to which I have alluded, is well known to most ot the 
 friends of the late Dr. Fawcett. It may, however, be necessary to state for 
 the information of those who are unacquainted with the history of that 
 good man, that he wrote a book, entitled An Essay on Anger, which, by 
 some means or other, fell into the hands of George III. His Majesty was 
 so pleased with the perusal of the book, that he caused inquiry to be made
 
 rlH NOTES TO BOOK I. 
 
 respecting its author, jiiul expressed his desire to obUge Dr. Favvcett, when 
 an opportunity presented. A remarkable proof of the sincerity of the Royal 
 promise was, after some time, touchingly manifested in the pardon of a 
 young man who had committed forgery, at the intercession of Dr. Fawcett. 
 
 (Page 40, line 6.) 
 The bread of soitow, and a martyr's grave. 
 
 Like many of his brother-teachers in tlie West Riding, this old school- 
 master complains, and with just reason, of the mean solicitation for pupils 
 practised by certain individuals interested in the upholding of Proprietary 
 and Collegiate Institutions. It is deeply to be regretted, that gentlemen, 
 who have graduated at Oxford or Cambridge, should disgrace their honour- 
 able profession as teachers by descending to the mean practices of the 
 empiric, under the sanction of a conventional respectabiUty conferred by a 
 wealthy and interested party, and afford ampler ground for suspecting that 
 quackery and pretence are far from being extinct in our public places of 
 learning. 
 
 (Page 45, line 6.) 
 
 And join the rebel-ranks beyond the sea. 
 
 At the time these lines were written, there were rumours of insurrec- 
 tionary movements in the Cauadas ; and his Reverence was then in the 
 zenith of his prosperity. I have learnt since, that he has gone into the land 
 of oblivion ; and I once resolved — from a natural wish not to war with the 
 dead— to cancel all I have said respecting his doings ; but my literary and 
 legal friends advised me to pubUsh my gentle philippic, as a warning to 
 his successor and others, not to tread in his steps.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE 
 
 OR, THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 
 
 BOOK U. 
 
 " A blessed prospect, 
 To slave while there is strength, in age the workhouse, 
 A parish shell at last, and the little bell 
 TcU'd hastily for a pauper's funeral 1" 
 
 Soulhey's English Edoguei. 
 
 D
 
 "I AM NOT ONE WHOSE I'LEASUBE IS TO WEAVE 
 TALES HIGHLY WBOUGIIT OF SUDDEN ACCIDENT, 
 UNLOOKED-FOR RECOGNITION, OR DESIRE 
 STRANGELY FULFILLED ; BUT YET I HAVE A TALE 
 WniCH WILL BRING TEARS OF PITY TO THINE EYES, 
 AND SUMMON ALL THY SADNESS TO ATTEND 
 A WILLING MOURNER IN A FUNERAL TRAIN." 
 
 School of the hJfiirl.
 
 ROBERT AND MARY
 
 JjJroem* 
 
 The Evening of the second day, with its cloud-glories, its awakening stais, 
 and its rising moon, tempts tlie Pilgrim to revisit some of the scenes ot 
 his early childhood. Jlis steps arc soon arrested by a sudden light 
 streaming from a cottage, lie enters, and beholds the Old I3£go.\ii- 
 M4N, whom lie so well recollected as the weekly visitant at his father's 
 door in happier days, dying unattended by any one but his tottering 
 spouse. The wanderer quits the melancholy scene, and speeds 
 towards the abode of two friends, endeared to him by the associa- 
 tions of his boyhood— Robert and Mart. On his way, the scenes 
 of the Past revive in all their vividness. Robert and he are on the 
 mimic battle-field — are at the green shaw, achieving deeds of arclicry 
 — Mart, in budding loveliness, one of the fair spectatresses of the 
 scene. The marriage of the youthful pair — their rural home— tlieir 
 beautiful children— all pass in review before him, and lie indulges the 
 hope that he shall find his friends as happy as when last he saw them. 
 — That hope is blasted. Poverty and affliction have entered the cot- 
 tage. The strong man is broken as on a wheel — his children arc 
 famishing for bread— and their mother is dying. After having in 
 vain attempted to console his distracted friend, the Pilgrim returns 
 homeward at the Dawn of DAT ; and with an address to the Genius 
 of Trade and to the Sun, concludes the Second Book.
 
 THE YALE OF CALDENE 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 ROBERT AND MARY. 
 
 " O voice onco heard 
 DeliglitfuUy, increase ami multiply ! 
 Now death to hear '. For what can jre increase 
 Or multiply, bid irve. crime, penury ! " 
 
 Paradise Lost, X, 7'JO. 
 
 I. 
 
 The daylight is dying upon the hills, 
 And hushed is the dizzy hum of the mills ; 
 The birds are warbling tluiir vesper hynni, 
 And night is unfolding her curtains dim ; 
 And the stars, like eyes that have waked from sleep, 
 Through the deepening azure twinkling peep ; 
 And the moving clouds have a double glow — 
 A rosy back, and a breast of snow ; 
 And as towards the brightening oast they sail, 
 That red flush fades to a dusky pale ; 
 And now they are wreathing their fleecy arms 
 To welcome th(3 moon, when she comes in her channs 
 Of blushing loveliness, fresh from iiei' bower 
 Of coral and pearl, at this balmy hour.
 
 Si THE OLD BEOGAUMAN. 
 
 Lo yonder ! — 'tis sho ! — but Ikm- form's now hid 
 That gorgeous pavilion of clouds amid. — 
 Sho seems as tliough sho wcro tan-ying there 
 To adjust her robes, and her shining luiir, 
 Ere she sets out on her journey far 
 Through the starry fields, on her crystal cai'. 
 She comes I — how beautiful ! — Ilill and doll 
 Rock, tree, and river, beneath her spell, 
 Smile with a witchery more divine 
 Than in tho glare of the Day-god's shine : — 
 But, lovely moon, I vowed with thee 
 To rove o'er tho scenes of my inftincy. 
 Then let us away — but pause ! — a light 
 Suddenly streaming, attracts my sight. 
 
 II. 
 
 List ! list ! — a groan from yonder lowly shed. 
 Arrests my ear, and checks my hasty tread. 
 'Tis like the moaning of a spirit sent. 
 At dead of night, from mouldering monument, 
 Burd'ning the winds that I'ound the lone OiiEAVE * croun, 
 With hollow murmurs to tho waning moon, 
 That tell of wrongs unknown and unforgiven — 
 AVrongs dark and deep, unvisited of Heaven '■ 
 Lift light the latch ! — no mockery of woe 
 Deceives the eye with mere external show ! 
 Hero Poverty, Affliction, Sorrow, reign. 
 Tearless Despair, unmitigablo Pain ! 
 Lo ! by the feeble glimmerings that fall 
 From that dim light, suspended from the wall, 
 
 * In .illusion to .a foul murder that w.is coninuttcd .it this iilaic. the 
 perpetrators oi which have never beta diBtovcrcd.
 
 THE OLD BEGGAKMAN. 55 
 
 Stretched on a bctl — uucanopied — the wan, 
 
 Loan, ghastly spectre of what onco was man ; 
 
 And o'er him, tottering, bends the shrivelled form 
 
 Of One who yet survives the rayless storm 
 
 Of misery that, like the dread Simoom, 
 
 Weaves round his head the darkness of the tomb ! 
 
 With palsied hand, a feather oft she dips 
 
 In a small phial, to anoint his lips — 
 
 Livid, and wdthered, moistureless, apart — 
 
 Whence come those groans that harrow up the heart ; 
 
 For hero no yEsculapian skill essays 
 
 To pour the balm, the languid wretch to raise : 
 
 Far, far from him all money-purchased aid ; 
 
 Too oft it shuns the couch where Want is laid ! 
 
 Beside that lonely bed no priest * doth stand, 
 
 AVith gilded missal in his reverend hand. 
 
 To read the ritual which his church believes 
 
 Redemption oft in death's last hour achieves, 
 
 And whisper comfort, when the trembling soul 
 
 Plumes for its passage to the final goal. 
 
 The hour is nigh : — that suflercr's sunk eyes gaze 
 Wildly, yet fixedly, on the lamp's red blaze ; 
 Towards which he stretches forth his shrivelled arm 
 And long, lean fingers ; as ho thought 'twould warm 
 His pain-chilled frame, and bless — if ought could bless — 
 The midnight hon'ors of death's wilderness ; 
 As thou the giddy infant oft hast seen. 
 With beauteous wonder in its eager mien. 
 Look wistfully ; its tiny fingers play 
 To reach the candle's bright, attractive ray. 
 
 * It may be just necessary to state, that the dying man was a Roman 
 CathoUc.
 
 5C THE OLD BEGGARMAN. 
 
 Those groans have coasod ; — the harbinger of deatli 
 Speaks, in that ratthng, of liis jiarting breath ; 
 A gleam of consciousness illumes his eye, 
 Like sunlight flashing through a stormy sky ; 
 And his last looks, with awful meaning rife, 
 Rest on the filatures of his aged wife ; 
 And while his lips to speak in vain essay, 
 His ti'oubled spirit quits its home of clay. 
 
 The martyr, burning slow on pagan fire — 
 The soldier, that doth drop by drop expire — 
 The sailor, sinking 'neath the stormy wave, 
 AVith fruitless struggles, to a watery grave — 
 The wretch, condemned unequal war to wage 
 With the fell tiger maddened into rage — 
 The malefactor, doomed on bloody tree 
 To perish in protracted agony — 
 The slave entombed within the burning mine — 
 Pilgrim of sorrow ! what, compared with thine, 
 The momentary ills which these may bear ? — 
 Ills light as feathers floating in the air ! 
 Thine was the doom to find unto the last. 
 The present hour still darker than the past ; 
 To travel on through all the waste of years. 
 Despair thy food I thy drink the well of tears I 
 Not but, sometimes, along thy desert way. 
 Appeared a green oaso, a sunny ray 
 To cheer thee ; yet life's general tenour ran 
 Replete with all that misery brings to man. 
 
 No more ! — heart I I feel thy fountains rise. 
 And in a torrent overwhelm my eyes ! 
 Flow on ! though mine an unpartaken grief, 
 Though tears are bootless to impart relief
 
 ROBERT AND MARY. 57 
 
 In the dark hour when suffering merit dies ; 
 Yet pity's ti'ibute what kind soul denies '-* 
 Accept this tribute, venerable Dead ! 
 And peace brood o'er thee in thy lowly bed ! 
 
 III. 
 
 How beautiful, upon the moonlight breeze, 
 That cot's blue smoke ascends among the trees 
 Beloved abode ! whose sylvan loneliness 
 Has been its happy shelter from distress ; — 
 Would it wore so ! and that its iiunatcs still 
 AVere kindly shielded from the common ill 1 
 Here while I stand, in fancy I behold 
 Those golden days in vista bright unfold, 
 When ho who dwells in that secluded home, 
 Once loved with me o'er these dear scenes to roam. 
 
 I 
 
 Friend of my boyhood ! Genius' low-born son I 
 Loader of sport ! and president of fun ! 
 Distinguished champion on the well-known field I 
 Knight of the sapling spear, and paper-shield ! 
 Beneath whoso kerchief banner I have fought. 
 And bloodless deeds of youthful prowess wrought, 
 Inspired amid the well-contested strife. 
 With martial sounds of mimic drum and fife ! 
 Matchless artificer of paper- men, 
 That, on the old oak battle-plain,* again, 
 With flags and small brass guns, displayed to view 
 A Lilliputian scene of Waterloo ! 
 Prince of the bow I deserving all the fame 
 Of thy great prototype's illustrious name — 
 
 * An oak tablo, on vvlucli iire still visible the effects of our mimic battles.
 
 58 llOCKRT AND MAllV. 
 
 In yon (loop glo.n, wlioro high thn Kins; of Ti-cos, 
 
 Tho mighty Wiiiteuauk * growth of centuries, 
 
 (Woo to tho unhallowed hand, that heaves tho blow 
 
 To lay tho monarch of High Greenwood low!) 
 
 Rears 'gainst tho dcep-bluo heavens his leafy head, 
 
 And, far and wide, his branches overspread 
 
 A rising progeny, that, round their sire. 
 
 In slender, pigmy mightiness aspire — 
 
 In that retreat, thy merry Bowmen bold. 
 
 In garbs of green, and bonnets decked with gold. 
 
 Again assemble, deeds of skill to try, 
 
 Ranged in duo order, 'neath thy martial eye. 
 
 By Little John, and one more proud to claim 
 
 Will Scarlet's honours than a scholar's fame : — 
 
 But mark'st thou not, amid tho lovoly band 
 
 Of fair ones that, like Hamadryads, stand 
 
 On yonder sholter'd knoll aloof, to see 
 
 Our boyhood sports of rival archery. 
 
 That gentlo Maid — so beautifully shy — 
 
 Peer on thy form with half-averted eye ; 
 
 Now deeply blush, now palo as marblo grow. 
 
 When, as tho arrow from thy well-strung bow^, 
 
 Achieves its destined, and unerring aim. 
 
 Thy gallant Bowmen shout in loud acclaim ? 
 
 As if she fears that other eyes should look 
 
 Too fond on theo with gaze sho could not brook. 
 
 Beautiful creature ! if there e'er were seen 
 On earth an angel, sho is ono I ween ; 
 
 * This was one of those old patriai'clial trees, wliich are rarely to bo seen 
 in the nciRhbourhood of a densely populated nianufaetiiring distriet. Since 
 the above lines were written the Whitubark.has been telled. Let the Goth 
 who caused it to be done, take heed to the ban under which lie did it !
 
 ROBERT AND MARY. 59 
 
 But she's not like your cloistered, pallid fair. 
 
 With languid look, and fashion-braided hair, 
 
 Skilled with light foot the mazy dance to trip. 
 
 And polished accents breathe from pride-curled lip. 
 
 What though the sun has o'er her features thrown 
 
 A veil transparent of the slightest brown, 
 
 The rose and lily, undefiled, shine through. 
 
 Like morn's first smiles through heather-drops of dow ; 
 
 While her long tresses, dark as midnight cloud, 
 
 Flow artless down, in one promiscuous crowd ; 
 
 Save when some truant curl its beauteous homo 
 
 Deserts awhile, with the young breeze to roam ; 
 
 In part disclosing, pure as snowy wreath. 
 
 Her swanlike neck, and budding breast beneath. 
 
 What though in all the glare of dress arrayed, 
 
 Iler native loveliness was ne'er displayed ; 
 
 Alternately exposing to the view. 
 
 Each braided anklet, and white silken shoe. 
 
 When, with some perfumed, and be-whiskored beau, 
 
 (Like a wasp rampant) tripping on light toe. 
 
 The " unseemly Waltz," Quadrille, or Rigadoon, 
 
 At midnight hour, along the bright saloon — 
 
 Robed in her best, the elected Queen of May, 
 
 In peerless beauty, on the gala-day. 
 
 This mountain sylph, with faery step, I've seen 
 
 Join in tho rural dance on Oswald Green. 
 
 What tliougli there fall not from her ruby n^outli. 
 
 The soft relhioments of the enervate south. 
 
 But in her speech and song, tho car can trace 
 
 The uncouth dialect of her native place ; 
 
 Yet there is music in lu^r voice and tone, 
 
 Which, with its charm, fur this sliglit fault alone. 
 
 E'en to the most fastidious can atone.
 
 GU UOBEKT AND MAHY. 
 
 Ami thou hor heart — it is tho home of all 
 
 Tliat's left of swootiK'SS since th(> lu'iinal fall ! 
 
 She loves — but 'tis with timid, trenihliiic; fear 
 
 Of tho rude world's derisive smile and jeer ; 
 
 And though she trustoth not to breathe in words 
 
 The precious secret which her bosom hoards ; 
 
 Yet, 0, 60 deeply is hor sinless soul 
 
 Absorbed in its sweet passion — no control 
 
 Has she to 'guise hor feelings ! — e'en tho name 
 
 Of tho loved object, so affects her frame, 
 
 That oft her cheeks, her eyes, her conduct, prove 
 
 Too faithful tell-tales of her latent love ! — 
 
 She loves — and though, like all her own dear sex, 
 
 She sometimes suilers jealousy to vox 
 
 Her inward peace — heroic girl ! she'd stake 
 
 Her all for him she loves, and perish for his sake ! 
 
 Such is the opening blossom of fifteen, 
 Friend of my youth ! thy little mountain <|ueen. 
 How blest art thou all earthly bliss above. 
 In the rich boon of this fair creature's love ! 
 Soon may gay hymen's rosy wreath divine 
 Make that fond heart indissolubly thine ; 
 And every hour of your existence flow 
 Replete with all tho sweets that life can know. 
 Five summers glide away : — my wish is crowned ! 
 Your loves are sealed ! — Let joy and song abound ! 
 Years roll along ; and in yon sheltered cot. 
 Bliss, if not wealth, is your perennial lot. 
 Two lovely cherubs, in whoso features shine 
 Thy Mary's looks so softly blent with thine. 
 To heighten your felicity arc given — 
 The radiant stars that gild your little heaven.
 
 ROBEUT AND MAKV. 61 
 
 A3 strong in years he grows, 'tis sweet to view 
 The son his sire's wild youthful sports renew ; — 
 What arc to him the unmeaning, common toys 
 Of early childhood J' they can yield no joys 
 Like those ho feels, now his young arm can wield 
 His father's boyhood mimic spear and shield, 
 In combating the many-headed brood 
 Of giant foxgloves in the adjacent wood ; 
 Or when he takes from out their secret drawer, 
 The paper- warriors of the days of yore. 
 And with no mean tactician's skill, in play, 
 Marshals each host in battle's stern array. 
 On that renowned, and cannon-dinted plain,* 
 Where heroes fell, full oft, to rise — again ! 
 While his fond, beauteous mother smiles with joy 
 To see the father imaged in the boy ; 
 And his sweet, blue-eyed sister on her knee, 
 Chuckles, and claps her little hands with glee, 
 When the fierce Frenchmen tumble, one by one. 
 By brother Henry's sure pipe-stopple gun. 
 
 O Memory I bright talisman that rears 
 To Thought's rapt eye the scenes of vanished years I 
 Hast thou but limned this vision of the Past 
 With the dark Present only to contrast ^ 
 E'en while I musing stand, beguiled by thee. 
 The once-blest inmates of that homo may be — 
 Though hope would fain believe it is not so — 
 Participators of the general woe ! 
 Why do I tremble? — Dai-k I'orebodings, cease 
 My tortui'cd mind's disquiet to increase I 
 
 » The old oak table Icl'oie referred to.
 
 02 KOBKKT AN1> MARY. 
 
 Was tliat a groan? or but the liollow sound 
 Of the iii<Tlit-\vin<l among tlie trees around (■ 
 All now is silent: every plant and leaf, 
 In drooijing stillness, seems to emblem grief. 
 Liglit as I troad, the reigning sadness muto 
 (Jliides the intrusion of my wandering foot. 
 Must I proceed 'i — Should all my fears prove true, 
 Alas! how bootless all that I can do I 
 Heaven, when it dowered me with a feeling heart, 
 Denied the means to act a Howard's part : 
 Yet though I may not like tluit godlike man, 
 Raise those that droop — the little all 1 can 
 Shall I refuse, my Friend, to thee and thine. 
 If haply now in grief or want ye pine ? 
 No ! — were't the last poor crust of all my store. 
 And dark despair crushed every hope of more — 
 Were't the last cheerer in my scanty cruise — 
 Freely, as Heaven the grateful morning dews 
 Sheds on the drooping ilowers, I'd these bestow 
 To glad your hearts, and mitigate your woe. 
 
 But here's the lonely dwelling. — Is it thought? — 
 Has some dire spirit of enchantment wrought v^ 
 
 A melancholy change ? — around it thrown 
 A dread, a stillness that were once unknown ^ 
 Hark ! as I nearer wend, the breathless air 
 Seems fraught with murmurs of a voice in prayer : — 
 I know it well I — though now, in tone subdued, 
 It lacks its vi^ontod joyousness of mood. 
 O list ! — Those struggling accents, like the sound 
 Of muffled bells, my startled ears astound; 
 For they betoken that the utterer's grief 
 Is far too deep to find iu words relief !
 
 KOBEKT AND MARY. C3 
 
 See, tlirougli the tattorctl curtains of that room, 
 The speechless, wan-worn mourner ! — liim from whom 
 Those sad notes came — knelt by tliat humble bed, 
 Whereon lies one — the semblance of the dead ! 
 Beside him, bent in attitude of prayer, 
 His little son, and infant daughter fair. 
 Theii- hands and streaming eyes are raised to Heaven, 
 As thitherwards their thoughts were solely given : 
 And sure, if Heaven regards thought's sinless strain, 
 Your pleadings, children, will not prove in vain. 
 
 The parent-mourner now again essays 
 To vent his sorrows, and thus faltering prays. 
 With quivering lips, and ruddy eyes that seem 
 Like Ms who wakens from a woe-fraught dream : 
 " God ! if thou thme car dost e'er incline 
 To supplication, hear and answer mine ! 
 Spare my dear spouse ! — on me, alone on me. 
 Let the full weight of all her sufferings be! 
 Condemned through life to all the woes that e'er 
 Were doomed on earth for one poor wight to bear — 
 Be this my portion! — I will not demur. 
 If thou wilt health again restore to her — 
 My babes' kind mother, my beloved wife. 
 Charm of my home, and solace of my life ! 
 Regard, O Cod ! regard these infants dear ! 
 If mine thou heed'st not, deign their prayers to hoar ! 
 These have not sinned — thy justice won't condemn 
 These for my sake — my guilt impute to them ! 
 'Tis for the best of mothers ! — her who taught 
 Their lips to pi-aiso thee, at the dawn of thought — 
 Her, who when want and sickness undermined 
 Her tender frame, bowed cheerfully resigned
 
 64: KOJIEIIT AND 5IAKV. 
 
 To thy high rroviilcnco, and uttered not 
 Ono niunmuiiig word, at her uutinu-ly lot! — 
 Yoa! 'tis for her — their father's ho[)o and jtride — 
 The conifurtor, when every friend hesido 
 Deserted him, in darkest hour of need — 
 'Tis for this angel, these poor children plead ! 
 Ijut if thou wilt not heed these innocents' plea, 
 And call that gentle spirit homo to thee, 
 Oh ! if thou art a (Jon of mercy, leave 
 Not us behind, disconsolate, to grieve, 
 And linger in existence through long years 
 Of want and misery, in this vale of tears ! — 
 In love for her, and these sweet cherubs, call 
 Not one away — but, Heavenly Father! — all!" 
 
 He ceases ; for his grief beyond control 
 Again o'erwholms his agonising soul. 
 Unconscious haste ! intrusively I stand 
 In Misery's presence ; and the fevered hand 
 Of the mute, anguished mourner graspeth mine, 
 AVith looks no power of language can define ! 
 As marble still, save when the long-drawn breath 
 Gives saddening token of approaching death, 
 Lies, there, the shadowy semblance of a form 
 Once beautiful as Hebe's ; evei-y charm 
 Of womanhood, in cheek, lip, eye, and brow. 
 And whole demeanour — ah ! what is it now ! 
 
 But she would speak ; and her unclosed eyes fix 
 With tremulous gaze — as when, from dark eclipse 
 The moon emerging, glimmers through a cloud 
 That doth its form translucently enshroud — 
 On husband, children, kneeling by her bed, 
 Alternate warmed with hope, and chilled with dread.
 
 KOBERT AND MARY. 65 
 
 " My Robert !" — and her voice's feeble tone 
 Sounds like a harp-note of a world unknown — 
 " I've heard thy prayer, and GOD has heard it too ; 
 But I must leave thee, love — and, children, you ; 
 For whom, if Heaven had willed, my wish had been 
 Still longer to i-emain, that I might screen 
 Your early years, with all a mother's care, 
 From ills that may — nay, must be yours to share.— 
 My wish is vain ! — I feel my hour is nigli — 
 But let me bless — embrace you, ero I die I — 
 Henrv, my son, my firstborn, come thou first, 
 Receive my parting blessing I — I have nursed 
 And reared thee tenderly I — The lonely dam, 
 In the green vale, watched not its only lamb, 
 With more devotedness than I've watched thee— ' 
 Sweet miniature of him, so dear to me ! — 
 Yes, now, my boy, I feel the health-warm press 
 Of thy soft cheek on mine, whose chilliness 
 Is as the winter's breath. — Weep not, my love, 
 God will protect tlioe — God who reigns above ! 
 Pray to Him, Henuy, night and morn ; nor let 
 Thy heart the precepts I have taught forget I 
 Revere thy father I^hc will shortly be 
 Left the sole guardian of that lamb and thee ; 
 And — and" — she can no moi-e : the half-uttered words 
 Die on her lips like sounds of light-touched chords. 
 
 Ye sons of wealth ! o'er saw ye scene like this ? 
 Ah no I — 'twould mar yom- visionary bliss ; 
 But would ye your delights awhile forego, 
 And deign to enter this abode of woe. 
 If human misery claims an honest tear. 
 Your hearts were marble to refuse it here. — 
 E
 
 OG IXOEEllT AND MARY. 
 
 Tliat dying Motlicr, witli faint look, yot mild 
 As summer's setting sun ! — that weeping Child, 
 With eyes upraised, and hands on bosom pressed. 
 Pleading to die with her, and ho at rest ! — 
 That dove-eyed liniocent, like a cherub knelt 
 In ft^u'ful tromour, as she inly felt 
 A dark presentiment, her infant heart 
 Was soon with some beloved one to part ! — 
 Tiiat Father — now delirious with his grief; 
 Raving in language indistinct and brief! 
 His heart a wildei-ness! — his home, once thought 
 The happiest on earth — now brought to nought I 
 And every hope — for he had many, bright 
 With rainbow hues — now lost in sorrow's night I — 
 This is a scene, would wake compassion's thrill 
 In hearts deemed callous yet to human ill ! 
 
 But life still lingers in that sulTei-er's frame: 
 Her eyes relume — 'tis but the prelude flame 
 Of speedy dissolution! — the last glow 
 That e'er will tremble through those lids of snow. 
 " Draw near, my Robert ! — ^where's my little dove— 
 Fanny, where art thou ? — Come and kiss me, love !- 
 Why beats thy heart so ? — Why dost tremble thus ? 
 Canst thou not smile, and speak again to us 
 As thou didst use to do ? — There's sorrow writ 
 On thy fair brow, where joy was wont to sit 
 Like an unprisoned bird ! — thy cheek, I see. 
 Is rpseless now — my child, what grieveth thee f 
 
 Lover of nature ! thou hast often seen 
 The lily, when its coronal hath been 
 O'er fraught with dew-gems, sudden droop, and shed 
 On earth the shining burden of its head —
 
 UOBEirr AXD MAItV. 67 
 
 Such is that lovely child : her littlo breast, 
 With its full weight of sorrow now oppressed, 
 Discharges it in one bright, copious shower 
 Of blinding tears — for words she lacks the power 
 To utter — on her mother's pallid cheek ; 
 Who now appears as she, too, could not speak ; 
 But, O, how eloquent those looks that say 
 More than all gifted tongues, as fond they stray 
 Each dearly loved one's saddened features o'er, 
 Which soon, she feels, her eyes must view no more. 
 "Robert!" at length, in tremulous feebleness 
 She cries — the raouraor bends him in distress 
 Unutterable o'er her bed, the while 
 
 Her thin, cold hands press his, with faint, fond smile 
 
 '- RoBEKT I" while I have strength, O let me pour 
 My blessings on thee, in my dying hour I 
 
 I've loved thee tenderly — and thou'st loved me 
 
 I know thou hast — sincerely, tenderly ! 
 I envied not the great ones of the earth. 
 Their splendid halls, and pageantry of birth, 
 Blest with thy love — our home this peaceful cot. 
 Beneath the skies for me no sweeter lot. 
 When thou wert happy, I was doubly so ; 
 And built me strong in faith no earthly woe, 
 Save loss of thee, my Fanny, or my boy. 
 Could e'er my heait's felicity annoy : 
 Alas ! I little dreamed of ills to come ! 
 Ills once undrcaded at our happy home. 
 But felt I misery, sharing it \vith thee ? — 
 I knew no want, for thou wert all to me I 
 And oft I've prayed, by mortal oar unheard, 
 To have thy sorrows to myself transferi-ed ; 
 For I had more than riches could bestow — 
 A husband's love — that husband, IvOBEUT, thou I
 
 68 U015EUT AND MARV. 
 
 And when I saw theo wearied, spiritless ; 
 And heard thee oft, with withering bitterness 
 Of soul at midnight, when thou knew'st it not, 
 Lament the miseries of our cheerless lot ; — 
 8aw, too, thy unremitting toil to free 
 From want and woe, thy little ones and me — 
 What marvel if, thus witnessing, night and day. 
 Thy grief for ills no power of thiuo could stay, 
 My mind should gradually become distressed 
 To that degree, it could not, would not rest ; 
 And loving thee with love that had gained ytrengtlt 
 By time, its energies should sink at length ; 
 And, as the green tree withers, when no more 
 The vital juice pervades the dying core, 
 This form became, in life's uncertain spring. 
 Such as thou sec'st it now — a blighted thing I — 
 Where art thou, love ? the dark'ning film of death 
 Bedims my gaze, and fainter grows my breath — 
 Oh ! lot mi! breathe its last weak waftuj-e on 
 Those lips of thine ! — thou, haply, when I'm gone 
 Wilt think more of my words. — Thy cup, I know, 
 la drugged, my love, with overflowing woe ; 
 But dare not thou rcphio at Heaven's decree — 
 The draught though bitter, may prove balm to thee ; 
 For oft our Maker by afllictiou tries 
 To wean from earth, and win us to the skies. 
 And these our children — ^leave them to His care ; 
 For them His wisdom will a way prepare ! — 
 Wo soon may meet again ! — I go but little while 
 Before you into bliss I" — and with a smile, 
 Herald of peace, her eyes in death-sleep close, 
 Calm as an infant's, into soft repose. 
 
 How terribly that wild and upturned look 
 Lightens its awful meaning I— Who can brook
 
 IIOBEIIT AND MAHY. Gi) 
 
 Such robbery of his heart? — Who can dissemble 
 
 The anguish of bereavement, if the tremble 
 
 Caused by the hcartquake, be to nature true, 
 
 And shew a callousness she never knew ? 
 
 Such seems that look's dread import I — Lot the man 
 
 Reft as he's reft, his mien with censure scan ! 
 
 Ilis home laid in the dust — and shelterless 
 
 His family, though in a wilderness — 
 
 The loss of his dear little ones — a limb 
 
 Torn from his wretched body — had to him 
 
 Been ills of lighter moment than to part 
 
 With the sweet charmer of his home and heart. 
 
 Cut, here, his children leaning on each other, 
 
 Like flowers whose prop is gone — without a mother ! 
 
 And all that now remains of one so fair, 
 
 So loving and beloved — lies lifeless there ! 
 
 And can he then so soon forget what fell 
 
 From those sealed lips, and 'gainst his GoD rebel ? 
 
 Spare him your censure I ye who never felt 
 
 Affection's glow your icy bosoms melt I 
 
 'Tis not for t/ou to act the censor's part, 
 
 And, all unfeeling, judge the feehng heart. 
 
 His that wild agony of grief which burns 
 
 Within the soul intensely, and returns, 
 
 Like lightning-kindled heather, its fierce ire 
 
 Towards the black vault, whence burst the baleful Are ! 
 
 There is a grief, whose frenzy will not be 
 Rebuked by reason, nor, religion, thee, 
 In that dread hour, when death's bereaving blow 
 Robs the fond heart of all it loved below. 
 No marvel, then, in such a mood of mind, 
 If that wild inounier deem that Heaven's unkind.
 
 70 llli; J)AWK OF DAY. 
 
 Uiichockod l)y ruason, or religious iiwv, 
 lie owns 110 guide but erring instinct's law ; 
 And, as the eagle, -when the lightning's wrath 
 ^Vrrests his mate ou her aerial path, 
 Ho darkly scans the unrelenting skies, 
 llubellion redly Hashing trom his eyes ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Homeward in sorrow I return ; 
 For lo ! Aurora from her urn 
 Is pouring on you orient screen 
 A copious ilood of silver sheen. 
 Star after star, as dawning day 
 More brightly glows, fades fast away ; 
 Just as in love's enchanting dream 
 Sweet eyes of beauty o'er us gleam ; 
 But ere we can exclaim — " Look liere !" 
 The lovely tremblers disappear. 
 Still lingering on the rear of night, 
 That westward wheels her rajiid ilight, 
 Hangs like a dinted, dingy shield 
 The sullen moon ; as loth to yield 
 Her conquered empery to the sway 
 Of the imperial Lord of Day ; 
 But scarce her beams those thin clouds tinge 
 That float around her like a fringe. 
 
 *t5^ 
 
 Behind yon distant mountain dim. 
 The sun heaves now his ruddy rim : 
 As I have seen, on some fond breast, 
 A r(;ae peep o'er a sable vest, 
 Taken with tears from a sacred tree. 
 That shed its balmy fragrancy 
 In pm'e devotedness above 
 The consecrated grave of love.
 
 THE GENIUS OF TRADE. 71 
 
 V. 
 
 Awake my lyre ! a worthy paean raise, 
 And join exulting nature's shout of praise ! 
 Still mute thy voice ? — "What doth thy spirit say ? 
 Roll on grand orb, roll on the flood of day I 
 But lovelier far — nor deem me slanderous thou — 
 Fair Ciuthia's mien than thine imperial brow. 
 Save in this holy hour, when nought is heard 
 But sound of rippling waters, warbling bird. 
 Or pleasing hum of honey-gathering bee — 
 How few the charms thou, here, canst yield to me ! 
 Soon from his couch, that gives a respite brief 
 To the long reign of heart-corroding grief. 
 The haggard son of want must rise again 
 To sad renewal of his daily pain ; 
 And soon, instead of all this music sweet. 
 Far other sounds the list'ner's ear will greet ! 
 First, the grim factory's jangling h-on bell 
 On the still air will peal its hateful knell, 
 Rousing the little stripling from his sleep 
 To toil, that scarce allows him time to weep ; 
 Next, from each Pandemonium's heated rooms. 
 The roar of * devils, and the din of looms ! 
 The scream of throstles, and the buzz of reels ! 
 The clash oi frames, the roll of dizzy wheels! 
 And then, throughout the day, the noisy war 
 Of rattling coach, and heavy-laden car, 
 Or the stoam-dragon, with his misty mane 
 Afar outspread above his motley train. 
 Mingling harsh dissonance with ditties rud<' 
 Of strolling wretches, destitute of food ! 
 
 # The oiigiiiL:- whose names I have italieiscd, arc well known to every 
 f.ictory ehiltl.
 
 t THIS OENIU.S OF 'rUAl>E. 
 
 Genius of Tnuk'! such arc the sounds that cheer- 
 Go whcro tliou wilt — thy leaden heart and ear! 
 Look at thy trophies ! — thousands made to chew 
 The bread of pain, to feed a pampered few, 
 Whoni thou hast raised — because to thee they sold 
 Conscience and virtue for the meed of gold — 
 Far, fai- above the comm6n herd, to shine 
 Immaculate, adopted sons of thine ! 
 A time will come, if that thy arts prevail, 
 And public virtue, truth, and justice fail — 
 A time will come — so saith the prophet — when 
 Will disappear the middle class of men, 
 Old England's glory, maintenance, and shield, 
 Or on her shores, or foreign battle-field ; 
 And when, henceforth, there only will be found 
 The tyrant Trade-lord, and his serfs around ; 
 But Thou who rul'st the armies of the skies ! 
 Avenger of iniquity, ai'ise ! 
 Protect the poor! avert that evil day. 
 And save the land from Trade's usurping sway ! 
 
 O sun! my former wish I would recall — 
 Delay thy chariot, nor disturb the pall 
 That yet hangs kindly o'er yon vale below. 
 Where thousands slumber, that must wake to woe ! 
 And gild those well-remembered spots again. 
 Which still some vestige of the past retain, 
 That fancy may the veil of years remove. 
 And picture scenes of ha])pincss and love. 
 
 END or HOOK II.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE 
 
 OR, THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 " Sph-it of tho Past ! look not so inournfuUy nt mo with thy great, tearful 
 eyes! Touch mo not with thy cold hanJ ! Urcatho not upon me with the 
 icy breath of the grave ! Chant no more that diige of sorrow, through the 
 long and silent watches of the night '." 
 
 Hyperion.
 
 ■■THESE TKAITS OF rilABACTEll, A GOOD IIEAUT AND A I'OETIC IMAr.IN ATION, 
 MADE ms LIFE JOVOUS AND THE WORLD DEAUTIFUL ; TILL AT LENOTII DEATH 
 CUT DOWN THE SWEET, IlLUE FLOWER, THAT BLOOMED BESIDE IlIM, AND 
 WOUNDED IIIM WITH THAT SHARP SICKLE, SO THAT HE BOWED HIS HEAD, 
 AND WOULD FAIN HAVE BEEN BOUND UP IN THE SAME SHEAF AVITII THE 
 SWEET, BLUE FLOWER. THEN THE WORLD SEEMED TO HIM LESS BEAUTIFUL, 
 AND LIFE BECAME EARNEST. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN WELL IF HE COULD 
 HAVE FORGOTTEN THE PAST ; THAT HE MIGHT NOT SO MOUBNFULLI HAVE 
 LIVED IN IT, BUT MIGHT HAVE ENJOYED AND IMPROVED THE PRESENT. BUT 
 THIS HIS HEART REFUSED TO DO; AND EVER AS HE FLOATED UPON THE 
 GREAT SEA OF LIFE, HE I^OORED DOWN THROUGH THE TRANSPARENT WATERS, 
 CHEaUERED WITH SUNSHINE AND SUADE, INTO THE VAST CHAMBERS 
 OF THE MIGHTY DEEP, IN WHICH HIS HAPPIER DAYS HAD SUNK, AND 
 WHEREIN THEY WERE LYING STILL VISIBLE, LIKE GOLDEN SANDS, AND 
 PRECIOUS STONES AND PEARLS; AND, HALF IN DESPAIR, HALF IN HOPE, 
 HE GRASPED DOWNWARD AFTER THEM AGAIN, AND DREW BACK HIS 
 HAND, FILLED ONLY WITH SEAWEED, AND DRIPPING WITH BRINY 
 tears!— AND BETWEEN HIM AND THOSE GOLDEN SANDS A RADIANT 
 IMAGE FLOATED, LIKE THE SPIRIT IN DANTE'S PARADISE, SINGING, 
 'AVE MARIA !' AND WHILE IT SANG, DOWN -SI NKING, AND SLOWLY 
 VANISHING AWAY " 
 
 llyiicri'iit.
 
 THE MAID OF CALDENE.
 
 Jj)rocm» 
 
 Morning breaks upnn the rilgrim as he wanders over Oswald Hill— t)ie 
 valley beneath is filleJ witli a dense mist — this gradually meltinfc away 
 as the sun ascends, he descries, seated on a rocky cliff beneath , the 
 wasted form of the ISakd of Caldene, whom lie describes as having 
 known in happier days by the title of Laureate of tlie Yale, when he 
 sung in Oswald's bower, Kliza's Bihtii-Htmn. The Bard, absorbed 
 in a reverie of the Past, tells his sad Tale, apparently unconscious of 
 the listening I'ilgrim — dilates on the purity of i'lnsT Love — describes 
 the f iRST Meeting with his fair one; and, in a more joyous mood, 
 sings of the Maid of Caldene ; or The Lover Tonisiied. The Min- 
 strel then changes his strains to notes of sadness. Love with him 
 has been a Dkf.am and a disappointment. He addresses The Mother 
 of his loved one in tones of bitter reproach, as having broken the 
 heart of her daughter — pours out his feelings and reflections on visit- 
 ing Eliza's Grave— .illudos to the Comforter sent in liis aflliction, 
 his Daughter, and lier untimely death— unfolds his sweet dream of 
 The ('hild among the Flowers— apostrophises the Spirits of the 
 Uei'arted ; and with the strains of his melanclioly Tarewell, the 
 Third Hook closes.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 THE MAID OF CALDENE, 
 
 " Ncc mo memincssc pigobit Elis.!! : 
 
 Dura meiuor ipse mei, Juiu spiiitus rt'get yrtus." 
 
 ririjil. 
 
 I. 
 
 How beautiful, upon the mountain-tops, 
 Among the blooming heather's twiukUng drops 
 Of rosy dew, thy steps, great Lord of Day ! 
 AVhUo vassal clouds, with varied glory crownotl, 
 Up in the empyrean far away. 
 In multitudinous masses, crowding round. 
 Await thy rogal coming. Earth is glad, 
 And sends to meet theo her blithe herald-bird 
 "With his tumultuous song; which welcome heard, 
 Rouses the mellow piper, sable-clad, 
 Screened in the tufted holly, and awakes 
 The booming bugle of the winged wight. 
 Who his devoirs to crcd'lous ilow'rets makes, 
 And robs them of their nectar. On the site 
 Of Oswald's tower I .stand, as on an isle 
 Desert and wild, amid a milky sea;
 
 78 Eliza's biutii-hymn. 
 
 Foi' .such those vapours seem, 'neath morn's first smile, 
 
 In the deep vale. Save top of somo tall tree, 
 
 Sti-uggling from tloccy meshes to get froo, 
 
 Or the rock-reofs, like fortresses outpeering, 
 
 Or drowsy crow liis tardy voyage stccrhig, 
 
 In dark relief, above the silent surge, 
 
 No fonn is visible to the horizon's verge. 
 
 A gentle vnnd awakes, and gradually away 
 The mists dissolve ; and cliff, and leafy spray 
 Beneath me, are revealed. Far down I soo 
 On yonder crag, in dim obscurity, 
 A lonely man, whose truant spirit seems 
 A willing wanderer in the land of dreams. 
 Meet spot for thee, who long a prey hast been 
 To wasting sorrow, Minstrel of Caldene ! 
 How changed since sweet Eliza's natal day, 
 When, 'neath you shade, in merry month of May, 
 The mountain maid, with wreaths of lilies pale, 
 Crowned hina the Laureate of her native vale, 
 And deemed his strains — forgive the gentle fault — 
 The beautified echoes of poetic thought ; 
 While o'or the strings his earnest hand he flung. 
 And thus the birth -hymn of the maid ho sung : — 
 
 II. 
 
 ELIZA'S BIKTH-HYMN. 
 
 " What month in the year is the sweetest of all ?" 
 Said a pilgrim who wended the greenwood gay : 
 
 A voice from each tree, beetling rock, mossy wall, 
 AVith rapture replied—" It is May ! It is May !"
 
 Eliza's birth iiymx. 79 
 
 Then built ho an altar of stones of the wood, 
 
 And laid thereon rose-leaves, frankincense and myrrh : — 
 
 Awhile, in fixed attitude, silent ho stood, 
 
 As the quest of his bosom he could not prefer. 
 
 At length, slowly bonding his knee 'mong the flowers, 
 That broidered the floor of the worshippers's fane, 
 
 He lifted his voice — and a hush o'er the bowers 
 Instantaneously fell, as 'twere midnight again. 
 
 " Sovran May ! at thy shrine this green altar I've built, 
 " And garlanded meetly with blue-bolls in bloom ; 
 
 "But the blood of my firstling for thee I've not spilt, 
 " To hallow my oll'ring of flowers and perfume. 
 
 " With a heart full of hope, yet with trembling and fear, 
 " At thine unkindled altar I fervently bow I — 
 
 *' If my prayer for a daughter be sped — draw near ! 
 " And with beams of thy beauty enkindle it now!" 
 
 He scarcely had spoken, when thrice the trees bowed, 
 And a vision of glory appeared in the wood ; 
 
 A goddess, flower-crowned, from a bright silver cloud 
 Stept smiUng, and by the awed worshipper stootl. 
 
 She bore in her white hand an emerald wand. 
 Whose top was emblazed with a luminous star ; 
 
 With this the heaped altar she touched, and a bland 
 Spiral flame, 'mid a cloud of perfume, rose afar. 
 
 And then in a tone, which that harp by her side. 
 Ne'er in sweetness could rival, though every string. 
 
 Instinct with the spirit of music, be plied 
 
 E'en by thy fragrant fingers, sweet virginal Spring, —
 
 00 
 
 She spoke — " C^cntlo pilgrim, I've hcai'd tliy request ; 
 
 " Speed homo, for the spouse of thy love waits for thee 
 " With rapturous yearning ! — thy fond prayer is blessed ! — 
 
 " This day a fair daughter shall smile ou thy knee ! 
 
 " And to her a rich dowry of chaniis I'll bequeath, 
 
 " To which the proud world in mute homage shall bow ; 
 
 " And each natal day, shall some bard gayly wreathe 
 " A coronal-garland to deck her fair brow. 
 
 " Her heart shall be tender as leaves I unfurl ; 
 
 " Her feelings as fragrant as breath of the flowers ; 
 " But her voice — when it bursts from its portal of pearl — 
 
 " Will break all the nightingales' hearts in my bowers !- 
 
 " For the spell of its sweetness I've wrought of the rill's 
 " Faery music, that charmeth the listening moon ; 
 
 " And the throstle's wild notes, and the exquisite trills 
 " Of the ousel at eve, for a magical boon ! 
 
 " And the Peri that waketh this chorded shell, 
 
 " Forsaking my bower, the loved maid shall convey 
 
 " In his chariot of dreams, to the enchanted dell, 
 " Where the Spirit of Music reigns ever and aye I — 
 
 " And the green Singing Tree * makes symphonious chime 
 
 " To the minstrel-rivulet's silvery tone ; 
 " And bright birds rain warblings fi'om eyries sublime, 
 
 " Like moon-wreaths of magic on Melody's throne!" 
 
 Here ceased the fair goddess ; then on the last cloud 
 
 Of incense ascended ; and, smiling adieu 
 To the pilgrim, in rapt adoration still bowed 
 
 At the foot of the altar, she faded from view, 
 
 * I'kl.i- Eaiiteni T;ilcs.
 
 Eliza's biktu-uymiV. 81 
 
 O'er the head of the damsel just twenty and three 
 
 Flowery seasons had rolled, when a bard chanced to rove, 
 
 In a mood of sad thought, through the greenwood lea, 
 Where the pilgrim erected his altar of love. 
 
 On a sudden appeared, like young Beauty in dreams, 
 The Goddess of May, and she said to the youth, 
 
 " This day wake thy hai-p-striugs with loftier themes 
 " Than hodiugs of evil, or wailings of ruth. 
 
 " Speed, speed to the bower of my daughter, and wreathe 
 
 " A coronal meet for her beautiful brow ; 
 " Then kneel, till her lips shall their witchery breathe, 
 
 In reward for the task I impose on thee now !" 
 
 Here, then, gentle maid, by the mandate of May, 
 That bard at the throne of thy minstrelsy bends, 
 
 And tenders the wreath, which the J\luses this day, 
 Have joyfully wi-ought for then- fairest of friends. 
 
 Long, long, when the season of roses is passed, 
 
 And hushed the lone nightingale's warblings of love ; 
 
 When winter his mantle o'er nature has cast. 
 And silence prevails in the tenantless grove ; — 
 
 Be thou our loved nightingale, cheering our bowers, 
 With the music of smnmer, the wild notes of spring ; 
 
 Like Titania who sits in sweet moonlight, and showers 
 The spells of her lips on the charmed Faeiy Iviug. 
 
 May thy life, like thy voice, bo aU music and mirth ; 
 
 AU sweetness, all harmony, rapture and bliss ; 
 And every return of the day of thy birtii, 
 
 Bo hailed in a lay more ennobling than this. 
 F
 
 82 FinST LOVE. 
 
 IIow changed, indeed, since last I heard that lyre 
 llrcatho its sweet music by the evening fire, 
 AVliilo round the bard, in silent rapture, hung 
 A vnriod gi-nup of list'nors old and young ; 
 jVnd near him stood a nymph ye would have deemed 
 One of the Nine — so beautiful she seemed ! 
 But that is passed I — 'list to his mournful tale, 
 Borne to my ear upon the morning gale. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Oh ! is it ever thus, when Love's first flamo, 
 Which Heaven deems pure, and angels holy name. 
 Burns mutually in two fond hearts, that some 
 Dark thunder-cloud must o'er its brightness come. 
 And blast the hopes, that, like young birds in spring. 
 Just mount in air — to perish on the wing ? 
 Is it a sin, proud Wealth I with one of thine 
 The dowerless youth a wreath of love should twine, 
 If both possess — what thou can'st ne'er bestow — 
 The meed of mind, affection's fervent glow ^ 
 Then have I sinned ! — but O, the sin's so sweet, 
 That, were I free, I should the same repeat ! 
 My heart could ne'er resist the double charm 
 Of mental worth and elegance of form. 
 If to that charm the magic one were given — 
 A lip all redolent of Music's heaven ! 
 E'en when a child, if but my roving eye 
 Saw female loveliness approaching nigh, 
 Spell-bound I stood, abandoned all my play. 
 Till the bright vision vanished quite away ; 
 And o'er my trembling soul a shining crowd 
 Of sweet emotions, moved without a cloud. 
 But there was one who, in the imaghiings 
 Of my charmed spirit, only wanted wings
 
 THE FIRST MEETING. 83 
 
 To be in her young boauty, like those bright 
 Ethereal beings, hovering in the light 
 Of the lone Poet's most enchanting dream, 
 In moonlight dell, by some soft-falling stream ! 
 Yes, such wast thou, Eliza, when I first 
 Beheld thee, and my smitten bosom nursed 
 A tender passion — kept too long concealed ; — 
 For much I feared that, if 'twere once revealed, 
 Thou wouldst my suit with haughtiness disdain, 
 And add keen insult to refusal's pain ; 
 But soon, my angel, thy sweet kindness taught 
 My soul to banish the dishonouring thought. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " How crowds the past upon me ! — In a cool, 
 Still summer's eve, returning late fi-om school 
 Adown the accustomed lane, a female cry 
 Burst on the silent air ! — I climbed a rock hard by, 
 And saw a fair young creature close pursued 
 By that wild wight, mad Israel of the Wood,* 
 I shouted loud, and to her rescue flew : 
 The grinning maniac 'mong the trees withdrew ; 
 While she, in beautiful terror, in my arms 
 Fainted away ! — And whose that heaven of charms. 
 Which I that sad, yet blissful moment pressed. 
 In silent rapture, to my beating breast ? 
 Hers — but to save a grief, a sigh from whom, 
 I would have welcomed, Fate ! thy direst doom ! 
 O ! I shall ne'er forget, when from her swoori 
 Recovering, and her boauty (like; the moon 
 
 ■ The pranks of tliis imlividual, whose madness I suspect was more 
 ....ributable to cunning tliau to the moon, are chronicled in the recollec- 
 tion of many females in the neigldjourhood of Hcbden Uridge. 
 
 * 
 uttr
 
 84 THE FIRST 3IEETING. 
 
 From brief obscurity) omorgiiig bright 
 
 From sudden tciTor's transitory night, 
 
 With renovated bloom — the radiant look 
 
 That beamed upon me !— at its light I shook 
 
 With mingled feelings of delight and awe, 
 
 As though an angel's loveliness I saw. 
 
 But who can tell the emotions which I felt, 
 
 When, in bewilderment of soul, I knelt 
 
 Before her, and poured out the fervent strain 
 
 Of my long cherished love— now hid in vain — 
 
 And, at each glowing word, observed the maid 
 
 Look round and tremble, as of me afraid I — 
 
 The thought was madness! — instantly I rose, 
 
 Entreated that her fears she would compose, 
 
 And pardon what her heart might disapprove— 
 
 Tho hasty ravmgs of presumptuous love. 
 
 The damsel smiled, and, deeply blushing, said, 
 
 ' If true thy love, be all thy wishes sped ; 
 
 <■ For rest assured, whatever foes withstand, 
 
 ' My heart shall crown the guerdon of my hand.' 
 
 With these sweet words— to me how sweet were thcy!- 
 
 The lovely Faery lightly tripped away. 
 
 " My Beautiful ! and thou art with me now, 
 Seated in moonlight on old Oswald's brow! 
 Thy soft blue eyes, bright as yon stars above, 
 Glow with the light of poesy and love ! 
 And from thy mellow lip, on the charmed air. 
 Float sounds as sweet as Music's self were there. 
 But now the hour forbids our longer stay: 
 O'er the blue hills we are away, away ! 
 At length we pause beside the old Yew Tree, 
 (Dark as the soul that frowned on love and mo!)
 
 THE MAID OF CALDENE ; OR THE LOVER PUNISHED. 
 
 And sighing seal, though interdicted bliss, 
 
 The low ' Good Night I' in one long, lingering kiss ; 
 
 Then glides my fair adown the short green lane 
 
 Before her home ; but ere her footsteps gain 
 
 Its ivied portal, I behold her stand. 
 
 Give one fond look, and wave her snowy hand. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Love I thou art like the restless summer-bird, 
 Whoso lonely warble 'mong dark boughs is heard, 
 Disturbing the still forest, ere day-flush 
 Awakes the other syrens of the bush. 
 Thou wilt not let me slumber ! Wherefore, now, 
 Com'st thou untimely, \^nth thy shining bow, 
 To wound sleep's delicate ear ? List! list! — a strain 
 Of softest music wakes ! — it dies ! — again, 
 More mellowly and meltingly it swells 
 Upon the breeze, like sound of distant bells, 
 Borne o'er lone waters at the hour of eve. 
 Is it a dream ? or does some faery weave 
 Spells to enchant me ? List ! — I will arise 
 And seek the chai'mer, though on yonder skies 
 Many a bright night-watcher lingers still 
 O'er Eaves' dun rocks, and Oswald's hazy hill. 
 But whither wend? O love! as thou didst break 
 The charm of slumber, for thy captive's sake 
 Give him the golden clow tha,t hath the power 
 Forthwith to lead to that sweet syren's bower, 
 Who, ere the early huntsman winds his horn, 
 Sings like an angel, heralding the morn. 
 
 O what a gush of melody was that! — 
 Vain seeker! on this troublous earth ne'er sat
 
 86 THE MAID OF CALDENE ; 
 
 (Save, haply, Saturn's genial reign beneath) 
 One who such tones of ravishment could breathe, 
 liut whoresoo'er, invisible charmer, thou 
 Mayst veil thy mortal, or celestial brow, — 
 Yes, be thou one of the stray cherubim, 
 Now caroling on earth thy wonted hymn, 
 Erst poured in groves of paradise ; or one 
 Of Beauty's daughters, risen ere the sun. 
 To breathe, in holy solitude, thy soul's 
 Divinest music, and from flowing bowls 
 Quaff Feeling's luscious vintage, M-hich doth bum 
 Sparklingly fresh from Love's secreted urn ; 
 Or be thou some melodious spirit of air, 
 Free wandering with young zephyrs evei'y where ; 
 And, viewless ti'cspasser, in moonlit bowers. 
 Stealing the od'rous breath of sleeping flowers, 
 Wherewith thine own to sweeten and refine. 
 When, at some witching hour, thou dost recline. 
 As now, I ween, upon a starry steep, 
 And sing thine exquisite strains, or gently creep 
 Under green boughs, and strive, in mellow skill, 
 To foil thy sister-spirit of the rill, — 
 I still must foUow, while thou deign 'st to sing. 
 For thy sweet chami is on me ! Were I king 
 Of flowery Facryland, thou should'stbe queen; 
 For beautiful thou must be — though unseen 
 Thou choosest in thy solitude to dwell, 
 And revel in the magic of thy spell. 
 
 " for an miguent, that would cause these orbs 
 To penetrate the gloom which yet absorbs 
 The loveliness of nature ! that I might, 
 In the wished absence of all other light
 
 OR THE LOVEll PUNISHED. 87 
 
 Than what thy charms diffuse, mark how accords 
 Each look of raptm-e with the pearly words 
 Of men or angels' utt'rance, thy thoughts urge, 
 Like silver dew-di-ops, o'er that ruby verge, 
 Where Music sits, as on enchanted ground. 
 And charms them into globules of sweet sound. 
 
 " Behold a glimpse of a light fonn!— 'tis gone! 
 And those aerial strains that lured me on 
 To this wild errantry, have died away ; 
 And now I learn the first approach of day, 
 Kindling the orient, from far-echoing liynm 
 Of early ousel, shrouded in yon dim 
 And misty wood ; as he were summoner, 
 With his loud reed, to every slumberer, 
 (Soft nestling within curtains of green leaves, 
 AVhich loving Nature's finger round them weaves,) 
 Their sylvan harps in readiness to hold, 
 When the first sunbeam tints the rocks with gold. 
 
 " That voice again, with tenfold witchery 
 Hallows the air I — and now, ecstasy ! 
 Delusion's spell is broken ! Not a mouth 
 In climes, or east, or west, or north, or south, 
 Save otie, could ever breathe such notes divine — 
 And that, my own loved, peerless maid — is thine! 
 
 " Feet ! hush your dissonance, and noiseless, fleet 
 As rrlancing sunbeams, near the lone retreat 
 Of the dear songtrcss bear me, that, unseen. 
 In the chai'med neighbourhood of some covert green, 
 I may drink in, from those sweet sounds ailoat, 
 The exquisite nectar of each latent thought.
 
 88 THE MAID OF caldene; 
 
 " There is, far up above mo, 'noath a rock, 
 O'crhuni; with feathery fern, and briars that lock 
 Tlieir arms in wild fiistoonery, a cave — * 
 An Oread's home of old, and where a grave 
 Hermit once dwelt, (if true the chroniclers 
 Of mountain story,) who, in characters 
 Uncouth, and now with silver moss enchased. 
 His saintly name above the onti'anco traced. 
 A little flowery flat — I wist not more 
 Than three yards square — extends before the door. 
 And in a dark green corner, to the left 
 As ye ascend, within a spiral cleft 
 O'erai'ched with emerald fretwork, bubbles up 
 A crystal spring, that flings into a cup 
 Of Nature's workmanship, moss-brimmed and rude, 
 The sparkling waters, which, in jocund mood, 
 Whirl round Avith hoc-like hum ; then overflow 
 Their prison's verge, and fall, like wTeaths of snow, 
 Into deep sedgy channels that engu-d 
 The cave's foreground, where ceaselessly is heard 
 Their wild commingled music ; this the wing 
 Of the stray zephyr fitfully doth bring 
 To the chance list'ner in that faery bower ; 
 Who, overcome by its bewitching power, 
 Falls fast asleep, and, like the Seer of old, 
 Dreams of bright angels trilling harps of gold. 
 But brief these wizard waters' giddy round : 
 When, like a silver fillet, they have wound 
 That plot about, and hui-ried to tlie brink 
 Of yon huge rock, they pause — as one would think- 
 Just to behold how many captive rills, 
 Bom like themselves bright denizens of the hills — 
 
 * Still kno^vn l>j- the name of Toby's Cave.
 
 OB THE LOVEK PUNISHED. 89 
 
 Turned to mean uses, all polluted flow ; 
 And, scorning such vile vassalage to know, 
 Sink, with a bubbling struggle, in a reft, 
 Which some compassionate genie kindly cleft 
 In the gi'ey rock, at their sweet naiad's prayer, 
 To be their shelter from pollution's air, 
 
 " And art thou shrouded in that holy cave, 
 Beautiful caroler ? and dost thou crave 
 No loving auditor but the timid hare, 
 Steahng to listen from his furzy lair ; 
 Or crimson-crested goldfinches that crowd. 
 With gentle twitter, to the branches bowed 
 O'er thy retreat, and, downward glancing, drink 
 The honey of thy music ? Dost thou think, 
 Love would permit the youth thy charms enthral, 
 To drowse upon his couch, when, at the call 
 Of the winged God, thou risest ere the day. 
 To wile in song thy tender cares away ? 
 No ! the soft plume that o'er each pearly lid, 
 Hooding its diamond, delicately slid, 
 And broke thy gentle slumber, o'er my eyes 
 Passed like a spai-kling wand, and bade mo rise. 
 And then I heard a voice — so heavenly-sweet I — 
 Mothought e'en thine therewith could not compote ; 
 (Forgive the slander !) though I know on earth 
 None else could ever give such sweetness birth : 
 I deemed it were an angel's — sent to woo 
 My spirit to the skies ; but soon the view 
 Of thy bright beautiful presence, as, up there 
 It ghono a moment in the golden air 
 Of mellow moi-n, dispelled the phantasy : 
 And now, again, thy peerless form I see 
 Near that high rocky verge, gazing upon 
 The mifolding glories of the rising sun.
 
 yO THK MAID OF CALDENK ; 
 
 " But docs the brightness of yon orb eclipso 
 The light of song, that streamed from those sweet lips ^ 
 lias ]\Iusie hung her liar[» upon the willows, 
 And died in sori'ow on those ruby pillows 'i 
 Forbid it heaven ! — but hush ! — Screened am I now 
 Deep in the green gloom of a sheltering bough. 
 That overhangs the cave ; and there doth stand, 
 Like some fair vision from the si)irit-laud. 
 My own true damsel, looking towards the cast. 
 Whose gorgeous king, from shadowing hills released, 
 AValks 'mid his splendid temple like a God ; 
 Scattermg his radiance on the flowery sod, 
 Impearled with dew, and sending vassal beams 
 To kindle the rock-spangles ; and the streams 
 That laugh adown the hills, improgn with gold — 
 So dazzling, it is painful to behold ; 
 Or, 'mid a labyrinth of pillared moss, 
 Propping a roof which faeries might emboss, 
 In olden time, with fretwork wild and (juaint, 
 Visit some lonely flower ; which, like the saint 
 That wonned in this rock-cave, loves solitude ; 
 And, with such visitant charmed, doth straight unhood 
 Its golden eye that, like auother sun. 
 Illumes the small dew-cressets trembling on 
 Each emerald cup of moss-wreathed chandelier ; 
 Making its beautiful i-csidenco appear 
 Titania's bright, illuminated hall. 
 Thus hghted for a faery-festival ! 
 
 "But ne'er, sun, didst thou, in beauty's bower 
 Behold a sweeter, or a fairer flower 
 Than that which, liallowed by thy rising beams. 
 Smiles in its lilied loveliness, and seems
 
 OR THE LOVER PUNISHED. 91 
 
 By its bent posture, prisoner of the spell, 
 With which the invisible naiad of the well 
 Enchains the willing lingerer near that cave ; 
 Making the heai-t, -where secret love dwells, crave 
 A heaven of freedom, that it might be free 
 To lift the veil from every secrecy, 
 And shew the dear one treasm'ed feelings, bright 
 With all the radiance of love's purest light ! 
 
 " But hark! what means that voice from yonder hill. 
 Filling C.VLDENE with echoes loud and shrill. 
 At this still horn- ? That lovely dreamer's glance, 
 Released by that wild cry from glorious trance, 
 A moment seeks the sjTen ; then with haste. 
 She quits the rock, and down Eaves' heathery waste 
 Speeds rapidly ; her mantle's folds outspread. 
 Floating Uke wings of azure o'er her head. 
 
 " Her form is lost beneath those tall trees' shade. 
 That, with their sunlit plumes, nod o'er the glade. 
 Where Cal's glad waters, while they yet are free, 
 Meet in a hallowed spot, and murmuringly 
 Rove round a little golden-bedded lake,* 
 Kissing the pebbles and the flowers that make 
 Their sweet home on the margin. Oft, 'tis said, 
 The fair maids of the valley hither sped 
 In days of yore, to lave their lovely limbs. 
 Ere rose the swarthy M'oodman, or the hymns 
 Of the Icaf-minstrels, woke the ear of morn : 
 And many a damsel, whose bright charms adorn 
 The hall and cottiige, I have heard, is wont 
 To visit stealthily this secret fount, 
 
 * This beautiful natural babin, at the foot of Dill Scout, is now nearly 
 fillcJ up with rubbish.
 
 92 THE MAID OF CALDENE ; 
 
 In summoi'timo at dawn ; and now my fair 
 And hor blitlio summonor, perchance, repair 
 Thither by concert — unobserved they deem — 
 To revel freely in the golden stream. 
 
 " Dian forgive me ! I would not disturb 
 Love's hallowed precincts — but I cannot curb 
 My soul's desire, my Beautiful, to be — 
 If but for one blest moment — near to theo. 
 That I may snatch, in some green nook, unseen, 
 A glorious — yet unblamable, glimpse, I ween — 
 Of every charm unveiled, which Love may view 
 With purity, and yet with rapture too. 
 
 " Quick as my fair, but by a nearer route, 
 I gain the dell ; then, unperceived, the scout 
 That frowningly o'erhangs precipitous, sublime, 
 The mirrowing lake, I, midway, cautious, climb ; 
 And on an old fantastic tree, whose boughs 
 Protrude Mith fanlike shade, which just allows 
 Concealment from below, myself I screen, 
 To watch the appearance of my woodland queen, 
 AVhose mellow voice I hear, answered by one 
 As sweet, but of a livelier, louder tone. 
 In that green bower, with roses spangled o'er, 
 Which glow like stars on heaven's cerulean floor. 
 
 "Delightful spot ! There's every charm of sound. 
 Of scent and sight, in this enchanted ground. 
 Far up above, on yonder sunny tree. 
 The wizard blackbird sings right merrily. 
 As 'twere a jubilee: innumorous songs. 
 Most delicately blent, burst from gay throngs,
 
 OR THE LOVER PUNISHED. 93 
 
 Shrouded in neighbouring grove, or distant dell ; 
 And, ever and anon, the powerful swell, 
 As from an organ, of Lumb waterfall,* 
 Sends forth its hollow thunder into all 
 The adjacent woods, making them seem 
 Soberly sad. Beneath me, ere the stream 
 Enters that moss-rimmed basin, it sends up 
 A merry laugh, like Bacchus o'er a cup 
 Of jolly wine, ere he retires to steep 
 His muddled senses in tlie dew of sleep. 
 
 " How gratefully those violets are pouring 
 Their incense to the mora ; and yon embowering, 
 Dow-fraught vnld roses their aroma blend 
 With the sweet breath those honeysuckles send, 
 That, in luxuriant lovingness, embrace. 
 And crown with flowers of gold, that pigmy race 
 Of clustering hazels, whose brown slender stems 
 Bend 'neath their w^eight of floral diadems. 
 
 " Look round I Not Dian, when the boon 
 Of pleasant cool she sought, at heat of noon. 
 And her chaste form baptized in crystal flood ; 
 Not Acidalia, when she fondly wooed 
 The coy, love-proof young Adon in green bower — 
 Could o'er have wished a holier spot or hour 
 For converse with soft naiad or with love, 
 Than this I now enjoy. Around — above — 
 All things are beautiful : trees grotesque 
 Wreathe their old boughs, and form rich arabesque 
 
 * The ducp-toiicd music of this once beautiful cascade, is now never 
 heard, except when there is an occasional overllow ; the water being 
 diverted from its original channel for the use of a cotton mill.
 
 !'4 ■IHE MAID OF CALDENK ; 
 
 Grcon cupolas, wliosc festooned leafage gleams 
 
 Treinlilinj^ly poiidc^iit in the soft sunbeams; 
 
 And from whoso tufted pinnacles, by fits. 
 
 Some restless, chirping bird jocosely flits ; — 
 
 Or ai-chos, underneath whose fretted roof. 
 
 As thi-ough a magic tube, you see aloof 
 
 From all annoy, a tiny, faery bower, 
 
 On yon hill-side, with many a bright wood-flower 
 
 Of azure, white, and crimson, beautified, 
 
 And by those Tisiting rays now glorified 
 
 Like a rich shrine, to which some god of old 
 
 Descended, flaming, in his car of gold ; — 
 
 Or darkling hollows of thick matted leaves. 
 
 Whither many a bird, with the soft hair ho thieves 
 
 From the recumbent kine in distant meads. 
 
 Or flexile roots, with wavy wafture speeds 
 
 To build his happy home; nor tarries long, 
 
 But out again he flies, and trills his men-y song. 
 
 " With what a soft voluptuousness those waters 
 Roll o'er their bed of gold! wooing the daughters 
 Of beauty, lingering in that rose-decked homo, 
 With dove-like murmur, speedily to come 
 And lie beneath their crystal coverlid, 
 Lovingly shrined, like the sweet moon amid 
 A thin cloud's gossamer folds ! And what a lush. 
 And beautiful o'erbcnding of green bush, 
 Of plant and flower ! all nodding to the breeze, 
 With their ethereal, bright antipodes 
 Shining beneath, and, with a courteous greeting. 
 At the lake's verge, like loving sisters meeting ! 
 
 " What numerous visitings of sunny wings 
 From bower and tree ! as there were communings,
 
 OR THE LOVER PUNISHED. 95 
 
 This happy morn, of high import among 
 
 The leaf-crowned dryads and the feathered throng. 
 
 And lo ! as wakened by some sudden spell, 
 
 Out-steps the grey owl from his ivied cell 
 
 In yon old oak, and at the entrance sits, 
 
 Blinking i'tli' sun, and hooting, as by fits. 
 
 Some peevish titmouse, whirling round him, twits 
 
 His dappled plumes ; then slips away, unseen, 
 
 Into a loop-hole in the ivy-screen. 
 
 At length beyond all further sufferance tried 
 
 By his sly foe, who, still unpacified. 
 
 Continues his attacks, the bird of night 
 
 Spreads his dull wings, and slowly takes his flight 
 
 This way and that, by screaming birds pursued, 
 
 Roused by the wren's shrill cries from out the wood. 
 
 Now he escapes, and, with an eager shout, 
 
 Soars far aloft, and speeds to lone Dill-scout,* 
 
 Whose I'ocky brow, in purple grandeur fro^\•us 
 
 O'er LuMc's wild woods, and sloping pastm-e-downs. 
 
 " O that I were but one of you, gay birds, 
 That I might flutter round, and hear the words 
 Those sweet ones utter, in that bower enshrined, 
 As they each robe from their fair forms unbind ! 
 Rouse, slumbering wind ! upwaft on thy deft wings 
 To my bent ear the gentle whisperings 
 AVhich, 'mong those roses, die a fi-agrant death ! 
 Or ope a tiny window with thy breath 
 
 * This lofty rocky mountain, to the South of Caldene, received its name, 
 no doubt, from tlie Saxon word Dile, which signifies an herb. This deriva- 
 tion becomes tlie more probable from tlie circumstance of the vicinity of 
 the mountain liaviiig been lon^ famed for many of tlie most rare of tlie 
 Yorkshire plants, and on that account much visited by botanists.
 
 9G THE MAU) OF CALDENE ; 
 
 Amid tliat silkon loafagc, that I may 
 Snatch one bright glimpse of tlioso within, whose stay 
 Augurs, I fear, a consciousness of some 
 Unwolcomo wight, too near theu' sylvan homo. 
 
 " But there's a trembling in the leaves — and lo I 
 The dolicato fingers of a hand of snow. 
 Followed by their slim sisters, now gleam through 
 The yielding foliage weeping pearls of dew ; 
 Which, on those raven tresses that outpeep, 
 Fall like young stars, and, 'mid then- darkness, sleep. 
 Heavens ! what a vision of loveliness that cleft 
 Leaf-screen unfolds ! — as when some eve in June, 
 From a dark cloud the beautiful queen-moon 
 In glory comes ! — A brow that hath bereft 
 The snow of whiteness ! — Such those eyes' rich hue, 
 Yon sky can't peer it with its depth of blue! — 
 And such the light through those dark fringes streaming, 
 You fancy, when the gentle maid was dreaming 
 Of bliss and heaven, two ti'uant starlets slid 
 Invisibly beneath each snowy lid ; 
 Forsaking the f;ir-darkling dome above 
 To dwell in those blue firmaments of love ! — 
 A cheek that, partly by those locks concealed, 
 Blooms like a roso-bower 'mid a hlied field ! — 
 A lip — O 'tis a ruby throne of bliss. 
 Where Beauty placed the spirit of a kiss 
 To live in perfume, and love's looks to win 
 From the soft rondure of that dimpled chin ! — 
 A neck which thine, Venus, could not shame— 
 There every grace which thought or wish could name! — 
 A bosom — tell mo who has ever gazed 
 On the sun's cloudless majesty, undazcd ?
 
 OR THE LOVEK PUNISHED. 97 
 
 Bright palace of pearl ! within which dwells a spirit 
 Pure as the angels that yon heaven inherit ! 
 Too pure for earth, too sensitive, too tender, 
 To bear, unscathed, the ills that life may render ! — 
 Those heaving orbs ! — M'hat eye can dai-e the sight ? 
 In their excessive loveliness of light, 
 Peering above that floating gossamer shroud, 
 Like young worlds rising from a snowy cloud ! 
 Beautiful awnings, swelling o'er the bowers, 
 Where the bright Feelings sit enthroned on flowers. 
 Weaving rich harmonies to load Thought's wings. 
 When next from out those ruby gates she springs ! — 
 A form transcendent, delicately shrined 
 In snow-white lawn ; softly through which defined, 
 Each rounded limb, with most bewitching grace, 
 Gleams like a moss-rose in a crystal vase. 
 
 " Such is that peerless creature, timidly 
 Stealing a glance at every rock and tree. 
 That may conceal a watcher. From the shade, 
 Laughing springs forth the other lovely maid. 
 And jeers the ling'rer ; telling her the wind 
 Brings voices to her ear ; or, close behind 
 That very frail, and ill-concealing bower, 
 She sees some uncouth lurker darkly cower. 
 Thus teases this young happy one, the while 
 Tripping that flowery bank : — now, with a smile, 
 She dips her white foot in the wave — and now, 
 Hastily snatching a green, floating bough. 
 Laden with water-drops, with arch mimicry 
 Of sobs and tremblings, most provokingly. 
 Flings its bright burden, like a shower of pearls. 
 Upon her shuddering sister's neck and curls. 
 
 G
 
 98 THE MAID OF CALDENE ; OR XUE LOVER PUNISHED. 
 
 " Beautiful trembler, ceaso to fear ! — above — 
 All round — the holy sunuiness of love 
 Alouo rests ou tlieo I To those waters go, 
 That towai-ds thee numerous wavelets, sparkling, throw. 
 With voice of invitation. May heaven's thunder 
 Instantly split the unhallowed wretch asunder, 
 AVho dares molest thee! — Start not! — far away 
 Beyond the hills that song — haply the gay 
 Carol of Ned,* the woodman, soot-black o'er. 
 Sat in the sun, at his fern cabin door, 
 With his loved jug, and hiccuping farewell 
 To the night-faeries in the Totiret-dell. 
 
 " She comes ! radiant with smiles and blushes, like 
 A spirit of spring and summer ! Minstrels, strike 
 Your sweetest harps, among your leafy bowers. 
 And give her rapturous greeting ! And ye flowers, 
 Amid whose beauties those light peaily feet 
 Are softly shrined, shower on them kisses sweet 
 Of dew and perfume ! Waters, be ye still 
 And smooth, as is a glassy miiTor, till 
 That loved one see her sister-naiad come. 
 Smiling a welcome to her azure home ! 
 Well may ye seem so proud ! never before 
 Saw ye so fair a vision on your shore ! 
 And, haply, never will your arms entwine 
 Again a form so lovely, so divine! 
 
 * The singular individual here alluded to, was well known in his day ; 
 and many a tale could he tell of the Thrket-faeries that were wont to 
 visit him, and dance in moonlight on the green before his cabin. Often 
 have I foregone the jileasure of studying longs and shorts, to enjoy a sunny 
 forenoon's conversation with Old Neddy about Ids faeries, as we sat toge- 
 ther in the glen wliere he was then superintending the burning of charcoal, 
 lie was a real lover of the marvellous, and oi a jug ol good " nut brown."
 
 LOVE, A DREAM. 99 
 
 " She climbs that ledge vnth green moss cushioned soft ; 
 And looking wistfully around — aloft — 
 Drops her whito robe — within the water dives, 
 A flash of living lightning which deprives 
 My eyes of vision ! — How my hot brain whu-ls ! 
 I swoon! I sink! — 
 
 " AVhere am I? — 'neath the curls 
 Of my own loved One shadowed! — to her breast 
 With uncontrolled affection fondly pressed ! 
 Her white arms wreathed around me ! and her lips 
 Kissing my forehead ! — Let again the eclipse 
 Of death come o'er me, if to me 'tis given, 
 AVhon that is passed, to wake in such a heaven ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 " A dream ! a dream ! such Love's elysium is ! 
 And its best boon — a momentary bliss ! 
 And what its hopes — though they appear as true 
 As stars in heaven — as bright, as lasting too ? — 
 Beautiful bubbles of a child at play, 
 That gild the air — but quickly melt away ! 
 And on the soul's enraptured vision all 
 Their cold dregs with a baleful influence fall I 
 
 " Perchance some youth, whose smiles reflect the rays 
 Of the heart's sun, in Love's auspicious days, 
 In plenitude of present bliss, may deem 
 This strain a slander on so dear a theme — 
 Young dreamer ! 'twas but yesterday, when he 
 Who pours this lay, in fond idolati-y 
 liaised in his heart as radiant a throne 
 For smiling Love, as glows within thine own ; 
 And in the o'erflowings of his boundless mirth. 
 Wished every youth who traversed the green eailh.
 
 100 THE MOXHEK. 
 
 Felt as he folt, where'er his footsteps roved — 
 The bliss of loving, and of being loved ! 
 
 " But ah I that bliss was far too pure to last ! 
 A withei'iiig wind of desolation passed 
 O'er the bright Eden of two hearts, whose flowers 
 Of Hope were twined in Love's delicious bowers ! 
 And all became a wilderness I — a scene 
 Where nought — save ruin — told of what had been, 
 
 VII. 
 
 " thou, renowned for piety and prayer ! 
 For holy converse, and exterior fair ! 
 Whose latter days — if kindness judge the truth — 
 Have passed in penance for the sins of youth ; 
 Whose lowly gai-b — oft censurably mean — 
 Bespeaks a heart as lowly — and as clean: — 
 Thou who hast shone, in every scene of life, 
 INIore as the stoic, than the tender wife ; — 
 Who couldst, unmoved, see pining Penury stand, 
 Begging a pittance from thy sparing hand ; 
 Or take, without one seeming throb of pain, 
 Its humble pledge for food — in hope of gain ! 
 And then, while smiles of secret joy would play 
 Around thy yeUow lip — retire to pray ! 
 
 " Say, saintly mother! does thy Christian creed 
 Hallow the heart that works a demon's deed ? 
 Say, do its precepts — ever on thy tongue — 
 Sanction a deep — irreparable wrong ? 
 Say, are they all disciples of thy Lord, 
 Who hear and speak — ^but never feel His word ? 
 Whose lips can breathe a curse — pronounce a prayer- 
 Blast kindred hearts— and yet the saint can wear ?
 
 Eliza's grave. 10] 
 
 If all are Christians who such deeds have done, 
 
 Then thou — kind mother ! — art a worthy one ! 
 
 Yes, thine the boast — the conscious bliss I — to know 
 
 Thy deeds brought irremediable woe 
 
 On him thy soul, in pious hatred, would 
 
 Have blasted with heaven's thunder — if it could ! 
 
 And ! how higher swelled that bliss — to see 
 
 Her, whom that cursed One loved — thy daughter — be 
 
 Esti-anged fi-om happiness ; and, day by day, 
 
 Fade in her beauty silently away ; 
 
 Till thy kind wish — most christianly expressed ! — 
 
 * That she were rather in her grave at rest, 
 
 Than waste her love on him who sought her hand' — 
 At length was granted ! — death, with gentle wand, 
 Touched her — and the oblivious earth closed o'er 
 That form which love, nor thou canst injure more ! 
 
 VIII. 
 " Here is her gi-ave ! — Why dost not thou, stone ! 
 Tell the sad story of the Dead 'i Thy tone 
 Ne'er to the stranger would this truth impart : 
 
 * The dust beneath conceals a broken heart!' 
 Thou art like her who bade thee prate so high 
 Of peace in death — a lapidary lie! 
 
 Eliza's grave! — Heart, bend not, burst not yet! 
 Arm in thy might I thy sword of vengeance whet ! 
 The dark destroyer of thy peace pursue. 
 Till thou and Heaven receive atonement duo ! 
 — But pause, avenger! ere thou dare to shed 
 The burning vial on the hoary head ! 
 Review thy deeds and tremble ! lest thy pride. 
 Which haughtier grow, when Cruelty denied 
 The hoped-for blessing, served to spefnl the blow 
 Tliat (,'arly laid thy fond Eliza low!
 
 102 Eliza's gkavk. 
 
 Oh ! did she not — despite forbiddanco — prove 
 
 True to her word, unswerving in her love ? 
 
 And thougli thy lot was humbl(\ often breathe 
 
 A tender wish her fate with thine to wreathe ? 
 
 And didst not thou — although affection's flamo 
 
 Still burned as bright as in the hour it came — 
 
 Refuse the boon ? — because thou couldst not brook 
 
 A humbler home for her than she forsook ; 
 
 Forgetting that all-faithful Love can make 
 
 The cot a palace for the loved one's sake. 
 
 Yet, O my heart ! how soothing is the thought ! 
 
 Thy deeds with kinthiess more than pride were fi'aught : 
 
 Kindness forbade thee to transplant a flower 
 
 Of tender growth to an ungenial bower ; 
 
 And Pride — until a sunnier hour should come — 
 
 Disdained to snatch it from its native home. 
 
 " Months passed away ; and I no tidings heard 
 Of my soul's charmer, save a whispered word. 
 That she was dying — and that, though she hatl 
 Oft wished to see me — was as oft forbade! 
 But like the faithful solitary star 
 Attendant on the waning moon — afar 
 To her my spmt wandered — e'er stood nigh, 
 Until she faded from her wonted sky. 
 
 " One starlight evening, I was sat beside 
 My chamber's open lattice ; and I spied 
 A lonely bird approaching on wild wing, 
 As rueful tidings it were sent to bring. 
 Quick through the casement o'er my head it liow. 
 And, as it passed me, gave a shuddering coo ;
 
 Eliza's gkave. 103 
 
 Then tlu-ice about the dimly lighted room, 
 As if it sought a resting-place in gloom, 
 Fluttered the feathered pilgrim ; but, at length 
 It nestled, quite exhausted of its strength. 
 On a small image of the God of Love. 
 I seized it gently — 'twas a beautiful dove, 
 White as the snowy hills, save there was seen 
 Aj-ound its neck a ring of changing gi-een. 
 Much wondering at the incident, I bore 
 My trembling captive to a friend's — next door ; 
 And when I entered his apartment, lo ! 
 Pale as my lovely visitant of snow, 
 Laid on a sofa, in exhaustion's swoon, 
 Like a fallen hly withering 'neath the moon, 
 The idol of my soul! 
 
 " Flow on ! flow on ! 
 Tears of a bootless sorrow !— Yonder sun 
 Witnessed the deed, and blushed ! and many a breast, 
 Not with the tend'rest of all feelings blest, 
 Melted with pity !— Oh! my injm'ed Fair! 
 Thy mother broke thy heart, and laid thee tliere I 
 That — but no more ! 
 
 " Perchance this creed of mine 
 Lacks the rich leaven of the creed Divine ; 
 Or rather it may lack that specious cowl 
 ■\Vhich hides the frowning visage of the soul ! 
 It may — but yet I scruple not to state. 
 Love begets love, and hate engenders hate. 
 Where is the man, if truth controls his tongue, 
 That feels forgiveness for a deadly wrong ? 
 AVho, when tlio insulter smites him on one cheek, 
 Presents the other, stoically meek ?
 
 104 ELIZA'S GHAVE, 
 
 Tread on the snako* — does ho forbear to sting ? 
 
 Or the pained hornet, when thou pluck'st his wing ? 
 
 Wound the roused Hon — docs lie bow his head 
 
 In patient sull'rance, till thou stiiko him dead i- 
 
 Nature inspires in injured beast or man, 
 
 E'er to repel aggression when he can : 
 
 And well I know my creed at least will find 
 
 A meet respondenco in one genial mind ; 
 
 Though the close veil that hides it, wears the sign, 
 
 And outward seeming, of the faith Divine ! 
 
 Yes, there is One who, though no mortal ear — 
 
 Save mine — the thunders of her hate may hear — ■ 
 
 Will, like some dread volcano, deeply hid 
 
 The vast Andean solitudes amid, 
 
 Pour out her fire-storms, till the skies grow pale, 
 
 Like cheeks of maiden at some horrid tale ! 
 
 Well ! let it pour ! — though scorched, I can endure 
 
 Pier hottest hate — because 'twill flow the all pure. 
 
 And only unmixed feeling that can start 
 
 From the rank caldron of her foetid heart I 
 
 " There was a time, unfeeling One ! when thou 
 Heard'st other language than escapes me now ; 
 When, in despite of all thy rancour, still 
 My lips returned thee always good for ill — 
 Lest the dire bolt of thy malignant wrath. 
 Should fall in vengeance on thy daughter's path — 
 But all was vain ! — it fell ! — and she is gone ! 
 And I — no matter — / am left alone. 
 
 * " To whom do lions cast their gontle looks ? 
 Not to the heast tliat woukl usurp their den. 
 Whose hand is that, tlie forest bear doth lick ? 
 Not his, that spoils her young before her face. 
 Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting ? 
 Not he that sets his foot upon her back." 
 
 Shaks2'>eare,
 
 ELIZA S GRAVE. 105 
 
 " Farewell ! — but^ere that parting word shall die 
 In silence, where thy hateful name shall lie, 
 Lest the loud world should deem thee all accurst, 
 And its deep thunders on thy gi-ey head burst — 
 I charge thee — by the young and holy Dead ! 
 The woes she felt, the bitter tears she shed ! — 
 By all the sorrows of the Broken Heart ! 
 The dying look ! the last convulsive start! — 
 By all the bleeding wounds (unmerited wrongs 
 Pleading for vengeance with unceasing tongues) 
 Which, in thy hate's most unrelenting zeal, 
 Thou hast inflicted — but canst never heal ! — 
 By all thy pious mockeries unforgiven ! 
 Thy dread of hell ! thy hopelessness of Heaven I — 
 I charge thee ! — noiv, Miiile prayers with pity fraught. 
 From hearts unvizored, can avail thee aught — 
 Unmask thy soul ! — and let its visage be 
 Known to the world, as 'tis to God and thee \ 
 Thy covert crimes with penitence confess. 
 That Heaven may pardon — if it do not bless ! 
 Let the brief moments of thy Hfe's decline — 
 Unlike its prime — with some few virtues shine ; 
 That o'er thy grave — when blighted hearts shall come 
 To curse thy name— the Angel of the Tomb 
 May point to some memorial that will stay 
 The maledictions that would shake thy clay ! 
 And kindly whisper : ' Let these virtues live 
 To cancel wrongs, and teach you to forgive !' 
 
 " Chained be thy tongue ! thou clamorous iron bell. 
 Stern summoner to sorrow !— But 'tis well 
 That thou hast broke my slumber ; for my theme 
 Like thee grew harsh, in progress of my dream —
 
 106 Eliza's guave. 
 
 Droam ! — would 'twcro so ! — but call yo that ideal, 
 
 Bitter experience has too well proved real ? 
 
 I hioxu that I have loved — been loved again ; 
 
 And I hww — by my sunk soul's sleepless pain, 
 
 That I have lost what earth can ne'er restore ! — 
 
 But it is passed — the Dead should feel no more ! 
 
 Henceforth, withered Hand! though thou shouldst aim 
 
 Ten thousand arrows, tipt with hellish flame, 
 
 To lacerate my heart, I'll not reveal 
 
 One pang of anguish — an eternal seal 
 
 Shall close my hps — then empty all thy quiver, 
 
 While thou hast power to make the brave endeavour ! 
 
 " Grave of Eliza, now farewell ! — Again 
 Upon thy stony coverlid, the rain 
 Of my heart's grief, must never more descend, 
 When hence on my lone pilgrimage I wend. 
 
 Insatiate rancour ! wilt thou never sleep ? 
 
 I crave but the poor privilege to weep 
 
 Where heaven sheds tears ! — Lo ! o'er that parapet grey, 
 
 A terrible Eye glares, which forbids my stay ! 
 
 Glancing its baneful light, like a red star 
 
 Of most malignant influence, boding war 
 
 And dire desti'uction ! — How those white lips tremble 
 
 With inward perturbation ! They resemble 
 
 The opening crater's, when the fire-stonn pent 
 
 Within its womb, struggles for furious vent ! 
 
 Hark to their muttering thunder I — Worthy song 
 
 To raise to Heaven, as morning incense, strong 
 
 With sulphur of rank hate ! — Pei'chance, ere night, 
 
 Good Mother ! if thi/ catholic creed be right, 
 
 A little penance for this trifling sin. 
 
 As heretofore, may meet forgiveness win !
 
 Eliza's grave. 107 
 
 " I leave thee — and for ever — to that God, 
 The Avenger of all evil! — On this sod 
 Laid o'er a broken heart — e'en though I trace 
 Still deeper thunders brewing in thy face, 
 And from thine eyes see fiercer lightnings flash — 
 My paiting tears shall fall ! "Would I could wash 
 Away from this loved dust that shi-ouds the Dead, 
 The unholy stain of thy polluting ti-ead ! 
 
 Avaunt weird Gazer ! conjure up some spell 
 
 To waft thee to that clime where ice-fiends dwell 
 In everlasting winter ! — that each word 
 Thy black heai-t utters, to as black a sword 
 May fi-eeze, and hang in terror o'er thee — till 
 Repentance purge thy bosom of all ill ! 
 
 " She's gone ! — 'tis well ! I am alone, dear earth. 
 Once more with thee ! The privilege is worth 
 A kingdom's ransom to my troubled soul ; 
 For I have thoughts that, e'er the hollow knoll 
 Of matin, pealed from yonder turret grey. 
 Shall summon me fi'om hence to haste away, 
 I would upon this sacred spot declare. 
 
 " Bright spirit of my Beautiful ! if o'er 
 Such as thou art look down from worlds of bliss, 
 On those they loved, o'erwhelmed with woe in this. 
 And feel a holy sympathy — Oh ! see 
 My desolate, lone heart, and feel for me ! 
 The grass has grown around thy grave — the greeu 
 Of many winters' wet, is sadly seen 
 Upon its sunken stone, since that dark day, 
 Thy earthly shrine was mingled with this clay. 
 And, ha]jly, from the memories of the few 
 Who mourned thy loss, and shed the kindly dew
 
 108 Eliza's ohave. 
 
 Of earnest sorrow, tlioughts of wliat thou wast, , 
 In all thy loveliness, are fading fast : 
 But though this tablet, in the lapse of years, 
 Shall ceaso to tell the tale that mocks my tears ; 
 Though all who knew and loved thee, may forget 
 Whoso dust lies sepulchred beneath them — yet 
 Thine imago only can with life depart 
 From the lone sanctuary of my inmost heart I 
 
 " Oh ! 'twas most meet, that, loving as we loved. 
 Death the same hour should both have henco removed. 
 The thunder-riven tree, wth blasted core, 
 May brave the tempest, but it blooms no more ! 
 Thou wort removed in mercy : but, alas \ 
 My doom was still through seas of grief to pass, 
 With manifold struggle— of all hope bereft ; 
 And e'en by those whose tender hearts have cleft 
 For lesser woes, abandoned to my ftito. 
 With all the apparent callousness of hate. 
 When its lothed victim writhes ! — At length a bland. 
 Compassionate creature, with a gentle hand, 
 Drew me, when sinking, to a flowery land, 
 And took me to her bower. I knelt to bless 
 My angel of deliverance— for no less, 
 Radiant with kindness, did the maiden seem. 
 I told her my sad story ; and a stream 
 Of generous pity gushed from out her heart. 
 There is a charm in sympathy — apart 
 From every other— which they only know, 
 And duly prize, Avho, in the night of woe. 
 Have felt its influence, coming like the moon, 
 To hallow all things with its luminous boon ; 
 And— sad thoughts kissed to slumber— wake again 
 Hope, the heart's nightingale, to pour a strain
 
 ELIZA'ti GIIAVK. 109 
 
 Of its accustomed hymn, that, evermore, 
 
 Tells of felicities for us iu store. 
 
 Imprisoned in the meshes of this charm, 
 
 My soiTows lighter grew, and soon a warm — 
 
 If not intensely passionate, love sprung up 
 
 Within my heart. The hymeneal cup, 
 
 Temptingly proffered, hastily I snatched— 
 
 But scarcely had my evil Genius watched 
 
 The pale up-rise of the fii'st nuptial star. 
 
 Ere he in sackcloth clad its orb I and war 
 
 Kindled through all the darkened heaven, whence camo 
 
 Mutterings of breeding thunder, gleams of flame ! 
 
 The clouds, ere long, in terrible fury burst 
 
 Upon my head ;— yet I defied the worst 
 
 The unveiled Specti-e of the storm could dare, 
 
 AVith all the desperate bravery of despair ! 
 
 But I beheld, and sickened at the sight, 
 
 Some whom I cherished— some who, ere the blight 
 
 Of poverty fell on me, clustered round 
 
 My merry hearth, like angels that had found 
 
 Another paradise — some who had spoken 
 
 Irrevocable vows, and worn the token 
 
 And seal of love with pride upon the hand — 
 
 Change to unvizored fiends, and fiercely stand. 
 
 Armed with red thunderbolts of deadUest ban, 
 
 The foremost in the tempest's Imid van ! 
 
 The desert has oases : winter stonns 
 
 Disperse ; and sunshine gleams on desolate forms 
 
 That shook beneath their fury. Mercy rent 
 
 The iron clouds above me ; downward sent 
 
 Upon a golden beam, a precious boon — 
 
 Fool ! 'twas but sent to mock me !— Soon, full soon, 
 
 The Giver claimed the invaluable gift, [swift ! 
 
 And 'gain the storm raved o'er mc, pioi'ced with lightnings
 
 110 THE COMl-OllTKR. 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Oh! for an urn of comfort ! Smiling Spring, 
 I last thou no gushing fountain, whence to hring 
 The needed hippocrene ? Is there no charm 
 In all thy flowers to renovate, to warm 
 The dull, cold heart of soitow ? Hath thy Into 
 Lost all its wonted sweetness to inspire 
 Thy once impassioned "woi-shipper, and wake 
 The silent shell that, at thy bidding, spake ? 
 Come at my earnest wooing. Youngling sweet ! 
 Bring me a beaker, brimmed with vintage meet 
 For those that mourn in sorrow, brooding o'er 
 Wounds of the spirit that will heal no more ! 
 Once was thy smile most gladsome, Maid of Mirth ! 
 When my young feelings, like the trees of earth, 
 Burst into beauteous blossomings, which hung 
 Theu- petals o'er a sweet May-flower that sprung 
 Beneath their fragrant shadows, and seemed given 
 A holy, precious seedling, dropt from heaven I 
 Four times the earth had smUed beneath thy tread, 
 And thou hadst seen my hopes, with wings outspread, 
 Hovering, in tremulous tenderness, above 
 The expanding beauties of my flower of love, 
 And auguring, fond sibyls, from the past. 
 The golden hour of blessedness would last 
 Fai- on into the future — but when thou, 
 With garlands wreathed around thy radiant brow, 
 Camost on thy fifth gay pilgrimage — 'twas o'er! 
 My heart was left all desolate— as before! 
 
 " My daughter !— my loved child ! — The only one 
 That rendered life endurable!— The sun 
 Gilding long years of darkness !— The sweet moon 
 llismg to cheer, at sorrow's midnight noon,
 
 THE COMFORTER. 
 
 "ni 
 
 Thy lone, unhappy father!— Thou art gone!— 
 
 Gone to thy home of rest !— and there is none 
 
 Left in the world's wide wilderness, to me 
 
 Can e'er supply, my child, the loss of thee ! 
 
 In the gay month of flowers, thyself a flower 
 
 Of pm-est beauty, thou, a welcome dower 
 
 Sent from the skies, all life, all joy, didst come 
 
 To be the light to bless thy father's home. 
 
 When niost 'twas desolate— when nought, save heaven, 
 
 His heart one drop of comfort could have given— 
 
 When eai-thly friends, hke leaves from withered boughs, 
 
 Fell oft; and left him naked ; and the brows 
 
 Even of those who should have cheered, grew dark- 
 
 As if to quench the little vital spark 
 
 That lingered in the lamp, would be a deed 
 
 Sanctioned on high ! -as if to wing with speed 
 
 The desolation pressing round him, would 
 
 Gladden their hearts which thu'sted for his blood! — 
 
 Yes, in this midnight gloom, when on the verge 
 
 Of ruin stood thy sire, and saw the sm-ge 
 
 Yawn to receive him, like a fiery grave, 
 
 Thou, my sweet angel, didst descend to save, 
 
 And stay the red right hand, outstretched to throw 
 
 The hated One into the gulf below. 
 
 " In preciousness thou wert a hundi'cd-fold 
 Above the price of pearls!— an apple of pure gold 
 In silver network shrined I — a talisman 
 To charm away hot Hate's most deadly ban ! 
 And could I then forbear to lift mine eyes 
 From communing with worms, and scan the skies 
 With apathetic gaze? -With numerous tears— 
 Tears that had slumbered in theii" fount for years-
 
 112 TUK COMFOKTEK. 
 
 I laid my hand upon thy chorub brow, 
 
 And blessed thoo, with thanksgiving— for I now 
 
 Did feel myself within the universe 
 
 As one who might not always bear the curse 
 
 Wrong, in its v/rath, heaped on him, in despau", 
 
 Without a friend to soothe— perchance to shai-e— 
 
 (Though heaven forbid that Hate, my child, at thee 
 
 One dart should Imrl, its malice meant for me !) 
 
 My heart which, heretofore, had fallen a prey 
 
 To sorrow, and was hastening to decay, 
 
 Like a lone dwelling in a pathless wood, 
 
 Heard thy sweet voice amid its solitude. 
 
 And welcomed thee, and echoed back thy chant, 
 
 Bhd of white wings !— its only habitant ! 
 
 Within, a fount of living waters sprung 
 
 As from the Smitten Rock, when first thy tongue 
 
 Warbled that most endearing syllable — 
 
 ' My Father !'— and around the flowing well 
 
 An odorous grove of charities rose up, 
 
 With shadowing leaf, and pendent flowery cup. 
 
 To form a bower, where, with rmweaiied wing, 
 
 Thou mightst fly in and out, and blithely sing. 
 
 Wounds that had festered, seemed at length as healed ; 
 
 And like rent walls, by ivy-leaves concealed, 
 
 Within the bosom of some hoary pile, 
 
 Grew hallowed 'neath the sunshine of thy smile. 
 
 "And eveiy day the sunniness of joy 
 Wakened new feelings, in the sweet employ 
 Of watching thee ; and from thy dear heart's urn 
 ■ Treasuring pearly tlioughts ; and, in return. 
 Pouring therein flower-gems, from many a tree 
 That blooms in Faery-land of Poesy.
 
 THE COMFORTER. 
 
 113 
 
 Cradled within mine amis, oft sleep hath hung 
 
 His silken pinions o'er thee, while I sung 
 
 In new-made tune, and words that came at will — 
 
 Now that thy charm bade troubled thoughts be still,— 
 
 Dirges for babes, who, wandciing far away 
 
 From home, lie down and die at close of day, 
 
 Deep in the gloom of woods ; and over whom 
 
 The winged mourners build a leafy tomb. 
 
 And when the song hath ceased, thou wouldst half open 
 
 Thy dark-fringed lids ; and a round, lucid token 
 
 Of thy sweet pity would escape from them, 
 
 Hallowing the hand that pressed thee, like a gem 
 
 Dropt from invisible wings, that trembling move 
 
 O'er forms of beauty, with exceeding love. 
 
 Then wouldst thou bribe — with lips that, like May-clouds, 
 
 Wann kisses showered upon me, and with crowds 
 
 Of honied epithets, whose aroma came 
 
 Fresh from Love's roses, with resistless claim — 
 
 Frequent reiteration of the strain. 
 
 That told the tale of pleasurable pain : 
 
 And if my memory in reciting failed, 
 
 Thou wouldst supply what first my song detailed — 
 
 Wond'ring the while, sweet dove, that e'er I could 
 
 Forget one word of ' Babies in the Wood.' 
 
 Ah! little recked' st thou — and for thee 'tis well 
 
 Thou canst not now — how oft the dismal knell 
 
 Of sorrow broke upon the sunny hour 
 
 Of Fancy's revel, with a numbing power, 
 
 That paralized each cftbrt of the thought ; 
 
 Or thou hadst mai-vellod I remembered aught 
 
 That appertains to joyance, or could sing 
 
 Sweet dreams with harp of many a broken string. 
 
 " At dawn thou wouldst arise, and gently come, 
 And waken mo with kisses, to ask some 
 u
 
 114 THE COMFORTEU. 
 
 Now query of tlio previous evening's lay ; 
 And tell mo that in di-eam-land far away 
 Thy spirit on a pilgrimage had been, 
 And the sad fate of infant sorrow seen — 
 The dead o'ci'strewing in their leafy bower, 
 With many a wild and beautiful wood-flower ; 
 And bu-ds, the while, hke ministrant angels keeping 
 Watch, with low dirge, above the Ever-sleeping. 
 
 " A Father's prattle ! — Diver into deeps 
 Of the mind's sea, where many a pearl-thought sleeps 
 Dark in its coral chamber, canst thou see 
 No precious things, meet for thy treasury, 
 Outpeeping from the varying yellow sand, 
 O'er which this streamlet flows with murmur bland '«' 
 Then is thy heart a stranger to the love 
 That warms a father's bosom ; and the dove, 
 ]\Iourning in solitude, a lesson yet 
 Might teach e'en thee, which thou shouldst ne'er forget. 
 O lov'st thou not those sweet philosophies, 
 Blossoms of Feeling, which, like cinnamon trees, 
 SmeU balmiest M-hen shaken, better far 
 Than those which cause dull sage with sage to war ? 
 Then shall I cease to marvel that my theme 
 Should fail to win the meed of thy esteem. 
 
 " My daughter ! every little act of thine 
 Dwells like a holy thing in memory's shrine ; 
 Nor Avould I lose that treasure — doubly dear. 
 Now thou art gone, and I am lonely here — 
 To call the wisdom of the world my own. 
 And sit um-ivaUed king on Learning's throne ! 
 The Past is all my realm of pleasure now ; 
 And to the number of its angels, thou,
 
 THE CHILD AMONG THE FLOWERS. 115 
 
 My Beautiful, art added I — Would I were — 
 As thou to me — a sweet remembrancer 
 To some fond bosom of a spirit passed 
 From eai'th away ; but worthy to the last 
 Of an abode m memory ! — Alas ! — 
 Sad thought! — I feai- that, save the grass 
 Above my 4ust, there will survive of me 
 No green memento, which the world may see ; 
 For Hate would swelter, if it could not sere 
 Ee'n the lone leaf Love dropped upon my bier. 
 
 " Unmeet garrulity ! — Ch ! to the cold 
 And sordid selfish, I do now unfold 
 Thoughts unapproved of AVisdom ! — but to thee, 
 My gentle daughter, who art yet to me 
 A visible presence — cmly do I speak ! 
 Hate ! do thy worst ! upon my poor head wreak 
 Thy venomous ire ! — I have a comfort still 
 In the Mind's Kingdom, which thou canst not kill ! 
 
 X. 
 
 "Dreams of green fields ! — A silver voice is singing 
 Somewhere among the flowers, sweet as the ringing 
 Of faery bells at eve ; and I will go 
 Search for the charmer : for my heart would know 
 That voice among a thousand — eveiy tone 
 So mellow, so endearingly its own ! — 
 Giving such luminous glory to the words, 
 They seem to sparkle like the trembling chords. 
 When gently wakened into music bland. 
 By the charmed touch of Beauty's jewelled hand. 
 
 " Lo ! seated there, like one of the young Hours, 
 The songstress on a little throne of llowers !
 
 110" THE CHILD AMONG THE FLOWEKS. 
 
 Her whito straw bonnet garnisliing all over 
 
 With bluo-bclls bright, and ruby gems of clover ; 
 
 Warblins the while — unconscious who is near. 
 
 With yearning heart, o'erbent to see and hear — 
 
 Snatches of song, all redolent of joy, 
 
 Learnt from swart Broom-girl and Italian boy ; 
 
 Who by her lattice oft were wont to stand, 
 
 And lured with to\.-i stored halfpence from her hand. 
 
 "(Sing on my child ! 'Twere sin to break the charm 
 That now rests on thee. To the outpourings wann 
 From thy young heart, I'll leave thee for a while ; 
 And wandering through the meads, the time beguile 
 In converse with the flowers ; from which to cull 
 Rich gems for thee, love — ^bright and beautiful. 
 
 " 'Tis sunset hour : but yet my soul feels loth 
 To prison thy sweet will : I love thy troth 
 Plighted so early, innocent and free, 
 To Natui-e's tenderest, purest poesy — 
 The charming flowers ! — bright stars, with which besprent, 
 Glows like the heavens, earth's verdant firmament. 
 Yet soon the chill may harm thee. Come, my love, 
 Let us away : to-morrow we may rove 
 Hither again ; — but lo ! my bu-d has fled 
 Her floral bower ! — 'haply by fancy led 
 Down yonder dell : — yes ; do you not discern 
 The truant, with a parasol of fern, 
 Mincing tlie lady, so demure and prim, 
 Along that lagging streamlet's flowery brim ; 
 And, where the waters 'neath that bending tree, 
 Linger the most, pausing anon to see 
 Her garnished figure, with a smiling look, 
 Reflected in the mirror of the brook ?
 
 THE CHILD AMONG THE FLOWERS. 117 
 
 " Nor Naiad, by the lily-margined rill, 
 Flower-crowned, bent listening to the silver trill 
 Of pobble-music ; nor, in woodland lawn, 
 Fair Hamadryad round the neck of fawn 
 Stringing oak-apple beads, and fi-om the tops 
 Of wild white roses, wringing lucent drops 
 Into her emerald ura, wherewith to make 
 Cool vintage, her beloved's thirst to slake — 
 Could e'er appear more beautiful than thou, 
 In all thy field-flower gaudery, art now, 
 My sweet May Queen ! — I would I had the power 
 To build thee here a little cottage bower ! 
 Then thou shouldst dwell in it, as dwells the dove, 
 Deep shrouded in a honeysuckle grove, 
 Far, far aloof fi-om any reeky town, 
 Wandering at will this green dell up and down ; 
 And I would bring thee all the charms earth yields 
 Spontaneously, in vernal woods and fields : 
 Flowers of all colours, loading with perfume 
 Young zephyr's wings ; song-birds of varied plume, 
 To wake thee every morn with choral hymn, 
 And sing to slumber when the woods wax dim : 
 Those thou shouldst plant where'er thy fancy willed, 
 By rock, or rill, or bower ; and these should build 
 Above thee on green boughs, in hollow roots. 
 Clasping old hills' scathed hearts, 'mong ovei'shoots 
 Of golden-fingered broom, or in the mouth 
 Of mossy cave, fretted with ivy-growth. 
 
 "Thine eye hath spied mo in my green retreat: 
 But whei'efore suddenly dost thou drop, my sweet, 
 Thy parasol, with downward look of shame ? 
 1 lim who could harbour towards theo thoughts of blame,
 
 118 THE DEPAUTEn. 
 
 For mimic art which Nature's self commends, 
 ' I would not number in my list of friends;' 
 And my worst wisli to one so cold should be, 
 That ho might never own a chikl like tliee. 
 Come to thy father's arms, my spotless dove ! 
 Como to my swelling heart, where lives a love 
 For thee, a seraph's tongue and lyre of gold 
 "Would fail in all its fervour to unfold. 
 Look up, and greet me with thy wonted smile ! — 
 May holy angels keep thee from the soil 
 Of human ills! and may thy head ne'er bow 
 With cause for shame more culpable than now I 
 A startling voice, methought, from out a cloud 
 Of dazzling brightness, forthwith cried aloud 
 Amen ! — I woke, and found that my request 
 Too well was answered ! From the fragrant nest 
 Of my affections. Heaven was pleased to take 
 My Bird of Beauty, for its own dear sake ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Ye gentle sister-spirits ! once enshrined 
 In mortal forms most lovely, whence the mind 
 Shone like the cloudless moon — your dower the same — 
 (Save years and sorrow) — lineaments and name — 
 Haply, while now on this dear spot I kneel, 
 And all the anguish of bereavement feel. 
 And saddening recollection stirreth up 
 The black ingredients in my bitter cup, 
 Ye walk together by the silver rill 
 That gushes from the fount of Zion's hill, 
 And wanders, with sweet lapse of song, through bowers 
 Of amaranth and never-fading flowers, 
 AVhich, like charmed angels, woo its lingcrings 
 Beneath the fragrant shadow of their wings —
 
 THE bard's farewell. 119 
 
 Unconscious of my woe ! Alas ! poor heart ! 
 Thou canst not yet forego the selfish part 
 To wish thy sorrows sympathy might move 
 E'eu in departed spirits of thy love. 
 But to feel assured — whate'er my fate — 
 That ye are happy — ought to mitigate 
 The keen asperity of wayward grief, 
 And prove a holy balsam of relief, 
 Without indulging in a wish so vain 
 That earthly care should visit you again. 
 
 XIL 
 
 " Farewell ! I hasten to my cheerless home 
 AVhence none to bless me ever more will come : 
 For some — if e'er they felt — have ceased to feel 
 For aught that may betide me — woe or weal ; 
 And One — so beautiful, so much like thee, 
 Joy of my heart ! when thou wert here with me — 
 Knows not her sire ! — Disease a film has thrown 
 Athwart her mind, which ne'er may be withdrawn! 
 And she may wander — no ! kind Heaven forbid ! 
 Spare me that pang ! — the unfeeling world amid, 
 The spoil of ribald mockery ! — the Thing, 
 At which fell Insult foul reproach may fling ! 
 
 "Oh heart ! sunk heart I bear up a little while ! 
 What though on thee nor hope nor joy may smile ; 
 Nor love amid thy solitude may sing, 
 And bear thy fainting pinion on its wing ; 
 The thiie is nigh when thou wilt be at rest I 
 Fast towards the lurid, melancholy Mcst 
 Wheels thy declining sun ; and soon the battle 
 Of these forked fires, the incessant thunder-rattle 
 Around its orb, will cease for ever ! — On ! 
 On to thy goal, thou sad and cheerless sun !
 
 120 THE bard's fakkwell. 
 
 " Strangor ! wilt thou tho generous meed award 
 Of tliy forbearance to the liapless bard 
 AVho craves it of thee ? His a harp whose chords 
 J [avo rung too loud and long with passionate words 
 Of selfish sorrow, o'er to win from thee 
 Tho ready guerdon of thy sympathy. 
 Ilajtly, thy lifo has been an April day, 
 All flowers and sunshine ; no discordant lay 
 Scaring tho syrens of sweet thought away 
 From their loved bower, thy heart. If such thy lot, 
 The Minstrel's haip has power to move thee not. 
 But if thou hast, hke him, warred with thy fate — 
 Loved — and for loving reaped relentless hate — 
 Lived till thy joys have perished eveiy one, 
 And nought is left to cheer thee 'neath the sun ! — 
 The Past — a dreary wilderness, M'ith gi-een 
 Oases scattered * few and far between' — 
 The Present — winter, with perpetual snows 
 Bending and breaking the dead leafless boughs. 
 That erst, with foliage crowned, formed happy bowers. 
 Where whito-winged Hopes built fragrant nests of flowers — 
 The Future — an illimitable Avail 
 Of blackest dark, on which plumed fingers scrawl 
 Strange characters of fire, and lurid lips. 
 Like blood-red orbs emerging from eclipse, 
 Pout through the gloom, and, fiercely muttering, thrill 
 Thy heart with mysteries, ominous of ill ! — 
 Then thou, at least, wilt not disdain to shew 
 A meet forbeai'ance to a brothers woe 1" 
 
 " The Minstrel ceased ; and with an upturned glance 
 Of saddest giief, quitted his rocky stance ; 
 Waved with his thin, palo hand a last adieu, 
 And like a spectre vanished from the view. 
 
 BND OF BOOK III.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE; 
 
 OR, THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 " Would God, I could turne Alpheus' riuer in 
 To purge this Augean stable from fowle sinne ! 
 Well, I will try. — Awake, Impuritie I 
 And view tlie valle drawne from thy villanie." 
 
 Scovrge of Villanie,
 
 " THE DIFFERENCE BETWEENE AVARICE AND COVEITISE IS THIS: COVEITISE 
 IS FOR TO COVEIT SWICHE TIIINGES AS THOU HAST NOT ; AND AVARICE IS TO 
 WITIIUOLDE AND KEPE SWICHE THINGES AS THOO IIAST, WITHOUT RIGHTFUL 
 NEDE. SOTHLT, THIS AVARICE IS A SINNE THAT IS FUL DAMPNABLE, FOR ALL 
 nOLT WRIT CUKSETH IT, AND SPEKETH ATENST IT, FOR IT DOTH WRONG TO JESU 
 CRIST ; FOR IT BEREVETH HIM THE LOVE THAT MEN TO HIM OWEN, AND TOCRN- 
 ETH IT BACKWARD AYENST ALL RESON, & MAKETH THAT THE AVARICIOUS MAN 
 HATH MORE HOPE IN HIS CATEL THAN IN JESU CRIST, AND DOTH MORE OBSERV- 
 ANCE IN KEPING OF HIS TRESODR, THAN HE DOTH IN THE SERVICE OF JESU 
 CRIST. AND THERFORE SATTH SEINT POOL, THAT AN AVARICIOUS MAN IS THE 
 THRALDOME OF IDOLATEIE." 
 
 Chaucer's Personcs Tale, De Anaritia.
 
 AVARICE
 
 13rocm» 
 
 The rilgrim, after his rencounter with the unhappy Bard, descends into the 
 vale — meets witli straggling crowds of work-people hastening- to the 
 Factories ; and pained by the appearance of squalor, and the decrepi- 
 tude of many of them, inveighs against the Avarice of the Age, which 
 subjects sudi large masses of human beings to protracted and un- 
 healtliful labour. lie tlion reverts to the popular cry of the Mahcii of 
 Mind, and that wondeiful panacea for the evils of the Old Moral 
 World, Socialism — describes, allegorically, King Owbn's March with 
 his votaries, to his southern Utopia — Thb Social Palace — College — 
 Theatre : — Scene I. Egypt. — Scene II. Tue Social Elysium. — Scene HI, 
 The Olympian Gods— A Socialist's Funeral ; — concluding the Fourth 
 Book with un Apostrophe to Avarice.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE, 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 AVARICE. 
 
 ■ God hath few fiends, the Deuyll ho hath so many." 
 
 Old Poem. 
 
 I. 
 
 Lo ! now the turmoil of tlie day's begun I 
 No longer through translucent clouds the sun 
 Smiles like a bridegroom on the dewy vale, 
 And listens charmed unto the merry tale 
 Of ousel, chou'ing to the lyric lark, 
 Far up, invisible, beyond the mark 
 Of human ken, basking in glory, even 
 Anigh the very golden gates of heaven. 
 But as a mourner, pierced with sorrow sad, 
 In robes of melancholy sable clad. 
 He m.oves behind the smoke-clouds issuing forth 
 Those taU and grimy Minarets of the North. * 
 Along the road in straggling groups are seen 
 Men, women, children — cripples with shrunk mien, 
 
 * So burlesqucly styled by a poetical friend.
 
 120 AVARICK. 
 
 Old ere their time — all hastening to those dens 
 Of toil and vice, that choke the sylvan glens. 
 Already, booming on the morning breeze, 
 Mechanic thunders frighten from the trees 
 The birds that sung so cheerily erewhile, 
 Sweet hymns to greet the sun's undarkened smile. 
 Those pines which stood but one short hour ago 
 Festooned with mist, like ■WTeaths of fleecy snow. 
 Now hang their heads beneath the loathsome yoke 
 Of demon-fonns of foul mephitic smoke I 
 
 Such are thy triumphs — such thy power, O Trade ! 
 Thou man and nature hast thy bond-slaves made ! 
 Where'er thy steps, earth withers, as the blast 
 Of the Siroc had o'er her bosom passed ! 
 Creation's lord, beneath thy tyrant rod. 
 Loses the native impress of his God ; 
 Dwarfed in his stature, shrivelled in his frame, 
 He moves a man in nothing but the name ! 
 Was it for this, great Lord of all I that thou 
 The blessed sunlight didst on man bestow, 
 That he, save once a week, should ne'er enjoy 
 In the pure air, its smiles without alloy 
 Of noxious vapours, steaming from the spilth 
 Of rancid oil and ever-adding filth ? — 
 For this green earth with stately trees adorn, 
 And flowers whose beauties emulate the mora, 
 That they should wither 'neath yon smoke-wrought pall, 
 With woman, loveliest, sweetest flower of all, 
 (Shame to this boasted land !) immured within 
 Those cursed hotbeds of disease and sin ? 
 It cannot be ! — Thou GoD ! proclaim'st aloud 
 Through all thy works, ten thousand blessings crowd
 
 AVAUICE. 127 
 
 Round all men's path, thy goodness bids them share — 
 
 'Tis Avarice only bids the mass forbear ! 
 
 Hell-born monopoHst I thy Briarean hands 
 
 Are sti'etched abroad through near and distant lands ; 
 
 Their choicest gifts, despite kind Nature's law, 
 
 They fiercely clutch to glut thine avid maw — 
 
 Vain task ! that deep's without a bounding shore ! 
 
 The more 'tis fed, it louder calls for more. 
 
 'Tis not enough that every clime must yield 
 
 The richest produce of the mine and field ; — 
 
 'Tis not enough man's blood and strength must be 
 
 Spent in vile bondage — all to pamper thee ; — 
 
 Thine is an iron tombstone on the soul. 
 
 The angel Hope has thence no power to roll ; 
 
 Chain'st down the mind in darkness and despair 
 
 To sleepless v^'atchings for the body's care, 
 
 As that alone were worthy his esteem — 
 
 Heath were annihilation — Heaven, a dream ! — 
 
 The sun a lantern, moving to and fro. 
 
 To light pale Labour in his house of woe ; 
 
 The moon and stars, mere mockeries to chase 
 
 The friendly gloom from Misery's resting-place ; 
 
 And all the beauty of sky, sea, and land, 
 
 A lavish waste of Nature's liberal hand. 
 
 Beneath thine aspic touch the Feelings die. 
 
 Or swine-like wallow in Corruption's sty ! 
 
 Before thy face the patriot Virtues flee — 
 
 Self is thy god — what charai has home for thee ? — 
 
 Home — the whole earth, with all that it may hold, 
 
 Thy wish alchymic would convert to gold, 
 
 If but to thee some other world were given. 
 
 Where thou mightst count it o'er ! — tins would bo heaven ! 
 
 This would be bliss thy spirit would enjoy. 
 
 Though souls should curse thee, and dark fiends annoy !
 
 128 THE MARCH OF MIND. — SOCIALISM. 
 
 Thou from his oyry Genius lurcst down 
 To feed on husks beneath thy table strown : 
 Shorn of his wings, the crouching Angel stands 
 A suppliant slave, awaiting thy commands ; 
 Unmunnuring hastes thy mandate to obey, 
 Though vile the task, aud loathsome is thy sway ; 
 Toils for thy pleasure, with mechanic skill, 
 Or in the mine, or in the noisy mill ; 
 Invents new arts, by which the poor of bread 
 Are daily robbed, that thou mayst gorge instead ; 
 And thus soul-withered by thy deadly ban, 
 Puts on the brute, and brutalises man I 
 
 II. 
 
 Loud are the shouts that burthen every wind — 
 *' Behold the achievements of the March of Mind !" * 
 what are they? — Blear-eyed Philosophy 
 Makes mouths at God, and worships. Avarice, thee ; 
 Digs a few inches down into the earth 
 For liidden wonders, and, with ribald mirth. 
 Exulting cries, " The Faith ye long have nursed 
 In that Old Tale, is like a bubble, burst ! 
 See Nature's tests, with truth unerring fraught, 
 Truth that will stand the scrutiny of thought, 
 Prove Moses' record, which behef defies, 
 A fragile web of fabricated lies!" — 
 Alas ! what are they ? — In the social frame 
 A fire is kindled, whose devouring flame 
 Will soon consume the living Heart, whence flow 
 Those moral streams that cheer the vale of woe ! 
 A subtle Sciohsm, from hell let loose. 
 Decked out in tiusel theories so spruce, 
 
 * ride note at the end. 
 
 I
 
 SOCIALISM. 129 
 
 Its wild phaiitasmas of a life all bliss, 
 
 Pom-ti-ays as possible, in a world like this ! 
 
 Deluded Ignorance, void of every doubt. 
 
 Hails the bright picture with ecstatic shout ; 
 
 Sees, in prospective, the Old Moral World, 
 
 With aU its follies, into chaos hurled ; 
 
 And phoenix-hke, fi-om Owen's prurient brain, 
 
 A glorious system spring A^ithout a stain ! 
 
 No longer man to man an abject thrall. 
 
 But equal rights, and equal toil to all ! 
 
 The crownless king, the uncoronetted lord, 
 
 Lab'ring, and feasting at the self-same board, 
 
 With the rude boor, they once had frowned to see 
 
 Come 'twixt the wind and their nobility. 
 
 The lady, all her jewels laid aside, 
 
 Her gilded chariot, and ancestral pride, 
 
 Exerting, with the maid she scorned of yore, 
 
 Her utmost skill in culinary lore ! 
 
 The bond of union between man and wife * 
 
 Being not, as now, a heavy chain for life. 
 
 But light as that which yoked each cooing dove 
 
 To the bright chariot of the Queen of Love ; 
 
 As easy, any time, to be transferred 
 
 From Sue to Sally, as from bird to bird. 
 
 When fickle Feeling, ever 2:)rone to range. 
 
 Shall urge a plea for matrimonial change. 
 
 O blest Community ! no restrictive law 
 To bind the will, or with religious awe. 
 Restrain the passions in their wild career — 
 No God to worship — and no hell to fear! 
 
 * (■''iUe note at the end.
 
 130 SOCIAHSM. 
 
 The dii-eful evils which from vice arise, 
 Unknown within this Social Paradise ; 
 All pure, yet free to love a week or day, 
 The next, to cast the chosen one away, 
 Just as immaculate Appetite may plead. 
 Or chaste Convenience sanctify the deed ! 
 And yet — though incredulity may jest — 
 The castaway is every whit as hlest 
 As he that, ere the honeymoon filled its horns. 
 Abandoned her, and now, unblamed, sojourns 
 In nuptial bhss, with some new willing bride, 
 Content, in turn, to wait love's ebbing tide : 
 For if the Koran of the Scot * be true, 
 The Utopian Eden of this Social crew, 
 Must harbour none that, for a moment, tasto 
 The bitter waters of the Old Moral Waste. 
 
 The Mai-ch of Mind ! — 'tis true. Mind marches — but 
 With eyes oped earthward — heavenward, closely shut I 
 The light of Revelation, like the sun, 
 Is far too bright to fix their gaze upon. 
 Science is all ! and mathematic rules 
 Make God a liar, and all who fear him, fools! 
 The human mind, in this the world's old age. 
 Seems in its dotage, and ^^^th gouty rage, 
 Voids its rank rheum on all the blessings Heaven, 
 In gracious goodness, unto man has given ; 
 Prefers the mock'ries, the delusive toys. 
 The gnawing cares, the evanescent joys, 
 
 » Robert Owen, I understand, is a Welshman by birth ; but his long 
 residence in Scotland, fairly entitles him to be considered a naturalised 
 member of the Scottish community, and as such I have considered hiui.
 
 KING Owen's march. 131 
 
 And all the sorrows of a scene like this, 
 To cheering hopes of never-ending bliss ; 
 Throws to the winds the Telescope of Faith, 
 And sees no star beyond the clouds of Death ; 
 Hugs the foul phantom of Desire infirm — 
 Eternal sleep with darkness and the Worm ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The Mai'ch of Mind ! — the march of Juggernaut, 
 Riding in triumph over prostrate Thought ! 
 See where the Idol, from the *' Land o' Cakes," 
 In gi-ey-haired pomp, his solemn exit makes, 
 Upon his ponderous five-wheeled car of Facts, 
 Which, blazoned o'er with philanthropic acts. 
 The sturdy steeds of Circumstance, in awe 
 Of their controller, reverently draw ! 
 He comes to purge the earth of woe and crime. 
 Of juggling Priestcraft's mummery and mime, 
 And all the frauds which, for unnumbered years. 
 Have made mankind the dupes of slavish fears ! 
 Around this * Crisiina of the Moral World, 
 Adoring thousands troop, with flags unfm-led, 
 On which shines forth some aphoristic straui, 
 The Man-god breathed, in inspiration's vein ; 
 And unto him with joy ecstatic raise 
 The lo Pcean of insensate praise. 
 
 The pageant halts in yonder fertile vale, 
 Where rural arts and industry prevail ; 
 Whore many a temple, raised by pious hands 
 To Natui'o's God, in sweet seclusion stands, 
 
 * ndi' note at the end.
 
 132 SOCIALISM. 
 
 Its tapering spiro, half dad with ivy-frieze, 
 Iloarily peering o'er the circhng trees ;— 
 Where many a lordly mansion, greenly dark, 
 Peeps through old oaks that guard the ample park, 
 Time-honoured dwelling of a race whose name 
 The poor ne'er utter but with loud acclaim ;— 
 And where, unenvious of its great compeer, 
 The rustic cottage, with its inmates dear, 
 Smiles in gay garniture of roses hid, 
 Its green-hedged plot of blooming flowers amid. 
 
 The Social Father, with benignant mien, 
 Silently gazes on this lovely scene ; 
 Then his rough steeds, that on their weary way, 
 Have fed on thistles all the live-long day. 
 With hungi7 eyes the rich green pastures see. 
 And loudly neigh to graze at liberty. 
 At length, impatient of protracted pain. 
 They bound away, regardless of the rein, 
 And, with a friendly kick, send through the air 
 The grey-haired Sago into a mansion fair ; 
 Whose inmates flee when they his face behold, 
 And leave behind the trash of hoarded gold. 
 The gauds of pride, the luxuries of sloth, 
 (At which the new Ism is exceeding wroth) 
 Unto the Saturn of a brighter age 
 Than that of old which gilds the mythic page. 
 
 Meanwhile, behold ! a sudden change is wrought. 
 As by the wondrous magic of a thought. 
 Where is the temple with its hoary spire ? 
 The old " oak- wardered" mansion of the 'Squire ? 
 The deer-ranged park ? The happy rustic cot. 
 Smiling amid its green-hedged, flowery plot ?
 
 THE SOCIAL PALACE, 138 
 
 Fled as a droam ! — save yonder fair domain, 
 
 Where good King Owen sways the Golden Reign ; 
 
 And in their place, o'er ample acres spread, 
 
 The Social Palace reai's its massy head ; 
 
 Where congregated thousands, meek and mild 
 
 As harmless doves, ai-e fondly domiciled ! 
 
 Dare ye, presumptuous, ask if human toil. 
 
 With groans and sweat, raised this stupendous pile ? 
 
 Sceptics ! believe the Arabian legends true : 
 
 Persia has Genii — why not Albion too ^ 
 
 Rub the charmed Lamp the Scotch Aladdin found 
 
 Deep in the caves of Lanark underground. 
 
 And, in an instant, comes a Genie-slave 
 
 To execute whate'er your wishes crave ! 
 
 Would you a palace ? Lo ! as quick as thought. 
 
 By hands unseen the mighty fabric wrought ! 
 
 Would you a harem, filled with Social Fair ? 
 
 Prsesto ! — the bower of Beauty woos you there I 
 
 What marvel, then, yon structure should so soon 
 
 Soar in the vale, as dropt from out the moon. 
 
 When thousands more that Lamp's omuific spel! 
 
 Could summon, loftier than the towers of Bel ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Approach — but first, before you go within, 
 Put off the sandals of the Old Moral sin ; 
 Follow the footsteps of that guardian nymph, 
 And purify in Socialistic lymph ; 
 From her fair hands the unguent rare receive 
 To aid your vision glories to perceive. 
 Which else would soon, insufferably bright, 
 Blind the weak gaze of unassisted sight : 
 Then, thus prepared, the silk-lined carriage mount, 
 Whoso steam-barb snorts beside that crystal fount.
 
 134 THE SOCIAL PALACE. 
 
 And glide adovvii you " slantindicular way," 
 
 (In borrowed phrase Americ, so to say) 
 
 Swift as a pleasant momentary dream, 
 
 Into the land of honey and of — cream ! 
 
 Now you are seated — an invisible horn 
 
 Gives the loud signal — whew ! — the gateway bourn 
 
 Your carriage has ah-eady reached, and there 
 
 Self-opened stands ! while to yom- aid repair 
 
 Crowds of the Sodi, who, Avith welcomes, greet 
 
 Your visit to their paradisal seat. 
 
 Conducted by a Social Seneschal, 
 
 Amazed, you enter a vast, splendid hall ; * 
 
 Where seats, soft-cushioned with luxurious pride 
 
 Of Tyrian-tinctured velvet, stand beside 
 
 Two mighty tables that, from end to end, 
 
 O'erspread with damasked drapery, extend; 
 
 On which in dazzling pomp, shine manifold 
 
 Vessels of silver, porphyry, and gold, 
 
 By Genii, vassals to the imperial will 
 
 Of the Lamp's master, -WTOught with exquisite skill: 
 
 And, here and there, 'mong other precious things. 
 
 Inverted crowns of throne-renouncing kings. 
 
 Filled with sweet flowers, instead of royal brains, 
 
 Stand propped with sceptres of departed reigns. 
 
 A bugle sounds : two massive doors unfold, 
 By secret springs, on noiseless hinges rolled ; 
 Troops of fair gu'ls and boys, in rich array, 
 Heaps of choice viands on the table lay, 
 Then quickly disappear : the horn again 
 Mellowly winds a loud prelusive strain ; 
 
 * The principal part of this and the following description, is borrowed 
 from a Social Drama, which I once glanced over in a bookseller's shop, 
 written by a Rev. somebody of Manchester.
 
 THE SOCIAL PALACE. 135 
 
 Tlirough one wide portal, two and two advance, 
 
 In gay costume, as to a festive dance, 
 
 Seven hundred sisters, each with arms entwined 
 
 Round her companion, to their seats assigned ; 
 
 And, at the other, in rich habitings, 
 
 On which shine rainbow-hued concentric rings, 
 
 Emblems of Social Masonry sublime, 
 
 A host of brethi'en, whose slow steps keep time 
 
 To strains of music fax* removed fi-om view, 
 
 Enter uncovered ; and in order due. 
 
 Assemble round their proper board, where none 
 
 Can claim precedence but the Sage alone. 
 
 As honoured visitants, you sit beside 
 
 The moral Corypheus and his bride. 
 
 Who, as pro tempore sultaness divine. 
 
 Enjoys the privilege with, her lord to dine ! 
 
 Once more the bugle gives a signal blast — 
 
 The only grace to hallow the repast ; 
 
 For in this New Jerusalem, to ask 
 
 A blessing were a mere supei-fluous task ; 
 
 And priest-taught, miserable cant to own 
 
 A grateful feeling to a God unknown. 
 
 Who, throned in his exclusive heaven, doth feel 
 
 No interest in human woe or weal. 
 
 Now the loud rattle of quick knives and forks. 
 
 The gladdening sound of — no, 'tis not of corks 
 
 Drawn from the inspiring bottle ; for the dear. 
 
 Old rosy God is never worshipped here ; 
 
 Nor are his gifts, though appetite may plead, 
 
 Sanctioned for use by this new Moslem creed — 
 
 That sound ? — Behold I a thousand silver tubes 
 
 With snaky heads, from rows of marble cubes 
 
 Ranged round the hall, spring up, and bending o'er 
 
 The glittering board, a crystal liquor pour
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 136 THE SOCIAL PAIACE. 
 
 Into glass goblets duly placed apart, 
 
 Then backward sliuk with simultaneous start. 
 
 But doom not ye, because denied the use 
 
 Of tho rod grape's cxhilai-ating juice. 
 
 The temp'rato neophytes, though with them you dine, 
 
 "Will balk your stomach of its wonted wine. 
 
 Urge but your wish ; and, instant, through tlio floor. 
 
 Rises a table fraught with ample store 
 
 Of tho rich nectar you delight to sip, 
 
 Sparklingly tempting your luxurious lip I 
 
 You pledge tho Master of the feast ; and he — 
 
 Not in tho juice of the "forbidden tree," 
 
 But in a draught of Social lemonade — 
 
 Returns the courteous compliment you paid. 
 
 Your savoury tooth could relish well a Aving 
 
 Of that roast fowl, in gravy wallowing — 
 
 Breathe your desire : the Master waves his wand : 
 
 A chain, whence dangles a self-moving hand 
 
 Of ductile gold, from the mysterious roof 
 
 Descends, and bears tho dainty dish aloof; 
 
 But while in vain your eye yon arch explores. 
 
 The glittering hand tho pilfered food restores ; 
 
 And — 'your astonishment to heighten still — 
 
 Carved to your wish with scientific skill ! 
 
 The banquet finished, and all silent round, 
 Thrice the loud buglo gives a warning sound : 
 Tho doors unfold ; and while the viewless choir 
 Pours a glad hymn, the female train retire 
 Wreathed as they entered. Now the Social Sage, 
 Whose youthful bride assists his steps of age, 
 Slowly withdraws ; then, like drilled soldiers, all 
 The red-robed brethren quit the festal hall.
 
 THE SOCIAL COLLEGE. 137 
 
 V. 
 
 Prepare still greater wonders to behold 
 lu this New World, unparalleled, untold. 
 Art thou a pedant, whose despotic rule, 
 By cane or birch-rod, sways an abject school ? 
 Unking thyself; thy sceptre lay aside, 
 Thy mien impei'ial, and thy classic pride ! 
 Thou standest now on academic ground. 
 Where fear exists not, masters are not found ; 
 Where mildness tempers learning's wholesome pill, 
 Improves the mind — yet leaves uncurbed the will ; 
 Where kksome tasks in antiquated lore, 
 O'er which the Old World's wisdom loves to pore. 
 Are deemed absurd as Bibles, or the themes 
 Priests gather thence to gloze their idle dreams ! 
 Lo ! a republic of a thousand youths. 
 Imbibing; knowledge of undoubted truths 
 From that clear source, whence truth alone can spring — 
 The glorious fount of Human Reasonhigl 
 Here, to a group of urchins ranged around, 
 A sage explains the theoiy of sound ; 
 The philo, there, to an attentive crowd. 
 Tells how the thunder rolls from cloud to cloud, 
 And launches oft its forked bolts of fire 
 On regal dome, and cross-surmounted spu-o ; 
 Yonder a scribe, whom that rich signet ring 
 Proclaims vicegerent of the Social King, 
 Expounds some text from the new Koran's page. 
 To embryo moralists of this golden age ; 
 Defends with all Arachne's subtle skill. 
 The five-fold web that binds the human will ; 
 And with a lucid eloquence that far 
 Outshines the brightest Solon's at the bar.
 
 138 THE SOCIAL THEATllE. SCENE I. — EGYPT. 
 
 Unfolds the tables of the " Twenty Laws," 
 'Mid thunders loud of juvenile applause ! 
 
 VI, 
 
 These lectui-es o'er, each doctrine understood, 
 And ti'easui'ed up as mtellectual food, 
 The groups of grave precocious girls and boys 
 Hastily throng, anticipant of joys 
 Their moral mentors have for them in store, 
 A semicirque of benches raised before 
 A green sUk curtain, on which blazoned shine 
 The Uneaments of Owen the divine ! 
 Aerial music breathes a mellow sound 
 Now near — far off — now heard as under ground : 
 It dies away in sUence ; softly rings 
 A tiny bell, and up the curtain springs! 
 Stay, puritan, stay ! the scene thou need'st not shun — 
 Behold the work of Theidon outdone! 
 Nay tremble not — no vongefid thunders stii' — 
 'Tis an Histoiico-puppet Theatre ! 
 Old Egypt's plain, its pyramids and domes, 
 Its ruined temples, chambered catacombs, 
 Nile's sacred stream, on which, in glittering pride, 
 The silk-winged barks of Cleopati"a glide. 
 Their sUver oars, in modulated time. 
 Heaving and falling to the conch-notes' chime ; — 
 All this, in azure distance, woos thy gaze, 
 While, in the front, artistic skill displays 
 A conclave of grim Lilliputian ghosts. 
 Whose royal mummies sleep on Nilus' coasts, 
 Sitting in judgment on that guilty thing. 
 The mimic sprite of a departed King !
 
 SCENE II. — THE SOCIAL ELYSIUM. 139 
 
 VII. 
 
 The scene now changes ; and thou see'st pourti'ayed 
 The dismal realm where many a mournful shade. 
 By the drear banks of Lethe's silent river, 
 Wanders in shivering hopelessness for ever, 
 In vain imploring with uplifted hands 
 A passage to those fan* Elysian lands, 
 "Where fortunate spirits, whom the Gods loved well. 
 In bowers of bUss for endless ages dwell. 
 Old Charon heeds not, but with rapid oar, 
 Steers his dai'k carack from the dismal shore. 
 Freighted with ghosts that have meet passport won 
 For the sweet cUme that knows no setting sun. 
 
 Mark well yon happy region I On a liiU 
 Shines a bright city, wliich Minerva's skiU 
 Raised as the exclusive residence sublime 
 Of Social souls, when freed from things of time. 
 Already, crowned with amaranthine flowers, 
 A happy few lean o'er the golden towers ; 
 And more are hastening to the crystal gate. 
 Where smiling Homis their ai'rival wait, 
 And point exulting to a shining throne 
 Of purest peai'l, with many a precious stone 
 Emblazoned, and upborne on wheels that glow 
 With hues as splendent as Apollo's bow ! 
 Above the vacant seat, two cherubs hold 
 A dazzUng crown of carbuncles and gold, 
 Upon whose apex, wrought on " cloth of Tarse," 
 R. 0. encircled, gleam in emerald stars — 
 Resplendent ciphers ! that declare for whom, 
 AVhen his loved corse shall slumber in the tomb, 
 The patron-deities of the Social Reign, 
 This goi-geous, regal pageantry ordain !
 
 1-10 SCENE lU.-^HE OLYMPIAN GODS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Another scene :— upon Olympus' brow 
 The harmonious Gods are all assembled now : 
 Jove, with the extinguished lightnings at his feet, 
 
 O'er his crouched eagle nods in slumber sweet ; 
 
 Imperial Juno, blandly smiling, decks 
 
 With wreaths of flowers her peacocks' glistening necks ; 
 
 Pallas, her dreadful panoply resigned. 
 
 To useful arts devotes her mighty mind ; 
 
 Weaves for her Sire, now venerably old, 
 
 A regal robe to screen him from the cold, 
 
 (If Gods e'er feel it;) or, with active neeld, 
 
 Embroiders flowers upon a silken field ; 
 
 The Queen of Love, now chaste as her own star. 
 
 Is giving lessons to the God of War, 
 
 Upon the exceeding sinfulness of strife, 
 
 And leading an ungodly rover's hfe. 
 
 Convinced, o'ercome by counsel so sincere. 
 
 Mars doff's his helm, and snaps his massy s]iear ; 
 
 Hastes with the Goddess to her husband's dome. 
 
 And, reckless of all bloody broils to come. 
 
 As Vulcan's pupil, 'mong the Cyclops stands, 
 And executes his sooty lord's commands : 
 Plies the loud bellows ; or, with sweaty zeal. 
 Wields the huge hammer o'er the hissing steel ; 
 And thus while Mars essays his new-taught art. 
 Sweet Cytherea acts the housewife's part ; 
 From place to place, with sober mien she moves. 
 Nor needs her chariot drawn by milk-white doves, 
 Which, from their silken bondage now set free, 
 Are building nests on yonder stunted tree. 
 The noontide feast her busy hands prepare, 
 Whoso lilied whiteness claims not now her care ;
 
 THE OLYMPIAN GODS. 141 
 
 With timely forethought, from the well- stored cade 
 
 She fills an urn with sparkling lemonade, 
 
 Which a self-moving engine, at her call, 
 
 AVafts in the midst of the dusk Fire-god's hall : 
 
 There first, in courteous compliment, most meet 
 
 To merits such as grace the new Athlete, 
 
 With smiles that gild the hovering smoky screen, 
 
 A brimming goblet of the hippocreno 
 
 Presents to Mars ; who, pausing 'mid his toil, 
 
 Wipes from his brows the black sweat's gathering soil ; 
 
 And fondly bending on the queen his eyes, 
 
 The grateful liquor to his lips applies. 
 
 Then round she bears, while thanks her steps pursue, 
 
 A copious draught to all the dusky crew ; 
 
 Ending — as all leal ladies should, that love 
 
 Their faithful lords, and deem it sin to rove — 
 
 AVith her true liege ; who, ere the cup he sips, 
 
 Prints three fond kisses* on her glowing lips. 
 
 The curtain falls ; but soon upsprings again ; — 
 
 Behold a wild interminable plain, 
 
 Girded with mountains and with forests dark. 
 
 From which, as when Noah oped the sacred Ark, 
 
 Beasts of all kinds that haunt the climes of earth, 
 
 Stalk, bound, and crawl, in auger or in mirth. 
 
 As suits then- natures ; and from which, on high 
 
 Soar birds of evei*y plume that sweeps the sky. 
 
 Now ye sage Mentors of old moral saws, 
 AVhat say ye to the Socialistic laws ? 
 Could your dull brains have e'er devised a plan 
 So soon to ripen boyhood into man ? 
 
 * Querc. Would not brother Dusky's typngrnphicul impressions on the 
 rosy lubella of his cara-spousu, like my own, be of an inky hue ?— rrinter's 
 Devil.
 
 142 THK socialist's funeral. 
 
 Shame on your craft ! Descend the tnpos now, 
 And at the feet of your GamaHel bow ! 
 Learn wisdom ; and, with better thoughts imbued. 
 Join tlie bold band of Scotia's Robin Hood ; 
 Pluck up each quill of prejudice by the root, 
 " And teach the young idea how to slioof — 
 Not, as of old, with tedious bended bow, 
 Or musket, that performs its work too slow ; 
 But with the steam-gun that spi'ung uj) amain, 
 A glorious birth ! from Robin's fruitful brain, 
 That sin and soitow soon may hence be hurled, 
 And Owen reign the sovereign of the world. 
 
 IX. 
 
 But can it be, new-born race ! so rife 
 "With all that constitutes the bliss of life, 
 That death, the avenger of the Old World's sin, 
 Your happy realm should dare to enter in ? 
 Although regenerate of Owen pure, 
 Alas ! e'en ye are not from death secure ! 
 He comes — and like a dream, your brief, bright day 
 Glooms into night eternal ! — not a ray 
 Of hope beyond the dreaiy grave to cheer. 
 And guide the spirit to a happier sphere. 
 
 Behold, adown yon tree-girt vale of tombs, 
 Where many a flower o'er human ashes blooms, 
 A funeral train, in solemn silence, moves 
 Behind a steam-bier, that, on iron groves 
 Slowly advancing, bears the corse of one. 
 Whose hopes all perished -with life's setting sun. 
 No white-robed priest, from out some hallowed fane. 
 With holy rites, a*id texts of heavenly strain,
 
 AN APOSTROPHE TO AVARICE. 143 
 
 Comes to confirm belief, the insensato dust 
 
 Shall, at the " resurrection of the just," 
 
 Rise from the grave, a glorious fonn renewed. 
 
 With life and immortality endued ! 
 
 A ghb-tongued oratoi', in turgid phrase. 
 
 Spouts o'er the dead a long harangue of praise ; 
 
 Vaunts of his virtues, exemplai-y life, 
 
 His constancy to each successive wife ; 
 
 And above all, of his implicit faith 
 
 In what St. Owex in his hible saith,* 
 
 Who thus proclaims : " My brethren, practice evil 
 
 To none amongst you ; fear not God nor devil ; 
 
 Make earth your heaven : with Hfe all pleasure ends : 
 
 Your future heaven — the memoiy of youi* friends !" 
 
 The oration finished, round the grave now stands 
 
 A choir of girls, with flower- wreaths in their hands, 
 
 Which, at due pauses in the du-ge they sing, 
 
 On the lowered coSiu they alternate fling. 
 
 The funeral train retires — no tears are shed ; 
 
 For Social giief is frugal o'er the dead ! 
 
 A wise economy ! for who would weep 
 
 O'er those who sleep an everlasting sleep ? 
 
 Indulge one moment a regretful pain 
 
 For that which luas — but ne'er must be again ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Such the phantasma — such the monstrous creed 
 The moon-struck brains of modern sophists breed I 
 Such are the triumphs of the Mai'ch of Mind, 
 Wliich captivate the unthinking of mankind. 
 Who, bowed in bondage 'neath vfle Avarice' sway, 
 Await the coming of the promised day, 
 
 * Vide note at the end.
 
 144 AN APOSTROniE TO AVAKICE. 
 
 « 
 
 When, in fulfilment of their prophet's word, I 
 
 The exulting shout of freedom shall be heard ] 
 
 In every laud — freedom from all the chains 
 Of " circumstance," the misery, and pains, 
 Tlie vile restraints imposed by bigot priests, 
 And laws, the poor degi-ading down to beasts, \ 
 
 Which have distinguished, in the lapse of time, * 
 
 The Old Moral World's dark register of crime! 
 
 Insatiate Avauice! 'tis to thee we owe 
 This poisoned chalice of the nation's woe ! 
 The multitude, now shivering on the brink 
 Of desperation, have not time to think ; 
 With eager haste, they inconsiderate cling 
 To any scheme that promises to brmg 
 Speedy deliverance from thine u-on thrall, 
 And nature's bounties equalize to all. 
 The people pine— but if Utopian bread 
 AYill fill their stomachs, loaves and fish instead, 
 How great thy gain ! 'Twill merit more applause 
 Than twenty thousand crude " Starvation laws." 
 If men can Uve on faith— a faith though nursed 
 In fellest bosoms demons ever cursed— 
 And toil for thee — thou wilt be wondrous civil. 
 And deal a doit— of thanks— e'en to the devil! 
 If but thy coffers with red gold o'erflow, 
 AVrung from the hands of Poverty and Woe, 
 Owen or Bruin Nicholas* may reign; 
 Religion vanish, or in show remain ; 
 Bastiles, or Social Palaces arise ; 
 Temples to GOD, or Belial, scale the skies ; 
 
 # fide note at the end.
 
 AN ArOSTUOPIIE TO AVARICE. Ii5 
 
 Priests, or rank Infidels, the million school, 
 
 By Chkist or Owex — shrive them, or befool; 
 
 Faith, hope, and love, be exercised no more — 
 
 The purblind idiosyncrasy of yore ; 
 
 And man become insensible to aught 
 
 That wanns the bosom, or sublimes tlie thought 
 
 " Ho ! ho! come hither, thou who canst control 
 The ' circumstances' of each living soul 
 Within the bounds of thy Utopian sphere- 
 That beauteous bubble, which my old confrei'e, 
 Who shall be nameless, in a jocund vein. 
 Blew from the lye * that sjxirkled in thy brain ; — 
 Come hither, thou who bruit'st — subhme of brutes ! — 
 The ivives of England legal prostitutes ! 
 Lend me thine ear : I know, despite thy creed, 
 Thou art ambitious ; wouldst be great in — deed ; 
 Wouldst have the Old AVorld's honours ; wouldst be king 
 O'er all the New — when it begins to sing 
 In wondrous hai-mony, as it rolls along 
 Its luminous path, the heavenly orbs among. 
 Go to ! I have a minion, chief of those 
 That bloom and thrive round England's Royal Rose ; 
 Him thou must seek, with kindred feelings blest; 
 From him obtain the boon thou dost request." 
 Thus Avarice spoke : the arch infidel, right glad, 
 The minion sought, in courtly garments clad. 
 
 * Quere — does this expression mean an untruth, oi- is it used figuratively 
 for the lixivium of soap and water ?— I'rinter's Devil. 
 K
 
 146 AN APOSTKOPIIE TO AVARICE. 
 
 Behold, ye British sires ! and blush for shame ! 
 The vip'rous slanderer of your spouses' fame, 
 In mocker)' cringe, and lip, with brazen mien, 
 The plighted hand of England's Virgin Queen! 
 
 END OF BOOK IV. 
 
 * rule note at the end.
 
 NOTES TO BOOK IV. 
 
 (Page 128, line 14.) 
 
 " Behold the achievements of the March of Mind!" 
 
 A writer in Eraser's Magazine for Feb. 1840, under tlie head of ' Useful 
 Knuirledge,'' says, " The substantive knowledge is by no means used in the 
 peculiar connexion indicated by the heading, in that catholic and com- 
 prehending sense which primarily belonged to it. The ethics, and the 
 ■morale, and the religion that regulate the one, and give their colour and 
 crystallisation to the other, are all understood by the patentees to be 
 excluded. Any thing pertaining to the regulation and the cultivation of the 
 heart or conduct, it would be regarded as an insult to introduce. It means 
 the knowledge of locomotive engines ; the gradients of railroads ; the pressure 
 and generation of sham political economy ; fiscal, m unicipul, and other kindred 
 sorts of finance, 
 
 " It regards him as worthy of a doctor's degree who can with the greatest 
 speed run a railroad through lovely landscapes, wide-spread panoramas, 
 hoary ruins, and venerable mementos of deiiarted ages— who can construct 
 a station-house from the ruins of an ancient abbey, sleepers from Sliak- 
 speare's mulberry tree, or the royal oak, and collect fuel for the furnaces 
 from the charcoal foundations of the temple of Ephesus. If a savan can 
 save .3s., even at the risk of demoralising the age in which he lives, — reduce 
 taxation by one farthing a-head, even though he should so weaken navy 
 and army that the weakest continental armament might overpower b.jth 
 together, — that man is a very Adam Smith— a Malthus ; or if there be any 
 other name that smells as sweet, useful knowledge means any process 
 wliich, in the least time, and with the least trouble, can produce the largest 
 pecuniary results. It is incense ofiered on the altar of Manmion. * * * 
 The genius of the useful-knowledge mongers would rather see a mechanics' 
 institute than a Christian temple or cathedral, a treatise on botany than a 
 Bible; and the British Association for the Advancement of Science he 
 prefers to Paradise itself. If all the chimney-sweeps could jabber philosophy, 
 the dustmen chemistry, the milkmaids hydrostatics, and the coalheavers 
 mineralogy, he would believe more than millennial days had come, and 
 that the human race had attained perfection. Homer's Iliad, and Paradise 
 Lost, he would use to light his study fire; St. Paul's Cathedral would be a 
 lumber room, and Westminster Abbey a depository for cranks, and cogs, 
 and broken machinery ; ancient JISS of the Bible would be subjected to a
 
 148 NOTES TO BOOK IV. 
 
 process of cleansing, and made available for useful-knowledge diplomas ; 
 and those of the classics might be converted into useful bindings for Dr. 
 Lardner's works. Vii-gil, Iloi'ace, iEsch.ylus, Euripides, Scott, Coleridge, 
 Wordsworth, Soutlicy, mast all be displaced from the high niches on which 
 Genius has placed them ; and these must be filled by Jeremy Rcntham, 
 M'CuUoch, Mills, Ricardo, itc, itc, the favourites of useful knowledge." 
 
 (Page 129, line 1!).) 
 
 The bou<l of uniou between man and wife. 
 
 " In my previous lectures," says Owen, " I hastily glanced at some of the 
 leading evils, necessaiily arising from the priesthood, the laws, and magis- 
 tracy, and the military. I now proceed to notice, in the same hasty manner, 
 some of the remainder of thane Satanic instilnlitius, or institutions of mural 
 evil; and, first, of the unnaturalor artificial uniim of the sexes — 'marriage.' 
 * * * There is no help for you until you acquire sufficient strength of 
 mind to overcome this evil (man-iage), and openly denounce it boih in 
 principle and practice. * * * What! not speak of the maniage state 
 and its endless crimes '. Why, what absurdity yet remains in the public 
 mind not to speak and expose thegiealKSt of the practical sources of rice and 
 misery! * * * I resume the subject of marriage because it is <Af sowrr« 
 of more demoralisation, crimes, ami miserij, than any other cause, icith the 
 exception of religion and private property." 
 
 In commenting on the above passages, a writer in Eraser's Maga7.ine of 
 June l&tO, says, " These scattered extracts from the wi'itings of the arch 
 Socialist on this single point (marriage) vrill explain the new position of 
 woman in the Social System. Let us not disguise or grind do^\u the facts 
 of the case. We must describe it. That system is the advocate, and its 
 abettors the apologists, of universal and indiscriminate prostitution. It is 
 plain by this. Man is to go where he likes for, to use a yet unrescinded 
 appellative, a wife ; to keep her a month or a year at his discretion ; and, from 
 caprice, or satiety, or any other pretext, to turn her adrift, saddle the Owen- 
 ocKACsr with her offspring, and enter into contract with another for a vague or 
 limited time, as may be agreed on. The result of the first thirty yeai'S of 
 such a system, if ever any portion or province of the world were vrtcked or 
 infatuated enough to make the experiment, would be the progressive depre- 
 ciation of woman at a fixed ratio ; say every two, or four, or six years ; 
 until loathed by all, she committed suicide, or came under some new law 
 which sentenced her to be put to death for the relief of the Social System. 
 At each exchange, it is abundantly obvious, the unhappy female would sink 
 in value, till she whom Clu^stianity has righteously enfranchised, the orna- 
 ment and sweetener of human society, longed for the grave as her only 
 refuge from the usage of the brute visited on the sensibilities and instincts 
 of the woman. Home, that holy epitome of the bright and the peaceful.
 
 NOTES TO BOOK IV. 149 
 
 would not be retained in the tungues of such a world ; ('hiij)ren, ' caressing 
 and caressed,' would be merely the cattle impounded in the new moral 
 world ; atFections. responsibilities, cai'es and toils, that are now put forth in 
 harmony with natiu-e, but dii-ected and inspued by Christianity, would all 
 perish, and men would grow up as Robert Owen wishes them, like the 
 brutes oi the earth, only waUowing in a sensuuhty the lowest of these are 
 guarded from by primeval and indestructible instincts. These worthless 
 Socialists would 
 
 ' Bai'gain for their wives 
 
 As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.' 
 They would not allo^v that 
 
 ' Maniago is a matter of more worth 
 Than to be dealt in by attorneyship.' " 
 
 (Page 131, Une 19.) 
 Around this Ciushna of the Moral World. 
 
 " Blythe Kadha she, with speaking eyes, was named ; 
 He Ckishna, loved in youth, in manhood famed." 
 
 Sir If. Jones, Vol II. 
 " The sanguinary war which forms the subject of the epic poem, called 
 Mahubarat, is calculated to have taken place about 1200 years before the 
 Christian era, and was distmguished by the political and religious changes 
 which it produced. It ^vas carried on by KaaisHNA and his brother Bali 
 Kama, against Jara Sandlia, who reigned in Magadha, and who was sur- 
 prised and slain in his capital. The ancient worship of Siva or Maha Deo, 
 was nearly annihilated, in order to introduce that of Khrishua ; and that 
 successful conqueror raised himself, along with his brother Bali Rama, to 
 a sovereigntj- over vast provinces, and were conjointly worsliipped as one 
 incarnation of Vishnoo.'' — Hell's Geography, \tA. IV. p. 415. 
 
 (Page 143, line 10.) 
 
 In what St. Owen in his Uble saith. 
 
 Some are of opinion that the doctrines of Socialism are losing ground iu 
 this country ; let the following article from the Mornimj Herald of Aug. 26th, 
 1844, testify whether this be the case or not, as it regards the Metropolis : — 
 
 " Smithfield Market. — This zoological retreat bids fair to become a huge 
 dissenting conventicle. Drovers and cattle occupy it on week days, itinerant 
 preachers on Sundays. Yesterday, between four and eight o'clock, there 
 were no fewer than ;J7 of these fellows haranguing large mobs of persons, 
 some of whom attciitivel) listened, but by far the greater number reviled.
 
 l,-)0 NOTES TO HOOK IV. 
 
 It will oasilj be inia-incd that all shailcs of (loctviiic are \n-cach(ii\—S„ciaii.sm, 
 howeier, ri'igiis triiimp/uint. On one portion of the ground stood a man who 
 held a Prayer Book in his hand, from which he read extracts, commenting 
 in filthy sttjU- on the heanti/ul liturgical services of our Church. Within twenty 
 yards of tins man was another singing the Psalms of David to common-place 
 tunes, and in a merry style, his auditory with great glee joining in the chorus. 
 Another was declaiming on the iniquity of Christians, and raldnp up old 
 tales of crime, for the purpose of fixing them on men who have rendered 
 themselves eminent for piety. Some affected to be advocating Christian 
 principles, but in so loose .and strange a manner, that it was impossible to 
 get rid of the idea that they were in the pay of the Socialists. This opinion 
 was confirmed by the fact, that when these men left their rostrums, a Social- 
 ist lecturer succeeded, and proceeded to the refutation of his predecessor's 
 arguments ! That some who were lecturing were sincere cannot be doubted, 
 but they can scarcely be aw.ire of the vast amount of injury of which their 
 ill-judged efforts are productive. The Lord Mayor used his authority for 
 repressing the nuisances of Bartholomew Fair ; if the same authority were 
 exercised now, it could scarcely fail to be beneficial." 
 
 (Page IH hue 27.) 
 
 Owen or Bruin Nicholas may reign. 
 
 " The author has no personal antipathy to the Emperor Nicholas, because 
 a long study of his character and acts has taught him, thatif h.e be a more 
 complete tyrant, he is not a worse individual than the average of his pre- 
 decessors ; he is a more complete tyrant because he has the power of being 
 so. Many successive reigns, like the growth of succeeding years which 
 bring a tree to maturity, have completed the mechanism of a vast engine of 
 leveUing oriental despotism, and enabled him to use it vrith the full light of 
 European science ; whilst all his passions and propensities, tending towards 
 the acquisition of absolute power, have never diverted him, like his prede- 
 cessors, from that object. The Emperor Nicholas has not the bi-utal 
 instincts of the Tsar Peter the First, any more than his talents ; he has not 
 the disordered passions of the lustful Catherine, his grandmother, any more 
 than her brilliant intellect and her innate liberahty ; he has not the fitful 
 ferocity of Paul, his murdered sire, any more than his enthusiastic genero- 
 sity ; neither has he the irresolute, impressionable nature of Alexander, his 
 brother and predecessor, nor Alexander's benevolence of intention. If the 
 Emperor Nicholas had been born in the place of Peter, he is the man to 
 have shut himself up with his slaves in the isolation of a Chinese despot, 
 although he might never have cut off heads with his own hand, or presided 
 at the impalement of his enemies. # * # He is not the man to shoot, 
 for a wager, a female slave working in liis garden, like his brother Con-
 
 NOTES TO BOOK IV. 151 
 
 stantine, any more than to have given up, like Constantine, an empire to 
 dry a woman's tears. He would not, like Alexander, for the sake of seeing 
 his favourites smUe, have allowed them to tyrannise over his subjects on 
 their own account, any more than he would, like Alexander have wept to see 
 it — any more than he would, like Alexander, have advocated a charter for 
 the French people, although to be given without prejudice to his own 
 autocratic rights, but in sacrilegious precedent against the right divine of 
 princes. On the whole, therefore, Nicholas is neither better nor worse than 
 the average of his predecessors, inclusive of the great Tsar who first made 
 Russia European ; but he has done, and he bids fair to do, tnore injury to 
 mankind than all of them put together. Without perhaps the genius or the 
 boldness to have ever played more than a subaltern part in many situations 
 in life, he was peculiarly calculated, when placed by the chances of birth in 
 possession of such power, and at the head of such a system, to push it to its 
 extremest limits. He possesses, besides his singleness of purpose, precisely 
 the quantum of moral courage, of obstinacy, and of intellect, to allow him 
 to use the means in his j^ower, in the most effective manner, to attain his 
 end, and vpithal the exaggerated self-veneration to induce him to do it." — 
 Revelations of Russia, 
 
 (Page 146, line 4.) 
 
 The plighted hand of England's Virgin Queen! 
 
 " Never will the females of England forget the insult offered to them, as 
 virgins and as matrons, by Lord Melbourne's introduction of Owen to the 
 Queen. * * * The premier who ought to see its (Socialism's) patrons 
 in prison, makes its arch-priest his protege, and franks him tlirough Eng- 
 land by introducing liim to the royal presence. The struggle, long carried 
 on, is rapidly approaching its crisis. On pure religion and true freedom 
 many louring forces are converging from a thousand points. The sooner 
 it comes the better. AU things must die but riglit and ti'uth. These live. 
 Their common bh-thright and their sure destiny is immortality. On their 
 triumph all the unholy isms of the day shall be dissipated and broken. 
 The succeeding climacteric will be another and yet a loftier step towards 
 the good, the beautiful, the holy." — Fraser''s Magazine, June, 1840.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE 
 
 OR, THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 "Ad isthaec qua?so vok, qiuiliacunque priiuo vickmitur a'^pectu. attendite, 
 ut qui voULs forsiui insaiiire vidcar, salteiu quibus ms-,uiiaui vationibus 
 cognoscatis." — Giordano lii nu .
 
 " SOMETIME THE WORLD SO STEDFAST WAS AND STABLE, 
 THAT MANB WORD WAS AN OBLIGATION, 
 AND NOW IT IS SO FALSE AND DECEIVABLE, 
 THAT WORD AND DEED AS IN CONCLCSIOUN 
 IS NOTHING LIKE, FOR TOHRNED IS VP SO DOUN 
 ALL THE WORLD, THROUGH MEDE AND FIKELNESSE, 
 THAT ALL IS LOST FOR LACK OF STEDFASTNESSE. 
 
 " TROUTH IS PUT DOWNE, REASON IS HOLD FABLE, 
 UERTUE HATH NOW NO DOMINATION, 
 PITT IS EXILED, NO MAN IS MERCIABLE, 
 THROUGH COUETISE IS BLENT DISCRETION, 
 THE WORLD HATH MADE A PERMUTATION, 
 FRO RIGHT TO WRONG, FRO TKOUTH TO FIKELNESSE 
 THAT ALL IS LOST FOR LACKE OF STEDFASTNESSE." 
 
 Certaine Ballades, Chaucer.
 
 MY NATIVE VALE,
 
 |]rocm. 
 
 In Iiis address to his Native Vale, the rilsriin alhulcs to the happiness 
 that reigned in the days of his boyhood among its inliabitants— ilt'iiicts 
 tlieir general condition noAv, and draws a Contrast between thcni and 
 the Sires and Dames of the Olden Time^describes The Upstart— The 
 Weaver — The Unpensioned Soldier ; and gives a faithful portraiture 
 of Emma, or the Devoted Maid. Tuvuiiig from the contemplation of 
 such characters, the Wanderer descants on Mammon Justice, and the 
 tender mercies of The New I'oor Law— addresses the Landlords of 
 England— cont\asts their conduct with Old English 1'hilantheopt 
 iiianitested ere Avarice usurped the better feelings of the heart; and 
 with iui ;i.ppeal to Christian Mam.monists^ eoucludets the Fifth Bo A.
 
 THE YALE OF CALDENE 
 
 BOOK V. 
 MY NATIVE VALE. 
 
 " Love ! 
 O Cliarity, tVint evst ascendant crowned 
 Our l;inil with calm light like the star of eve! 
 Fast o'er tlie ocean fares the gathered gold, 
 Gathered from Britain's heart, wliile in her arms 
 Her famished myriads curse each coming morn ; 
 And they who feed their thousands far away 
 By cold machinery that asks no toil, 
 Grudge the poor pittance of a labouring hour 
 To the home duties of unwitnessed love." 
 
 The School of the Heart. 
 
 I. 
 
 Vale of my Fathers! scene of my young years! 
 How, when I view thee now, awake my tears ! 
 Contrast the Present with what once thou wast — 
 The sun-bright picture of the visioned Past! 
 When every village, evei-y cottage smiled, 
 And -with abundance eveiy board was piled ; 
 When easy labour to the poor man gave 
 E'en life's best comforts, and the power to save ; 
 And Independence, which from Virtue springs, 
 Owned more k'ls cot than halls of lords and kings ;
 
 158 MY XATIVE VALE. 
 
 When the fond youth embraced in nuptial bower. 
 The maid, whoso sire could bless with ample dowei', 
 And joyful wish the blooming pair might be 
 Through life as happy as his spouse and he. 
 
 Such times have been: e'en my unripened years 
 Beheld them such — but changed the scene appeai-s ! 
 Sick, lank-worn Want, and Miseiy, shrunk and pale, 
 Now meets the view, now shudders in the gale! 
 
 Go through yon vale those rocky hills sui-round, 
 Whose cliifs, midway, with scanty trees are crowned ; 
 "Where, on the banks of yonder putrid stream, 
 Which once flowed brightly as a summer's dream. 
 Huge, gloomy mills, like stone-charmed Arguses stand, 
 Or hulls of battle-ships, rotting on the land, 
 So grim they seem, so foreign to a scene, 
 Where temples stood, and hermit-grots nave been ; 
 Whence rose the vesper-hymn, the voice of prayer, 
 Soothing the wolf that slumbei'ed in his lair ; 
 And the fierce hunter of the stonny boar, 
 Hung on the rock-embattled mountain hoar. 
 To list the sounds, like spirit-music mild. 
 Sent from some viewless hai-p, in woodland wild. 
 
 Go through yon vale, where once a giant brood 
 Of oaks in venerable grandeur stood ; 
 Beneath whose arms the Caldeu's amber stream 
 Rolled on protected from the Day-god's beam ; 
 When on its banks the Outlaw and his crew 
 The antlered bounder of the forest slew ; 
 And nought awoke the mountain-echoes then. 
 Save bugle-blasts, and shouts of ' merry men.'
 
 My NATIVE VALE. ] 59 
 
 Go through it now, and summon u'om the tomb 
 The mighty forms that tracked its forest gloom ; 
 And ask, if they can recognise again 
 The scenes they loved — where Penury toils to pain ! 
 Where Pride, by Fortune raised from lowest earth. 
 Builds the high hall in mockery of its birth ; 
 Bids bowed-dowTi Poverty stand far aloof, 
 And tramples merit 'neath its iron hoof I — 
 Where 'stead of ancient oaks, they now may see 
 Black cottage-rows in place of many a tree ; 
 And 'stead of hoary hennits' ivied homes ; 
 The incense-cloud from temples' hallowed domes ; 
 The hunter strong ; the rangers of the wood, 
 
 Cheered with the feast by C alder's sheltei-ed flood ; 
 
 In long gi-im lines, the many- windowed mills* 
 Gloom in the vale, and frown upon the hills ; 
 While, ceaseless, from their blackened chimneys, rise 
 Volcanic billows darkening all the skies ; 
 And forth then- greasy doors, at noon and eve, 
 
 Strange beings creep, whom toil scarce gives reprieve ! 
 
 Maimed little children, of unearthly hue, 
 
 Which God ne'er gave, and nature never knew, 
 
 Roused from their damp straw beds, with haste to throng 
 
 To worse than slavery, and the Planter's thong ! 
 
 Long ere the brute who battens on their blood, 
 
 Opes his silk cuilains for his morning's food ! — 
 
 And Man — the image of his Maker ! — made 
 
 To bow a serf before the shrine of Trade ! — 
 
 And Woman, too, whose angel steps should move 
 
 Through flowery paths of happiness and love, 
 
 Impelled by want to spend the toilsome day: 
 
 And waste her bloom and loveliness away ; 
 
 * llUe uutc at the uiiU.
 
 100 THE CONTKAST. 
 
 While the proud Dame, once forced like her to toil, 
 Struts iu rich silks, and ei-mino's costly spoil. 
 And quite forgetl'ul of her former state, 
 Frowns at her crippled sister at the gate ! 
 
 TT. 
 
 Sires of the good old times ! whose sinews grew 
 Strong as your oaks, where mountain breezes blew ; 
 Whose sons, disporting round your cabin door. 
 Blithe health, and blither Freedom's signet wore ; 
 Trained to no toils that paison tb.ought and limb ;* 
 Blanche the red cheek, the sparkling eye bedim ; 
 ]3ow down the fi'ame, ei'ect to mortals given. 
 And maim, and mar the woi-kmanship of Heaven ; 
 Crush in their serpent- coils hope's halcyons blest, 
 Which fondly nestle in the youthful breast ; 
 Freeze feeling's fount ; unnerve the immortal part, 
 And blunt, and scathe, and bi'utalise the heaii : 
 But taught, like Nature's children, ever fi-ee, 
 That scale the rocks, and fly from tree to tree, 
 To bound along the hills, with bow and spear, 
 In quest of game for morning's eai'ly cheer. 
 Ere from his slumber rose the King of Day, 
 And the hill- fox had ceased to prowl for prey ; 
 Or from their fathei's' cabin, on the breeze 
 The blue smoke cm-led above the embowering trees. 
 
 Dames of the good old times ! with whose fair forms 
 The sweet winds were familiar, and whose charms 
 Ripened to glowing fruitage 'neath the sun ; 
 Like the wild berries that ye sti'ung upon 
 
 * ride note at the end.
 
 THE CONTRAST. 161 
 
 Silk grass, and hung around your necks of snow, 
 
 Nature's own carcanets, and, to and fro, 
 
 Thrid the cool shades, with buoyant step at noon, 
 
 To rob the rose-trees of their odorous boon. 
 
 Wherewith to fonn a coronal for your brows ; 
 
 The while your lords sate, leaning on their bows, 
 
 Tired with the chase, before their cabin door, 
 
 Wiling the hour with legendary lore. 
 
 Fancy beholds you seek some bosky dell. 
 
 Where congregated springs have formed a well 
 
 Of purest crystal ; round whose flowery brim 
 
 Ye sit, your glossy, truant locks to trim. 
 
 As by a shining muror ; ere o'er them 
 
 Ye smiling place the rose-wreathed diadem ; 
 
 Your buxom daughters near you, on the green. 
 
 Dancing to minstrelsy of bard unseen 
 
 Among the rocks ; or bounding Uko gazelles, 
 
 After each other round the neighbouring dells ; 
 
 Scaring the watchful heron from the stream. 
 
 And waking echo from her noontide di'eam. 
 
 With their wild shouts and laughter ; and the deer, 
 
 Housed from the glade, bounds o'er the hills with fear. 
 
 Then, hand in hand, far off ye see them come. 
 
 With garlands of wild flowers, and hear the hum 
 
 Of theu" sweet voices ; and, as they draw nigh. 
 
 Two from the group advancing, with a high. 
 
 Green crown of rushes, decked with blue bolls, o'er 
 
 Then- sunny brows, kneel on the sward, and pour 
 
 Their young aficctions in a hquid stream 
 
 Of silvei-y music — such as in the dream 
 
 Of souls inspired, comes fi-equent ; and the rest 
 
 Clustering around you, in like gaudery drest, 
 
 Join in sweet chorus, with a glistening eye ; 
 
 Then, ere among the hills the echoes die,
 
 1G2 THE CONTKAST. 
 
 Each littlo maid presents the wreath she wove 
 To her fond mother, with a smile of love. 
 
 Primeval tenants of my native hills !* 
 Can these shrunk beings, blasted by the cliiUs 
 Of winti-y poverty, like rifted trees 
 Around some weird hag's dwelling — Oh ! can these. 
 Whom Trade to toU and misery condemns, 
 Have sprung from earth that bore your noble stems ? 
 Can yon poor caitiff, with whose armless sleeves 
 The wind makes meiTy as with falling leaves ; 
 Whose crippled joints against each other move 
 In painful warfare — as those sweat-drops prove — 
 Can this sad relic of the human form, 
 Possess the blood that ran in all the warm, 
 Full flow of manhood, through the hunter's veins, 
 That ranged these hills, and forest-girted plains ? 
 Can that maimed child, from whom some dire machiuo 
 Has torn a leg, and who now swings between 
 Two little crutches his enfeebled frame, 
 A brotherhood with you, young rangers, claim, 
 Whose cheerful shout, like sound of merry horn, 
 Rang 'mong these hills the tocsin of the morn ^ 
 Can that frail being, on whoso care-worn face 
 Some lingeriugs still of loveliness I trace, 
 And from whose hand, alas ! some rueful day. 
 The t fiend-machine each fiugcr tore away — 
 As when the north wind in an angry mood 
 Sweeps from their home a lovely sisterhood 
 Of flexdo lilies — can she claim descent 
 From you, fair dames, whose rosy lives were spent 
 
 * Vide note at tlie end. t Callud, very justly, a denil.
 
 THE COXTRAST. 1G3 
 
 In happy innocence, aloof from all 
 
 The woes that now upon your daughters fall ? 
 
 Whence is the change ? — Ten thousand, thousand Dead ! 
 To your long homes most prematurely sped, 
 Answer ! and let the dreadful truth bo writ 
 In words of fire ! that angels, as they flit 
 On missions of God's mercy o'er this clime, 
 Awhile may pause to read ; and when of crime, 
 Of woe, and misery, their descant's given, 
 Tell the astonished hierarchs of Heaven, 
 that *lust of gold, which sons of traffic feel, 
 Destroys more thousands than the battle-steel ! 
 
 t Oh Trade I where are the blessings in thy train, 
 Which thy fond votaries laud in vaunting strain ? 
 What though we view, where'er our eyes we turn. 
 Rich bounties showered from thy too partial urn ; 
 For every boon thou hast conferred, we find 
 A thousand evils poured on human kind ! 
 There — with repulsive pride, the modern hall 
 Stares through young trees, and o'er the garden wall, 
 Bristling with broken bottles, to exclude 
 The wondering gaze of paupers ragged and rude! 
 The while the revel reigns within ; and wine — 
 Otice bought as med'cine — iu>w doth sparkling shine 
 In brimming goblets ; and rich viands stand 
 To lure the touch of many a jewelled hand. 
 Which haply, erst, ne'er blushed beneath a glove. 
 Or owned one golden pledge of honest love ; 
 
 * "The nation is Rcekinj; for gold as its summum bnnum ; and the idol 
 of Mammon has for its worshippi-i's all classes of society — for its sacrifice, 
 
 HECATOMBS OF HUMAN VICTIMS."— £*"///!« Univ. Mag. July, 1844. 
 
 \ ride note at the end.
 
 104 THE UrSTART. 
 
 Far oft'ncr dealing with " much sterner stuflf" 
 
 Than perfumed silk -bag, or the downy muff. 
 
 Here — in grey groups, like Hocks of moorland sheep, 
 
 Poor labourers' cots o'er hills of ordure peep, 
 
 At humble distance from the mimic park, 
 
 Where deer might stray, unseen, beneath the dark, 
 
 Soft shadows — not of many a branching oak — 
 
 But velvet clouds of ever-rolling smoke. 
 
 Which thy black priests from towering altars pour 
 
 To thee, O Trade ! the Dagon they adore I 
 
 III. 
 
 Why is the owner of yon mansion made 
 To lord o'er others whom ho once obeyed ? 
 Is his plebeian blood, like gold that's tried 
 Thrice in the fiery furnace, purified 
 From all alloys that taint the lowly born, 
 AVhom his proud heart, forsooth, affects to scorn ? 
 Did lofty talents and superior sense, 
 This mushroom lordliug raise to eminence ? 
 Did he become a magnate in the land 
 By means that would not make him blush to stand, 
 With soul unscathed by conscience' withering ban. 
 In the dread presence of an honest man ? 
 Ah no ! — a little care and cunning, joined 
 With little necessary fi-auds, that find 
 Free toleration by the liberal law, 
 
 Which all, who please, from Trade's great Koran draw : 
 A lucky turn of Fortune ; a discreet 
 And frugal husbandry of all the sweet 
 Gold-droppings from her copious honeycomb ; 
 A little schooling of the Rib at homo 
 In economic arts and trade-finesse ; 
 A little loaning to the wrong to bless
 
 THE UPSTART. 1G5 
 
 The eager pocket, though it stings the soul ; 
 
 A little ahiis to aw?/ creed* — in cowl 
 
 Or cassock clad — if, in return, 'twill win 
 
 A golden unction for the trifling sin ; 
 
 A little dabbling in young orphans blood ; 
 
 A little pinching of the scanty food 
 
 Earned by the woe- worn Widow ; a coniplcte 
 
 Forgetfulness of crippled Eld, unmeet — 
 
 Now that his days of usefulness are o'er — 
 
 To beg a pittance at his master's door : — 
 
 These are the means by which this Upstart came 
 
 To wealth, importance, and commercial fame ! 
 
 And those the grand essentials he must own, 
 
 Whom Tradet will honour with his brightest crown ! 
 
 Such is his will ! Let him who doubtoth it, 
 
 Peruse his chronicles — there 'tis " fairly writ I" 
 
 Then, honest Worth ! since wealth must ne'er be thine 
 Which Commerce yields, let not thy heart repine ! 
 Thou hast a dower which will survive, when all 
 Trade's boasted splendours down to dust shall fall. 
 Scenes beautiful on earth, on yonder heaven — 
 Star-spangled awning of the world — are given 
 For thy soul's kingdom ! Let her spread her wings. 
 And hold high converse with these glorious things ! — 
 
 * It is a notorious fact, that sever.al of the principal manufacturers in a 
 town not a hundred miles from Huddcrsfield— calling themselves friends 
 of the Established Church and the Constitution— contributed large sums 
 towards the erection of a Popish Chapel in that locality, alleging as their 
 motive (pure, disinterested souls!) that' it was to please certain Roman 
 Catholic merchants in Ireland with whom they were in the habit of doing 
 business ! 
 
 t It will be seen that I have figuratively spoken of Trade as belonging to 
 the rougher sex ; because its acts are so very unfeminine, tliat I thought it 
 would be a slander to consider it of the gentler sex.
 
 100 THE WEAVJiB. — TUE UNrEKSIONED SOLDIEK. 
 
 Tho Sous of Traflic — what arc thoy to tlioo ? 
 
 Slaves herd with Slaves! tho Free dwell with the Free !*^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 Go through the streets of yonder crowded town ; 
 Houses o'er houses darkly looking down ! 
 Hark as ye pass, from every latticed room, 
 Tho eternal jingle of the cotton loom ! 
 What form is yon, that walks with tottering pace, 
 And feeble knees, and misery-shrunken face ? 
 Whoso tattered clothes scarce cover from tho view 
 Tho lean-worn, shivering carcass thoy indue ; 
 AVhoso furrowed brow and downcast look declare 
 The Briton writhing 'neath the thongs of care ! 
 Enter his homo. — The partner of his woes, 
 Whose wedded heart no alienation knows ; 
 Who yet can prove, amid tho ills of life, 
 Tho tender mother, though a AVeaver's wife. 
 Deals to her famished babes, that round her stand. 
 The scanty pittance with an equal hand ; 
 Then smiling sweetly, as when first she won 
 Her husband's love — beneath a brighter sun — 
 Bids him partake the frugal meal, while she 
 Treads tho loud loom, and pines in secrecy ! 
 
 V. 
 
 But who is ho, whoso stately step and mien 
 Bespeak a man that better days hath seen ? 
 That eagle eye, bedimmed by grief and care. 
 He little dreamed 'twould o'er be his to share — 
 That once red coat, that cheek's apparent scar. 
 Betray the Soldier who has bled in war ; 
 And that memento on his breast ye view. 
 Proclaims him one who fought at Waterloo — 
 
 * nUc note at the end.
 
 THE UNPENSIONED SOLDIER. 167 
 
 A prize he would not part with, though his scrip's 
 
 Last crust of bread sliould pass liis famished hps! 
 
 Oft, in my boyliood, I remember well, 
 
 On yonder hill, I've heard the hero tell 
 
 His battle-deeds, and seen his eye-balls roll 
 
 With British fire, the lightning of his soul, 
 
 As of the last of all his fields ho spoke. 
 
 When, proudly spurning the fell tyrant's yoke. 
 
 Old England's Lion, with majestic frown. 
 
 Insulting Gallia's Eagle trampled down ! 
 
 But now, unpensioned, his the shameful doom 
 
 To pine I — and toil incessant at the loom ! 
 
 Alas ! must one, whose sword's avenging blow 
 
 Scarce fell in battle, but there fell a foe, 
 
 Ignobly toil, with ineffectual skill, 
 
 To earn subsistence, and be vTctched still ? 
 
 Was it for this the brunt of war ho stood ? 
 
 Fortius he fought; for this he shed his blood? 
 
 The guerdon this — a hfe of want and woes — 
 
 Which thankless Britain on her sons bestows ? 
 
 Let laurels crown the chieftain ; let his name 
 
 Swell in the song, and fill the trump of fame ; 
 
 But let not those whose valour won the field — 
 
 Their country's best — impenetrable shield — 
 
 Pine in the land that gave such heroes birth ; 
 
 They, too, deserve some recompense for worth ; 
 
 Some comforts welling from the springs that prove 
 
 A nation's gratitude, a nation's love! 
 
 If not, brave veteran, happier far thy doom 
 
 In the red battle to have found a tomb ! 
 
 Then, then, at least, thy country's tears that fall 
 
 Not for one hero only — but for all — 
 
 Had o'er thy grave, in generous grief, been shed, 
 
 And thou hadst slumbered with illustrious dead.
 
 168 EMMA. 
 
 VI. 
 
 At littlo distance on tluit rising ground 
 A cottage stands with ivy mantled round. 
 How sweet the thoughts that now, spontaneous, rise 
 In memoiy's slu-ine, like day-dawn on the skies. 
 While, as I gaze, the pictures of my youth 
 Seem to revive with all their light and truth ! 
 Amid those shrubbery leaves, the rosy hue 
 Of lovely Emma's cheek, appears to view. 
 Fresh in young beauty, as that queenly flower, 
 Xow sweetly peering from its leafy bower. 
 In this blest spot, each flower, and shrub, and tree, 
 Speaks with mute eloquence, dear Maid, of thee. 
 List ! hear I not, yon rustic shade beneath, 
 Angelic voices mellow music breathe ; 
 Soft words revealing, redolent of love. 
 Such as young hearts to holiest rapture move ? 
 Away, thou dreamer of departed years ! 
 Delusive fancy but delays thy tears ! 
 The blooming pair, from whom such strains arose 
 Sweetly commingled, at the daylight's close. 
 Like flames which from two altars placed anigh. 
 Mix into one, as they ascend on high — 
 Were reft asunder by a cruel sire, 
 Who never felt affection's hallowed fire. 
 The hapless youth, his Emma's love denied, 
 In lonely sadness, broken-hearted, died ! 
 And she, the once dear charmer of his heart. 
 Dwells there, in faithful widowhood, apart 
 From aU the world, with that blind Aged One, 
 Now seated knitting on the gi'ey bench-stone 
 Beside the door — so still, serene, and mild. 
 Chastised by sorrow, yet quite reconciled 
 To all her wise Creator has assigned : [mind. 
 
 Though dark her outward orbs — Heaven's glories fill her
 
 EMMA. 1C9 
 
 Sweet Emma ! (oh ! the melancholy task 
 Of one so lovely, and beloved, to ask !) 
 Art thou compelled to bend thy angel form 
 To the rude blasts of penury's bitter storm ? 
 Art thou, whose faeiy feet I've thought had wings — 
 Feet that had graced the palaces of kings — 
 Forced like too many of thy sex, (sad doom !) 
 To urge the hissing shuttle tlu-ough the loom ? 
 "Wliile down thy raven locks, thy cheeks of snow, 
 (How blooming once !) the frequent toU-drops flow, 
 Wrung from a brow that, garlanded with flowers, 
 The breeze had wooed in Love's elysian bowers. 
 
 But yet, dear maid, I glory to impart, 
 Led by the filial impulse of thy heart, 
 Thou toUcst on, M-ith unexampled zeal, 
 Not for thy own, but for thy parent's weal ; 
 Who else might sink with sorrow to the grave. 
 No hand but thine to succour and to save. 
 And hark ! how sweet and cheery is the lay. 
 With which that kind heart wiles its cares away ! 
 As if that cottage were a palace rife 
 With all the comforts, all the joys of life ! 
 
 Sing on, thou blest One ! unto thco is given 
 The secret manna of approving Heaven ! 
 Thy springs of grief are changed by power Divine, 
 Like C ana's waters, into holy wine ; 
 And sweeter far thy portion to assuage. 
 And soothe the woes of venerable Age, 
 Than if ennobled by illustrious bu-th. 
 Beloved, adored, by all the great on earth.
 
 170 MAMMON-JUSTICE. 
 
 Sweet, as the odour of the woodbine curled 
 Around that cottage portal, to the world 
 Of female beauty, a rich moral breathes 
 Its fragrance from our humble tale, and wroatlies 
 For Emma a meet chaplet, brighter far 
 Than coronal, with diamond-mimic star, 
 And glittering jewels blazoned : — Holy Love 
 Fixed once, and fixed forever ! — She will prove 
 True to the Dead, although the world would now 
 Absolve her freely from her virgin vow ! — 
 Pure, filial dovotodness — a soul 
 Of noble fortitude, above control 
 Of fortune's wooing favour, or her frown ! 
 These are the amaranths that form thy crown, 
 Sweet Maid of Mvtiiolm ! — Dofi", ye damsels proud, 
 Your tinsel finery I — 'tis a gaudy cloud 
 'Tween you and virtue ! "Win and wear a WTeath, 
 Whose fragrance will survive the chill of death, 
 And hallow loving memory's inner shrine, 
 When all your oartlily charms have ceased to shine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Woo to the land ! where Avarice reigns supreme,* 
 And all, save wealth, is deemed an idle dream ; — 
 Where human life is held to be no more, 
 In face of heaven, than malleable ore,t 
 From which are formed the chain that binds the slave, 
 The assassin's poniard, picklock of the knave. 
 Besides the sword that doth defend or rule. 
 The feeding ploughshare, and mechanic tool ; — 
 
 * " That gigantic error— to which wc trace our awful dangers— the con- 
 founding tlio Nation's welfare with the Nation's wealth ; and the 
 making Monev the standard of all Utility. "—Dublin Univ. Mag. July, 1844. 
 
 ■t ride Coleridge's Lay Sermons, pp. 406—7.
 
 THE NEW TOOK LAW. 171 
 
 "Where jaundice-eyed Utility surveys, 
 
 And in the balance of the market weighs, * 
 
 Genius and talents — all pursuits as vain. 
 
 Save those subservient to the ends of gain ; — 
 
 Where consciences are daily bought and sold 
 
 "SYliolesalo, like other merchandise, for gold ;-^ 
 
 Where he — who, yesterday before his fall, 
 
 Absorbed the widow's and the orphan's all, 
 
 The gentle sister's dower, the labourer's hoard — 
 
 Self-robbery of comfort, to afford 
 
 A little harvest, with a forethought sage, 
 
 For the dark winter of approaching age — 
 
 To-day, a villain that defrauds the block. 
 
 Spreads ruin round, as with an eai'thquako's shock ; 
 
 But, on the morroxu, from the putrid mass 
 
 Of fraud and folly, with a face of brass. 
 
 Rises a phoenix 'mong the sons of Trade, 
 
 More glorious for the mis'ry he has made. 
 
 And smiles, unsmitten by the public scorn, 
 
 On all he rendered wretched and forlorn ;— 
 
 Where Cliristian Mammonists, world-honoured saints,! 
 
 Whose " vhtuous seeming" scandal ne'er attaints, 
 
 Add to the Decalogue command the eleventh, 
 
 " Servo Self six days, and God on half the seventh," 
 
 And think that they, without or stop or halt. 
 
 Without a whisper of imputed fault. 
 
 Shall pass, with all their treasure heaped on high, 
 
 Like laden camels, through the needle's eye, 
 
 If from their hoard — acquhed by moans that make 
 
 E'en the scared conscience of the guilty quake — 
 
 They aid with full, but ostentatious, hands, % 
 
 The spread of Gospel truths in heathen lands ; 
 
 # ride note at the cud. t Vide note at the end. t I'ide note at the end.
 
 172 THE LANDLOllDS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 And yot, mof?t economkalJy just, 
 If but tho poor, wliom tlioy liavo ground to dust, 
 Claim as a riglit, what Justice sealed of yore, 
 Food and a homo, when they can toil no more, 
 They bid them seek — for poverty'' s leprous sin — 
 Food and a homo tho Bastilo's walls within! 
 AVhorc all the blessed sanctities of life, 
 Tho hallowed union between man and wife, 
 Which Heaven declared no human hand should ever 
 Presume in wanton cruelty to sever, 
 And those dear ties, all earthly ties above, 
 Twined round tho offspring of connubial lovo, 
 Are with a brutal callousness — alas ! 
 For Christian England ! — trampled on as grass ; 
 As if love were a luxury, that Heaven 
 Denied the poor, and to tho rich had given ! 
 
 VHI. 
 Alas ! and must it now be said of you, 
 Landlords of England ! that ye seek tho clew 
 That leads to Mammon's temple, with a zeal 
 Equal to that tho brute-god's votaries feel ? 
 On your broad acres, like your sires of old, 
 A numerous tenantry do you behold, 
 Happy in ample farmsteads, a bravo band. 
 That round their lords would rally, heart and hand 'i 
 The Mammonite, when commerce failed to yield 
 A bounteous harvest, in its wonted field. 
 Toadied, unspurned by lothiug honour's spear. 
 And chinked his red gold in your greedy ear ! 
 Soon the small farms, that erst from sire to son 
 Passed as an heir-loom, were absorbed in one 
 Of twice ten hundred acres ;* and ye saw 
 The usurping demon, with his iron paw, 
 
 * J'kle note at the end.
 
 THE LANDLORDS OF ENGLAND. 173 
 
 Dash down the rustic homesteads, and drive forth 
 
 To glut the gloomy factories of the north, 
 
 Those swains whoso fathers, in the good old days. 
 
 Repaid with love their honoured masters' praise ! 
 
 Yes, ye beheld your ancient tenants sold 
 
 As Mammon's slaves, and chuckled o'er your gold ! 
 
 Dead to tho ennobling pride of old renown, 
 
 Which rustic virtue cherished as its own, 
 
 And felt more joy, gui with a fiery wall 
 
 Of bold brave heaits, ready to stand or fall 
 
 For then- loved homes and England, than be lord 
 
 Of all tho ill-gotten wealth that Millocrats up-hoard. 
 
 France* — though foiled once — a couchant tiger lies 
 Beyond tho Channel still, and with fixed eyes. 
 Waits but the dawn of England's evil day. 
 Her lothed disgrace with vengeance to repay. 
 Blow ye the war-blast then thi'ough your wide lands ! — 
 Will a brave tenantry rise up in bands. 
 As at the trump of resurrection morn. 
 And crowd your standard ? Echo's mocking horn 
 Will be your only answer ; for tho dead. 
 That, when alive, on Bastilo bounty fed. 
 Sleep in theu' quiet graves ; and those they left, 
 Offspring of woo, by factory toil bereft 
 Of hope, of health, and comfort — wUl they come 
 And battle with you for your ancient homo ? 
 
 Sound ye the trumpet ! — what from those rank dons. 
 Where ruthless Mammon his sad victims pens 
 
 * Let the head of Louis I'liillipe be laid low — may that day be far dis- 
 tant I— and woe to England':) and Euroiie's peace.—" Coming events cast 
 their shadows before."
 
 174 TIIK LANDLOrxDS Or ENGLAND. 
 
 Twelve legalised hours of labour, fraught M'ith pahi, 
 
 To feed his maw, while they scarce food can gain, 
 
 Will greet your summons ? " Why arc yo dismayed V 
 
 To your own Baal cry aloud for aid : 
 
 lie may send hirelings, though otfire he lack, 
 
 To smito your foo, and drive him howling back : 
 
 Cut we, whoso fathers toiled for yours and you, 
 
 "Wo whom ye spurned as a redundant crew 
 
 From our old ivied homes, and sunny hills, 
 
 To waste away in these detested mills — 
 
 AVhat lot have we with you ? Look on us now — 
 
 Care's iron brand is stampt on every brow ! 
 
 These crippled limbs can yo expect to wield 
 
 The spear and musket in the battle-field ? 
 
 Think ye, our hearts, now almost turned to stone, 
 
 Glow with that love our sires were proud to own '^ 
 
 Prate not of freedom ! we are under thrall 
 
 To Mammon, the worst taskmaster of all ! 
 
 O gloi-ious privilege ! to feel that we 
 
 Are free to eat the bread of poverty 
 
 In life-consuming toil, or starve and die 
 
 In pauper-cells, in pauper-graves to lie ! 
 
 " Freedom in England ! sheer fanfaronade ! 
 Her sons are serfs to demou-hcai-ted Trade ; 
 AVho, when the gale of fortune prosperous pi'oves, 
 Sliouts through his brazen trumpet, to the droves 
 Of sweltering human cattle, * Work I work ! work ! 
 Take this, or starve!' But if the transient smirk 
 On fortune's features, glooms into a frown. 
 The sullen demon throws his trumpet down. 
 And turns his slaves adrift, to prowl about 
 The lofty streets, where luxury looks out
 
 OLD ENGLISH PHILANTHROPY. 175 
 
 Through gorgeous windows, with a flaunting show, 
 To mock them in their wretchedness and woo ! 
 And if, at last, when goaded on by want, 
 And factious demagogues (of which no scant 
 In evil days,) they rebels turn, — the law 
 Pounces upon them with relentless paw. 
 And sends them, sad exchange of miseries. 
 To toil and groan in chains beyond the seas ! 
 
 "Blow ye the trumpet, blow I — Aha! did you 
 Come to oiiiV aid, when noble Ashley blew 
 The blast of freedom for the factoi^ slaves ? 
 Ye trembled ; and your souls from out the graves 
 Of sordid selfishness, came forth, and stood 
 Rebuked, half-christianised, before the good 
 And great apostle, who, with virtuous ruth, 
 Pleaded the cause of righteousness and truth ; 
 And ye were then for mercy ! — Goodness wai'm 
 Melted your frozen feelings — but the charm 
 Soon ceased to work I — ye looked upon your gold. 
 And then your heails, as heretofore, gi-ow cold ! 
 The morrow saw ye honour and shame outbrave. 
 And rivet the bonds that bind the factory slave ; 
 Saw ye — and blushed the lothsomo deed to tell — 
 Join the rude Mammonites' insulting yell 
 Of savage triumph, when the illustrious youth 
 Left the stained hall, omnipotent in truth. 
 Blow ye the trumpet, when the foe shall come ! 
 Read our keaHs' answer — let it strike you dumb !" * 
 
 IX. 
 
 There was a time, when English hearts could feel, 
 Ere Mammon closed them with a gate of steel ; — 
 
 * /'((/t' note at the end.
 
 17G OLD ENGLISH PHILANTUROI'Y. 
 
 When poverty, thcat may o'crtakc us all, 
 
 Was not deemed sin as heinous as the Fall ; — 
 
 When man was weighed and valued — not for pelf — 
 
 But moral virtues centi'cd in himself; — 
 
 When Charity, ere it began to roam, 
 
 AVas first the ti'uo Samaritan at home, 
 
 Making the widow's cruise o'ei-flow with oil. 
 
 The fatherless to lift then- heads and smile ; — 
 
 When Bible laws — laws of the King of Kings — 
 
 Not of the Triune Tyranny that wrings 
 
 The life-blood from the poor, through lust of gain, 
 
 And smiles in mockery, if they dare complain — 
 
 Were reverenced ; and those whom Heaven had blessed 
 
 With overflowing m-ns, themselves confessed 
 
 God's almoners, and from their ample store, 
 
 With liberal hand, provided for the poor. 
 
 Crowning with comfort each dear cottage bower, 
 
 Where wedded love, and love's connubial dower. 
 
 Sanctioned of Heaven, by no Malthusian creed 
 
 Were doomed to sever, in the hour of need ; — 
 
 And when the wretch, who lured from virtue's path 
 
 The trusting damsel, 'scaped not from the wrath 
 
 Of an oflended law, which visited 
 
 Not the whole guilt upon the frail One's head, 
 
 As doth the mercy of this golden age 
 
 By statute demoniacally sago. 
 
 Giving free license for seduction's sin 
 
 To every hardened, vicious libertine, 
 
 And leaving the lone Ruined One to bear 
 
 The brunt of shame, or if she shun it, tear 
 
 Tlie mother frmn her heart, and sjrill the blood 
 
 Of her poor infant ere it draim its food ! 
 
 Then, in atonement for her crime, must be 
 
 Condemned to hang upon the gallows-tree ;
 
 CHRISTIAN MAMMONISTS, 177 
 
 AVhile he, the greater criminal, wlio fii'st 
 Destroyed lier virtue, by vile arts accursed, 
 Beholds, jierchauce, with ribaldry and mirth, 
 That form suspended between heaven and earth, 
 lie fondly clasped ; and hastes, unscathed, away, 
 To make some other female dupe his pi-ey ! 
 
 Hencefoi-th, ye Christian Mammonists,* until 
 By deeds, not words. Heaven's mandate ye fulfd, 
 And maim your brute Law's homicidal hand. 
 Confine the gospel to your native land. 
 Lest with th;it boon, you propagate th(^ boil 
 Of damning Avarice to a foreign soil. 
 And teach its dusky dwellers to adore 
 The god you serve, and grind and starve the poor ! 
 Think not, because unvisited as yet 
 Your cruel wrongs, the Eternal will forget 
 To launch the bolt of his consuming wrath, 
 If ye repent not, on your crooked path : 
 In vain, rebellious, ye lift up your horn ! 
 The Lord of Hosts, the King of Kings, hath svv(jrn, 
 He will defend the poor, nor fail to sli<'d 
 His cup of vengeance on the oppressor's head. 
 O may your souls' long-worshipped Dagon fall 
 Before the cross of Him who died for all ; 
 And, at its touch divine, your hearts o'erflow. 
 Like lloreb's rock, in Israel's day of woe, 
 With gladdening waters, whoso unfailing spring 
 May cause with joy the sous of want to sing. 
 
 t.ND (U- HOOK V. 
 
 * fide note at the ciiJ. 
 M
 
 NOTES TO BOOK V. 
 
 (Page 159, line 15.) 
 
 In long grim lines, the many-windowed mills. 
 
 Wordsnorth, in his " Excursion," has some very forcible lines on this 
 subject, whicli I am sure the reader will thank me for transcribing. 
 
 " When soothing darkness spreads 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 
 His recollections, " and the punctual stars, 
 While all things else are gathering to their homes, 
 Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
 Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed ; 
 As if their silent company were charged 
 With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
 Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord ; 
 Then, in full many a region, once like this 
 The assured domain of calm simplicity 
 And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
 Prepared for never-resting labour's eyes, 
 Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge ; 
 And at the appointed hour a bell is hoard ; 
 Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll 
 That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — 
 A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
 Disgorged are now the ministers ot day ; 
 And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 
 A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door, 
 .\nd in the courts — and where the rumbling stream. 
 That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 
 Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 
 Among tlie rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 
 Mother and little children, boys and girls. 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 Within this temple, where is olfcred up 
 To Gain, the master idol of the realm. 
 Perpetual sacrifice."
 
 180 NOTES TO BOOK V. 
 
 (rage IGO, line y.) 
 
 Trained to no toils that prison thought and hnib. 
 
 " The Father, if perchanec he still retain 
 His old employments, goes to field or wood. 
 No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
 Idlers perchance they were,— but in his sight ; 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; 
 Till their short holiday of childhood ceased. 
 Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost. 
 Economists will tell you that the State 
 Thrives by the forfeiture— unfeeling thought, 
 And false as monstrous ! Can the mother thrive 
 Uy the destruction of her innocent sons, 
 In whom a premature necessity 
 Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes 
 The reason, famishes tlio heart, shuts up 
 The infant Being in itself, and makes 
 Its very spring a season of decay ! 
 The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
 Whether a pining discontent survive. 
 And thirst for change ; or liabit hath subdued 
 Tho soul deprest, dejected— even to love 
 Of her close tasks, and long captivity." 
 
 H'ordsKort/i. 
 
 (Page 162, line 3.) 
 
 Primeval tenants of my native hills ! 
 
 " Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
 A native Briton to these inward chains, 
 Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep ; 
 Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 
 He is a slave to whom release comes not. 
 And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns. 
 Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
 Among the clouds, and roars through ancient woods ; 
 Or when the sun is shining in the east. 
 Quiet and calm. Behold him— in the school 
 Of his attainments ? No ; but with the air 
 Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 
 His raiments, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes 
 Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes.
 
 NOTES TO BOOK V. 181 
 
 Creeping his gait antl cowering, his lip pale, 
 
 His respiration quiclc and audible ; 
 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
 
 Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush 
 
 Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
 
 Is that the countenance, and such the port, 
 
 Of no mean Being ? One who should be clotlicd 
 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
 
 Who in his very childhood, should appear 
 
 SubUme from present purity and joy ! 
 
 The limbs increase ; but this organic Frame, 
 
 So gladsome in its motions, is become 
 
 Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead ; 
 
 And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 
 
 Through the whole body, with a languid will 
 
 Performs its functions ; rarely competent 
 
 To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
 
 The gentle visitations of the sun, 
 
 Or lapse of liquid element — by hand. 
 
 Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth— perceived. 
 
 — Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 
 
 On such foundations ?" 
 
 " Hope is none for him !" 
 The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
 " And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 (Page 163, line 13.) 
 Oh Trade I where are the blessings in thy train. 
 
 " The rapid wealth which hundreds in the community acquire in trade, 
 or by the incessant expansions of our population and arts, enchants the 
 eyes of all the rest ; the luck of one is the hope of thousands, and the prox- 
 imity of the bribe acts like the neighbourhood of a gold mine to impoverish 
 tlie farm, the school, the church, tlie house, and the very body and feature 
 of man. 
 
 " I do not wish to look with sour aspect at the industrious manufacturing 
 village, or the mart of commerce. I love the music of the water-wheel ; I 
 value the railway ; I feel the jiride wliich tlic siglit of a ship inspires ; I look 
 <in trade and every mcclianical craft ns education also. But let mc dis- 
 criminate what is precious herein. T/wrc is in I'lw/t tf llu'sv works one act of 
 invention, one inlelleduul step, or s/iort series of steps taken ; t/iut act or step is
 
 182 NOTES TO UOOK V. 
 
 the spiritual act: all the rest is mere repetition (if the same a Iknusaiid times. 
 And I will not be doceivcil into admiring the routine of handicrafts and 
 mechanics, how splendid soever the result, any more than I admire the 
 routine of the scholars or clerical class. That splendid results ensue from 
 the labours of stupid men, is the fruit of higiior laws than their will, and 
 the routine is not to bo praised for it. / wuiild not have the la/wurer sacri. 
 ficed to the splendid result,— I would not have the lahonrer sacrificed to my 
 convenience and pride, nor to that of a great class of such as me. Let there 
 BE WORSE COTTON AND BETTEE MEN. Vw Weaver should not be bereaved of 
 that nobility which comes from the superiority to his work, and the knowledge 
 that the product or the skill is a momentary end of no value, except so far as it 
 embodies his spiritual prerogatives. If I see nothing to admire in the unit, 
 shall I admu'o a million units ? Men stand In awe of the city, but do not 
 honour any individual citizen ; and are continually yielding to tliis dazzling 
 result of numbers, that which they would never yield to the solitary exam- 
 ple of any onei."— Emerson' a Orations. 
 
 (Page 160, line 2.) 
 
 Slaves herd with Slaves! the Free dwell with the Free! 
 
 Emerson, in a " Lecture on some of the prominent features of the Present. 
 Age, read before the Mechanics' Apprentices^ Library Association, at the 
 Masonic Temple, Boston, U.S." says, " The ways of trade are grown selfish 
 to the borders (if not beyond the borders) of fraud. The employments of 
 commerce are not intrinsically unfit for a man, or less genial to his 
 faculties ; but these are now in their general course so vitiated by derelic- 
 tions and abuses, at which all connive, that it requires more vigour and 
 resources than can be expected of every young man to right himself 
 in them ; he is lost in them ; ho cannot move hand or foot in them. Has 
 he genius and virtue ? the less does ho find them fit for him to grow in ; 
 and if ho would thrive in them, ho must sacrifice all the brilliant dreams 
 of boyhood and youth as dreams ; he must forget the prayers of his cliild- 
 hood, and must take on him the harness of routine and obsequiousness. 
 If not so minded, nothing is left him but to begin the world anew, as he 
 does who puts the spade into the ground for food. Wo are all impUcated, 
 of course, in this charge ; it is only necessary to ask a few questions as to 
 the progress of the articles of commerce from the fields where they grew, 
 to our houses, to become aware that we eat and drink, and wear perjury 
 and fraud in a hundred commodities. * * # I content myself with the 
 fact, that the general system of our trade, (apart from the blacker traits, 
 which, I hope, arc exceptions denounced and unshared by all reputable 
 men,) is a system of selfishness ; is not dictated by the high sentiments of 
 human nature ; is not measuied by the exact law of reciiirocity, much less
 
 NbTES TO BOOK V. 183 
 
 by the sentiments of love and heroism : but is a system of distrust, of con- 
 cealment, of superior keenness, not of giving, but of taking advantage. It 
 is not that jr/iich a man delights to unlock to a noble friend ; which he medi- 
 tates ontcith joy and self-approval in his hour of love and aspiration ; but 
 rather that which he then puts out of sight, only showing the brilliant result, 
 and atoning for the manner of acquiring, by the manner of expending it. I do 
 not charge tlie merchant or the manufacturer. The sins of our trade be- 
 long to no class, to no individual. One plucks, one distributes, one eats. 
 Everybody partakes, everybody confesses,— with cap and knee volunteers 
 his confession, yet none feels himself accountable. He did not create the 
 abuse ; he cannot alter it ; what is he ? an obscm-e private person who 
 must get his bread. That is the vice, that no one feels himself called 
 TO ACT FOB MAN, BUT ONLY AS A FRACTION OF MAN. It happens, therefore, 
 that all such ingenuous souls as feel within themselves the u-repressible 
 strivings of a noble aim ; who, by the law of their nature, must act for 
 man ; find these ways of trade unfit for them, and they come forth ft-om 
 it. Such cases are becoming more numerous every year." These remarks, 
 though made in reference to the trade of America, will apply with equal 
 force to that of Great Britain. 
 
 (Page 171, Une 2.) 
 
 And in the balance of the market weighs. 
 
 " We are— and, till its good purposes, which are many, have been all 
 achieved, and we can become something better, long may we continue 
 
 such ! a busy, enterprising, and commercial nation. The habits attached 
 
 to this character must, if there exist no adequate counterpoise, inevitably 
 lead us, under the specious names of utility, practical knowledge, and so forth, 
 to look at all tilings through the medium of the market, and to estimate the 
 worth of all pursuits and attainments by their marketable value. In tliis does 
 the spirit of trade consist." — Coleridge's Lay Sermons, p. 382. 
 
 (Page 171, line 21.) 
 
 Where Christian Mammouists, world-honoured saints. 
 
 " If the inquiring traveller's way," as the same searching writer remarks, 
 " should lie through our great towns and mamifacturing districts, instances 
 would grow cheap with him of wealtliy religious practitioners, who never 
 travel for orders without cards of edification in prose or verse, and small 
 tracts of admonition and instruction, all ' plain and easy, and suited to tlic 
 meanest capacities ;' who pray daily, as the lirst act of the morning and
 
 104 NOTES TO BOOK V. 
 
 as t)ic Inst of the evening — Li'ad us 7wt into teniptalion ; bjil delirer its from 
 er,il ! and employ all the interval with an edge of appetite keen as the scjthe 
 of death in tlut ]mrsuit of jet more and yet more of a temptation so perilous 
 that (as they liiive full often read, and heard read, without the least ques- 
 tioninp, or wliisper of doubt) no power short of omnipotence could make 
 tlicir deliverance from it credible or conceivable." 
 
 (Page 171, lino 81.) 
 
 They aid with full, but ostentatious, hands, 
 
 " For that superior morality, of ivhich we hear so much, wo too would 
 desire to be tliankful : at the same time, it were but blindness to deny that 
 this superior morality is properly rather an 'inferior criminality,' produced 
 not by greater love of virtue, but by greater perfection of rolice ; and of 
 that far subtler and stronger Police, called Public Opinion. Tliis last 
 watches over us with its Argus eyes more keenly than ever ; but the 
 'inward eye' seems heavy with sleep. Of any belief in invisible, divine 
 things, we find as few traces in our morality as elsewhere. It is by tan- 
 gible, material considerations that we are guided, not by inward and 
 spiritual. Self-denial, the parent of all virtue, in any true sense of that 
 word, has perhaps seldom been rarer; so rare is it, that the most, even in 
 their abstract speculations, regard its existence as a chimera. Virtue is 
 Pleasure, is Profit ; no celestial, but an earthly thing. Virtuous men, 
 Philanthropists, Martyrs, are happy accidents ; their ' taste' lies the right 
 way ! In all senses, we worship and follow after Power ; which may be 
 called a physical pursiut. No man now loves Truth, as Truth must be 
 loved, witli an infinite love ; but only with a finite love, and as it were pnr 
 amours. Nay, properly spealdng, he does not believe and know it, but only 
 ' thinks' it, and that ' there is a probability !' lie preaches it aloud, and 
 rushes courageously forth with it, — if there is a miittitude huzzaing at his 
 back; yet ever ket-ps loaking over his shoulder, and the instant the huzzaing 
 languishes, he stops short. In fact what morality we have takes the shape of 
 Ambition, of Honour : beyond money and money's worth, our only ralioyial 
 blessedness is Popularity, It were but a fool's trick to die for conscience. 
 Only for ' character,' by duel, or in case of extremity, by suicide, is the wise 
 man bound to die. By arguing on the ' force of circumstances,' we have 
 argued away all force from ourselves ; and stand leashed together, uniform 
 in dress and movement, like the rowers of some boundless galley. This and 
 that may be right and true ; but we must not do it. Wonderful ' Force of 
 Public Opinion !' We must act and walk in all points as it prescribes ; 
 follow the traffic it bids us, realize the sum of money, the degree of ' influ- 
 ence' it expects of us, or we shall be lightly esteemed ; certain mouthfuls of 
 articulate wind will be blown at us, and this what mortal courage can
 
 NOTES TO BOOK V. 105 
 
 front ? Thus while civil liberty is more and more secured to us, our moral 
 liberty is all but lost. I'ractically considered, our creed is Fatalism ; and 
 free in hand and foot, we are shackled in heart and soul, with far straitor 
 than feudal chains. Truly we may say with the Thilosopher, ' the deep 
 meaning of the Laws of Mechanism lies heavy upon us ;' and in the closet, 
 iu the market-place, in the temple, by the social hearth, encumbers the 
 whole movements of our mind, and over our noblest faculties is spreading 
 a nightmare &\Qep."—Carlyle's Miscellanies, 
 
 (Page 172, Uno 31.) 
 Of twico ton hundred acres ; and yo saw. 
 
 In the Report of the Board of Agriculture for 181 G, will be found a com- 
 munication from the Earl of Winchelsea, in which his Lordship, speaking 
 of the causes which oppose all attempts to better the labourers' condition, 
 mentions, as one great cause, the dislike the farmers in general have to 
 seeing the labourers rent any land. " Terhaps," he continues, " one of the 
 reasons for their disliking this is, that the land, if not occupied by the 
 labom-ers, would fall to their own share ; and another 1 am afraid is, that 
 they rather wish to have the Labourers more dependent upon them ; for 
 which reasons they are always desirous of hiring the house and land occu- 
 pied by a labourer, under pretence, that by those means the landlord will 
 be secure of his rent, and that they will keep the house in repair. This the 
 agents of estates are too apt to give into, as they find it much less trouble 
 to meet six than sixty tenants at a rent-day, and by these means avoid tho 
 being sometimes obliged to hear the wants and complaints of the poor. 
 All parties therefore join in persuading the landlord, who it is natural to 
 suppose (unless he has time and inclination to investigate tho matter more 
 closely) will agree to this their plan, from the manner in which it comes 
 recommended to him : and it is in this manner that the labourers have 
 been dispossessed of their cow-pastures in various parts of tho midland 
 counties. The moment the farmer obtains his wish, he takes every particle of 
 the land to himself, and re-lets the honse to the labourer, who by these means 
 is rendered miserable ; the poor-rate is increased ; the v.alue of the estate to 
 the land-owner is diminished ; and the house suft'erod to go to decay ; which 
 once fallen, the tenant will never rebuild, but the landlord must, at a con- 
 siderable expense. Whoever travels through tho midland counties, and 
 will take the trouble of iiiquii'ing, will generally receive for answer, that 
 formerly there were a great many cottagers who kejit cows, but that the laud 
 is now thrown to the farmers ; and if he inquires, still farther, he will find 
 tli.-it in those parishes the poor-rates have been increased in an amazing 
 degree, more than according to the average rise throughout England." 
 " In confirmation of his Lordship's stutcnieut," says (.'uleridge, " I find in
 
 180 NOTES TO KOOK V. 
 
 the Agricultural Reports, that the county, in which I read of nothing but 
 fanns of 1000, 1500, 2000, and '-'500 acres, is likewise that in which tlic poor- 
 rates are most numerous, the distresses of the poor most grievous, and the 
 prevalence of revolutionary principles the most alarming. But if we con- 
 sider tliB subject on tlio largest scale and nationally, the consequences are, 
 that the most imiiortant rounds in the social ladder are broken, and the 
 hope which above all other things distinguishes the free man from the 
 slave, is extinguished. The peasantry therefore are eager to have their children 
 add as early as possible to their wretched pittances, by letting them out to ma- 
 nufactories ; while the youths take every opportunity of escaping to touns and 
 cities." And who does not recollect the crowds, nay even boat-leads of 
 fine healthy-looking children, male and female, sent, a few years ago when 
 trade happened to be brisk, from the agricultural districts, like so many 
 little felons, for incarceration in the factories of the northern districts 1 
 
 " The manufacturing system," says a writer in the Dublin University 
 Magazine, for July, 184i, "has met with every legislative encouragement, 
 because it swelled the purse ; whUe but few statesmen have considered how 
 far it was consistent with the laws of that political economy which leaches 
 how man can be made happiest in time, and can be best prepared for 
 eternity. The same love of money has been the root of cvU in our agricul- 
 tural concerns. The same idolatry of Mammon has depopulated our hamlets, 
 and substituted the factory system over all the plains of merry England; 
 because more capital can be realised, by largefarms o/'lflOO acres, cultivated by 
 serfs, thati by an allotment, by which 'every rood of ground maintained its man,' 
 and whidi would cover our land with a population like that of God's chosen 
 nation, ' when Judah and Israel were many, as the sand is by the sea, 
 in multitude, eating and drinking, and making merry — and Judah and 
 Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vino and under his tig-tree.' 
 (I Kings iv. L'0-5.) 
 
 (Page 175, line 28.) 
 Road our hearts' answer — ^let it strike you dumb ! 
 
 Coleridge states that while he was on the shores of Loch Katrine, he 
 heard a tale told of a " Laird w ho had raised a company from the country 
 round about, for the love that was borne to his name, and who gained high 
 preferment in consequence : and that it was but a small part of those that 
 , he took away whom he brought back again. And what were the thanks 
 .i^_3lnch the folks had both for those that came back >vith him, some bhnd, 
 and more in danger of bUndness ; and for those that had perished in the 
 hospitals, and for those that fell in battle, fighting before or beside him ? 
 li'hy, tliat their falhers were all turned out of their farms before the year was 
 over, and sent to wander like so many gi/isies, unless they woidd consent to
 
 NOTES TO COOK V. 187 
 
 shed their grey hairs, at ten-pence a-day, over the new canals. Had tliere 
 been a price set upon his head, and his enemies coming upon him, he 
 needed but have whistled, and a hundred brave lads would have made a 
 wall of fire round about him with the flash oi thoir broad swords ! Now if 
 the French should come among us, as (it is said) they will, let him whistle 
 to his sheep, and see if they will fight for him !" He afterwards adds, 
 " The frequency with which I heard, during my solitary walk from the end 
 of Loch Lomond to Inverness, confident expectations of the kind expressed 
 iu the concluding words of the last speaker — nay far too often eager hopes 
 mingled with vindictive resolves — I spoke of with complaint and regret to 
 an elderly man, whom by his dress and way of speaking I took to be a 
 schoolmaster. Long shall I recollect his reply : ' 0, Sir, it kills a man's 
 locefur his country, the hardships of life coming by change and injustice !' " 
 
 (Page 177, Uno 7.) 
 Henceforth, ye Christian Mammonists, until. 
 
 " We have religious machines, of all Imaginable varieties ; tlie Bible 
 Society, professing a far higher and heavenly structure, is found on in- 
 quiry, to be altogether an earthly contrivance ; supported by collection of 
 monies, by fomenting of vanities, by puffing, intrigue, and chicane ; a 
 machine /or converting the Heathen. * # # 
 
 " Keligion in most countries, more or less in every country, is no longer 
 what it was, and should be,— a thousand voiced psalm from the heart of 
 Man to his invisible Father, the fountain of all Goodness, Beauty, Truth, 
 and revealed in every revelation of these ; but for the most part, a wise 
 prudential feeUng grounded on mere calculation ; a matter, as all others 
 now are, of Expediency and UtiUty ; whereby some smaller quantum of 
 oai'thly enjoyment may be exchanged for a far larger quantum of celestial 
 enjoyment. Thus Religion too is Profit ; a working lor wages ; not Rever- 
 ence, but vulgar Hope or Fear. Many, we know, very many, we hope, are 
 Btill religious in a far different sense ; were it not so, our case were too des- 
 perate : but to ivitness that such is the temper of the times, wo take any 
 calm observant man, who agrees or disagrees in our feeling on the matter, 
 and ask him whether our view of it is not in general well-founded."— 
 Carlyle's Miscellanies.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE 
 
 OR, THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 QepcTLTTjs S en [lovvos d/xerpoeTr^s eVoXcoa, 
 "Os 'p' eVea (pp€(7\i' rjaiv ciKoafxa re ttoXXu re tjSr], 
 Ma\|^, CLTCip ov Kara koctjxov, ipi^epevai f^aaiKevcrw 
 'AXX', o, rt ol e'iijaiTo yeXotiov ^Apyeioicnv 
 "Ep-Hevai ' aiax'-O'Tos 8e dvTjp vivo ' \Xiov fjkOe ' 
 ^oKkus t-qv, ;^a)Xos S" erepov TToSa * to) Be oi cop,u> 
 Kupro), eVi (TTr]6<)>i (Tvvo)(a)K<JTe ' avTcip vivepQe 
 i^u^os erjv Ke({)aKr)v, yl^edvi] 6' enevfjvode Xux^r]. 
 
 IAIAA02 B.
 
 "THE DEnTLL THET SAT IS DEAD! 
 THE DEUII.L IS DEAD ! 
 IT MAY WEL SO BE ; 
 OR ELS THEY WOLD BEE 
 OTHEUWISE, AND FLEE 
 FROM WORLDLY VANITIE, 
 AND FOULE COVETOUSNES 
 AND OTHER WKETCIIEDNES, 
 
 FICKELL FALSENESSE, 
 VARYABLENESSE 
 WITH VNSTABLENESSE. 
 » * » * 
 
 FARWEL IlENKiNITY ! 
 FARWEL SIMrLiriTYE ! 
 FARWEL HITMILITYE ! 
 FARWEL GOOD THARITY ! 
 
 Skriton.
 
 THE POOR-LAW MARTYR.
 
 l^roem* 
 
 The rilgrim visits the Cottage of the Glen, and gives an example of the 
 Spirit of the age in the story of Willie and Annie ; or The Pook-Law 
 Maiityr, in the following parts :— 
 Tart 1.— The Cottage— The Fiue— Tue Rescde— The Declaration 
 
 — Tue Welcome. 
 Tart II.— The happy Lovers— Their cruel Separation— The Lost 
 
 One found. 
 Part III.— The Wedding— The Cottage Dame— The Woodland 
 
 Ball. 
 Tart IV.— The Tledqe of Love— The Honest Tradesman— The 
 
 Millocrat. 
 Part v.— The IIuined Tradesman— The Devoted Wife— Mammon's 
 
 Serpentrt. 
 Part VI.— Famine in the Cottage — The Board of GnAEDiANS — St. 
 
 Kee and Thersites— The Maniac— The Flend-tempter— The 
 
 Glen of Death. 
 Part VII. — The Wuite-bark— The Raven's Flight— The Mid- 
 night Watcher and iieu Babe. 
 Part Vlll.— The Starveling and the Mountain Lamb— Tub 
 
 RoBBBu's Cave — The Little Wanderers of the Wood — 
 
 The Suicide's Grave. 
 Part IX.— Address to Peel and Wellington. 
 Part X. — The Pilgrim's Farewell.
 
 THE VALE OF CALDENE. 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 THE POOR-LAW MARTYR; 
 
 OR WILLIE AND ANNIE. 
 
 ' A shepherd's tale no height of style desires. 
 
 To raise in words what in effect is low : 
 A plaining song plain-singing voice requires, 
 
 For warbling notes from inward chearing flow, 
 I then whose burthened breast but thus aspires. 
 Of lovers two tlie silly cause to show, 
 
 Need not the stately muses help invoke, 
 
 For creeping rimes, which often sighings choke. 
 But you, you, tliat tliink not tears too dear. 
 
 To spend for harms, altliough they touch you not ; 
 And deign to deem your neiglibours' mischief near, 
 
 Although they be of meaner parents got : 
 You I invite with easy ears to hear 
 
 The poor-clad trutli of love's wrong-ordered lot." 
 
 SiK Philip Sidney, (leviter verba 711atal.11.) 
 
 I. 
 
 In a waiTii nook, o'er which its silken wings 
 Full many a birch, witli silvery music, flings. 
 Not far from where Hardcastle CnA(j,s* o'erlook, 
 In hoary grandcm', IIebden's woodland brook, 
 
 * These remarkable rocks arc situated on the upper stream of the 
 Hcbdeii, in one of tlio mo.st romantic .scenes in England. I shall not. 
 attempt any description ; but lot mo persuade every lover of nature to visit 
 them for the pleasure they will afford. 
 
 N.
 
 11)4 XlIK rOOR-LAW MAllTYK. 
 
 A lonely, low-built cottage stands, girt round 
 
 AVith a rude, moss-gro^ra wall, enclosing ground 
 
 That once was a trim garden, and where still 
 
 'Mid long, lank grass, the vane-like daffodil 
 
 Waves in the wind its clustering golden cones. 
 
 And, 'neath the shelter of a pile of stones. 
 
 Raised as a rockeiy in happier days. 
 
 Though now half hid with weed that o'er it strays. 
 
 The lily of the valley's silver bells 
 
 Peep out, like faeries, from their dark green cells, 
 
 Breathing delicious fragrance with the brier 
 
 That taps the lattice, seeming to require 
 
 A welcome from within ; whence oft, at dawn. 
 
 When the white curtain quick aside was drawn, 
 
 A bright young face gleamed smiling, to inhale 
 
 The odours wafted on the morning gale ; 
 
 And whence a hand with loveliness embued. 
 
 Oft pressed the plumes of that old suthcringwood, 
 
 Which, 'mid the reigning ruin, faithful still. 
 
 Blooms brightly green beneath the window sill. 
 
 Some twenty years ago, this cottage bower 
 Love made a temple, in the golden hour 
 Of ripened youth and beauty, for a pair 
 Whom hope proclaimed as denizens most rare 
 To taste the nectar of the purest bliss, •• 
 That Heaven vouchsafes in such a world as this. 
 
 The bridegroom, Willie, was a woodlander : 
 Green glooms to him had gi-own familiar. 
 Chequered with golden sheen ; the hollow roar 
 Of mighty winds among the oak-boughs hoar ; 
 All rural sounds, from chii-ping grasshopper 
 Up-springing in the twilight, to the whirr
 
 THE COTTAGE. 195 
 
 Of the scared plicasant, whom his nightly tread, 
 
 Crossing old walls, roused from his clover bed ; 
 
 The sudden bound-away of squatted hare 
 
 From the dark covert of his ferny lair ; 
 
 The hoot of owl, sate blinking in the beam 
 
 Of the bright moon ; the voice of distant stream 
 
 Sending into the quiet heart of woods 
 
 A low, soft tune to charm the listening buds. 
 
 He loved to range the trackless moorland heather, 
 
 By day or night, in fair or stormy weather. 
 
 And train his master's dogs for shooting time — 
 
 Dido and Dan, both dark as is the slime 
 
 Of the turf-tarn, bounding amid the ling, 
 
 And starting the dun moor-cock on the wing, 
 
 With sudden whirr, uttering his wild " caw-hoc" 
 
 As on he soared above the horizon's track. 
 
 O to have seen him at this season, when, 
 In kirtle green, hke Robix's "merrie men," 
 He strode the moor, ere the first flush of day, 
 So tall, so graceful, and in mien so gay, 
 Ye would have weened Adonis had come down 
 To sport awhile among the heather brown ; 
 And then he had a heart so large and free, 
 So gentle, and so full of sympathy 
 With all created being, yet so brave 
 He would have quelled his foe, or sunk into the grave. 
 
 Such Will, the woodlander, in days agone. 
 Beloved by all who knew him — hating none : 
 But there was one fair creature, in whose heart 
 His imago dwelt from all loves else, apart ; 
 And yet he knew it not ; for she long time 
 The precious secret hoai'ded, and the rime
 
 li)0 TUK rOOU-LAW MAllTYK. 
 
 Of cold incIifTcrence o'er her 'haviour threw, 
 Whene'er she met him, and her words were few. 
 
 One moonlight night, wh(3U Will, with gun on arm. 
 Held M'outed ward, and, soothed by lulling charm 
 Of IIebden's flow, stood gazing at the rings 
 Of silver light, like rims of vanishing wings 
 Reflected on the side of rocky steep 
 From a moon-mirroring pool, whene'er its sleep 
 Was ruffled by the breeze, or sudden leap 
 Of glittering trout, that, in its azure dream. 
 Rose at a fancied fly, but gulped the stream — 
 Ho saw a smoke come looming o'er the wood 
 From the hill-side where Annie's dweUing stood : 
 Swift towards the spot he sped, and when he came 
 Outside the trees, beheld a bright red flame, 
 Coiled with dense smoke, at intervals, burst forth 
 From a low lattice looking to the north 
 On tlio ground floor — alas ! he found too soon — 
 Of Annie's home, now hidden from the moon 
 By a huge fumid canopy. Disti-aught, 
 He shouted in the night, fire ! fire ! but naught 
 Save the hill-echoes' loud response, was heard ; 
 Ho fired his gun — no upper casement stirred ; 
 He thundered at the enti-ance — still no breath 
 Hailed him — he deemed she slept the sleep of death ! 
 With one wild bound, he dashed the door adown, 
 And, reckless of the flame's terrific fi-own, 
 Rushed up the crackling stairs into the room, 
 Where, all unconscious of approaching doom, 
 In sleep's embraces locked, the gentle maid 
 And widowed mother, side by side were laid. 
 He seized them in his arms, and ere they woke, 
 Bore them through flames and suflbcatiug smoke.
 
 THE FIRE. 197 
 
 Into a garden bower ; then sought once more 
 
 Their lonely chamber, though the blazing floor 
 
 Bent 'neath his tread, and through the casement threw 
 
 Their needed raiment, and, unscathed, withdrew. 
 
 A shriek of terror bm'st upon his ear, 
 
 As he approached the shaded arbour near, 
 
 And by the glare, beheld, with grief oppressed. 
 
 The mother swooning on her daughter's breast. 
 
 " Oh William ? is it you ? — Where am I ? — Who 
 
 Has brought us hither, chiUed with nightly dew ? 
 
 Whence burst those horrid flames ? — In dreams I roam — 
 
 That burning pile — it cannot be our home ? — 
 
 Speak, William, speak ?" — A suftbcating sob 
 
 Sealed Annie's utterance, and an audible throb 
 
 Shook her convulsively. The youth afraid 
 
 To teU the worst, said soothingly, " Dear maid. 
 
 Heaven watches o'er you, or this dreadful night 
 
 Ye both had perished I I know not aright 
 
 To render thanks, that thus ye both are saved 
 
 From the fierce flames which lately round you raved. 
 
 But thou art shivering in the cold — put on 
 
 These rescued garments — hero again anon 
 
 I will return with one whose gentle heart 
 
 Will all the comfort in its power impart." 
 
 Thus he, and vanished ere the maid could speak, 
 
 Or he observe the flushing on her check : 
 
 " And is it then to thee, dear youth," she said, 
 
 " Wo owe our lives ?" and bowed her beauteous head 
 
 In tearful gi-atitudo and glowing love 
 
 Her moaning parent's pallid face above. 
 
 " O mother ! grieve not so ! thy daughter still 
 
 Is with thee, and my — yes ! — my William will 
 
 Return erelong, and wo may yet become 
 
 Happy with him, hi his dear woodland home."
 
 108 XllE I'OOK-LAW MAUTYK. 
 
 " Thou wed with him !" tho up-rousing damo replied. 
 
 And hurried on her garments, wliilc the pi'idc 
 
 Of former days (lashed from her eyes — •' Thou wife 
 
 To tho low fellow who has saved thy life ! 
 
 Ero that, my fingers in thy locks I'll twirl, 
 
 And drag thee with mo, baby-hearted girl, 
 
 Into yon towering flames ! — Oh GoD I Oh God ! 
 
 My heart is broken !" — On the grassy sod, 
 
 As thus she spoke, she fell a lifeless clod ! 
 
 The terror-stricken daughter, half arrayed, 
 
 With up-clasped hands, within the arbour's shade, 
 
 Stood mute as marble, her dishevelled tresses. 
 
 Disparted by tho night- wind's cold caresses, 
 
 Shadowing, like fretted tempest-clouds that veil 
 
 The autumnal midnight moon, her features pale. 
 
 Meanwhile had Willie his lone cottage sought ; 
 And now ho came, and, with his sister, brought 
 Such cheer as humble homes like his could yield, 
 And cloaks the sufferers from the cold to shield. 
 But Oh ! the scene that now appalled his view ! 
 The mother a pale corse ! — the daughter, too. 
 Seemed in her frozen agony to stand 
 Smitten like hcv o'er whom, in ancient land. 
 The awful judgment of Jehovah fell .' 
 " Annie !" he cried — ^his voice, like sudden knell. 
 Smote on the tranced one's ear — with a wild start 
 She woke to shuddering consciousness — her heart 
 Beat quick and loud, and she upon the ground 
 Had sunk insensate, had not Willie wound 
 His arms around her, with a mien that spoko 
 The feelings then which in his breast awoke. 
 He trembling knelt, and on her marble brow- 
 Disparted her dark locks' lu.\uriaut flow ;
 
 THE RESCUE. 199 
 
 Then, as in anguish hor palo ftice he viewed, 
 
 By the moonbeams that glanced athwart the wood, 
 
 " Sister !" he cried, " she's dead ! thy cares are vain! 
 
 Ne'er shall I hear her soft, sweet voice again. 
 
 And gaze— but see !— I thank thee God !— the eclipse 
 
 Of death is passed !— her chill and livid lips 
 
 Quiveringly part, and o'er my cheek I feel 
 
 A faint weak breath from that pearl-portal steal ! 
 
 Haste, seize that feather floating near thee there, 
 
 Dropt from the wing of some stray child of air, 
 
 And dip it in the cordial thou hast brought, 
 
 Then give it me — thou hast it overfraught — 
 
 There — gentle drop, my blessing with thee go I 
 
 Comfort and life on her lorn heart bestow ! 
 
 Another — brilliant sparkler in the moon, 
 
 Follow thy sister with redoubled boon ! 
 
 List ! Rachel ! list ! O ecstasy supremo ! 
 
 A gurgling faint as of a crystal stream 
 
 Up-bubbling from a fount in faeryland, 
 
 I hear out-issuo with a stronger band 
 
 Of zephyry breathings ! and lo 1 now unseal 
 
 Those dark fringed lids, and gradually reveal 
 
 Then- peerless diamonds, which shine out with all 
 
 The light they shed before those cm-tains' fall !" 
 
 Thus Willie in his joy ; and Annie's cheek — 
 
 On whose palo rondure, as on snowy peak 
 
 Morn's first smile gleams, a faint flush roseate crept — 
 
 In silent raptm-e kissed ; and then he wept 
 
 To think that she, if conscious of his boldness. 
 
 Would spurn him from her with disdain and coldness. 
 
 " William !" at length with whispery breath she said ; 
 
 Why didst thou leave me in this place of dread V — 
 
 But who is she that now beside thee kneels. 
 
 With eyes so full of pity ^— My brain reels —
 
 200 THE POOR-LAW MAKTYK. 
 
 My mother — slio had not those looks for mo, 
 IVhen, William, the long cherished secrecy- 
 Yes, to thine ear I must reveal it now — 
 My love for thee, I freely did avow.'' 
 
 Who is there that, with joy's excessive pain, 
 At love's first honey-fall, has not been slain ? 
 Who would not rather die such exquisite death, 
 Than live fame-clarioued lord of popular breath ? 
 The youth in silent agony of bliss, 
 His face bent o'er her, and her lips met his, 
 In the pure fervour of a first embrace. 
 The sister wept ; for love in such a place, 
 With the dead laid all cold beneath the moon, 
 To her heart seemed but as a gleam at noon 
 Through storm-clouds of December, Avhich might close 
 In drearier darkness after brief repose. 
 " Brother ! ought thou such feelings to indulge, 
 At such a time ? The maiden may divulge 
 Thoughts which the morrow's sun may see dispelled, 
 And fled the charm witli which thy heart is held. 
 Remember who thou art, and who is she 
 That, haply, in unconscious mood, for thee 
 Has breathed an unfelt love. Como, come away ! 
 She lacketh rest, and this protracted stay 
 May injure thy sweet lady-love. Our cot 
 Will give her welcome ; and, if it has not 
 All we could wish, or she deserve, we'U prove 
 That it is blessed with ample store of love." 
 " Dear sister mine ! I now will call thee mme," 
 Said jVjn'nie fervently, " and call me thine. 
 For his dear sake, to whom I have confessed. 
 In very truth, the secret of my breast.
 
 THE WELCOME. 201 
 
 Then take us with you to your cottage-bower — 
 My motlier, when she wakens, to the power 
 Of gratitude will yield ; and then shan't we 
 AH dwell, my William, happily with thee ?" 
 
 The youth replied not ; but with fervour pressed 
 The orphan maid still closer to his breast ; 
 Then, whUe his sister screened the dead from view, 
 Lest the sad truth should fatally renew 
 Grief, which kind heaven had now in mercy hid 
 'Neath clouded memory's transient coverlid. 
 He gently led her from the spot away, 
 Bidding his sister by the mother stay 
 Till his return ; when, fresh assistance sought. 
 She to their home in safety might bo brought. 
 
 On through the bowering trees, whose giaut frames 
 Were redly flecked with the subsiding flames. 
 The lovers, with their arms round each enwreathed. 
 And tenderest whisperings softly interbreathed. 
 Went lingeringly ; at length — nor marked till then — 
 They stood before the Cottage of the Glen. 
 There on the threshold, leanmg on her crutch, 
 In palsied feebleness, opprest o'emiuch 
 With her long watch. Will's aged mother stood, 
 Her dim eyes fixed upon the darkling wood, 
 Beyond which hovci'ed on the rear of night, 
 A dingy cloud, deep-rimmed with lurid light. 
 " God bless thee child!" the good old matron cried. 
 With generous warmth, when Annie she espied ; 
 " God bless thee ! — O far more than words can toll, 
 I feel rejoiced that tliou art safe and well ! 
 
 But whore is " "Mother!" interrupting her, 
 
 AViLLiE said playfully, " dost thou demur
 
 202 THE POOR-LAW MARTYK. 
 
 To wolcomc this sweet rescued one withm 
 
 Our cottage homo '''. It were a shameful sin 
 
 To parley thus, while thou so long dost hold 
 
 The portal, as thou guardcdst hidden gold!" 
 
 Thus ho, and, placing Annie's hand in hers, 
 
 He led them iu ; and never worshipper's 
 
 Enraptured look before Madonna's sluine, 
 
 Beamed forth, fond youth, with holier love than thine, 
 
 "Wlion thou beheld'st thy Annie's aims bedeck. 
 
 Like eider-down, thy aged parent's neck ; 
 
 And heard her mui-mur like a bubbling spring, 
 
 " Bless thee, my mother ! thus to thee I cling, 
 
 And crave, with Rachel and thy son, to share 
 
 A needed portion of thy love and care." 
 
 "Daughter ! thou'rt welcome as the flowers in May!" 
 
 The matron said, and kissed the tears away. 
 
 That gushed in gratitude down Annie's cheek ; — 
 
 '* But thy pale looks the balm of rest bespeak ! 
 
 Come then with me — ^but, Willie, lingerest thou, 
 
 When Annie's mother claims thine aidance now?" 
 
 The youth withdrew, and felt, with sudden stm-t, 
 
 A frost come o'er the spring-flowers of his heart. 
 
 How would the dear one, when, upon the morrow, 
 
 The sad truth told her, bear the weight of sorrow ? 
 
 Perchance she might upbraid him, that ho left 
 
 Her dying parent of all aid bereft, 
 
 And spurn with indignation from her breast. 
 
 The love for him she had so late expressed. 
 
 Thus rapt in sad forebodings, tlu'ough the wood 
 
 He wandered, till unconsciously he stood 
 
 Beside the dead ; and, in awed silence, found 
 
 A group of neighbours congregated round. 
 
 Ho spoke not ; but with motion of his hand 
 
 Signalled the way — the melancholy band.
 
 THE HAPPY LOVERS. 203 
 
 Upraised the corse, nnd while he onward led, 
 The lone glen cottage sought with noiseless tread. 
 
 II. 
 
 How soon, when in the young heart's firmament 
 Reigns Love's full moon, the clouds of grief are rent ; 
 And an ethereal glory cometh down 
 To bless the land o'ershadowed by death's frown ! 
 Hope's river, spanned by the soft luuai' bow, 
 More brightly glistens on its onward flow, 
 Until 'tis lost 'mong crystal rocks that rise 
 Round Consummation's flowery Paradise. 
 
 The dead was bui-ied ; and the oiphan maid 
 Dwelt like the violet 'neath the hawthorn shade, 
 Serenely happy in the woodland cot. 
 She loved — was loved — and all things else forgot, 
 Save how each day she might more warmly prove 
 To her kind friends, her gratitude and love. 
 So sweet a bu-d, so happy in such nest, 
 Failed not to make each mmate truly blest. 
 Willie oft heard, as ho his cottage homo 
 Eagerly sought, her cheery warbling come 
 From the oped lattice, and stood still, for fear 
 His heart such sweetness should not wholly hear ; 
 And trembled with excess of joy, when she 
 Ran forth to meet him, and endearingly 
 Hung on his arm, and gazed into his face. 
 The inward workings of his soul to trace, 
 While, with a smile of witchery, ag;iin 
 Her breath embalmed, in honied tones, a strain 
 Of some fou<l ditty, pencilled in a book, 
 She had pm'loined from out its secret nook — •
 
 204 THE POOR-LAW MAUTYK. 
 
 A treasure dearer to her heart than all 
 
 The Avingod words, fi-oin hireling lips that fall 
 
 Dead in the utt'ranco ; for, in every line, 
 
 Love's sparkling, unadulterated wine 
 
 Flowed like a river — flowed, sweet murmurer, 
 
 Unheai-d, unseen, O bliss ! alone for her ! 
 
 Day after day, ho saw his humble home 
 
 Increase in comfort, and more neat become. 
 
 The few choice books — for he had few indeed, 
 
 And few the moments he could spare to read — 
 
 She ranged on shelves ; and them from dust to screen, 
 
 llung in the front a little curtain green. 
 
 The oak longsettle, where his wearied frame 
 
 He briefly rested, ere the watch-hour came, 
 
 Rejoiced with crimson cushion overspread, 
 
 And soft round pillow to support his head. 
 
 His mother's chair, beside the ingle nook, 
 
 Alike her care in cushioned ease partook. 
 
 In the delf-case, above the dark oak chest 
 
 With sixteen hundred on its front impressed, 
 
 And grotesque figures shining out amid 
 
 Garlands of flowers that drooped beneath the lid, 
 
 The pewter plates, half hid behind each other. 
 
 In silvery brightness, vied with one another. 
 
 Like crescent moons the lono night- wanderer sees 
 
 In river-pools, when ruffled by the breeze. 
 
 Each little lattice owned its curtain white, 
 
 Hung in festoons by day, but so that light. 
 
 As Willie thought, such graceful folds between, 
 
 Illumed the cottage with a lovelier sheen. 
 
 The garden, too, though trimly kept before. 
 
 Beneath her hand, eclipsed its pride of yore. 
 
 The flowers she fostered seemed of brighter hue. 
 
 Of sweeter scent than those that elsewhere grew :
 
 THE HAPPV LOVERS. 205 
 
 But most she loved the lily of the vale ; 
 
 Because that dear name, iu poetic tale, 
 
 Her woodland minsti-el had on her bestowed, 
 
 Long ere liis love for her he had avowed. 
 
 And such her \vitchery of tone, that she 
 
 Like fan" Guluare's enchanted Sintrinfr Tree, 
 
 Drew round her birds of mellowest pipe, who came 
 
 (So to her son averred the good old dame) 
 
 In crowds to listen silently and still, 
 
 Until the lovely s\Ten's last sweet trill 
 
 Melted into their little raptm-ed souls ; 
 
 Then from the trees on the adjacent knolls. 
 
 Burst forth a chorus, such as might arise 
 
 From the perennial groves of Paradise, 
 
 When Eve had carolled, the bright flowers among, 
 
 A sweet reply to Adam's distant song. 
 
 So, rich in happiness conferred, received, 
 Dwelt Annie with the cottagers, nor grieved 
 For lack of wealthier friends. Love's gentle bond 
 Held captive her chaiined spirit, which beyond 
 The hallowed precincts of that humble home, 
 Ne'er felt a momentai'y wish to roam. 
 But she had giiefs in store. One noontide hour, 
 AYhile seated in the honeysuckle bower, 
 "With Willie's mother, I'cading that sweet book. 
 The Pilgrim's Progress, sounds were hoard that shook 
 Her soul with dread forebodings. — " Oh ! they corao 
 To take me, mother, fi'om our happy home!" 
 She wildly shrieked ; and, as by mortal wound 
 Suddenly pierced, sunk swooning on the ground. 
 Nearer and louder came those strange alarnLs ; 
 And, as the aged mation iu her arms
 
 200 THE I'OOU-LAW MAKTYK. 
 
 Rciisod tlio falloii damsel, sho, with sickening heart. 
 
 Beheld a chaise I'rom Knowl Ciiao's shadow start, 
 
 (A sight unusual) and with fury strain 
 
 Along the grass-grown, unfrequented lano, 
 
 Towards her lone dwelling. In a moment more. 
 
 Two dark-clad strangers oped the cottage door 
 
 With hurried force — but found not whom they sought — 
 
 Too soon they found her ! and in accents fraught 
 
 With insolent ungentleness, conveyed, 
 
 Despite the old woman's tears, the unconscious maid 
 
 From her retreat. And now, secured their prey. 
 
 The rattling cluiiso impetuous whirled away. 
 
 Old Sakaii watched it with fast-streaming eyes, 
 
 Mutt'ring the while, wild incoherencies. 
 
 Until 'twas lost Knowl Crag's dai-k form behind. 
 
 And its harsh echoes died upon the wind ; 
 
 Then, tottering on her crutch, the cot sho sought. 
 
 Where, on the table lay a cap half-wrought. 
 
 With which the dear one, on her bridal morn, 
 
 Her aged brow had purposed to adorn. 
 
 "My bonnie child I" she sobbing .said, as she 
 
 Gazed through her tears on Aknie'.s 'broidery, 
 
 'Mong whose slim fibres shone the threaded neeld. 
 
 Like a spent arrow on a snowy field ; 
 
 " Oh ! how shall I the dreadful truth impart. 
 
 That thou art gonof — 'twill break my Willie's heart!" 
 
 Just then a shadow lengthened on the floor ; 
 
 And Willie stood within the open door, 
 
 With face averted, looking towards the bower, 
 
 AVhence, with a lightsome step, and priceless dower 
 
 Of fond sweet words, his Love was wont to come, 
 
 At such an hour, to greet him to his home. 
 
 He turned — his mother's tearful look met his. 
 
 Sparkling with love's undarkeued beams of bliss I —
 
 THE CRUEL SErAKATION. 207 
 
 That look told all ! — Across his bosom's heaven 
 Cimmerian clouds ^vere in a moment driven I 
 He gasped for breath ; and o'er his cold damp brow- 
 Passed his clenched hand. — " By heaven ! I will not bow 
 To dastard resignation I" he at length 
 Cried with a hollow voice ; " while I have strength 
 Of heart or limb, I'll follow on the track 
 Of those who bore her hence, and bring her back, 
 Or never, mother, shalt thou see me more!" 
 He said, and wildly rushed from out the door. 
 
 Full many a dreary day and sleepless night 
 Passed on, yet Willie came not. By the light 
 Of early dawn, the mother might be seen 
 Standing with Rachel on the rondel green, 
 Beside the cottage, whence she might discern 
 The road by which her Willie would return. 
 At length, hope died within her ; and she heard 
 In every breeze his last prophetic word, 
 "Thou ne'er shalt see me more!" Upon that hill 
 With its mysterious voice of boding ill, 
 Yo might not see her now. Day after day, 
 Like one entranced upon the bed she lay. 
 And ever pressed upon her heart bereft. 
 Her Willie's watch, and cap that Annie left. 
 Kind-hearted friends came daily, far and near. 
 To whisper hope — she seemed them not to hear ; 
 But ever and anon, her hand she raised, 
 And on the dial of the watch she gazed ; 
 Kissed the dear cap, and then more closely pressed 
 Each precious treasure to her aged breast. 
 
 One sunny noon, a trusty luu-ald bi'ought 
 A welcome letter, with glad tidings fraught,
 
 208 THE POOR-LAW MAIITYK. 
 
 Whicli Rachel, bonding o'er her mother's bed, 
 
 In hunicd tones of eager joyance read, 
 
 While the dream-wanderer woke in mute surprise : 
 
 *' Cheer up, dear mother ! though great distance lies 
 
 Between us, yet I hope erelong to bring 
 
 One who will cause thy heart with joy to sing. 
 
 My dove was caged — but had they made her bower, 
 
 Guarded M'ith dragons, high as Babel's tower, 
 
 I would have scaled it — -would have borne her thence. 
 
 Her heart's true love too great a recompense 
 
 For such poor deed ! — Suffice, the deed is done. 
 
 Her tyrants chafe, and round the counti-y run 
 
 In search of the dear fugitive — but she 
 
 Dwells in a bower to all unknown save me. 
 
 KoU on one tardy week, their dire control 
 
 Will tlien, thank heaven ! have reached its final goal ! 
 
 Then she, an-ived at woman's full estate, 
 
 Is free as air with whom she wills, to mate : 
 
 And now while I in love's fond transport kissed her, 
 
 She bid me say, ' Tell my yet doubting sister, 
 
 The maid who lived within a cottage-bower, 
 
 ►Still loves her Willie more than fortune's dower I' 
 
 God bless you both ! My Annie sends you here, 
 
 On this blest spot, with rose-leaf screened, for fear 
 
 Aught rude should soil it, a sweet kiss which soon, 
 
 I, through sheer envy of the nect'rous boon, 
 
 If not intended for your lips alone, 
 
 AVould have transferred with rapture to my own." 
 
 The dame, with heart half-veiled in grief's eclipse, 
 Raised the sweet love-sign, weeping to her lips. 
 " Well, well I" she calmly said, "it is my prayer, 
 Tiiat God my life will kindly deign to spare,
 
 TUE WEDDING. 209 
 
 Until, my children, I may see you nigh 
 My weary couch, and bless you ere I die." 
 Thus she ; aud soon delicious sleep came down, 
 With happy dreams, her soft repose to crown. 
 
 III. 
 
 It is a calm autumnal eve. The clouds 
 Of regal crimson, in f:intastic crowds, 
 Fret the deep azure vault ; save those vanward, 
 That like huge dragons the sun's temple guard. 
 In mail of molten gold ; and momently 
 Expand their broad wings' flashing radiancy 
 Proudly afar, and raise then- gorgeous tiars, 
 As to his shrine the Day-god slow retu*es. 
 The mountain ash, upon the Castle Ckags, 
 Like a spruce warder, waves its foliage-flags 
 Of aureat emblazom-y, as low 
 And soft-voiced breezes 'mong them come and go. 
 While yonder silver-rinded bu-ch, which towers 
 From that grey cliff, in momentary showers, 
 Sheds from its graceful head, like one who grieves 
 O'er a lone grave, its tributary leaves 
 Of intermingled green and paUid gold. 
 On the red fern, and chequered mossy mould. 
 And the brave hills, with dai-kling cedars crowned. 
 And glowing with rich hues, above the embrowned 
 Far-stretching forest of gnarled warriors grey. 
 Re-echo with the ousel's roundelay. 
 Poured from yon bosky steep (o'er whose swart brow 
 The evening star is briglitly twinkling now,) 
 In challenge to that throstle's mellow power, 
 .Screened 'ueath red berries in liis hawthorn bower ; 
 o
 
 210 THE r001!-LAW MAllTYK. 
 
 Whilo in each pause tho minstrors notes between, 
 
 The merry bells of IIepton stall *impregn 
 
 The air with rolling harmony, that swells, 
 
 And dies away, among tho distant dolls. 
 
 But hark! from Castle Crags, bursts forth amain 
 
 A louder music in a joyous strain ! 
 
 Tho busy maidens, in that cottage home. 
 
 Rush to the door, and cry '■ They come ! they come !" 
 
 And now, scarce conscious of the weight of years, 
 
 An aged mation, in trim garb, appears; 
 
 Hastes without crutch, or aiding ai-m, to wait 
 
 The expected comers at the garden gate. 
 
 Along tho lane, embowered with giant trees, 
 A shout exulting swells upon the breeze ; 
 And tho quick clink of some iron-hoofed careerer. 
 Rings in the woods, and comes each moment nearer. 
 Lo! now, fi-om underneath tho forest-bi'ode, 
 A bold young ridei-, on a foaming steed. 
 Darts foith, and waves above his dark-haired head. 
 His hat, with streaming libbons overspread ; 
 Stops at tho gate, and o'er his saddle-bow 
 Gracefully bending, 'mid the overflow 
 Of maiden gratulation, and brigiit eyes 
 Up-llashing round, receives the bridal prize 
 From a fair hand, which makes that prize appear. 
 In his charmed sight, a thousand times more dear. 
 Soon other horsemen, with gay ribbons dight. 
 Strain up tho hill, and at the gate alight. 
 Down from the Ciiag the village band descends, 
 And slowly onward to the cottage wends, 
 Making tho hills, the rampiro rocks around, 
 With soul-exhilarating strains resound. 
 
 * ride note at the end.
 
 THE COTTAGE DAME. 211 
 
 But now — well may that eager mother's heart, 
 At the glad sight, with joy ecstatic start — 
 An open carriage, on the sloping lawn. 
 Filled with gay bridal guests, and proudly drawn 
 By two white steeds, with rider clad in blue, 
 'Mid shouts of welcome, bursts upon the view ! 
 And who is he, and who that beauteous bride, 
 Now knelt upon the green sward, side by side, 
 Before that mother, to receive from her 
 A blessing, which her eyes alone confer, — 
 Tmnultuous joy's unutterable feeling 
 Ilcr quivering lips in eloquent silence sealing ? — 
 'Tis Will the Woodlander ; and canst thou, 
 In that serene, and auburn-shaded brow. 
 That peerless form, those love-lit azure eyes. 
 His own sweet Annie fail to recognise, — 
 The gentle heroine of our humble tale. 
 The rescued One, the Lily of the Vale ? 
 
 The feast is o'er ; and as a welcome guest. 
 The moon springs up above yon rocky crest ; 
 And one might deem, from her unwonted light, 
 Love wooed her down to bless this bridal night. 
 " Forth to the green, my merry hearties all ! 
 Up and away I we'll have a woodland ball ! 
 Strike up the music 'ueath the warlock tree ! 
 Who lovo the dance, will follow, follow me !" 
 Shouts of approval, and quick move of feet. 
 That dear old crcatui'e's joyous challcngo greet. 
 Soon, ranged in pairs, tho happy guests are seen 
 Tripping the dance upon the cottage green ; 
 Tho jocund dame, as in her youthful prime, 
 To tho blithe minstrels featly keeping time.
 
 212 THE rooK-LAw MAirryE. 
 
 While with her AVillie, or some gallant gay, 
 
 She threads the wondering ranks that lino the way. 
 
 But, nor along the starry court of Jove, 
 
 Dost thou, bright Phrebe, and thy Latmian Love, 
 
 Nor thou, Titania, and the Faery King, 
 
 'INIid glittering mazes of the elfin ring, 
 
 More gracefully to dulcet warblings glide, 
 
 Than that charmed Bridegroom, and his peerless Bride ! 
 
 See where they come between those glowing files, 
 
 Apollo wreathing with the Queen of Smiles, 
 
 Scarce bending the curt grass that 'neath them springs, 
 
 As Cupid to their feet had lent his wings ; 
 
 Their glances, mingling like two shining lills. 
 
 Reveal the rapture that their bosoms thrills. 
 
 Oh ! can there be, on this side Heaven, a joy 
 More exquisite, more free from earth's alloy. 
 Than reigns in souls whom love, arid love alone, 
 Has made, for aye, indissolubly one, 
 On that blest day, on which his sacred seal 
 Sanctions as hallowed all they think and feel I 
 
 Dear old familiar Moon ! who hast to-night 
 Put on thy robes of purest silver white, 
 To honour these blest nuptials, and shin'st still 
 In deep mid heaven, as if it were thy will, 
 O'er that love-bower, whose tiny wmdows gleam 
 Like unclosed eyes in some delicious dream, 
 To hnger in thy bright crystalline car. 
 Till the pale rising of the morning star ; 
 A holocaust of poesies heart-thrilling, 
 And od'rous of love's Hybla, I, fulfilling 
 A worshipper's duty, this fair night, will bring, 
 And on thy woodland altar mutely tiing.
 
 THE PLEDGE OF LOVE. 213 
 
 Shine on ! nor let the moping owl molest 
 The halcyon brooding o'er that hallowed nest ; 
 But hither woo two choicest nightingales, 
 To breath, m meUow undersong, sweet tales 
 Of blessedness ; which, interminghng with 
 The silvery songs of dreamland, may claim kith 
 With those elysian, soul-entrancing numbers. 
 Love's quii'ing orbs shed doAvn on bridal slumbers. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A year has sped away ; and who is she, 
 That in that ivied porch, lifts up with glee 
 A smiling, rose-cheeked cherub in the eye 
 Of the full moon, in yon autumnal sky ? 
 And who is he, that leans o'er that white gate. 
 And claps his hands, and cries "My merry Kate! 
 Come hither !" and, as that young mother brings 
 Her precious babe, that cheerily outflings 
 Its tiny arms to greet him, fondly presses 
 Both to lais heaii;, and kisses them and blesses ? 
 Who but the pair that, when last autumn's gold 
 Spangled the trees, with a dear matron old. 
 Now sleeping in her grave, tripped merrily 
 Their bridal dance beneath the warlock tree ? 
 
 But Willie is a woodlandcr no more : 
 Ho is a tradesman now. The littlo store 
 Of wealth his wife possessed, is all outlaid, 
 As his friends counselled, in that lottery — Tratle. 
 For a short season all goes well witli him : 
 Each market makes him richer : heaps of slim 
 " I-promiso-to-pay's," adorned with sheep and trees. 
 Long-chimneyed towns, and hives with clustering bees.
 
 214 XIIE rOOlt-LAW MAKTVU. 
 
 Or tridontcd Britannia proudly peering 
 
 O'er butts and bales, on vessels homeward steering, 
 
 With Leo slumbering at her feet, as ho 
 
 With that cask's tipple had been slyly free — 
 
 Ho brings his gentlo wife, who counts them o'er, 
 
 And safely lodges in tho old scrutoiro. 
 
 Nor deem him, thou dull « Baahto of Telf !" 
 
 A sordid, soulless being like thyself ! 
 
 Ho fondly dreams prosperity will cheer 
 
 His happy home, while she is his cashier. 
 
 Alas for him ! his household angel's smile 
 
 Is not omnipotent against tho guile, 
 
 That stalks at noonday tlu-ough tho public mart, 
 
 In human form, without a human heart ! 
 
 And which, too soon, with mockery and mirth, 
 
 May glut his all, and desolate his heai'th. 
 
 Trade in his secret soul ho lothes — but still 
 
 Ho knows he has a duty to fulfd 
 
 Sacred to love and home ; and, therefore, over 
 
 Will he for them essay a bravo endeavour. 
 
 Strong as the oaks around his woodland cot. 
 
 Is his integrity. No damning spot 
 
 Of wrongs against tho poor his conscience stains : 
 
 He loves his fellow man ; nor would tho gains 
 
 Of all the sons of Mammon nerve his heai't 
 
 To act tho oppressor's and tho tyrant's part. 
 
 In every cottage round his littlo mill, 
 (Hid in a dell beneath yon bonding hill,) 
 Comfort sits smiling ; and 'tis oft his whim, 
 Long ore the sun has kissed the western brim 
 Of AuKENWOLD, to stop the clacking wheel, 
 And bid his people hasten out to feel
 
 THE MILLOCRAT. 215 
 
 The joyousness of nature : — son and father 
 To fish the sti-eam ; the little ones to gather 
 Blown primi'oses ; the girls to take their neelds, 
 And sing and chat among the sunny fields. 
 " God bless you master !" instantaneous starts, 
 At the glad summons, from a hundred hearts, 
 That cluster round him, like a swai-m of bees. 
 With glistening pleasm'O, while he takes the keys ; 
 Then, as with smiles for all, ho quits the tlu-oug. 
 Make the liills ring with many a joyous song. 
 
 And O is not the happiness he feels 
 Greater than thine, stern Millocrat, whose wheels 
 Scarce ever slumber in thy den of slaves ? 
 When on thine ear, like voice of summer waves, 
 Did their heartfelt " God bless thee I" over faU 
 For one bright hour's reinission from thy thrall ? 
 The flowers may bloom in field or woodland gay. 
 The blithe birds carol on the leafy spray. 
 But thou, tlu'ough lust of lucre, wouldst as soon 
 Hang all thy wealLh upon the horns o'th moon. 
 As grant thy minions respiLe for an hour* 
 To list a songbijd, or to pluck a flower. 
 And thus it is, to glut vile worms like thee, 
 Tliousands must feel the goad of slavery 
 Crush out tiieir souls, and crawl upon the earth 
 As they had forfeited their right of biith 
 To look on nature with a gladdened heai't. 
 Or taste one joy of all she can impart ; 
 And feel that, from the rank of men debased, 
 God's imago in them deemed as quite defaced, 
 Their blood and sinews, weal and life, when weighed 
 In the false balance of hon-heaiied Trade, 
 * I'idf note at the cud.
 
 216 THE POOR-LAW MARTYR. 
 
 With golden ingots glittering in the dream 
 Of Mammon's El Dorado, kick the beam! 
 A time will come, when one whose hand no gold 
 Can ever bribe, a balance just will hold ; 
 And when the oppressor, in his mounted scale, 
 Shall read the " Tekol" which Belshazzar pale, 
 Amid the revel of his regal hall, 
 Saw tlio dread Hand inscribe upon the wall ! 
 
 V. 
 
 But I must change the current of my theme : 
 Our woodland tradesman, in the sage esteem* 
 Of the foresighted, was condemned for act 
 That with a madman's might be deemed compact. 
 The selfish chuckled ; and the murmur ran, 
 When to the mart he came, " Behold the man 
 That oft, forsooth, on sunny afternoons, 
 Shuts up his mill, and sends his lazy loons. 
 And giggling girls, forth to the woods and fields. 
 That they may taste the joys that nature yields !" 
 And then some laughed outright, and winked and nodded, 
 And those he dealt with, stopped, and slyly prodded 
 Upon the side, and leered most knowingly 
 Athwart their thumb-arched nasal masonry. 
 Which being interpreted, in slang's apt school, 
 Most plainly said, " That man's an arrant fool !" 
 That soul had need be clad in armour proof, 
 Which braves the brunt of ridicule : the woof 
 Of sensibility it pierceth through. 
 And, gibbering, shews the rent it makes to view. 
 This armour lacked our tiadesman : every word 
 His jeerers uttered, smote him like a sword. 
 * I'ldf note at the end.
 
 THE DEVOTED WIPE. 217 
 
 He shunned the pubUc market ; and, erelong, 
 A host of direful evils, which the gong 
 Of malice bruited forth and magnified, 
 Fiercely beleaguered him on every side. 
 He strove to quell them ; but he strove in vain. 
 His friends forsook him ; for they saw 'twas plain. 
 That " hungi"y ruin had him in the wind ;" 
 And chai-ity, wliich, in the sordid mind, 
 Shrinks hedgehog-like into the prickly shell 
 Of selfishness, when rumom-'s 'larum bell 
 Doth of a neighbour's downfall loudly prate, 
 Left him, unaided, to his ruthless fate !* 
 
 But, though the world grew dark around him — yet 
 Home's golden sunlight never on him set. 
 Long time he strove his rankling wounds to hide ; 
 But the quick eye of faithful love soon spied. 
 In his changed mien, his melancholy smiles. 
 That gi-ief preyed on him. With endearing wiles. 
 His angel wife besought him to reveal 
 The sorrows which he struggled to conceal, 
 That she might share them, and, perchance, impart 
 Some ray of comfort to his troubled heart. 
 He told her all ; — and though she wept to hear — 
 More for his sake, and her they held so dear. 
 Their bright-eyed innocent, than for herself — 
 That stem calamity, with loss of pelf. 
 Had settled on them in the smiling morn 
 Of wedded happiness — they were not shorn — 
 No, God be thanked ! — they were not shorn of love. 
 That gem which they had prized all wcaltli above. 
 And which, what<!vei' ills might them bisfal. 
 In constant bi'ightncss would outlive them all. 
 # Fide note at the end.
 
 218 TlIK rOOIl-LAW ilAllTYU. 
 
 Tho cold world might condomn as indiscreet 
 
 Those gouorous acts by which he rendered sweet 
 
 His grateful people's toil — his friends might shuu, 
 
 In peril's hour, tho man they deemed undone — 
 
 Their little all the ravenous wolf of Law 
 
 Might seize for his, and hungi-y Credit's, maw ; — 
 
 But lie had still one faithful heart, that ne'er 
 
 Would leave him to the darkness of despair ; 
 
 That would, in boundless riches of its lovo, 
 
 Supply tho loss of friends, and, like a dove. 
 
 Aye feed his soul with brightest dreams of hope, 
 
 And high resolves with transient ills to cope. 
 
 They both were young — wore not too proud to earn 
 
 Their bread by honest industry — to learn 
 
 Patience and meekness 'neath the chastening rod 
 
 Of an inscrutable, but j'ighteous GoD. 
 
 There, was their beautiful, beloved child — 
 
 Would He, who feeds tlie I'avcns in the wild. 
 
 Not care for their sweet lamb, and for her sake. 
 
 With blessings crown what they might undertake 
 
 In lovo for her ? O yes, those bluo-orbed eyes. 
 
 Uplifted witli their sunshine to tho skies ; 
 
 Those soft cheeks' dimpling smiles ; gave earnest sm'o, 
 
 That one so bright, so innocent and pure, 
 
 God had in charge to his blest angels given. 
 
 And would tho gloom fi-om their once-radiant heaven 
 
 Dispel, and bless them, both in home and heart, 
 
 If they for her perfonned a parent's part. 
 
 How beautiful is woman's love ! Its light 
 
 More brightly shines, tho darker grows tho night 
 
 Aj'ound its little world. He rio'er can know 
 
 Tlio full weight of an undivided woe. 
 
 Whom heaven has blessed with that sweet charm of life- 
 
 A fond, true-hearted, tmd devoted M'ife.
 
 MAMMON'ri 8EIirEiVTRi'. 219 
 
 So felt our tradesman. Now the world might frown — 
 Armed with a lovo no foe could trample down, 
 '^Vould ho not battio with its fiercest hate ? 
 And though again it ne'er might bo his fato, 
 With open fi'out, but alienated heart, 
 To stand among the magnates of the mart, 
 Would he, through dread of vulgar shame, recoil 
 From the brave task of honourable toil. 
 When that beloved wife, and child so fair, 
 Pleaded a husband's and a father's care ? 
 Such recreant thought, touched by affection's spell, 
 Ne'er in his bosom could a moment dwell. 
 The world should see — the world that oft had blamed 
 His generous acts — that ho was not ashamed — 
 Now that those acts, which Mammon's scipontry, 
 Athu-st for apples of the Golden Tree, 
 Blackened with venom, served to speed the blow 
 That lately smote him in the hour of woe — 
 To labour with a wilhng heart and limb. 
 For those dear creatm'es who were all to him. 
 He roused himself in might of high resolve. 
 Quelling weak thoughts that else might intervolvo 
 Between it and stern duty. Forth he strodo 
 With clean white bag, to hold the expected load 
 Of weft and warp, ho might obtain from one, 
 For whom ho many a kindness erst had done. 
 
 His friend was sorry — but trade was so bad, 
 That weavers, most expert, might now be had. 
 In swaiTTiing numbers, that would work, indeed, 
 For almost nothing — such their pressing need : 
 Therefore — as it behoved, in times like those. 
 When dai'kuess broods o'er ti'affic's troubled seas,
 
 220 THE POOH-I.AW MAIITYU. 
 
 That each, regardless or of foo or friend, 
 
 Should strictly, /r,s?, to his own weal attend, — 
 
 He could not suffer pity, for his sake, 
 
 To usurp the claims that self and prudence make ! 
 
 Willie, indignant, staid to hear no more. 
 
 But sti'ode in silence from the Ingrate's door. 
 
 Ho tried the masters far and near ; and some 
 Derisive smiled, and bade him seek a home 
 Within the Bastile's walls I — Ho looked to Heaven- 
 No thunder stu-red — that look might bo forgiven ! 
 And some the Ingrate's plea, with stony heart. 
 And lying lips, advanced ; and, till the art 
 Of weaving he acquired, they bade him send 
 His lady-wife — ^if she would condescend 
 For his loved sake, to such — now common, task — 
 Alms from defrauded creditors to ask I 
 And, as an earnest, that she might succeed, 
 Were she, alone, a mendicant, to plead, 
 They would, by him, transmit, on this occasion, 
 A doit to cheer her, in her new vocation ! 
 The indignant husband, with a withering frown, 
 Smoto the rude hand of the insulter down. 
 " Thank God !" he cried, " I do not yet believe 
 All men such fiends as those I now perceive. 
 I am no beggar — and stand forth the man, 
 The boldest of your mercenary clan, 
 That dares proclaim me, here, before my face, 
 Dishonest, or of a dishonest race ! 
 Think not I've lost, with loss of paltry pelf, 
 That just respect which yet I owe myself; 
 Nor think that I shall tamely hear again 
 Those lips a name so dear to me, profane ;
 
 THE DISAPPOINTED ONE. 221 
 
 For I have still a heart that will not brook 
 One insult meant for her, of word or look !" 
 Thus he ; then stood with aspect so severe, 
 The recreant ribalds all grew dumb with fear ; 
 Nor dared the gruff Thersites of the crew, 
 Breathe one vile word as Willie slow withdrew. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Fruitless his search a weaver's work to gain ; 
 Then tried he, hopefully, to re-obtain 
 His old employment, watcher of the wood ; 
 But leai-nt, full soon, there was no likelihood — 
 Now that his kind old master was no more — 
 The hell' that occupation would restore. 
 
 In an old mansion, 'mong embowering trees. 
 Dwelt a rich lady, who, a few degrees 
 Had passed the noon of life. Her days were spent 
 In crooning solitude and discontent. 
 Hating the genus man, and wondering how 
 Her sex to him in fealty should bow ; 
 Because, forsooth, none of that uncouth race 
 E'er gave her praise for chann of form or face. 
 
 "Whence came she none could tell, nor who her sire ; 
 But one who had, unweetingly, her ire 
 Roused by slight trespass, swore, with wicked wit, 
 She was the incarnate spirit of a Writ ! 
 She sometimes gave small alms to those in need, 
 But pride, not sympathy, impelled the deed — 
 She gave without a lieart, and always bid 
 Her right hand know whate'er her left hand did. 
 In her douiaiu queen absolute she ruled, 
 With iron sway, o'er all whom she had schooled
 
 222 xiiK rooK-LAW mautvi;. 
 
 To what bIio deemed their duty. Woo to him, 
 Or her, who walked not circumspectly prim 
 According to tho canons she laid down ! — 
 Better ho whipped than froczo beneath her frown ! 
 
 To chapel wont she, with grave stops and slow, 
 And hoad dojirosscd, as if o'erwhelmcd with woo 
 For trespasses and sins ; and in her wake, 
 Followed her vassals, who — as some still lake 
 Mirrors the o'crpassing clouds — her saintly looks, 
 Her solemn gait, the way she bore her looks, — 
 With reverent state, reflected. When within 
 Her soft-lined pew, and she, with doleful din, 
 Joined in tho hymn, they raised, * with one concent,' 
 Their ' most sweet voices,' to her heart's content. 
 With eyes e'er fixed upon her Crnomon nose. 
 They knelt when she knelt, roso when she arose ; 
 With her, precisely, at tho moment, when 
 She drawled ' Amen !' they echoed loud ' Amen !' 
 And when with neck outstretched, and eyes that ceased 
 Scarce for a moment to regard tho priest — 
 (Save M-hen, for sin pouilrayed, she feigned to weep, 
 Or sunk absorbed — in unaffected sleep) — 
 Sho shook her head at every word that told 
 Of man^s transgressions gi-eat and manifold, 
 Of ivomans foolishness in placing lovo 
 On one so vile — and not on things above — 
 Through all her train, from Andrew down to Nan, 
 A general, simultaneous hoadshako ran ; 
 Or when tho preacher's eloquent address 
 Proclaimed tho charms of siiiglc-blossedness. 
 And spoko of holy maids who, though enticed 
 To yoke with man, had wedded only Christ,
 
 XIIE DISAPPOINTED ONE. 223 
 
 Sho lookotl around with conscious pride, elate 
 
 At her superior sanctity and state ; 
 
 Raised her clasped Iiands to heaven, in fervent mood, 
 
 To indicate her heartfelt gratitude ; 
 
 And Deborah, Nan, and Abigail, and Sue, 
 
 (j\Iaids past their teens) looked proudly round them, too ; 
 
 And, as their fugle-mistress taught, each pressed 
 
 Her glovcless hand upon her grateful breast : 
 
 E'en Andrew raised his horny palms, and eke 
 
 His small black eyes, whose twinkle on the check 
 
 Of a stout wench that sat within the choir. 
 
 Lit — wicked man ! — a mantling blush of fire. 
 
 For this offence poor Andi-ow — though ho kissed 
 The tyrant's jod — \v;)s frowningly dismissed : 
 But cattle lack attendance ; corn wont grow, 
 Nor gardens bloom, if no one dig and sow. 
 The lady wished, since Deborah and Nan 
 Would not perform such office of ' the man,' 
 Sho could obtain one of those guileless Things, 
 That guard the harems of the Eastern kings ; 
 But as with these "West Yorkshire is not rife. 
 She advertised for one who had a wife ; 
 And who withal was pious, and so meek, 
 If smitten on one, would turn the other, cheek. 
 
 Our ruined Tradesman, though ho could not boast 
 The vii-tues specified by the lady-host, 
 Thouglit that, perchance, by industry and skill. 
 Ho might the duties of ' the place' fulfil. 
 Therefore he sought, "necessity's hard pinch !" 
 The chaste old hall, determined not to flinch 
 From slight i-obulls, if ho, though low the station. 
 Could gain the ejected Andrew's situation.
 
 224 THE POOR-LAW MAllTVK. 
 
 Tho lady met him the hall door within ; 
 
 And, while tho hlack blood swelled her puckered skiu, 
 
 She said in fiendish tones that chilled his heart : — 
 
 " What brings thee hither, miscreant as thou art ? 
 
 Think not a doit I'll give, if it would save 
 
 Both thee and thine from famine and the grave ! 
 
 Thou didst despise me, when, in gratitude 
 
 For rescuing me fi-om Israel of the wood,* 
 
 I offered thee my hand — fond-hearted fool ! 
 
 Thus to expose myself to ridicule 
 
 Of base-born wretch like thee ! — Thou didst despise 
 
 Me, who had raised thee (heaven be thanked ! my eyes 
 
 Were opened to thy worthlessness !) to be 
 
 Lord of this mansion, my broad lands, and me — 
 
 For whom ? — for her — for the poor soldier's daughter ? 
 
 Begone ! — the Calder has enough deep water 
 
 Wherein to hide thy folly !" 
 
 "Madam!" cried 
 The insulted Willie, struggling with his pride ; 
 " I came not to ask alms for mo and mine ; 
 God knows I came to ask you to assign 
 To me, if you would please, tho vacant place. 
 'Tis true I'm poor, am wretched, in disgrace 
 With the cold world ; but you — I did not think 
 That you, who once spoke kind to me — could drink 
 rieasure from woes like mine !— May God forgive 
 Your cruel wrong, and may you never live 
 To feel the bitter pang which now I feel. 
 From causeless hatred's cold revengeful steel. 
 And view as I, heart-wrung, have lately viewed, 
 Home's loved ones famishing, and none to give them food !" 
 Thus Willie spake :— a laugh derisive rang 
 Through the old hall, whose door, with furious bang, 
 
 # The mad wight alluded to iu a note, vide Book III.
 
 FAMINE IN inE COTTAGE. 225 
 
 Closed in his face ! He sadly walked away. 
 
 Dark rolled the river nigh ; hut God that day. 
 
 Guided his steps. He found, as home he sped, 
 
 A silver coin, with which he purchased bread. 
 
 And if the loser of that coin had heard 
 
 The hearty prayers those cottagers preferred, 
 
 That he might never feel the loss, and seen 
 
 How love made sweet that meal, he'd thankful been ; 
 
 And if as rich in purse as warm in heart, 
 
 AVished mm'e to lose, more comfort to impart 
 
 To souls so worthy of a better lot, 
 
 As the poor inmates of that lowly cot. 
 
 At length, when every ray of hope was fled. 
 And AViLLiE saw want's pallid hue o'erspread 
 His gentle, uncomplaining spouse's cheek, 
 And his beloved little one, with meek, 
 Imploring looks, in whispers, ask for bread — 
 And tears and kisses only given instead — 
 He felt the dreaded hour was come, when he 
 Must m-ge before the hated " Cousist'ry," 
 A pauper's glorious privilege to live 
 On what the Law will condescend to give ! 
 Thrice to the Good Old Town, where sat the " Board," 
 He bent his steps — and thrice shame's griding sword 
 Smote him, and he retui-ned. But Oh I not long 
 The battle lasts, when shame contends with stronsr. 
 Unconquerable want. Erelong he stood 
 Among a listless pauper-multitude 
 Doggedly muto, before that dreaded door, 
 Which ne'er with kindness opens for the poor. 
 After a weary while, with sullen jar, . 
 It oped half way, and Willie at the bar
 
 226 THE rOOU-LAW martyk. 
 
 Of Gu.ardiaiis* stood uncovered. Can it be, 
 
 That grief has wrought such suddeu change in thee, 
 
 Athletic WoodUmder ? The frost of years, 
 
 In masses, on thy haggard brow appears, 
 
 That lately shone like Parian marble fair, 
 
 Beneath a cloud of dark luxuriant hair. 
 
 Why gazest thou so wistfully around ? — 
 
 No friend amid that conclave may be found. 
 
 But who is that mishapen imp of sin, 
 
 That eyes the pauper with malicious grin, 
 
 And whispers to his meet confrere, St. Kee, 
 
 Some mystic words of mammon-masonry, 
 
 Which cause the said St. Kee's one small grey eye 
 
 To look to Heaven, most tabernacle-??/ ? — 
 
 Ask not — the poor in hamlet, town, and dell. 
 
 Know gruff Titer site st but too long and well ! 
 
 " Thou'rt come at last !" the demon- imp began ; 
 
 " I knew thou wouldst, my pretty gentleman ! J 
 
 Ye find at length — thou and thy lady fair — 
 
 Yo cannot, like chameleons, live on air. 
 
 Well ! — I suppose, then, ye have both agreed — 
 
 Now that assistance at our hands ye need — 
 
 To yield to that, the wisest of our laws ; 
 
 That pauper-plug — the " Separation Clause," 
 
 And dwell henceforth — " 
 
 " White-hvered caitiff, peace I" 
 The insulted Briton cried ; " thou hadst the Jieece, 
 
 * These lines, it is almost needless to say, have no reference whatever to 
 the present board of Guardians and their respected chairman, uho, as a 
 body, I believe, are actuated by the most benevolent feelings towards the 
 poor. 
 
 t Of whom it may be said, as Socrates said of a better man : 
 
 'l8ov xpv(TQvv avhpaTTohov. 
 
 X Vide note at the end.
 
 •ST. KEE AND THEKSITES. 227 
 
 And now wouklst rend the flock — but never, never, 
 Shall thy cursed hand the links that bind us sever ! 
 But let me speak to men, and not to thee — 
 Men that have hearts imbued with sympathy 
 For suffering- follow-beings. Brief my tale : — 
 I come not my misfortunes to bewail ; 
 But having sought employment all in vain, 
 And seen what rent my very heart in twain. 
 My wife and child in want of food, while I 
 Plad hands to work, but could not food supply — 
 I could endure no longer. — Therefore, here, 
 I stand to plead for those I hold so dear." 
 He ceased : the Guardians consultation brief 
 Held in low whispers ; then, the hoary chief. 
 Whose tact in glozing o'er, with canting tone. 
 The cold, dark purpose of a heart of stone, 
 Had long entitled him, by just pretence, 
 (Renowned St, Kee !) to " that bad eminence," 
 a\j-ose and said, the while he seemed to dry 
 A tear (ideal) ft-om his one grey eye, 
 " My friend ! it grieves us to refuse you aid — 
 But then the Law — the Law must be obeyed ! 
 Therefore, let me advise you to submit, 
 As I, in your case, surely should deem fit, 
 To that not pleasant, but most wholesome clause. 
 The ' Separation' — " 
 
 " Peace, Old Man ! while draws 
 This harrowed breast the breath of heaven, you ne'er 
 My wife and child from home and me shall tear ! 
 If they must perish, fiends, for lack of bread 
 Which you refuse, their blood bo on your head ! — 
 Yes, let them die of want! — but let it bo 
 'Neath the blest shelter of their own roof tree ;
 
 228 THE POOR-LAW MARTYR. 
 
 But no'er, forbid it Heaven I in that abode, 
 Your pauper-prison, accursed by men and God!" 
 Thus Willie cried ; and, with a withering look, 
 That every heart in that stern synod shook. 
 Rushed from the room, and through the starving crowd. 
 That raised their heads, upon their bosoms bowed. 
 And gazed upon him as he onward passed. 
 With jaws distended, and with looks aghast. 
 
 Whither he fled, he knew not : street and lane, 
 Dell, marsh, and moor, he traversed, with a brain 
 Scorched like Kehama's, till he reached the wood 
 That skirts the hill-sido on which his cottage stood. 
 Just as the sun, behind Ciiatskilnsiiaw's brim, 
 'Mid spectral clouds, withdrew his bloody rim. 
 He saw the smoke of that dear cottage curl 
 'Mong the dark leaves, like wreaths of orient pearl ; 
 Ho heard the blackbird, on the accustomed ti-ee, 
 Sing for his babe, its evening lullaby ; 
 And, far adown, as rose or fell the breeze. 
 The conch-notes wild of Hebden's Naiades ; 
 Which oft his little one, nestled on his arm, 
 Had listened, spell-bound, as by faeiy charm. 
 His soul a transient moment with the past 
 Communed entranced : Love a bright halo cast 
 Around his blissful being ; and he walked 
 'Mid tripping bands of golden-haired joys, and talked 
 With blooming Hope, that aye, with laughter loud. 
 Stepped forth to meet him from a silver cloud. 
 'Twas but a flitting gleam of sunshine ! — down 
 From its aerial pinnacle was thrown 
 His spirit into depths of dark despair ; 
 Where a grim-visaged fiend, with deadly glai'e,
 
 THE GLEN OF DEATH. 229 
 
 And fleshless hand, applied unto his eyes 
 That fatal orb, which ever magnifies 
 The ills of life ; and to his stai-tled ear. 
 That weird- vvi-eathed shell which waUeth sounds most drear 
 Of woe and misery. He saw his wife, 
 Want- worn and ghastly, with her ebbing life 
 Striving to feed her famished child, that pressed, 
 With bony fingers, her cold milkless breast ; 
 He heard its death-cry, and beheld it shde, 
 A corpse, with thin pale face, down by its mother's side ! 
 
 [stands 
 Whence came that wild loud laugh ? — from him. who 
 Clutching his elf-locks with convulsive hands, 
 And gazing upwards, gnashing with his teeth, 
 A raving maniac, round whose brain a wi-eath 
 Of fiery snakes, the fiend of that dread spell 
 Has felly gu-t, plucked from the jaws of hell I 
 
 " Aha ! Old Skeleton I thou well mayst rattle 
 Thy bones with glee ! — thou hast two human cattle 
 Robbed of a stall within the Bastile's walls ! — 
 They sleep a sleep which no fierce hunger-calls 
 Can e'er disturb! — Old boy ! thou'st tU-ugged them well ! 
 They but need now the pauper's ready shell, 
 The trotting cart, the grave in church-yard nook. 
 Where none for their last whereabout may look. 
 But stay! — one funeral will for all suffice: — 
 Deal shells are cheap ! but I would save the price 
 Of a fresh grave, or theirs now oped, for me. 
 And spare a journey for the cart and thee. 
 Give mo thy hand ! — why shrink'st thou back ? — hast thou 
 Of paupers vile already had enow ? 
 Hoi ho! that cloven- footed fiend hath power 
 To force thee to obedience ! — thou dost cower,
 
 230 THE poon-LAW maktyk. 
 
 And quako before him, whilst thy wormy eyen, 
 lu his dread face, his purpose can divine I — 
 March Beelzebub! Old Bones and I will follow! 
 Quickou thy speed, or we will beat thee hollow!" 
 
 So raved the maniac ; and, with hasty stride. 
 Followed the footsteps of his demon-guide. 
 Until his form was lost to human ken. 
 In the thick gloom of Hebden's sullen glen. 
 
 VII. 
 
 'Tis midnight ; and o'er Acre's bristling hill. 
 The waning moon stalks ghastly wan and chill. 
 There, like a Titan that erst scaled the skies, 
 The mighty monarch* of High Greenwood lies, 
 Stripped of his honours, barldess, huge, and lone. 
 By the vile hands of Mammon's sons o'erthrown. 
 Upon his prostrate trunk two ravens cower. 
 And whet then- beaks, as if their banquet hour 
 Were nigh at hand. Now, in the moonbeams pale, 
 On ghstening wings adown the wood they sail ; 
 And wheehng round the lesser Castle Crag, 
 Poised in mid-air, a moment silent lag ; 
 Then dowuwai'd swoop, with loud vociferous croaks. 
 Amid the Crag's lone glen of stunted oaks. 
 
 The moon, slow wending down the vault of night, 
 Spreads o'er the misty woods a pale green light. 
 And glents into yon low-roofed cottage lone ; 
 Beneath whose ivied porch, still as the stone 
 'Gainst which she leans, a female form is seen, 
 Gazing with anxious, melancholy mien, 
 
 * The Whitebark, alluded to in a former note.
 
 THE MIDNIGHT WATCHER AND HER BABE. 231 
 
 Towards the foot-path that leads unto her home, 
 But whence no sound of welcome footsteps come. 
 A pot sits seething on the well-heaped fire, 
 Whose crackling flames, at intervals, mount higher, 
 When, from confinement 'neath the jabbering lid. 
 The rich broth falls, with savoury fume, amid 
 The hissing embers, sparkling as it glides. 
 With beaded bubbles, down the caldron's sides. 
 A small round table, with white cloth o'ersjjread, 
 And garnished with two plates and new-made bread, 
 Stands as expectant of another guest. 
 For whom that lone One waits with aching breast. 
 In a warm cradle, by the ingle nook, 
 Sleeps a fair child — too fair for one to look, 
 Nursed in the lap of health and plenty bland — 
 From the slim grasp of whose thin, waxen hand, 
 Has drojiped a little cake, its mother made. 
 On the crumbed kerchief o'er its pillow laid. 
 
 Has He who fed the wanderers of the wild, 
 A table for that mother and her child, 
 Bounteously spread ? or moved some feeling heart. 
 In their distress, meet succour to impart ? 
 He is the Father of the fatherless. 
 The Husband of the widow, and will bless 
 Her little cruise with overflowing store — 
 But will her earthly spouse return no more 
 To gladden that pale watcher with his love ? 
 Have sibyUine whispers, from yon di'eary grove. 
 Pierced her sad heart with tidings of his doom ? 
 Or has she heard those ominous birds of gloom 
 Shriek in the stillness of the shuddering air : 
 " We track the Suicide to his lonely lair ?"
 
 232 THE POOR-LAW MABTni. 
 
 The veil is yet unrent : hope yet has power 
 
 To quell the fears that in her bosom cower. 
 
 Ho may have met with friends, or journeyed far 
 
 In quest of work ; but love, his bright loadstar, 
 
 Will hasten his retui'u. — Whose is that shout ? 
 
 'Tis but the owl's, that flits from scout to scout. 
 
 He conies not, and the clock has striken one. 
 
 What can detain him ? Nought beneath the sun, — 
 
 If he be well — her trembling heart repeats, 
 
 While 'gainst her side the trembler louder beats. 
 
 She turns to gaze upon her child — it still 
 
 Sleeps on — bright smiles, like sunbeams on a rill. 
 
 Illumining its features pale, as roam 
 
 The white-winged fancies round their dreamland home. 
 
 She kneels to kiss its cheek — a dreary sigh, 
 
 As from some sad spectator standing nigh. 
 
 Startles her ear — she rises wild with feai', 
 
 And looks around — but there is no one near. 
 
 A bright blaze-bubble, with its tiny din, 
 
 Is dancing on a stem of blue smoke thin. 
 
 Which issues from the sole live-coal beneath 
 
 That pot, whose contents now have ceased to seethe. 
 
 This old familiar meteor of tlie hearth. 
 
 Oft watched in childhood with a shout of mirth. 
 
 Scares her strained vision, as a spectre dire 
 
 She saw advancing from the mouldering fii-e. 
 
 A sudden wind, unloosed from darkness' throne. 
 Sweeps through the woods with melancholy moan. 
 And wakes the pendent ivy-leaves that range 
 O'er the dai-k porch, to music sad and strange. 
 Again, distracted, 'neath its matted arch. 
 The Watcher stands ; but, save the rapid march
 
 THE STARVELING. 233 
 
 Of the white mist before the di-iving blast — 
 Nought can she see. — The moon long since has passed 
 Into her cave ; and not one gladdening star, 
 O'er heaven's dark cope, smiles from its home afar. 
 She dons her cloak — but whither would she go ? 
 Where seek the lost One ?— "Would she leave — ah, no ! 
 Her helpless babe alone ? — The mother still 
 Lives in her heart. — It might awake and fill 
 The air with cries for her, when far away ! — 
 Soul-harrowing thought! — By its dear side she'U stay, 
 And wait the morning dawn. She hears the tramp 
 Of hastening feet — she trims the waning lamp. 
 And hurries to the door. — 'Tis but the tread 
 Of a poor houseless colt that, hunger-led, 
 Crops the lank herbage near the garden gate, 
 AVhich now it quits with looks most desolate. 
 Scared by the sudden light. She seeks once more 
 Her cheerless hearth, more wretched than before. 
 She kneels to pray beside her sleeping child : — 
 Her prayer is heard in Heaven ! — an angel mild, 
 Sent by the Comforter, celestial balm 
 Pours on her wounded spirit ; and in calm, 
 Refreshing slumbers seals her weaiy eyes. — 
 God shield thee, sleeper, when thou dost arise ! 
 
 VHI. 
 
 " Curse on thy bleating, thou black, shaggy fool!" 
 A tall, gaunt man, armed with a hedging tool, 
 Cried gruffly, as he drove a mountain lamb. 
 At dreary midnight, parted from its dam, 
 Down the deep glen, whose weird oak-branches wave 
 O'er that lone sjjot, yclept the Robber's Cave.
 
 234 TUE POOR-LAW MAKTYR. i 
 
 " Ho ! let them pen their flocks Avithin the fold,* 
 
 If thoy fj'om liuinun wolves, by want made bold, 
 
 Would save the lambs to glut the rich man's maw ! 
 
 I will not starve, nor to that cursed Law 
 
 Bend like a felon, while a sheep remains 
 
 To ease my own, and children's huuger-paius!" 
 
 So growled the Starveling, as he forced along 
 
 The unwiUiug lamb the under-wood among, 
 
 Towards the cave's gloomy mouth. An upward rush 
 
 Of unseen wings, as he di'ew back the bush 
 
 That screened the entrance, and a dismal cry, 
 
 Startled the night : he saw against the sky, 
 
 Darker than e'en its fi'own, two birds obscene 
 
 Sullenly soar, as they by him had been 
 
 Scared from a midnight meal. " Terchance," thought he, 
 
 " Some brother in extremest misery, 
 
 Has here a bleater of its hfo bereft, 
 
 And these foul birds were gorging what he left." 
 
 He entered, and di'agged in the struggling sheep. — 
 
 What saw he, that his flesh began to creep 
 
 Upon his bones ? Why with convulsive gasp. 
 
 Shrunk he aback, while from his loosened grasp 
 
 His woolly prisoner, with a tremulous baa ! 
 
 Impetuous rushed through the dark woods away ? 
 
 A pale green light from an old root decayed. 
 
 Revealed a human hand, and blackened blade 
 
 Raised o'er a face, in stony stillness turned 
 
 Towards the di'ead block, on which that wild fire burned ! 
 
 Round his lank throat the Starveling closer tied 
 
 His tattered kerchief, as if there the gride 
 
 Of that black knife he felt already keen, 
 
 And life were ebbing from him I Fi"om the scene, 
 
 * I'ide note at i-he end.
 
 THE SUICIDE'a GBAVK. 235 
 
 Heart-numbed, and ghastly, he, with ti-erabling knees, 
 Slu-unk from the cave, and fled among the trees. 
 
 Morn rose reftdgent with autumnal gold ; 
 And aU the woodlands gleamed with manifold 
 Rich hues ; and blithely was the ruddock singing 
 Above the Eobber's Cave ; to whose top clinging, 
 The bramble hung, with ebon-beaded berries ; 
 And o'er the wild rose, with its cone-shaped cherries 
 Clustering before the entrance, insects bright 
 Were wheeling up and down in am-eat light. 
 
 Two little chikh-en, wandering tlu-ough the wood. 
 Came prattUng on. A moment mute they stood 
 Before the cave, and, longing, eyed the fruit 
 That glistened on each pendent overshoot. 
 Too temptingly, above their heads so high ; 
 And wished they had the ruddock's ^ings to fly, 
 They would not have sat singing idly there, 
 But feasted on those berries ripe and rare. 
 As hand in hand, reluctant, they passed on, 
 They looked into the cave — Laocoon, 
 Writhing within the sea-snake's venomed fold. 
 Struck not the gazer's heart more deadly cold. 
 Than did that stony corpse, there darkly laid, 
 With glazed eye fixed upon the uphfted blade, 
 On whose point hung congealed a drop of blood, — 
 The breasts of those sweet wanderers of the wood : — 
 They looked into each other's face with dread, 
 And crept away, low whispering — Willie's dead ! 
 
 They laid him in the earth : — no white-robed priest 
 The funeral rites performed ; but as a beast
 
 236 THE rOOU-LAW mautvu. 
 
 They buried him in a bhack parish shell, 
 By lamp-light hastily, without a knell, 
 And slunk away, leaving in darkness, prone 
 Beside the unhonoured grave, the Widowed One, 
 With her poor orphan, chilled with grief so drear, 
 She could not speak, she could not shed a tear ; 
 But, O, though WilxiE perished in despair, 
 And, as a dog, they coldly laid him there, 
 Went there not up, that hour of darkness grim, 
 A prayer to Heaven from her true heart for him ? 
 And was her prayer in vain ? Is it forbid 
 To hope for one who knew not what ho did ? 
 Oh ! put not out, by cloudy creed, the light 
 That sheds a ray of comfort in the night 
 Of her deep sorrow ! Let her still live on 
 In cheering hope, that, when her work is done. 
 She may embrace him, by his God forgiven, 
 A happy spirit, in the land of Heaven. 
 
 They laid him in the earth — the Pauper-suicide ! 
 But though the ledger-men, whose hearts are tried 
 In Mammon's furnace, from then- red-lined book 
 Struck out his name, with most complacent look. 
 How know they, that a God with mercy rife, 
 May not have written it in the Book of Life ! 
 How know they, that the Judge of Quick and Dead, 
 May not Ms blood charge on their guilty head ! 
 How know they, that for every drop of woe. 
 With which they made that Widow's cup o'ei-flow ; 
 For every bitter tear they caused to streak 
 The wasted rondure of that Orphan's cheek. 
 Vials of wrath, the Avenger of the Poor, 
 May not for them already have in store !
 
 ADDRESS TO PEEL AND WELLINGTON. 237 
 
 IX. 
 
 thou, the guardian of thy country's weal ! 
 The champion of her rights ! illustrious Peel ! 
 Spurn the cold dogmas of the mammon-creed. 
 And let thy heart its generous instincts plead I 
 To err is human : to retrieve a fault, 
 A noble mind like thine will never halt. 
 Thine aid was given to men of selfish lore, 
 Who changed the ancient charter of the poor ; 
 Decreed a law, in cruelty sublime, 
 
 AVhich want and misery punishes as crime ; 
 
 And, with a daring, and most impious hand, 
 
 Severs asunder, in a Christian land, 
 
 Those who, with holy sanction from above, 
 
 Were once united in connubial love ! 
 
 And thou, grey Hero of a Hundred Fights ! 
 Thou, too, hast sinned against the poor man's rights ! 
 Up and avenge thee of thy sin, ere thou 
 Thy well- won laurels in the dust shalt bow ! 
 Let not yon Widow's wail, who oft thy praise 
 Sung to her Soldier-sire, m happier days, 
 Appeal to Heaven against the Chief, beneath 
 Whose glorious flag, on Albuheka's heath. 
 That sire a banded troop to victoiy led, 
 When gallant Myeks, the youthful hero, bled ! 
 Eschew the creed that weighs, with fiendish art, 
 Old England's Poor in balance of the mart I 
 Deem not, because some vile *Jack Cade can still 
 Their goaded sphits rouse to deeds of ill, 
 They cannot grateful to those rulers prove, 
 AVhose generous acts proclaim a patriot's love I 
 
 * Fide note at the end.
 
 238 THE pilgrim's FAIIEWELL. 
 
 Tiy them ! Rescind the accursed Law ! Restore 
 The ancient Landmarks of the suffering Poor I 
 Old England's hills then jubilant will reel, 
 And rinc; with shouts for Wellington and Peel ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Vale of my Fathers ! as with theo my shell 
 Woke at the 'hest of wizard Memoi-y's spell ; 
 So now, each dear enchantment fled away, 
 With thee I close my melancholy lay : 
 For what, if we the Past's bright charm remove. 
 Remains in thee to wake the Pilgrim's love ? 
 Invading Commerce, with Vulcanian fro^vn, 
 Tramples each year some lingering vestige down, 
 Rife with rich legends of the Olden Time, 
 In those wild glens and craggy chffs sublime. 
 Now thundering sweeps through Oswald's sylvan reign. 
 The steam-winged Dragon and his long, dark train,* 
 Scaring the night with his red eye of wrath. 
 And scattering fire along his iron path ; 
 But as, when the arch-rebel warred in Heaven, 
 The ethereal hills, by angel-might up-riven. 
 Upon the foe and all his craft were hui-led ; 
 So, at the invasion of his ancient world, 
 Oswald, indig-nant, may his rocky helm 
 Lift fi-om his frowning brows, and overwhelm, 
 In some sad hour of darkness and of fear, 
 The smoking monster in his swift career. 
 And thou, Llads-Lowe, whose hoary presence weaves 
 A mystic spell around the embo welled Eaves ; 
 Thou, from whose top, by red-robed flamen trod. 
 Blazed the dread holocaust to the Cimbric God ; 
 
 * Vide note at the end.
 
 THE pilgrim's FAREWELL. 239 
 
 Thou, the wild midnight stance of Him^ who pained 
 
 To know his fate, and cursed the knowledge gained ; — 
 
 Wilt not, perchance, sm-vive thine old compeer ; 
 
 For, hark ! the rock-hlasts thunder in thine ear ! 
 
 And soon must thou, when Avarice gives command, 
 
 Fall by the delver's devastating hand ! 
 
 But in that hour — no, sleep unhreathed the ban, 
 
 My soul would pour upon the sordid man, 
 
 Whose lips shall bid the sacrilegious blow 
 
 Smite the time-hallowed form of wild Llads Lowe ! 
 
 Hushed be the strain : — no more my feet as erst 
 Shall wander where my happy childhood first 
 Plucked the sweet fi'uitage of poetic thought, 
 And, quite inebriate, sung as fancy taught. 
 I cannot, with the calculating eye 
 Of the cold worldling, look upon his Wliy 
 And Wherefore, for the spoils his ruthless hand 
 Has wrought in my beloved mountain land. 
 And tender him thanksgiving. Sooth to say, 
 When the old rocks' famihar faces grey 
 Peered through oak-boughs ; and the old river ran 
 In his o\\Ti channel, wardered with his clan 
 Of broad-armed elms and stately sycamores, 
 Through the green holms that laughed along his shores : — 
 And when the old farm-house, with gable high. 
 Surmounted with stone ball, gleamed in the eyo 
 Of the full moon, with its long latticed hue 
 Of windows, wreathed with ivy and woodbine, 
 And low-browed porch, 'gainst which leaned side by side, 
 The white-scom-ed bowls and churns, the tlu-ift dame's 
 
 [pride ; 
 
 * The Star-Seer.
 
 240 THE pilgrim's farewell. 
 
 And when the old hamlet, with its unfonced green, 
 And walks interminable, 'neath the screen 
 Of forests hoar — a happy Imman hive, 
 Where all who wished might continently thrive 
 By moderate labour — heard no harsher din 
 Than looms and jennies plied its walls within ; 
 Each household toiling 'neath a parent's eye. 
 With hearts unsoiled, united by the tie 
 Of sweet homo-cherished love, and all day long 
 Cheering light labour with a choral song : — 
 Yes, sooth to say, these simple, happy scenes 
 Wrought in me more of joyousness than leans 
 To ledger- wisdom, which, in these dull days, 
 Deems all men fools, save those that altars raise 
 To Mammon, and the wight would laugh to scorn. 
 That breathed a sigh for rustic homesteads shorn 
 Of their old bowery blisses : but the grove 
 Seek I, of loftier AVisdom, throned on love. 
 And mom-n with her the loss of scenes hko these. 
 
 Dear Native Vale ! when thy home-melodies 
 Rose from grey hamlets to thy tree-topped heaven. 
 Swelled not thy dwellers' hearts more with the leaven 
 Of pm"e-born happiness, than the thousands whom 
 Those sweltering factories twelve long hours entomb ? 
 Bloomed not domestic virtues more aloof 
 From tainted air, 'neath the paternal roof. 
 In guarded sanctity, and healthful pride. 
 Than now they bloom in those rank hot-beds — eyed 
 By Mammon's harpies all the live-long day ? 
 Do those lewd songs that greet you on your way. 
 Harsh as the torturing engines they out-din, 
 Augm- of hearts free from pollution's sin ?
 
 THE pilgrim's farewell. 241 
 
 Do that bold staro, rude laugh, and ribald jest,* 
 
 Proclaim all pure within the female breast ? 
 
 Finds the young cottager his factory bride — 
 
 Who gains by toil which is to him denied, 
 
 Life's scanty means — in household arts as skilled 
 
 As the thrift maid, who these had all instilledt 
 
 Beneath a mother's eye ; and with such dower 
 
 Her husband's humble home made love's delightful bower ? 
 
 These questions, on the Mammonite's brazen brow, 
 Can bring no burning answer, nor can plough 
 A furrow in his indurated heart, 
 For love to drop one seed in. To the mart 
 He goes, and reaps his gold, nor cares one jot. 
 If, in his pestilent prisons, all virtues rot. 
 That make humanity human. Who downcast 
 This idol Mammon ?| Who the Iconoclast, 
 To bruise it to the dust ? — Thy kingdom come,§ 
 Great Sovereign Lord of Love ! then shall this dumb. 
 Brute-god in pieces at Thy presence fall, 
 And Thou bo all, and reign supreme in all. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 # I'iJc note .at the end. } yiUe note .at the end. 
 
 t yide note at the end. § nUc note at the end. 
 
 Q
 
 NOTES TO BOOK VI. 
 
 (Page 210, line 2.) 
 The merry bells of Heptonstall impregn. 
 
 " Heptonstall is a large and ancient village, nine miles W. by N. of 
 Halifax, seated on the lufty summit of a bleak and barren hill, sometimes 
 rendered inaccessible by the inclemency of the weather ; the only safe ap- 
 proach being the new road, which traverses the ascent in an oblique 
 direction, from Hebden Bridge, a large village, partly in Heptonstall town- 
 ship, which comprises many sinall hamlets, and scattered houses and 
 cotton fdctories, on the declivities and in the secluded dells on each side of 
 the village, where Dr. Whitaker lamented that the wild and romantic 
 beauties of nature were injured by the ' inelegance which ever accompanies 
 manufactures.' "—White's Directory. 
 
 During the Civil Wars, it appears that, while Halifax, Bradford, Wake- 
 field and Leeds, infected with republican principles, took part with the 
 Parliamentarians, Heptonstall espoused the cause of the King ; for, accord- 
 ing to the register at Halifax, " on Jan. 4th, 1643, two soldiers were hanged 
 on a gallows made near the gibbet, who were taken by Sir Francis Mak- 
 worth's company, from Heptonstall forces. They had deserted from the 
 Halifax army to Heptonstall, for «hich they were hanged the same night 
 they were taken prisoners." Tradition says, that a great battle was fought 
 at Heptonstall, during this perturbed period, and that a great part of the 
 town was then reduced to ashes, A lofty hill to the N.E. is still pointed out 
 as the spot where the enemy planted his cannon, and fired upon tlie town. 
 The Church, dedicated to 8t. Thomas-A-Becket, was erected in the early 
 part of the 13th century. It is a large venerable edifice, and has a fine 
 massive tower, shamefully disfigured by a red brick chimney which runs 
 up the whole length of the south-cast side ; and the East window has been 
 almost entirely despoiled of its ancient decorations by theft and wanton 
 mischief! Heptonstall, whatever it may boast of in other respects, cer- 
 tainly does not contain the most civilized inhabitants in the township. It 
 is to be hoped they will imitate the example of their neighbours, the people 
 of Hebden Bridge, and mend.
 
 244 NOTliS TO HOOK Vl. 
 
 (Page 215, Une 21.) 
 As grant thy minions respite for an hour. 
 
 Tho IhiUfax Guardian, of August 31st, 1844, in its local news, uiuliT the 
 head Todmordcn, contained the following article, entitled " Cheap Kaihvay 
 Jyiy.— Conduct of Factory Lords.— On Monday morning last, a train of 
 twenty-eight carriages, containing upwards of 1,500 passengers, left Tod- 
 morden station for Liverpool. Tho fare there and back, was 4s., and the 
 passengers had the privilege of remaining in Liverpool till Tuesday evening. 
 I'ew, comparatively speaking, of those who availed themselves of the trip, 
 were inhabitants of this town ; large numbers came from Colne, Burnley, 
 and Bacup. The principal manufuclurers in this neighbourhood, gave notice 
 to their drudges, that if they lejl their icork on Monday and Tuesday, they 
 would not be allotted to resume it. This notice was given at tho latter end 
 of tho week, when many of the factory hands had purchased tickets ; the 
 consequence was, that they had to dispo.se of them as they could. Some 
 were re-sold as low as Is. 3d. eacli ; others were left on hand or given away ; 
 and in this manner a considerable amount of hard-earned money was 
 sacrificed, that would have given the toil-worn factory slave an opportunity 
 of taking a sailing excursion on tlio river Mersey, or the Irish Channel, 
 far from the monotonous hum and unceasing buzz of revolving machinery, 
 and leaving behind an atmosphere as hateful as the disgusting tyranny of 
 their avaricious employers. Such is the .sympathy of these manut.acturing 
 autocrats for the men, without whose services they and their machinery 
 would bo useless lumber." 
 
 (Page 21C, Une 10.) 
 
 Our woodland tradesman, in the sage esteem 
 
 Of tho foresighted. 
 
 That delectable class, the Worldly Wise, with whom it may be said, in 
 the words of one of the deepest thinkers of the age, " the only virtue of any 
 civilization is what they call ' Honour,' the sanctioning deity of which is 
 that wonderful ' Force of Public Opinion.' Concerning which virtue of 
 Honour, we must be permitted to say that .she reveals herself too clearly^ 
 as the daughter and heiress of our old acquaintance Vanity, who indeed 
 has been known enough ever since the foundation of the w^orld, at least 
 since the date of that ' Lucifer, son of the Morning ;' hut known chiefly in 
 her proper character of strolling actress, or cast-clothes Abigail ; and ne- 
 ver, till that new era, had seen her issue set up as Queen and all-sufficient 
 Dictatress of man's whole soul, prescribing with nicest precision what, in 
 all practical and all moral emergencies, he was to do and to forbear. 
 Again, with regard to this same Force of Public Opinion, it is a force well 
 known to all of us ; respected, valued as of indispensable utility, but nowise
 
 NOTES TO BOOK VI. 245 
 
 recognised as a final or divine force. We might ask, What divine, what 
 truly great thing liad ever been effected by this force ? Was it the Force of 
 Public Opinion that drove Columbus to America ; John Kepler, not to fare 
 sumptuously among Rodolph's Astrologers and Fire-eaters, but to perish 
 of want, discovering the true System of the Stars ? Still more ineffectual 
 do we find it as a basis of public or private Morals. Nay, taken by itself, 
 it may be called a baseless basis : for without some ulterior sanction, 
 common to all minds ; without some belief in the necessary, eternal, or 
 which is the same, in the supramundane, divine nature of Virtue, existing 
 in each individual, what could the moral judgment of a thousand thousand 
 individuals avail us ? Without some celestial guidance, whencesoever 
 derived, or howsoever named, it appears to us the Force of Public Opinion 
 would, by and bye, become an extremely unprofitable one. ' Enlighten Self- 
 interest !' cries the Philosophe, ' Do but sufficiently enlighten it !' We our- 
 selves have seen enlightened Self-interests, ere now ; and truly, for most 
 part, their light was only that of a hom-lantern, sufficient to guide the 
 bearer himself out of various puddles ; but to us and ihe world, of com- 
 paratively small advantage. And figure the human species, like an end- 
 less host, seeking its way onwards through undiscovered Time, in black 
 darkness, save that each had his horn-lantern, and the vanguard sora,e 
 few of glass !" 
 
 (Page 217, Une 12.) 
 Left him, unaided, to his ruthless fate. 
 
 Guzman de Alfarache, in that good old book " The Spanish Rogue," has 
 thus summed up a few of the properties of poverty :— " That poverty, which 
 is not the daughter of the spirit, is but the mother of shame and reproach ; 
 it is a disreputation that drowns all the other good parts that are in a man ; 
 it is a disposition to all kind of evil ; it is man's most foe ; it is a leprosy 
 full of anguish ; it is a way that leads unto hell ; it is a sea wherein our 
 patience is overwhelmed, our honour is consumed, our lives are ended, 
 and our souls are utterly lost and cast away forever. The poor man is a 
 kind of money that is not current ; the subject of every idle huswife's 
 chat ; the offscum of the people ; the dust of the street, first trampled under 
 foot and then thrown on the dunghill ; in conclusion, the poor man is the 
 rich man's ass. He dineth with the last, fareth of the worst, and payeth 
 dearest ; his sixpence will not go as far as a rich man's threepence ; his 
 opinion is ignorance ; his discretion, foolishness ; his sufi'rage, scorn ; his 
 stock upon the common, .abused by many and abhorred of all. If he come 
 in company, he is not heard ; if any chance to meet liim, they seek to shun 
 him ; if he advise, though never so wisely, they grudge and murmur at him ; 
 if he work miracles, they say he is awitcli ; il'virtuous, thathegoeth about 
 to deceive ; his venial sin is a blasphemy ; his thought is made treason ;
 
 246 NOTKti TO IJOOK VI. 
 
 his cause, be it never so just, it is never rcgarderl ; ami to liavo his wrongs 
 righted, he must appeal to that other life. All men crush him ; no inau 
 favoureth him ; no man that will comfort him in his miseries ; nor no man 
 that will bear him company, when he is all alone, and oi)pressed with grief. 
 None help Iiim ; all hinder him ; none give him, all take from him ; he is 
 debtor to none, and yet must make payment to all. O the unfortunate and 
 poor condition of him that is poor, to whom even the very hours are sold, 
 wliich the clock striketh, and pays custom for the sunshine in August." 
 
 (Page 226, line 18.) 
 
 I knew thou wouldst, my pretty gentleman ! 
 
 " Wo must hold it a remarkable thing that every Englishman should be 
 a 'gentleman' ; and that in so democratic a country, our common title of 
 honour, which all men assert for themselves, should be one which profes- 
 sedly depends on s/a/wn, on «c«V/(;n/s rather than §waWiV* ; or at best, as 
 Coleridge interprets it, ' on certain indifference to money matters,' which 
 certain indifference must be wise or mad, you would think, exactly as one 
 possesses much money, or possesses little ! We suppose it must be the 
 commercial genius of the nation, counteracting and suppressing its political 
 genius ; for the Americans are said to be still more notable in this respect 
 than we. Now, what a hollow, windy vacuity of internal character tliis 
 indicates ; how, in the place of a rightly ordered heai-t, we strive only to 
 e.xhibit a full purse ; and all pushing, rushing, elbowing on towards a false 
 aim, the courtier's kibes are more and more galled by the toe of the pea- 
 sant : and on every side, instead of Faith, Hope, and Charity, we have 
 Neediness, Greediness, and Vainglory ; all this is palpable enough. Fools 
 that we are ! Why should we wear our knees to horn, and sorrowfully beat 
 our breasts, praying day and night to Mammon, who, if he would even hear 
 us, has almost nothing to give ? For, granting that the deaf brute-god were 
 to relent for our sacrificing ; to change our gilt brass into solid gold, and 
 instead of hungry actors of rich gentility, make us all in very deed Roths- 
 child-IIowards to morrow, what good were it ? Are we not already deni- 
 zens of this wondrous England, with its high Shakspeare and namj)dens ; 
 nay, of this wondrous Universe, with its Galaxies and Eternities, and un- 
 speakable Splendours, that we should so worry and scramble, and tear one 
 another in pieces, for some acres (nay, still oftener, for the show of some 
 acres), more or less, of clay property, the largest of which properties, the 
 .Sutherland itself, is invisible even from the Moon ? Fools that we are ! To 
 dig, and bore like ground-worms in those acres of ours, even if we have 
 acres ; and far from beholding and enjoying the heavenly Lights, not to 
 know of them except by unheeded and unbelieved leport ! Shall certain 
 pounds sterling that we have in the Bank of England, or the ghosts of certain 
 
 I
 
 NOTES TO BOOK VI. 247 
 
 pounds that we would fain seem to have, hide from us the treasures we are 
 all bom to in tliis the ' City of God V 
 
 My inheritance how wide and fair ; 
 
 Time is my estate, to Time I'm heir." 
 
 Carlyle's Miscellanies, 
 
 (Page 234, line 1.) 
 
 Ho ! let them pen theu* flocks within the fold. 
 
 Wages and Ckime In Berkshire.— At the Berks Michaelmas Sessions 
 last week, William Jackson, 32, was charged witli having stolen two sheep, 
 the property of Robert Henmiington and Thomas Fisher Ilemmington, in 
 the month of Dec. last. The prosecutor, who farms 900 acres of land, said 
 the rate of wages is from 8s. to 10s. per week ; some labourers are paid less. 
 He had heard of some receiving Gd. per day, exclusive of Sunday. Mr. 
 Barnes, solicitor, of Lamborne, and clerk to the magistrates, deposed to the 
 prisoner making a statement after his examination, which was as follows : 
 " I know nothing of Mr. Style's sheep (the prisoner also stood charged with 
 stealing a sheep belonging to that person.) We took two sheep to a plan- 
 tation, and killed them, and put the skins into a well. I was almost 
 starved, and had only 8s. a week to keep seven of us." Mr. Williams, who 
 appeared on belialf of the prisoner, said, from the statement which had 
 been read as having been made by the prisoner he would not attempt to 
 deny his guilt. A learned friend, who was somewhat acquainted with the 
 distressing circumstances of the prisoner, voluntarily came forward, and 
 (to the credit of his profession be it mentioned) paid the fee, in order that 
 that poor unfortunate man might have the benefit of counsel. lie (Mr. 
 Williams) therefore appeared as the representative of charity, to crave for 
 mercy for that miserable wretch before them. Was it not a lamentable 
 and greatly to be deplored fact, that in this enlightened age, and this pro- 
 fessedly Christian country, any man should be compelled to toil early and 
 late for the maintenance of himself and family, and then at the expiration 
 of the week to receive as wages (not as a remuneration, for that could not 
 be) the sum of 8s., upon which not only himself, but a wife and six children 
 were to breathe out a miserable existence 1 lie would direct them to the 
 appearance of the man, which indicated sorrow, misery, and wretchedness. 
 In tlie moment of starvation, to satisfy the craving wants of his family, he 
 yielded to the temptation of committing that offence of which he there stood 
 accused. The learned counsel concluded with a touching and pathetic 
 appeal to the court to extend its sympathy towards the prisoner. The 
 jury, under the direction of the chairman, returned a verdict of Guilty. 
 Tlie cliairman, in passing sentence on .lackson, admitted that 8s. a week 
 was but very little for the supportof liimself and family, and that he had no 
 doubt ho must have been in great distress ; but tliat, nevertheless, did nof.
 
 248 NOTES TO BOOK VI. 
 
 justify a perpetration of the offence of vhich lie liatl been convicted. lie 
 wislied it \vere in tlic power of tlie court to be more lenient, but tbere were 
 limits to which they were bound. The sentence was, that he be transported 
 for ten years.— Halifax Guardian, October 2Gth, 1814. 
 
 (Page 237, line 27.) 
 Deem not, because some vile Jack Cade can still. 
 
 " We complain," says Emerson, "that the masses of the people are so 
 often controlled by designing men, and led in opposition to manifest justice 
 and the common weal, and to their own interest. But the people do not 
 wish to be represented or ruled by the ignorant and base. They only vote 
 for these because they were asked with the voice and semblance of kindness. 
 They will not vote for them long. They inevitably i)refer wit and probity. 
 To use an Egyptian metaphor, it is not then- will for any long time ' to raise 
 the nails of wild beasts, and to depress the heads of the sacred birds.' Let 
 our affections flow out to our fellows ; it would operate in a day the great- 
 est of all revolutions. It is better to work on institutions by the sim than 
 by the wind. The state nmst consider the poor man, and all voices must 
 speak for him. Every child that is born must have a just chance for his 
 bread. Let the ameliorations in our laws of property proceed from the 
 concession of the rich— not from the grasping of the poor. Let us begin by 
 habitual imparting. Let us understand that the eqiiitable rule is, that no 
 one should take more than his share, let him be ever so rich. Let me feel 
 that I am to be a lover. I am to see to it that the world is the better for 
 me, and to find my reward in the act. Love will put a new face on this 
 weary old world in which we dwell as pagans and enemies too long, and it 
 would warm the heart to see how fast the vain diplomacy of statesmen, the 
 impotence of armies, and navies, and lines ot defence, would be superseded 
 by this unarmed Child. Lo^ e will creep where it cannot go, will accomplish 
 that by imperceptible methods— being its own lever, fulcrum, and power, 
 
 which force could never achieve. Have you seen in the woods, in a late 
 
 autumn morning, a poor fungus or mushroom— a plant without any solid- 
 ity, nay, that seemed nothing but a soft mush or jelly— by its constant, 
 total, and inconceivably gentle pushing, manage to break its way up 
 through the frosty ground, and actually to lift a hard crust on its head ? 
 It is the symbol of the power of kindness. The virtue of this principle in 
 human society, in application to great interests, is obsolete and forgotten. 
 Once or twice in history it has been tried in illustrious instances, ^vith 
 signal success. This great, overgrown, dead Christendom of ours still 
 keeps alive, at least, the name of a lover of mankind. But one day all men 
 will bo lovers ; and every calamity will be dissolved in the universal sun- 
 shin e." May that day not be far distant ! 
 
 I
 
 ^'OTES TO BOOK VI. 249 
 
 (Page 238, Une IG.) 
 
 The steam-winged Dragon, and his long, dark train. 
 
 It appears that the most beautiful and romantic scenery in England — 
 scenery which the genius of a Coleridge, a Wordsworth, a Southey, a Wilson, 
 and a Scott, has rendered sacred as tlie fair Ionian land — is about to be 
 desecrated by the introduction of Railway ! The projectors of such a scheme 
 would, through the lust of lucre, make a Railway through I'aradise itself. 
 But is the love of Nature and of Genius become extinct in British bosoms ? 
 If not, let its voice be heard, and prevent a desecration that would be a 
 reproach to tlie land. Let it listen to the appeal of the venerable Bard of 
 Rydal, in the following Sonnet recently published : — 
 
 ON THE PEOJECTED KENDAL AND WINANDEKMEKE BAILWAT. 
 
 Is there no nook of English ground secure 
 
 From rash assault ? Schemes of retirement sown 
 
 In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure 
 
 As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown. 
 
 Must perish : how can they this blight endure ? 
 
 And must he too his old deUghts disown 
 
 Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 
 
 'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown ? 
 
 Baffle the threat, bright scene, from Ori-est-head 
 
 Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance ! 
 
 Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance 
 
 Of Nature ; and if human hearts be dead, 
 
 Speak passing winds, ye torrents, with your strong 
 
 And constant voice, protest against the wrong. 
 
 Rydal Mount, Oct. 12th, 1844. fVjn. fFordsworth. 
 
 " Let not the above," he adds in a note, "be considered as merely a poet- 
 ical effusion. The degree and kind of attachment which many of the 
 yeomanry feel to their inheritances can scarcely be overrated. Near the 
 house of one of them stands a magnificent tree, which a neighbom- of the 
 owner advised him to fell for profit's sake. ' Fell it !' exclaimed the yeo- 
 man, ' 1 had rather fall on my knees and worship it.' It happens, I believe, 
 that the intended railway will pass through this little property, and I hope 
 that an apology for the answer will not be thought necessary by any one 
 who enters into the strength of the feeling." IIow different this feeling of 
 the right-hearted (,'umbrian yeoman from that of the sordid churl who 
 felled the Whitebark !
 
 250 NOTKS TO BOOK VI. 
 
 (Page 241, line 1.) 
 
 Do that bold stare, rude laugh, and ribald jest. 
 
 " Think of the immuring a girl of the age of twelve or thirteen, day hy day, 
 Jur sixteen hours, in the same foetid, unwholesome, monotonous cotton-mill ! 
 If the stronger in frame escape consumption, distorted limhs, or other 
 bodily sufferings, how many, even of these, can escape that pollution of murals 
 which is universal! ' Indecent language,' said a witness who had been 
 an overseer in a factory, ' mostly begins towards night, when they begin to 
 be drowsy ; it is a kind of stimulus the children use to keep themselves 
 awake ; they say some pert thing or otlier to keep themselves from drow- 
 siness, and it generally is some obscene language.' " — Remedies for the Perils 
 of the Nation, as quoted by the Dublin University Magazine. 
 
 (Page 241, Une G.) 
 As the thrift maid, who these had all instilled. 
 
 " Domestic bliss 
 (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
 How art thou blighted for the poor man's heart ! 
 liO ! in such neiglibourliood, from morn to eve, 
 The habitations empty ! or perchance 
 The Mother left alone, no helping liand 
 To rock tlie cradle of her peevish babe ; 
 No daughters round her, busy at the wheel. 
 Or in dispatcli of each day's little growth 
 Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
 Of needle- work ; no bustle at the fire. 
 Where once the dinner was prepared witli pride ; 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
 Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command." 
 
 Jfordsicorth. 
 
 I shall make no apology for these copious extracts from the venerable 
 bard's " Excursion ;" because they give additional weight to the opinions I 
 have expressed in the text. 
 
 (Page 241, line IG.) 
 
 This idol Mammon ? Who the Iconoclast. 
 
 The art of living well, how few properly understand ! The million crowd 
 the temple of Mammon, and to the brute-god's oracles, procLaimcd by his 
 devoted priestliood, listen with yearning hearts. And what is ever the cry
 
 XOTES TO BOOK VI. 251 
 
 of these ' servile ministers,' which receives the lionest hail of the million 
 worshippers, in accordance with the steadfast faitli that is in tliem ? — 
 " Get gold, and thou art master of the art of living well. Power is thine, 
 honour is tliine, homage is thine, pleasure is thine." " Amen !" shout tlic 
 infatuated multitude, with devout genuflections, and straightway rush to 
 the strife. But all cannot be conquerors ; a few only win the laurel, and 
 mount the triumplial car ; the rest become minions, drudges, slaves, and 
 lick the dust from oft" the feet of the lords paramount. IIow fares it not 
 seldom with the latter ? Is their station always permanent ? Alas ! they 
 often live too well to be steady ; intoxicated and giddy with their sudden eleva- 
 tion, they topple from the topmost round of their rotten ladder, and bear 
 down with them the ambitious climbers by the same false steps, crushing 
 the abject multitude beneath them. Loud, and deep, and bitter the lamen- 
 tation and tlie curse — wide-spread, and heart-rending the misery and ruin. 
 But does the infatuation cease ? No, the faith in Mammon is strong as 
 life itself ; it survives downfal after downfal ; and even when its votary is 
 enfeebled and crippled, so that he can no longer enter the strife, he reit- 
 erates from liis laii' of wretchedness " Gold, thou art all in all !" and dies, 
 looking towards the temple of the god of his idolatry. 
 
 Some there are, it is true, ot the conquerors we have named, that fall not 
 from ' their high estate,' during a long Ufe. They have been the arbiters of 
 nations, holding the keys of peace and war. Princes and potentates liave 
 acted at their bidding ; and kings admitted them to their most secret coun- 
 cils. They have been sui-feited witli power. Genius has stooped to them, 
 and become their minister. It has ploughed the waves with arrowy speed, 
 and waited them from shore to shore ; it has bored through mountains, 
 elevated valleys, arched rivers, levelled precipices, and smoothed the whole 
 witli an iron path, on which they can travel with the eagle's swiftness — 
 all to increase their luxuries, and swell their coffers. Minions, bare-headed, 
 bow before them ; flatterers fawn ; and the poor slink away to toil for them, 
 and be tliankful they are permitted to rank next in honour to their mas- 
 ters' dogs. Music pours her sweetest strains ; Beauty unveils her brightest 
 charms ; Art essays her highest skill on the canvass or in marble ; Reli- 
 gion opens her choicest pews ; widens the needle's eye to the dimensions 
 of Cleopatra's, so that they may pass through with bag and baggage— for 
 Ihem, the lords of the golden spell ! Of a surety, these live well ! they live 
 the life that the million envy, ever strive after, as if God were not ; nature 
 were not ; and this life were the ' be-all and the end-all.' But knock at 
 the door of their hearts, and ask if happiness dwells within ; it gold can 
 procure it. A mournful voice will answer. No ! They feel, that not thei/, 
 but the ' pomp and circumstance' that environ them, receive all the knee- 
 and-lip-service of the multitude ; that it is their gold, and not tUemseUes, 
 which wins the smiles of beauty, and the blandishments ot ))leasure. The 
 beggar, sharing his crust, under the hawthorn, witii liis sun-browned, ill- 
 clad wife, is happier tliau they at the most sumptuous banquet ; for tho
 
 252 NOTES TO HOOK VI. 
 
 bread he cats is the gift of benevolence, and the heart that beats near him, 
 beats true to him, niid would not forego tlie luxury of its honest ])ulsati(jiis 
 to become tlie deck-out pretty toy of the hoary Nabob that rolls by in liis 
 chariot and six. Let tliat rich man ' off with his lendings,' and let liim 
 stand the • unaeeommodatod man,' by the side of the poor, bare, forked 
 animal under the hawthorn ; and, ' handy-dandy,' which is the Nabob, 
 which is the beggar ? Do the multitude know the rich man noiv ? lie 
 passes with them now for wliat he is worth, and no more. Stripped of ' his 
 lendings,' they do him no homage, they give him no praise, tliey yield liim 
 no pity, for he ' ne'er learned to pity them.' Nay, that naked beggar is 
 physically more a man than he, and would sooner win a Spartan bride. 
 Which would climb yon mountain the soonest, and with the least fatigue ? 
 AVhich would first 'cross the troubled Tiber, chafing with his shores?' 
 Which endure the longest, 'the summer's heat, and the winter's cold?' 
 the pinchings of hunger, and ' the whips and scorns' of the world ? Through 
 the rents and cracks of his soul, the rich man sees written as with a sun- 
 beam — " Thou hast been the fool of thy senses, and their slave. Thou hast 
 clotlied thyself in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day ; 
 and now thy flesh creeps at the breath of the zephyr, and the gravel and 
 the grass are as thorns to thy feet. Stripped of thy gauds, what art thou 
 more than he who ' owes the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no 
 wool, the cat no perfume ?' Art thou richer? Yea, in thine infirmities. 
 Art thou wiser ? Yea, in thine own conceit. Call upon the 15aal thou hast 
 worshipped ; and will he give thee strengtli ? absolve thee of thy gout, tliy 
 load of superfluous mortality ? lie is on a journey, and cannot liear thee. 
 Thou art lord of thyself, that 'heritage of woe,' but, of the multitude, no 
 longer. The charm that did invest thee is gone. Fool ! not to know, that 
 it was not thee, not the puissance centred in thee, not thy knowledge, thy 
 virtues, but thy ' robes and furred gowns,' thy scutcheons and thy state, 
 that the vulgar crowd flattered, fawned upon, and worshipped. Ila ! he 
 ■with the scanty wallet, the slouched hat, the tattered coat, the clouted 
 shoon, is richer than thou art. Ilis appetite devours with a gust to which 
 thou art a stranger, what thine would turn from with loathing, lie has 
 a frame seasoned for all weathers ; and within it a brave heart, that has a 
 virtuous vrill, and a genuine love. lie is not ashamed to beg, because ho 
 cannot get wherewith for his hands to do ; and he must not starve, and he 
 will not be separated from the wife of his bosom. Do but ' touch her with 
 tliine eye,' and thou wilt be as clay in the jiotter's hand. For all her rags, 
 she is dear to him as tlie apple of his eye ; and he would not part with her 
 for the gilded plaything that has foi'saken thy now-unvarnished dotage, and 
 the wealth of which once thou wast the possessor. Bitterly hast thou found 
 out that 
 
 rigmies are pigmies still, though placed on Alps ; 
 
 And pyramids ai'e pyramids in vales. 
 Where are thy minions and flatterers now ? Gone to worship some t>ther
 
 NOTES TO BOOK VI. 253 
 
 • golden calf.' Thou hast lost 'the dirinity that doth hedge in' a Crcesus ; 
 thou smellest of mortality, and art despised, spurned and forgotten. Now 
 thou seest how the world goes — seest it 'feelingly.' There was sonic ' dis- 
 course of reason,' in the madness of the royal Lear, when he said — 
 
 Through tattered clothes small vices do appear ; 
 
 Robes, and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin in gold, 
 
 And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks : 
 
 Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw doth pierce it. 
 Hast thou lived well? Yea, as a beast, but no more. Thou hast revelled 
 in a gross sensualism ; thou hast ground the face of the poor ; thou hast 
 had no love but for self ; thou hast worshipped no other god but Mammon. 
 Better to have never been than to have been what thou hast been — a cess- 
 pool of vices ; a Juggernaut, utterly valueless when deprived of thy diamond 
 eyes. Pah ! thou hast lived a live of ' odoriferous rottenness,' and wilt die 
 without a record — perhaps, without ' a sign !'" 
 
 Who then lives well ? He who knows that ' it is not by money or mo- 
 ney's worth, that a man lives and has his being ;' but, be liis condition ever 
 so humble, performs his obligations to his Maker, his neighbour, and 
 society. He who knows that 'God's universe is w;7/i!)z our head, whether 
 there be a torn skull-cap or a king's diadem without,' and honours no man 
 for what he has that is extrinsic or accidental, but for what is intrinsic and 
 innate, and whose life and actions reflect the goodness of his heart. He 
 who, though born poor, is contented with his lot ; who, if he arrive at riches, 
 makes a right use of them, and is not ashamed to say in the presence of 
 the noble and high-born, with Jean Paul Uichter, ' God ! I thank thee for 
 my Father !' He who, firm in principle, and strong in will, lets not ' 1 dare 
 not' wait upon ' / irriuld' when duty summons him to act ; whose ' yea is 
 yea, and nay, nay,' despite a world's bribe, or a world's frown. This man 
 lives well. Go thou and do likewise.— MS. Fragment. 
 
 (Page 241, line 17.) 
 To bruise it to the dust? — Thy kingdom come. 
 
 Thy kingdom come. 
 Great Sovereign Lord of Love ! 
 " We have a faith in the imperishable dignity of man ; in the high voca- 
 tion to which, throughout this his cartlily history, he has been appointed. 
 However it may be with individual nations, whatever melancholic specu- 
 lators may assert, it seems a well-ascertained fact that, in all times, reck- 
 oning even from those of the Ileraclides and Pelasgi, the happiness and 
 greatness of inankind at large liave been continually ])n^gressivc. Doubtless 
 this age also is advancing. Its very unrest, its ceaseli^ss activity, its dis- 
 content, contains matter of promise. Knowledge, education, arc opening
 
 254 IfOTKS TO nOOK VI. 
 
 the pyes of the humblest; arc increasing the number of thinkinR minds 
 without limit. This is as it shoukl be; for not in turning bacli, not in 
 resisting, but only in resolutely struggling forwaril, does our life consist. 
 Nay, after all, our spiritual maladies are but of Opinion ; we are but fettered 
 by chains of our own forging, and which our.selves also can rend asunder. 
 This deep, paralyzed subjection to physical objects comes not from Nature, 
 but from our own unwise mode of viewing Nature. Neither can we under- 
 stand that man wants, at this hour, any faculty of heart, soul, or body, 
 that ever belonged to him. ' He, \vho has been bom, has been a First Man ;' 
 has had lying before his young eyes, and has yet unhardened into scientific 
 shapes, a world as plastic, infinite, divine, as lay before the eyes of Adam 
 liimself. If Mechanism, like some glass bell, encircles and imprisons us ; 
 if the soul looks forth on a fair heavenly country which it cannot reach, 
 and pines, and in its scanty atmosphere is ready to perish,— yet the bell is 
 but of glass ; 'one bold stroke to break the bell in pieces, and thou art 
 delivered !' Not the invisible world is wanting, for it dwells in man's soul, 
 and this last is still here. Are the solemn temples in which Divinity was 
 once visibly revealed among us, crumbMng away ? We can repair them, wo 
 can rebuild them. The wisdom, the heroic worth of our forefathers, which 
 we have lost, we can recover. That admiration of old nobleness, which 
 now so often shows itself as a faint dilettantism, will one day become a 
 generous emulation, and man may again be all that he has been, and more 
 than he has been. Nor are these the mere daydreams of fancy ; they are 
 clear possibilities ; nay, in this time they are even assuming the character 
 of hopes. Indications we do see, in other countries and in our own, signs 
 infinitely cheering to us, that Mechanism is not always to be our hard task- 
 master, but one day to be our pliant, all-ministering servant ; that a new 
 and a brighter spiritual era is slowly evolving itself for all men."— >%«* of 
 Ike Times, 
 
 'Eai/ fiT] iXniCr]T€, ui/eXiriaTOV oiiK evprjaeTe, ave^epevvrjTOV ov 
 Koi IvjTopov. 
 
 IIeraclitus,
 
 WALKEB, I'KINTJiR, HALIFAX.
 
 Certain poHions of the present volume have appeared in va- 
 rious Publications of the day ; and the Author has been 
 honoured with the following Notices of them by the Press, 
 and by letters from distinguished literary characters : — 
 
 In The White Rose of York, edited by G. Hogarth, Esij., appeared The 
 Truant, [Part of the I. Book iu the present vol.] which is thus noticed by a 
 contemporary critic : — 
 
 " We take up this elegant volume (The White Rose) a third time, not for 
 the purpose of criticism, but that vve may extract the following beautiful 
 poem, from the pen of llr. W. Uearden, of Hudderslield ; who, although 
 himself a schoolmaster, has depicted the charms of Truancy in terms so 
 glowing, that we should almost fear lest his own pupils should imbibe its 
 spirit, and brave the punishment, for the sake of the pleasurable enjoyment 
 described by the poetic genius of their master."— Halifax Express. 
 
 "Listen to the musings of ' The Star-Seer' on 'The Child amon" the 
 Flowers.' [Pai-t of Book III. of the present vol.] It is a perfect "em" To 
 the magazine that can produce such writers, it may heartily be^said go 
 forward and prosper." — Edinburgh Observek. ' 
 
 The Rev. 11. Alford, M.A., author of ' The School of the Heart,' &c. 
 writes thus : — " llr. Alford has read more thau once or twice, Mr. Dearden's 
 really beautiful poem, • The Maid of Caldene.' [Book III. of the present 
 vol.] * » * His poetical creed is about the same as Mr. D.'s ; and were 
 he publishing a book of his own, he would have no scruple, nor has he had 
 in his published poems, in following that creed fully and fearlessly. Beauty 
 is the province of the Poet : and all true Beauty, whether of the fields 
 and groves, or the n.-dved human body, especially'in that softer sex made 
 so beautiful by the Creator, is consistent with (we may rather say in.wpar 
 able from) true Purity. Besides our holy religion has hallowed these our 
 bodies, and endued their forms with a far diiferent character, as temples of 
 the divine Spirit, from any that they could otherwise bear. * * * Mr. 
 A. cannot omit this opportunity of expressing his very high opinion of Mi\ 
 D.'s power of versification : it approaches very nearly to the rich melody of 
 Keats, nay, in some cases, surpasses him.— The descriptions in ' The Maid 
 of Caldene' are exquisite in beauty. May Mr. D. and his world of flowers 
 and nymphs go on and prosper." 
 
 Wymeswold, June 1, 184U. 
 
 Thomas Ragg, author of " The Deity," "Heber," &c. <kc. says, "Your 
 beautiful lines on your .Native Vale [The opening of Book V. in the present 
 vol.) have roused my feelings more than any thing I have read for years. 
 I hope you intend to publish them. * * * They cut deeply at the 
 avarice of the age. I have touclied upon tlie subject (though but sliglitly) 
 in my la.-;t volume {vidu -Night, Book II.) But I sliuulil like to sue it rough'ly 
 handled in the manner you have done it, by some one whose circumstances 
 render him more independent than I am, and yet one who docs not possess 
 the Hadieal feelings of an Elliot.'
 
 [ 2 ] 
 
 NOTICES OF THE STAR-SEER. 
 
 Lord Morpetli observes, " I liavc only had time to steal a few hasty 
 Kliin]iscs at your potMii, but eiiousli to show nie that it contains much 
 beauty of expression, thought, and feeling." 
 
 Dr. Southey, the late Poet Laureate, says " The Star-Seer is a work of 
 very considerable power and promise." 
 
 The Rev. W. L. Bowles observes, " I received your beautiful poem on my 
 return from Salisbury to this place, and beg to return you my best thanks. 
 In rich imaginative powers of invention, and in new and happy feUcity of 
 musical cadence, in metre, it appears to me you greatly excel." 
 
 Bremhill Vicarage, April 30, 1837. 
 
 James Montgomery, Esq., remarks, " There are manifestations of genuine 
 poetical talent in many passages, and such talent as may produce some- 
 thing far better in days to come, provided it be duly cherished and 
 chastened — the latter discipline being as necessary to perfect its excellen- 
 cies, as the former indulgence to bring them out." 
 
 The Mount, near Sheffield, June 8, 1837. 
 
 M. H. Rankin, Esq. in a letter to a friend observes, " The Star-Seer ap- 
 pears to me so full of the true poetic fire, and the versification so abound- 
 ing in beauties, that it is a matter of amazement to me, that the poem has 
 not made more noise in the world. The subject, too, is novel and grand, 
 and treated with such boldness of fancy, that any one would have thought 
 the attention of the world would have been securely fixed by it. # * * 
 1 should have a long task, if I undertook to enumerate all the passages of 
 merit which struck me as I read the poem. I cannot lielp, however, sing- 
 ling out the scene of the Merle's Prophecy in the Hall of Gold, as one of 
 extveme grandeur of conception, and dramatic power in its expression, 
 and as shewing the writer's versatility of talent, when contrasted witli 
 the easy pastoral style (if I may so name it) of the opening of the Canto in 
 which it occurs. The image of the Thunder-Dragon is one of terrific force, 
 indeed ONE of a great number of equal meiit in that line ; but, sublime as 
 they ai-e, they yield, as proofs of high poetical ability, to such passages as 
 the following." (Here follows the extract.) 
 
 " The Star-Seer is a very extraordinary poem. AVe do not often, in these 
 days, meet with a volume containing so many beautiful passages, or so 
 thoroughly imbued with a poetical spirit. It displays throughout a wonder- 
 ful brightness and attluence of imagination, and a vivid and gorgeous tone 
 of colouring. There is not, it is true, much that appeals to mere human 
 sympathies, but there is, in almost every page, Poetry, which flashes on the 
 inin<l with the brilliancy of lightning. It contains many passages which, 
 for s|ilendour of imagery and fanciful beauty, may fairly be marked with 
 the productions of our best imaginative poets. * * * Mr. Dearden has 
 a vigorous imagination, and a spring of real poetry within his heart, wliich 
 we 'firmly believe will yet make much music in its outgushings. We shall 
 be both surprised and disaiipointed, if his next woj-k does not fulfil the pro- 
 mise of the volume now before us, and place 1dm very high in the list of 
 • •ur modern poets." — Livejrpool Mail.
 
 3] 
 
 " Although tlie Star-Seer is, strictly speaking, a metrical romance, it 
 contains so much exquisite description of natural beauty, and so much 
 deep and ardent sentiment, that no reader, whatever may be his peculiar 
 taste, will rise from this poem disappointed. This, in our opinion, is an 
 excellence of no common order. Mr. Dearden possesses, in an eminent 
 degree, that true rjualitication of a genuine poet, an enthusiastic and pro- 
 found lovCjOf, and veneration for, the holy sublimities of nature. We might 
 till columns of this publication with extracts from the Star-Seer, corrobora- 
 tive of this observation. To praise the magnificence of the following 
 passage would be superfluous," A long extract here succeeds. Afterwards 
 the critic remarks, " Splendid as are the preceding lines, they are exceeded, 
 in our estimation, in severe and placid poetical dignity, by the following 
 verses, which might bo read without derogatory interruption in Paradise 
 Lost. This is high praise ; but we speak advisedly, and will not recall it." 
 Here follows another long extract. The reviewer concludes his observa- 
 tions with saj'ing, " The versification of the Star-Seer is somewhat uncom- 
 mon, but when familiarised to the reader, exceedingly sweet and forcible. 
 It has been well described by a friend as blank verse in rhyme. It has a 
 great measure of the freedom and vigour of the former, with the harmony 
 and concentration of the latter."— Halifax Guardian. 
 
 " In making a second extract from this beautiful poem, by Wm. Dearden, 
 we cannot resist the opportunity of introducing it with a more general 
 notice of the elegant little volume itself— elegant as it regards the typo- 
 graphy, but still more so in its literary character. The extracts suthciently 
 spealv"for its poetic excellence, but it has still further claim of recommenda- 
 tion upon our Yorkshire friends, and that is in its highly graphic delinea- 
 tions of some interesting portions of the scenery and topography of that 
 part of the banks of the Calder, where the locale of the poem is laid. Its 
 craggy precipices, its deep ravines, and its rich woodland scenery, are pre- 
 sented to the mind's eye, in language as bold and striking as the subject it 
 describes ; and few to whom the charms of nature or of literature present 
 attractions, will readily lay down the volume until they have enjoyed all 
 its beauties." — York Codrant. 
 
 " Mr. AVm. Dearden's Star-Seer, a poem, in five cantos, deserves a more 
 extended notice than our limits allow, during the parliamentai-y session. 
 The scene is laid in the beautiful valley of the Calder, and the story is 
 founded on one of those traditionary romances with wliicli that valley is 
 redolent. Mr. D.'s exi|uisite Uttle poem on playing truant, which appeared 
 in The White Hose of York, led us to expect much from the Star-Seek ; 
 and we have not been disappointed. There are many beautiful passages ; 
 and we have marked some for extract at the first opportunity. — Halifax 
 Express. 
 
 " The author of the ' Star-Seer,' has sung the beauties of Caldene, a 
 romantic glen near llebden Bridge, and that in a strain which will not be 
 forgotten."— Bradiokd Ouserver.
 
 [ 4] 
 
 NOTICES OF " THE DEATH OF LEYLAND'S 
 AFRICAN BLOODHOUND." 
 
 A POEM BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 " The subject chosen by Mr. Dearden is shigularly poetical, and treated 
 with a taste and judgment which do him honour. He lias evidently a 
 vigorous and iiictm-esque fancy ; indeed we have rarely met with more 
 graphic descriptions than some which adorn this volun'ie. # » * \\'e 
 close our brief notice of a woi-k of rich promise, and shall rejoice to see 
 our highest hopes of the capabilites of its author more than realised. To 
 say that the poem is perfect, would neither he kindness to the poet nor 
 justice to the pubhc. What faults it has are, however, such as verv little 
 practice in versification will enable its author to avoid ; and let the "public 
 remember that it is in their power to call into rc(]uisition, by encom-age- 
 ment, his noblest faculties. Let them, therefore, do their duty, wc> are 
 persuaded he will not be wanting in doing his, and that he will justify their 
 most sanguine e.xpectations."— Liverpool Mail. 
 
 "Mr. Dearden has taken for the subject of his imaginings the deatli of a 
 favourite Bloodhound belonging to a friend of his, of whose life and man- 
 ners a brief sketch is aiforded in the notes accompanying the work. From 
 this incident, without any eflort at the sublime, and without any unreason- 
 able share even of those digressions and disportive trips of fancy in wliich 
 poets love to revel, he has produced a poem very creditable to his genius. 
 One thing in this little poem we cannot too much commend. The spirit 
 of Poetry is blended with that of piety. It is here that Poetry claims our 
 highest meed of approbation ; when her powers are made to guide the ad- 
 miring followers of her graceful footsteps to the footstool of Divine Benevo- 
 lence." — Leeds Times. 
 
 " We embrace a temporary relief from the almost all-absorbing considera- 
 tion of politics, to cuU a few flowers from a garden of sweets which Mr. 
 Dearden presents to us. * * * We must cunfine our quotation to the 
 first of the two parts of the poem. Here is a highly poetical delineation of 
 Blackstone Edge we cannot avoid quoting, not merely on account of its 
 surpassing beauty, but as it is a fair specimen of that ' new and happy 
 fehcity of musical cadence' in Mr. Dearden's poetry, which a giant in 
 poetical criticism has discovered and pronounced." "Here follows the ex- 
 tract. " Our limits prevent furtlier quotation, and we close the volume 
 and our remarks by recommending it to all lovers of genuine poetry."— 
 Halifax Guardian. 
 
 WALKER, PRINTEK, HALIFAX. 
 
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