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 PLUMMER^S POEMS 
 
 Ce
 
 SOMS OF LABOUR, ?^ 
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIRE RAMBLES, 
 
 A2JD OTHER 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BY JOHN PLUMMER. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 W. TWEEDIE, 337, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 KETTERING: THOJIAS WADDINGTON, HIGH STREET. 
 
 iseo.
 
 
 TO 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 HENRY, LORD BROUGHAM AND VAUX; 
 
 THE TRUE AND FEARLESS EXPONENT 
 
 OP 
 
 THE RIGHTS, DUTIES, AND DIGNITY OF LABOUR; 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME, 
 
 THE OFFSPRING OF THE LEISURE MOMENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 A FACTORY OPERATIVE, 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 
 
 AS A HUMBLE TOKEN 
 
 OF 
 
 SINCERE GRATITUDE, 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 887071
 
 r 11 E E A C E . 
 
 Had the Author merely consulted his own 
 desires, he would have refrained from the pub- 
 lication of the present coUection; for he is 
 fully conscious of the numerous faults which 
 abound in it : but having yielded to the earnest 
 solicitation of those whose friendship has light- 
 ened many a long weary hour of toH and 
 anxiety, he has coUected, in their present shape, 
 many of his compositions which, until lately, 
 have been leading a fugitive existence in the 
 " Poet's Corner " of various provincial periodi- 
 cals and newspapers. 
 
 He is quite aware that he must not look 
 for mercy fi'om the generality of critics ; but 
 he would respectfully beg of them to consider 
 the circumstances under which his pieces were 
 composed, and to reflect that, if they do not
 
 VIU PREFACE. 
 
 betray the promise of a Keats, or of a Massey, 
 still, they are the offspring of a true and earnest 
 aspiration for better things. 
 
 Many of them were written at a period 
 Avhen unrefleetive and impulsive passion, rather 
 than the softening and humanizing dictates of 
 judgment and reason, swayed the thoughts of 
 the Author: yet, to quote the words of one, 
 who, with an indomitable amount of power, 
 talent, and genius, has passed through the 
 same fiery ordeal of poverty, neglect, and suf- 
 fering— Gerald Massey— " I retain my verses 
 as memorials of my past, as one might keep 
 some worn-out garment because he has passed 
 through the furnace in it, nothing doubting 
 that in the future they will often prove my 
 passport to the hearts and homes of thousands 
 of the poor. *-!;*:)<* Tj^gy 
 will know that I have suffered their suffering, 
 wept their tears, thought their thoughts, and 
 felt their feelings ; and they will trust me.'^
 
 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF THE 
 
 AUTHOE'S LIFE. 
 
 It has become a custom, though perhaps not a very 
 commeudable one, to preface the works of those who 
 have attracted any share, however limited, of the 
 public attention, with some description of their 
 career, so that the lessons of their struggles, success, 
 or failure, may serve as finger posts to direct future 
 wayfarers on the long, uphill, and ofttimes fatal, 
 path of literature. 
 
 It is not from any feelings of vanity, or the 
 promptings of an egotistical nature, which has in- 
 duced me to comply with the wishes of many of the 
 subscribers to the present volume, by prefixing a 
 short personal memoir to its contents ; but because 
 it may be that the simple statement of my struggles 
 against the force of adverse circumstances, may 
 encoui-age those who, similarly afilicted with the 
 infirmity under which I have so long laboured,
 
 X AN AUTOBIOGRAPEICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 luive renoixnced nil hope, and feel incliued to mur- 
 mur at the will of llim, whose works prove that He 
 ever ordaius all things for our welfare and happiness. 
 There is scarcely a human being from whose his- 
 tory we may not gather some instructive lesson, 
 which will serve 
 
 " To point a moral, or adorn a tale ; " 
 and therefore I trust my readers will bear kindly 
 with me, and forget the critic in the man, when 
 judging of the merits of my rude attempts. 
 
 Near to the Tower of London, exists a neighbour- 
 hood unequalled for squalidness, poverty, and 
 misery, I refer to the purlieus of Royal Mint 
 Street, as it is now ambitiously designated, but 
 which is better known by its ancient title of Rose- 
 mary Lane, although it is many, very many, years 
 since it deserved a name which awakens the 
 thoughts of sunny orchards, green meadows, and 
 all the glorioTis beauty of natiu-e. Old clothes' 
 shops, kept by persons of unmistakably Jewish 
 extraction; dirty low places, by courtesy termed 
 " grocery stores " ; milkshops, potatoe sheds, and 
 flaunting handsome "gin palaces," line the main 
 street, which forms the chief artery of a labyrinth 
 of long, narrow, fdthy courts, inhabited by Irish 
 labourers, and the lowest and most poverty stricken 
 of the London poor ; and where scenes are daily,
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE, xi 
 
 nay, hourly, enacted, which are sufficient to " make 
 the Angels weep" ; and to mock the proud boast of 
 our vaunted progress in the path of civilization. 
 
 In this locality I was bom, on the 3rd of June, 
 1831 ; my father being a staymaker in a small way 
 of business for himself. Of my infancy, I can but 
 glean few particulars ; but I was always considered 
 a veiy precocious child, and passionately fond of 
 pictures and books. My father's trade was not very 
 profitable ; and when T was five years of age a 
 serious illness overtook him, which prevented him 
 from attending to his business, thereby deranging 
 his aflfairs, and breaking up his little connexion. 
 By this blow, the family were reduced to a state of 
 the gi'eatest distress ; and I was sent to St. Albans, 
 where an uncle took charge of me for awhile, so that 
 I should not be a burden on the efforts of my 
 parents, who struggled, but, alas ! in vain, to re- 
 cover their former position ; and were compelled 
 to accept of the kindness of my grandmother, who 
 kindly offered them an attic in a house, of which 
 she had the sole charge. To add to their diffi- 
 culties, my poor mother had the misfortune to 
 fracture her leg by a fall, and was never afterwards 
 enabled to leave the house, except on a very few 
 special occasions, until the time of her death at 
 Kettering ; while at the same time my infant bro-
 
 XU AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OP 
 
 ther, Edmund, died ; but, before his death, he was 
 continually expressing a wish to see me ; so I was 
 sent from St. Albans in charge of the carrier, but my 
 arrival was too late, for poor Edmund was no more. 
 I have but a dim perception of what followed, for 
 I can only recollect attending a funeral, and crying 
 bitterly j as, immediately afterwards, all became a 
 total blank, till I found myself slowly recovering — 
 as from the dead — from the effects of a severe 
 fever. When I began to recover my consciousness, 
 I was surprised at the stillness which seemed to 
 pervade the room. My parents were moving about, 
 but I could not hear them ; and, although they 
 came to me, and moved their lips, yet I could not 
 hear them — I was deaf ! I tried to move, and to 
 sit up in bed, but my limbs refused their office — 
 I was lame ! besides being deaf. The full extent 
 of my affliction remained unfelt by me at first ; and 
 it was not till long, long months of bitter suffering 
 had passed away, that I felt how my infirmities had 
 deprived me of the enjoyment of all that is sweet 
 and pleasing in the world of sound. Years after- 
 wards, when I discovered that I could pen what 
 some have pleased to term "poetry," I expressed 
 my feelings in the following lines, suggested by 
 Gerald Massey's touching lines — "'Tis hard, 'tis 
 hard, to wander on through this bright world of 
 ours."
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE. XIU 
 
 'Tis hard indeed for me to bear 
 
 This wild and cruel fate — 
 To wander through this world of joy, 
 
 Alone and desolate ! 
 Nor hear the music of the wood — 
 
 The warblings 'mid the tree ; 
 Nor all the pleasant sounds that float 
 
 Upon the summer breeze. 
 
 To see the laughing infant leap 
 
 At the maternal voice ; 
 To view the blushing maiden smile 
 
 At tones that her rejoice ; 
 To mark the bright and flashing eyes 
 
 Which glow at music's strain : 
 These bid my heart with anguish weep. 
 
 Yet weep — alas ! — in vain, 
 
 'Tis true I see the golden charms 
 
 Which crown the brow of day ; 
 The shady woods, the sunny flelds, 
 
 With flowers bright and gay ; 
 Or else peruse the varied works 
 
 Of minds that never die : 
 Yet still I ever yearn to hear 
 
 The voice of sympathy. 
 
 For what is earth without the joys 
 
 Friendship alone may give ? 
 A dreary, dark, and trackless waste, 
 
 In which no heart may live !
 
 XIV AN AUTOBIOQRArniCAL SKETCH OP 
 
 The bravest soul — uncheer'd by hope — 
 
 AVill faint and weary prove, 
 If friendless — lonely — unsustain'd — 
 
 It hears no voice of love. 
 
 About tl^is time, my father obtained a situation 
 as foretnau in a stay factory in the city ; and a 
 small two-roomed house was taken by him in a 
 poor and miserable locality, near Whitechapel, to 
 which the family removed. Here I slowly recov- 
 ered, to a great extent, the use of my limbs, and 
 could walk about with comparative ease ; and the 
 intensity of my deafness was considerably modified, 
 so that I could hear with less difficulty than had 
 previously been experienced. To aid in eking out 
 the limited means of the family, my mother began 
 to commence business as a middhwoman, that is, 
 one who obtains work, at a certain price, from the 
 London warehouses, and -ives it out to other work- 
 people at a less rate ; the difference in the prices 
 constituting her profits, which were scanty enough 
 in all conscience. Ueing able to go about, as I was 
 now about twelve years of age, I was sent out with 
 portions of the work to the various workpeople 
 who resided in the \vretched, crime and fever reek- 
 ing localities of Shadwell, Ratcliffe, Whitechapel, 
 and Bethnal Green. Wlule on these errands, I 
 witnessed such scenes of vice, poverty, and suffering.
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE. XV 
 
 as would rival, if not surpass, the wildest inventions 
 of fiction ; and which I hope, some day, to embody- 
 in a work treating of such things. 
 
 Up to tliis time 1 had received no education, 
 save what I may have obtained from the doubtful 
 instraction of an old lady, whose chief care was to 
 keep me cpiiet, rather than teach me anything ; but 
 I always felt a strange kind of fascination for books ; 
 and although I could not read them, yet I would 
 pore for hours over the — to me — mystical letters of 
 the alphabet. Jiow I acquired the art of reading 
 I cannot remeni jer ; for it was a very slow and 
 gradual process, as I had no teachers, and my 
 parents did not possess much more education than 
 was possessed by the generality of their class : but 
 I can remember striving to make out the words on 
 the advertising placards so liberally posted on the 
 street boardings, and of studying the names placed 
 at the ends of the streets : but the great impetus 
 was given to my mind, when some stray copies of 
 The Fenny M'/jazine, LloycVs Penny Sunday 
 Ti/mes, and otiier illustrated periodicals of a similar 
 nature, fell into my hands. No miser ever hugged 
 his gold with a more jealous care, than I did the 
 few old torn and soiled numbers which came into 
 my possession. For hours T would gaze on the 
 woodcuts, and strive to decipher the letter press
 
 Svi AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OP 
 
 descriptions, iu which I at last succeeded ; but I 
 had no teachers, and no books of instruction, so 
 that my self-culture was attended with extreme 
 difl&culty. 
 
 It would be too long a task to relate my numer- 
 ous attempts to procure the books which my 
 parents were too poor to purchase for me ; or of 
 my haunting the street bookstalls, where I gazed 
 with sad, longing, and despairing, features on the 
 literary treasures displayed before me, and which 
 the want of a few pence alone precluded me from 
 possessing. Sometimes I would take up a book, 
 read a few pages ; returning the next evening to 
 read a few more, until at last I mastered the book. 
 Once, however, after having thus perused part of a 
 History of England, I was struck with consterna- 
 tion at missing the volume, which had been sold 
 during my absence. I had never dreamt of the 
 possibility of such an event ; and my looks attract- 
 ed the attention of the stall-keepei", who seemed in- 
 tuitively to guess the cause of my trouble ; and, as 
 he was aware of my deafness, he wrote on a piece of 
 paper, that he was sorry for my disappointment, 
 but that I was welcome to peruse any of the books 
 on his stall. Of course I was glad enough to avail 
 myself of the opportunity thus aflForded me, but I 
 seldom had much time for that purpose. My
 
 THE AUTHOKS LIFE. XVll 
 
 father possessed a copy of Bunyan's Holy War, 
 which, with an old edition of Robinson Crusoe, were 
 read by me over and over again ; but I was always 
 obliged to skip over the hard words. 
 
 Books ! books ! books ! was my continual cry ; 
 and whether they were old Almanacks, Religious 
 Tracts, Penny Story Books, or anything else, they 
 were ever welcome : and I was always begging or 
 borrowing them of the neighbours : and naturally 
 so, for they enabled me, for the time, to forget my 
 affliction, and converse, as it were, with the authors 
 whose works came under my notice. 
 
 Time passed on, and I became more proficient in 
 my studies, which were carried on under great dis- 
 advantages, because, as if my own infirmities were 
 not obstacles enough, several of the workpeople per- 
 suaded my mother that my devotion to books would 
 render me crazy, a statement which had the effect 
 of occasioning her to forbid my reading any ; but I 
 could not restrain my love for them, and I therefore 
 kept one or two of them in my breeches pocket, so 
 that I might secretly read them. Indeed my early 
 life was one long, bitter time of wretchedness, 
 occasioned by neglect, censure of my supposed 
 dulness, and the ridicule and tormentiugs of my 
 playmates, who were never weary of mimicking 
 my deafness, and of playing every imaginable 
 
 b
 
 XVlll AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 trick on mo. Every misdeed was laid on my 
 shoulders, and I was fi-equently punished for the 
 faults of others, till I became subject to fits of alter- 
 nate passion and despondency, which, however, fre- 
 quently gave way to a natural buoyancy of spirits. 
 The knowledge of the injustice with which I was so 
 repeatedly tx*eated, awakened in my breast a desire 
 to distinguish myself in some way, so that I might 
 prove that I was not the dunce, or incapable, which 
 I was supposed to be ; and it was not long before 
 the opportunity arrived. 
 
 My father's position appeared to improve ; and as 
 our prospects began to brighten, a larger house in 
 the neighbourhood was taken, and my father again 
 commenced business on his own account. I was 
 employed by him as errand boy, to assist in the 
 workshop, and make myself generally useful. Much 
 of my time was necessarily passed in the streets ; 
 and, having a quick and observant eye, I soon made 
 myself familiar with all the phases of street life, so 
 graphically described by Henry Mayhew, in his 
 "London Labour and the London Poor.'''' I seldom 
 loitered on my errands, except when passing the 
 printsellers' shops near the Royal Exchange ; my 
 duties frequently leading me to all parts of the 
 City, and to many districts of the West End ; for 
 the works of pictorial art possessed even more
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE. XIX 
 
 attractions for me than the charms of reading, and 
 it was with difficulty that I could restrain myself 
 from gazing on them for hours, as they were dis- 
 played in the windows. This feeling was stimulated 
 by the perusal of the lives of Painters in The Penny 
 Magazine, and Chamlers's Miscellany, till at last 
 I resolved to enter the Spitalfield's School of Design 
 as an evening student. This was the only school of 
 any kind at which I attended ; and, at first, my 
 reception was of a nature enough to discourage a 
 less earnest student. Weary, unwashed, and 
 heated with the day's toil, I would arrive in time 
 for the evening classes, in spite of the sneei's and 
 ridicule of many of the students, who beheld in my 
 awkwardness, and seeming stupidity, a target for 
 their witticisms and practical jokes. This fired my 
 soul ; and although I could scarcely wi'ite my 
 name on entering the school, yet, in nine months 
 time, I carried off the first prize for the best outline 
 drawing from the flat. Oh ! it was a proud day for 
 me, when Earl Granville gave me the prize at 
 Crosby Hall, in the presence of my former tor- 
 mentors. Trifling as it was in itself, yet the mere 
 fact that I had beat them gave me fresh courage ; 
 and, by dint of perseverence, I soon found myself 
 in the head class, mastering perspective, mechanical 
 drawing, oil colour painting, painting in distemper,
 
 XX AN AUTOmOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OP 
 
 &c., and gaining a first-class prize for an ornamental 
 design. Those evenings were the happiest of my life, 
 and I often recall, with a sigh of regret, the period 
 of my art studies. 
 
 About this time (1848) the French Revolution 
 occurred, and I shared in the general excitement 
 consequent on its accomplishment. This naturally 
 led me to peruse the newspapers, and to imbibe a 
 powerful feeling in favour of revolutionary ideas ; 
 but as the brilliant dreams of freedom faded one by 
 one beneath the grasp of military despotism, I 
 began to reflect on the causes of such results, and 
 thus commenced those habits of tho\ight and rea- 
 soning, which afterwards led me to become a hum- 
 ble disciple of that school which the names of Adam 
 Smith, Brougham, Mill, Martineau, Bastiat, Ellis, 
 Eicardo, &c., have rendered so illustrious. 
 
 About the same period I first became a victim to 
 a taste for versifying, an art for which I had previ- 
 ously felt but slight inclination. How it came 
 about was in the following wise. After the rebel- 
 lion in Hungary was subdued through the treachery 
 of Georgey, the English people waited with an im- 
 patient feeling the arrival of Kossuth, so that they 
 might testify their sympathy for him, and also their 
 approval of his efforts to obtain the blessings of 
 freedom for his country. Lilie the rest of my class,
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE. XXi 
 
 I was iuteusely excited, and longed to behold the 
 man whom my feelings had led me to exalt in my 
 mind as a godlike hero. 1 felt a yearning within 
 mo which sought an utterance in burning words of 
 living welcome to the Hungarian exile. Prose 
 seemed so stiff and solemn, that T desired somethino- 
 more in unison with the fierce leapings of my heart ; 
 but I longed in vain, till one day, as I was cai-rying 
 a parcel down Fleet Street, I passed a little Chartist 
 bookshop, near Fetter Lane, and, on looking at the 
 window, I perceived a- paper of verses, entitled " A 
 Song of Welcome to Kossuth," by Gerald Massey.* 
 Eureka ! Oh ! how the words danced about in my 
 memory : — 
 
 " We meet him here, we greet him h'n-e ; 
 
 With Love's wide arms caress h:m ; 
 And kings have no such welcome dear. 
 
 As Kossuth hath, God bless him ! " 
 
 From that time henceforth I idolized Sons: as the 
 truest exponent of man's deepest feelings ; and 
 although, since then, I have changed many of my 
 old opinions, and learned to gaze with a calmer eye 
 on the ever shifting scenes of Continental politics ; 
 yet never till my dying hour shall I forget the glo- 
 rious enthusiasm of that moment, when a new and 
 heavenly existence seemed opened up before me. 
 
 * This was Ijefore liis Poems v/ere publislied by Boguc.
 
 XXU AX AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 That my verses are poor, weak, and ofttimes devoid 
 originality, I fully admit ; but that fact does not 
 prevent me from appreciating the utterances of 
 those whose works I may never hope or dare to 
 emulate ; and despite its faults, which were pro- 
 duced by the conditions of his life, I deem the 
 poetry of Gei'ald Massey to be the most in accord- 
 ance with the general tone of opinion entertained by 
 the majority of working men of the present day. 
 My leisure time was now divided between studying 
 at the School of Design and scribbling verses in 
 secret ; but my effusions were very poor indeed, 
 and I felt them to be so, therefore I refrained from 
 imitating the example of many of my betters, and 
 did not plague the editors of periodicals with for- 
 lorn requests " to peruse, and, if possible, insert 
 them in their pages ; " an act of self-denial which 
 has spared me much remorse, which I should other- 
 wise have experienced at the present time, for the 
 sufferings occasioned to the poor unoffending editors. 
 But a circle of misfortune was drawn rapidly 
 around the family ; and after many vain attempts 
 to retrieve his position, my father sought for em- 
 ployment, and obtained his present situation, in a 
 stay factory at Kettering. My poor mother had 
 been seized with a serious illness, from which she 
 never recovered, although the journey to Kettering
 
 THE AUTHORS LIFE, XXIU 
 
 appeared at first to do her some little good. I 
 was compelled to give up all hopes of prosecuting 
 my art studies, as I, otherwise, had no means of 
 obtaining a livelihood for some time. It was with 
 the deepest regret that I abandoned my dreams of 
 an artistic life, to exchange the pencil for the 
 shears, and the drawing board for the cutting table ; 
 but who can resist the stern decrees of fate 1 for 
 what ivill be, must be. Therefore, with a heavy 
 heart and ruined hopes, I left the Metropolis, to 
 enter on my fresh sphere of labour. I here ought 
 to mention an act of kindness on the part of my 
 former master at the School of Design, Mr. John 
 Walsh, then Professor of Anatomy at Marlborough 
 House. He applied to Mr. Henry Cole, of the 
 Science and Art department, and obtained per- 
 mission for me to continue my studies free of all 
 charge ; but, unfortunately, having no friends to 
 aid me in my penniless condition, and my infirmity 
 closing many employments of a remunerative nature 
 against me, I was compelled to decline an offer so 
 honorable to those who proposed it. From that 
 time my art studies have totally ceased ; but I 
 have preserved, with a religious care, the majority 
 of my drawings and designs. I came to Kettering, 
 and obtained my present situation in the stay fac- 
 tory. Tliis was towards the close of 1853. In
 
 XXIV AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 18-54 my mother, who had lor sevei'al moiitiis been 
 afHicted with a mortal disorder, became much 
 worse, and many a niglit, when I returned from 
 my work, I had to sit up attending on her, so that a 
 ]ittle rest might be obtained by my sister ; but all 
 our efforts proved unavailing, and before long we 
 had to mourn the loss of one who was truly in 
 every sense a good wife and a tender mother. 
 
 The numerous troubles which had so rapidly 
 succeeded each other, involved the family in serious 
 pecuniary difficulties, from which there was great 
 trouble in extricating ourselves, despite the many 
 efforts made by some of us j and I could perceive 
 no way of gratifying my artistic yearnings or 
 literary predilections, until, in 1855, when the 
 newspaper stamp was abolished. In that year a 
 cheap penny paper was started at Kettering, partly 
 printed there, and partly in London, under the 
 name of " Charles Knight's Town and Country 
 Newspaper." An offer was made to me to act as 
 local reporter ; but, though my deafness had so far 
 improved that I could hold conversation with per- 
 sons close to me, I could not then, nor at present, 
 hear the speeches at meetings distinctly enough to 
 report them, consequently I was obliged to decline 
 it. I have had many similar offers within the last 
 few mouths, but have had to refuse them all for the
 
 THE AUTHORS LIFE. XXV 
 
 same reason. However, it was intimated to me 
 that literary contributions on local topics wonld be 
 very acceptable ; and as I foresaw in the offer an 
 opportunity of familiarizing myself with news- 
 paper writing I cheerfully spent much of my 
 leisure time in composition, and studying the 
 questions treated. My range of subjects was a 
 rather varied one, for it embraced every possible 
 topic of the day. Letters and articles on Capital 
 Punishment ; Parliamentary Representation ; The 
 Maine Law ; Peace ; The Prussian War ; Reading 
 Rooms ; Reviews of Longfellow, Mrs. Browning, &;c. ; 
 Constantinople ; Dear Bread ; English Poisoning ; 
 Slavery ; Reminiscences of London ; Chartism ; The 
 Labour Question ; The Future of France ; Temper- 
 ance ; America ; Austria and Italy ; Machinery ; 
 Religious Awakening ; Electro-biology ; Penny 
 Banks ; The Health of Towns' Act, &c., &c. ; 
 besides numberless pieces of verse, were contributed 
 by me to the columns of the paper mentioned ; and 
 their appearance occasioned me to extend my circle 
 of writing, especially within the last two years ; so 
 that, at the time I pen this crude sketch, I find 
 that nearly 1,500 letters, essays, poems, paragi-aphs, 
 &c., have appeared from my pen in various news- 
 papers : but of course as my work was not done 
 for remuneration I scarcely received any, although
 
 SXVl AN AUTOBlOGRArHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 I have formed several valued intimacies with mem- 
 bers of the press. The first thing which drew my 
 name into public note was a hot controversy with 
 the Roman Catholic Canon of Northampton— the 
 Rev. John Dalton — on various things relating to 
 his religion ; and in which I was led to use an 
 acerbity which I now regret. So things went on 
 until the winter of 1857-58, when the factory was 
 closed for several weeks, and I was deprived of em- 
 ployment, with but slender resources of my own to 
 subsist on. Taking advantage of a cheap railway 
 excursion, I went to Loudon in search of employ- 
 ment ; failing in which, and losing my railway 
 return ticket, I had to walk from Hitchin to Ket- 
 tering, a distance of 45 miles, in one day. The 
 weather was cold, the snow fell heavily, and my 
 crippled knee was so sore and stiff with pain that I 
 became utterly hopeless, and could not help breath- 
 ing the lines of Massey's " Cry of the Unem- 
 ployed." — 
 
 " I'd work but cannot, starve I may, but will not beg 
 
 for bread : 
 God of the wretched, hear my prayer ; I wotild 
 
 THAT I WBEE DEAD." 
 
 However, the sunny days of Spring came, bringing 
 with them employment, and new born hopes of the 
 futui'c ; and I proceeded with redoubled vigour,
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE, XXVll 
 
 under every possible disadvantage, to devote my 
 little leisui'e to literary pursuits. 
 
 But my brother, being discontented at the dreary 
 prospects of the stay trade, (he worked with me 
 and my father in the stay factory,) resolved to be- 
 come a shoe maker. Now, it so happened that the 
 shoe makers of Northampton were engaged in a 
 "strike" against the introduction of machinery 
 into the trade, and had formed a powerful organiza- 
 tion, with branches in various parts of the county. 
 In their code of rules, they declared that — " It is 
 high time that the employed should have a fair 
 share of the benefits arising from the productive in- 
 dustry of the country, as well as the employer, and 
 not to be obliged in his old age to finish a life of 
 labour in a poor-law bastile, and a pauper's grave, 
 while those for whom he has toiled hard, are allowed 
 to revel in luxury, through their assumed rights to 
 dictate their own terms to the workman, and the 
 carrying out of their favorite dogma of unrestricted 
 competition." WeU, Japheth little thought that, 
 in denouncing the tyranny of the masters, the men 
 were setting up a despotism of their own ; therefore 
 he " applied to a shoe maker, one of the members 
 of the committee, who agreed to teach him on the 
 receipt of a certain amount as remuneration ; but 
 after the agi'cemcnt, and hrfure my brother went to
 
 XXVIU AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 learn, the Kettering branch passed a bye-law to the 
 effect that no one should be allowed to learn the art 
 of shoe making after he had attained the age of 1 7, 
 nor without giving a sufficient remuneration to the 
 teacher ; and that no shoe . maker sliould have, at 
 any one time, more than two apprentices. On this, 
 the person who had engaged to teach him, declined 
 doing so ; he therefore applied to another man, 
 (not belonging to the society,) but this person was 
 deterred by threats fi-om teaching him ; so he de- 
 termined to teach himself, and so far succeeded 
 that he was able to obtain employment from a 
 wholesale firm in the trade. But the Kettering 
 executive sent a deputation to wait on the masters, 
 to inform them that if they continued to employ 
 Japheth Plummer, they would strike the shop. 
 Of course, at the busy time when this occurred, 
 the employers were reluctantly obliged to refrain 
 from employing him." This led me to publish 
 some letters on his behalf in a local paper, in which 
 I defended " The Eights of Labour," and attacked 
 the Shoe Makers' Union by every possible argu- 
 ment. But, after awhile, my letters were refused 
 admission by the editor, who feared lest he should 
 incur the displeasure of the Union, and lose his 
 subscribers. Nothing daunted, I set to work to 
 pen a pamphlet ; but as I did not possess the
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE. XXIX 
 
 means of printing it, my brother and I canvassed 
 several of the shoe manufacturers at Northampton,* 
 and obtained orders for a number of copies sufficient 
 to defray ail the printing expenses, so that T was 
 enabled to publish it. 
 
 On the appearance of the Freedom of Lalour,'\ 
 a copy was sent to Lord Brougham, with a request 
 to allow the second edition to be dedicated to him, 
 which favour was courteously conceded. 
 
 It would be an invidious task to summarize my 
 
 * A History of the Strike at Northampton is published in 
 the Report of the Trades' Union Committee oe the 
 Social Science Association. London : J. W. Parker. 
 
 t I must here perform an act of justice to Mr, Charles 
 Knight. In three of my tracts there appear some quotations 
 from "The Results of Machinery," and "The Rights of 
 Industry," which I have, by mistake, attributed to Lord 
 Brougham instead of Mr. Knight. It is but fair to state that 
 his lordship disclaimed the authorship of the treatises. Mr. 
 Knight's works originally appeared twenty years ago, but 
 without his name being attached ; and as they were published 
 under the sanction of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful 
 Knowledge, they were, and still are, by many persons, attri- 
 buted to Lord Brougham. la Tub Weekly Volume and 
 Knowledge is Power, Mr. Knight avowed the authorship 
 of the treatises, but the former had escaped my memory, and 
 the latter I had not seen, hence the mistake, which, however, 
 is highly flattering to Mr. Knight.
 
 XXX AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OP 
 
 career from this point, therefore an extract from the 
 Northampton Herald of January 14th, 1860, must 
 conchide this brief sketch of a working man's life — 
 " The tract was favourably mentioned by Lord 
 Brougham in his celebrated Liverpool speech on 
 Popular Education, and was speedily followed by 
 another on Strikes ; but all this only increased the 
 ferment against the Plummers. John was burnt in 
 effigy, his infirmity cruelly caricatured, and his 
 life threatened, while his brother lost much time 
 and money in prosecuting some of his tormentors ; 
 but, after awhile, their efforts wei-e successful, and 
 John beheld the complete triumph of the principles 
 advocated by him. This naturally led his attention 
 to the builders' strike in London, and caused him 
 to publish a tract on the subject, which procured 
 him the notice of Lord Brougham in the House of 
 Lords,* and also the approbation of many eminent 
 
 * On the opening of the Liverpool Free Library and Mu- 
 seum, October 17th, 1860, his Lordship was pleased to again 
 notice my slight efforts in the following words : — 
 
 " I have another working man to cite, in consequence of having 
 received this morning a document, as if the author had had a 
 presentiment that I was about to attend a meeting of working 
 men. I allude now to a working man who has distinguished 
 himself, not in mechanism, but in a subject of a higher order than 
 working men generally enter into — I mean a most excellent 
 address, well reasoned, upon a most important subject, namely.
 
 THE AUTHOR S LIFE, XXXI 
 
 authorities, such as John Stuax't Mill, T. Buckle, 
 Leoni Levi, G. Godwin, W. Ellis, W. B, Hodgson 
 L.L.D., C. Neate, M.A., G. Pryne, M.A., Jacob 
 Waley, M.A., T. E. Cliffe Leslie, L.L D., &c., &c. 
 All the while, however, he has quietly followed his 
 employment as a cutter of stays, by the aid of steam 
 machinery, in a factory at Kettering, ; and as his 
 hours of employment are fi'om 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., it 
 seems somewhat incomprehensible how he could 
 manage to write the numerous poems, essays, tales, 
 letters, &c. — 570 in number* — which he has con- 
 tributed to the "Builder," "Building News," 
 " Cassell's Paper," " Family Herald," " Weekly 
 
 that of strikes, referred to by Mr. Brown. Upon this subject 
 great mistakes have been committed by some who have been 
 setting labour against capital, as if capital were the enemy of 
 labour. Such doctrines are apt to injure the men who put them 
 forth far more than their employers. I allude to John Plummer, 
 whom two years ago I had to quote for another pamphlet he wrote. 
 This man is a working staymaker of Kettering, Northamptonshire, 
 and he has just published an address to the working men of York- 
 shire to dissuade them from any such injurious, and at times most 
 costly, proceedings as those of setting up labour in opposition to 
 the capital employed. (Cheers ) I can only say of one of these 
 tracts, that no man could reason the subject better, and shall say 
 the same of the present ; and I hope and trust that my old friends 
 and constituents of Yorkshire will give a serious and calm attention 
 to Mr. Plummer's reasoning." 
 
 * Now nearly 1500 in number.
 
 XXXII AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
 
 Record," "London News," "Christian Cabinet," 
 " Advertiser," " Scottish Journal," and many 
 others; besides a new tract on Trades' Unions, 
 dedicated to the Eaid of Shaftesbury, and highly 
 approved of by Lord St. Leonards, and other gen- 
 tlemen ; a paper on Strikes, for the Social Science 
 Association ; a prize essay on Sanitary Reform, «&c. 
 He has received many presents of books from 
 various distinguislied persons ; and very recently 
 the Rev. Sir G. S. Robinson spoke very highly of 
 him at a public dinner.* Ever industrious, Mr. 
 Plummer carries on a continual and extensive cor- 
 respondence with many of the leading minds of the 
 kingdom, and it was the knowledge of this fact 
 which induced Lord Palmerston to grant him <£40 
 from_ Her Majesty's royal bounty. It is Mr. Plum- 
 
 * " I am happy to say that amongst our artizans are to be 
 found many intelligent men, who are an honour to their 
 country, * * * * I know one such man as those to 
 whom I have alluded. I have on my lips one name — the 
 name of an honest and intelligent man, who has laboured 
 hard to enlighten his fellow-workmen on such questions as 
 these. He has laboured hard here and elsewhere. I allude 
 to John Plummer, of Kettering, whom I know to be an 
 honest man, and who has had the courage to tell his fellow- 
 workmen the truth. It is the labours of such men that I 
 look forward for great things to come."...NoETHAMPTOS' 
 Heeald, October 1st, 1859.
 
 'THE AUTHOR S LIFE. XXXIU 
 
 mer's earnest desire to publish a volume of poems, 
 but, although the encouragemeut he has received is 
 of a most highly-flattering nature, he shrinks from 
 the expense in which it would involve him ; but 
 should his dreams be realised, he may possibly be 
 enabled, by means of the profits arising from its 
 sale, to devote himself to those labours in which he 
 has been so markedly successful, and which, but for 
 his infirmities, would have long since placed him in 
 a very advantageous position. Few men in John 
 Plummer's position in life can boast of so much 
 eftected with such limited means and numerous 
 obstacles in so short a space of time ; and it is to 
 be hoped that he may find friends who will enable 
 him to assume the position so ardently desired by 
 him." 
 
 I cannot lay down my pen until I have expressed 
 my sincerest thanks to those kind-hearted and 
 generous minds — such as Lord Brougham, Lord 
 Ashburton, Lord Palmerston, M. D. Hill, Esq., the 
 Recorder of Birmingham, the Rev. G. E. Mauusell, 
 of Thope Rectory, near Kettering, and many others — 
 who, by presents of books, and other material aids, 
 have very largely increased my means of usefulness ; 
 and should it ever please the Almighty that my 
 sphere of usefulness be enlarged, so that I may de- 
 vote more time to share, in common with numerous
 
 XXXIV AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 other lowly toilers in the good work, the high and 
 noble task of inculcating the doctrines of Temper- 
 ance, Prudence, Morality, and Education, amongst 
 those of our fellow-workers, who so bitterly need 
 such teachings, I fervently hope and trust that my 
 works will never belie the meed of approbation 
 which they have hitherto received, and of which I 
 am so proud, not because of my own sake, but for 
 the sake of that order to which, by birth, education, 
 and daily-life, I belong. 
 
 Kettering, November, 1860.
 
 INDEX 
 
 SONGS OF LABOUR. 
 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity 
 
 Harvest Home 
 
 Timothy Bennett 
 
 Smile and be Contented 
 
 The Mason's Song 
 
 The Poor Man's Dream 
 
 The Children of the Plough 
 
 Pull Through 
 
 John Pounds, the Founder of llagged Schools 
 
 A Workman's Wooing , 
 
 The Canker in the Rose 
 
 The Labourer's Son , 
 
 The Emigrant's Song 
 
 Hard Times 
 
 Times of Want 
 
 The Poet's Power 
 
 The Dying Workman ; 
 
 'Scab ! Scab ! Scab ! or, the Combinationists' Logic 
 
 The Tyrants ol the Last 
 
 On Strike 
 
 PAGE. 
 1 
 
 3 
 
 . 5 
 
 7 
 
 . 8 
 
 9 
 
 . 11 
 
 13 
 . 15 
 
 17 
 . 19 
 
 21 
 . 2i 
 
 26 
 . 23 
 
 30 
 , 32 
 
 35 
 . 3S 
 
 40
 
 XXXVl 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 The Country and the Town 
 
 John O'Neill 
 
 The Old, Old Tale 
 
 Glimpses of the Future 
 
 PAOE. 
 
 . 43 
 
 45 
 
 . 47 
 
 50 
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIRE RAMBLES, &e. 
 
 The Charnel Vault at Roth well 
 
 The Monuments in Warkton Church 
 
 The Castle Close, Barton Seagrave 
 
 Mary of Valence , 
 
 The Funeral of Mary, Queen of Scots 
 
 Northampton , 
 
 Queen Eleanor's Cross, Geddiugton 
 
 The Skeleton 
 
 Kettering Church 
 
 The Ancient Reading Desk in Kettering Church 
 
 Simon de St. Liz 
 
 The Suicide 
 
 Sir Francis Tresham 
 
 The Death Bridal 
 
 The Legend of Burleigh House 
 
 The Dying Soldier 
 
 The Fatal Duel 
 
 Naseby 
 
 Bough ton House 
 
 Rockingham Castle — a Sonnet . 
 Thorpe Malsor 
 
 55 
 
 58 
 
 61 
 
 63 
 
 66 
 
 68 
 
 73 
 
 76 
 
 79 
 
 83 
 
 85 
 
 90 
 
 93 
 
 97 
 
 100 
 
 ... 103 
 
 107 
 
 ... no 
 
 113 
 
 ... 117 
 
 118
 
 INDEX. 
 
 XXXYU 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Herbert Arle 123 
 
 The Maiden's Farewell 127 
 
 Northamptonshire Lanes 128 
 
 Sweetbriar Row 129 
 
 Woman's Pride 130 
 
 Where the Clustered Ivies Creep .. 131 
 
 Ah ! Oft will we Remember .. . 133 
 
 Donati's Comet, 1858 135 
 
 Onwards 137 
 
 Bernard 138 
 
 Stephenson 140 
 
 Egypt 142 
 
 The Dying Poet 145 
 
 Time Tries All 146 
 
 The Wreck — a Reminiscence of the Royal Charter ... 147 
 
 Castles in the Air 149 
 
 Live, still Live for Me 150 
 
 Franklin 151 
 
 Italy — a Prophecy, written and printed in 1855 ... 153 
 
 Mary 154 
 
 The Deserted •. 157 
 
 Fallen! 159 
 
 Rosalind 160 
 
 Hubert 161 
 
 TheTiflF 162 
 
 The Course of True Love Never Runs Smooth 164 
 
 The Child and tlie Violet 166 
 
 The Last Appeal 168
 
 XXXVIU 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Mourn, Men of Israel 
 
 The Carol Singers 
 
 The Soldier of the Cross 
 
 Peace 
 
 Dying 
 
 Brighter Days 
 
 What we might have done , 
 
 Should thou by Fortune be Cast Down 
 
 Hymns for Peace 
 
 The Cliristmas Chimes 
 
 The Flight of Time 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 171 
 
 . 172 
 
 171. 
 . 175 
 
 176 
 . 177 
 
 178 
 . 179 
 
 181 
 . 183 
 
 185
 
 SONGS OF LABOUE.
 
 SONGS OF LABOUR, 
 
 Sfc, Sfc. 
 
 FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY. 
 
 Thou may'st be fair j oh ! fair beyond 
 
 The aid of Language to express ; 
 Thy cheek may bid the Rose despond, 
 
 Or be the Lily's pale distress. 
 Yet these are worthless, if thy heart 
 
 To gentle deeds a stranger be ; 
 Alas ! poor Maiden, if thou part 
 
 From Faith, and Hope, and Charity. 
 
 Thou may'st be rich with worldly dross. 
 Thy nod may cause a world to bow ; 
 
 Xor creature poor presume to cross 
 The path of one so great as Thou ! 
 
 B
 
 FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY, 
 
 Yet what avails thy fortune rare 
 
 When Death's rude hand shall summons thee, 
 If thou — Proud Man — did'st never care 
 
 For Faith, and Hope, and Charity 1 
 
 Thou may'st be skill'd in Learning's lore, 
 
 And seek to probe Man's secret dreams ; 
 Or strive on Fancy's wings to soar 
 
 To happier, holier, brighter themes. 
 Yet futile is thy toil to win 
 
 The prize of Fame, and Love to thee, 
 If, in thy zeal, thou should'st but sin 
 
 'Gainst Faith, and Hope, and Charity. 
 
 Hail ! hallow'd Three, whose peaceful smile 
 
 Can crown each soul with sweet delight — 
 Can ev'ry Care and Grief beguile 
 
 With sweetest feelings, pure and bright. 
 Oh ! Brothers come with kindly heart, 
 
 And learn to own the angel Three ; 
 Nor let your souls in sadness part 
 
 From Faith, and Hope, and Charity.
 
 HARVEST HOME. 
 
 Lv the dark Fog-days of the early year, 
 
 When tlie Storm-blasts howl'd, and the Suow- 
 flakes fell, 
 And the white Fields mouruM in their loneness 
 drear, 
 While the bright Streams fled at the Ice-King's 
 spell ; 
 Then the Seed lay bound in the cold hard grovmd, 
 
 And the Hedgerows sigh'd with a cheerless moan, 
 While the bleak bare woods e'er rung with the sound 
 
 Of Nature pleading at her tyrant's throne. 
 But the Winter passed, and the laughing Spring 
 
 Bade the rich warm light of the Simshine come ; 
 And the Farmer's voice with a joy would ring, 
 As he dream'd with hope of the Harvest Home. 
 Hunah ! Hurrah ! for the laden Wain, 
 Piled to the top with the golden Grain ; 
 And Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the men that come, 
 And Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for tl;c Hai-vest Home.
 
 4 HARVEST HOME. 
 
 In the bright May morn, when the Lark sang high, 
 And the Flowers peep'd forth from the Roadside 
 green ; 
 While the soft south Winds from the groves swept by, 
 
 To the far off Hills in the distance seen ; 
 In its glad young strength, up the Corn-blade 
 sprung, 
 And smil'd as it kiss'd, in the op'ning day, 
 All the shining drops of the Dew that hung 
 On its trembling form, as a crystal spray. 
 And the Cotter rais'd, in a prayer, his voice. 
 To the far star -worlds of the azure dome — 
 Where the Angels dwell, and the Blest rejoice — 
 For success and joy to the Harvest Home. 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the laden Wain, 
 Piled to the top with the golden Grain ; 
 And Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Men that come, 
 And Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Harvest Home. 
 
 Soon the Reapers went in the early mom, 
 
 While folks in their beds, in the dull Town lay ; 
 And before them fell all the rich ripe corn, 
 
 Tied up in the sheaves by the Damsels gay. 
 And the Poor Man smiled as he heard them sing : 
 
 He knew that his Babes would shout in their glee, 
 When he unto thcMn should the cheap food bring. 
 
 In its plenty i-are, from the bread-tax free ;
 
 TIMOTHY BENNETT. 5 
 
 While the Toilers pale, in the large towns drear — 
 
 Where Vice, and Sorrow, and Wretchedness roam — 
 Felt the new-born hopes of the Future cheer 
 
 Their hearts, as they thought of the Harvest Home, 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the laden Wain, 
 Piled to the top with the golden Grain ; 
 And Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for tiie Men that come, 
 And Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Harvest Home. 
 
 TIMOTHY BENNETT. 
 
 Timothy Bennett was a shoemaker at Hampton-Wick, in Surrey. 
 The first passage from this village to Kingston-on-Thames, 
 through Bush J' Park, had for many years been shut up from 
 the public; but honest Tim, "imwilling," as he said, "to leave 
 the world worse than he found it," determined to recover it for 
 the use of his fellow-toilers ; and, after a long series of efforts, 
 he succeeded in convincing Lord Halifax that he (the noble- 
 man) was WRONG, and that Timothy Bennett, the poor shoe- 
 maker, was RIGHT. The result was, that the public enjoy 
 the road to this day. Timothy died in 1756. 
 
 Oh ! true was his Soul and noble his Heart, 
 Its Saxon pride evermore scorning 
 
 To act in its sphere the pale Coward's part, 
 On Wealth and on Tyranny fawning.
 
 b TIMOTHY BENNETT, 
 
 " For in Life," said Tim, " shall this be my plan, 
 (And never shall Foemau confound it,) 
 
 To do in this world the best that I can. 
 Nor leave it still worse than I found it." 
 
 There's many a King, and many a Lord, 
 
 Would find that their rule was the lighter ; 
 And never need Gaoler, Scaffold, or Sword, 
 
 To render their Gloiy the brighter, 
 Did they but hearken to Timothy's plan, 
 
 Though troubles may seem to surround it. 
 And do in this world the best that they can, 
 
 Nor leave it still worse than they found it. 
 
 We've Sorrow and Anofuish, Passion and Hate, 
 
 Our Hearts' better nature oft shrouding ; 
 We've Sin, Shame, and Hunger, lying in wait. 
 
 The sky of our Happiness clouding ; 
 And England has mourn'd for years the dark ban 
 
 Which silently hover'd around it, 
 Till warm hearts, like Tim's, slow followed his plan. 
 
 Nor left the world worse than they found it. 
 
 But never will we e'er yield to despair, 
 For better times hopelessly mourning ; 
 
 Never shall England her duty forswear. 
 The promise of brighter days scorning.
 
 SMILE AXD BE CONTENTED. 
 
 No ! still for the Truth we'll battle, each Mau, 
 And tear down the mists that surround it, 
 
 Teaching our brothers that Timothy's plan 
 Ne'er left the World worse than it found it. 
 
 SMILE AXD BE COKTEXTED. 
 
 The World grows old, and Men grow cold 
 
 To each whilst seeking Treasure ; 
 And what with Want, and Care, and Toil, 
 
 We scarce have time for Pleasure : 
 But never mind, that is a loss 
 
 Not much to be lamented ; 
 Life rolls on gaily if we will 
 
 But Smile and be Contented. 
 
 If we are Poor and would be Rich, 
 
 It will not be by pining ; 
 No ! steady Hearts and hopeful Minds 
 
 Are Life's bright silver lining. 
 There's ne'er a man that dared to hope, 
 
 Hath of his choice repented : 
 The happiest Souls on Earth are those 
 
 Who Smile and are Contented.
 
 8 THE mason's song. 
 
 Wlieu grief doth come to rack the Heart, 
 
 And fortune bids us sorrow, 
 From Hope we may a blessing reap 
 
 And consolation borrow. 
 If Thorns will rise where Roses bloom, 
 
 It cannot be prevented ; 
 So make the best of Life you can, 
 
 And Smile and be Contented. 
 
 THE MASON'S SONG. 
 
 Up, up with the Dawn 
 Of the bright glad Mom, 
 
 The Ladders high we climb ; 
 And the Trowels ring 
 As we work, and sing 
 
 Some good old English rhyme. 
 
 We slave in no room, 
 We pine at no Loom, 
 
 Where sick'ning Gas-lights glare ; 
 Where the poor Souls moil 
 And sigh at their toil. 
 
 Shut out from God's own air.
 
 THE POOR MAN S DREAM, 
 
 Oh ! our hearts are stronar, 
 
 &' 
 
 Our laugh loud and long, 
 With Care uudimm'd our eyes, 
 As, block upon block. 
 And firm as a rock, 
 The Walls before as rise. 
 
 Till our aim is won, 
 
 Till our work is done, 
 The stately Mansion built ; 
 
 May Blessings descend 
 
 On it, and defend 
 Its hearth from Shame and Guilt. 
 
 THE POOR MAN'S DREAM. 
 
 I DREAMT I wander'd by the side 
 
 Of smiling Delaware ; * 
 And to my heart with fervour clasp'd 
 
 A Maiden, young and fair. 
 We both had left an English home. 
 
 And cross'd the foamy sea, 
 To seek a dwelling in the West, 
 
 The country of the Free ! 
 
 * A river in the United States.
 
 10 THE POOR man's DREAM. 
 
 And there I won with ceaseless toil 
 
 Tlie fields and lands around ; 
 My flocks iucrcas'd and brought me wealth, 
 
 And God my harvests crown'd. 
 But, ah ! there oft would silent come 
 
 A wish to view the shore, 
 Tlie dear old Land, which never we 
 
 Might hope to see once more. 
 
 We wept together for the Past, 
 
 In God we placed our trust, 
 And prayed that He would kindly guide 
 
 Our lives with mercy just. 
 Then when the snows of Winter fell, 
 
 We piled with logs the fire. 
 And spoke of those we left behind 
 
 As though we ne'er should tire. 
 
 Our children clapp'd their tiny hands. 
 
 And laughed with childish glee j 
 Or fondly gazing in my face, 
 
 Would nestle on my knee. 
 While on each quiet Sabbath day, 
 
 They sang some simple hymn. 
 Which we had learnt in other times. 
 
 E'er clouds our life could dim.
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE PLOUGH. 1 I 
 
 Alul when the rose of Summer came 
 
 With sunshine, birds, and flowers ; 
 ^\'e pluck'd the fruit, and reap'd the corn, 
 
 And proudly called them ours. 
 We thought no more of mills and looms, 
 
 Or England's sadd'ning theme 
 Of pain and want, of toil and rags, 
 
 But, lo ! it was a dream ! 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE PLOUGH. 
 
 Oh ! England hath her noble Sons, 
 
 Who for their Mother land 
 Will dangers brave, and ever toil 
 
 For Her with heart and hand. 
 For her the Seaman guides his bark 
 
 O'er Ocean's frowning waves ; 
 ior her the Miner calm explores 
 
 Earth's dark and gloomy caves ; 
 For her the Engine pants and roars ; 
 
 The Weaver's shuttles fly ; 
 And from the bright and ruddy Forge 
 
 The sparks ascend on high.
 
 12 TIIR CHILDREN OF THE PLOUGH, 
 
 Ah ! well may England dare be proud 
 
 Of all her treasures now, 
 And clasp her Darlings to her heart — 
 
 The Children of the Plough. 
 
 God bless the Children of the Plough, 
 
 For their's a noble aim ; 
 The fruits of Peace, of Love, and Joy- 
 Alone they fiiin would claim ; 
 Nor seek the crimson wreath of War, 
 
 Around their brows to twine, 
 Nor darken with the Cannon's smoke 
 
 The ever glad sunshine. 
 They war but witli the stubborn Soil, 
 
 The Frost, the Wind, and Rain, 
 And " Hurrah for the Harvest Home," 
 
 Is Labour's triumph strain ; 
 They seek no laurels from the fields 
 
 Where thousands dying bow ; 
 Nor pale-faced weeping Mourners curse 
 
 The Children of the Plough. 
 
 Then Hurrah ! for the Spade and the Hoe, 
 
 The tillers of the Plain ; 
 And Hurrah ! for the smiling fields 
 
 Of rich and waving Grain.
 
 PULL THROUGH. 13 
 
 And HuiTali ! for the giant Steam, 
 
 AVho aids the Farmers' hands, 
 And gives him strength to triumph o'er 
 
 The once uncultur'd lands. 
 Long may the ample Harvests fill 
 
 And crown the garner's store, 
 To bring enjoyment to the Rich, 
 
 And comfort to the Poor. 
 And long may kindred mortals meet 
 
 Around the board as now, * 
 To swell the cheer which hails the toast — 
 
 " The Children of the Tlough." 
 
 PULL THROUGH. 
 
 Though Dangers rise your path to bar, 
 Pull Through, pull through ; 
 Though dimly shines your guiding Star, 
 
 Pull Through, pull through ; 
 For those who now your worth despise, 
 Who clog your way with Scorn and Lies, 
 Will haste to Crown you as you rise ; 
 Pull Tiirough, pull through. 
 
 * Written on the occasion of an Agricultural Meeting.
 
 14 PULL THROUGH, 
 
 Your deeds let no Dishonour taint, 
 
 Pull Througli, pull through ; 
 Though Worn and Weary never faint, 
 Pull Through, pull through ; 
 Gird on your armour for the Fight, 
 And nobly battle for the Right, 
 Heedless of the frowns of Might, 
 
 Pull Through, pull through. 
 
 Though Bright Eyes seldom on you gleam, 
 
 Pull Through, pull through ; 
 Though Vict'ry seem an empty dream, 
 Pull Through, pull through ; 
 For if the Laurel you would wear, 
 Your heart must learn to Do and Dare, 
 The Martyr's cross awhile to bear ; 
 
 Pull Tlu'ough, pull through.
 
 JOHN POUNDS, THE FOUNDER OF 
 RAGGED SCHOOLS. 
 
 Jolm Pounds was born at Portsmouth in 176G. In early life he 
 became a cripple, and betook himself to the "gentle craft." In 
 a lowly abode in St. Mary-street, he followed his calling, and 
 originated the present system of industrial schools. The noble- 
 hearted fellow allowed the little children who played in the 
 streets to come into his workroom, and learn reading, writing, 
 and arithmetic of him. He never received, nor would receive, 
 any recompense for his trouble ; and his chief reward was in 
 beholding those whom he had taught in childhood prove good 
 and honest in their manhood. He died .January 1st, 1839. 
 Poor as he was, no man ever exceeded him in real usefulness, 
 and if merit had its true reward in this world, no man could 
 have claimed a loftier position than John Pounds, the humble 
 Shoemaker of Portsmouth. 
 
 A PRIZE awaits the courtly Bard, 
 
 Whose voice exultaut rings 
 With high laudations of the deeds 
 
 Of crown'd and ermin'd Kings. 
 The High and Favour'd of the laud 
 
 Will smiles on him bestow, 
 While off'rings rich and presents rare 
 
 From Rank and Wealth will flow.
 
 16 JOHN POUNDS. 
 
 But what of him who sings the Wrongs, 
 - The Sorrow and Despair, 
 Of those who toil till life but seems 
 
 A weary round of Care ? 
 No princely hands will wreath his brow 
 
 With Laurels as of old ; 
 No golden chain, nor jewels rare 
 
 His form may dare enfold ! 
 
 But what of that 1 the People claim 
 
 The Bard for them alone ; 
 From Them will he select his theme, 
 
 And Their applauses own. 
 What nobler subject for his pen 
 
 Than Him who on his seat 
 Pursued his toil, yet taught and sav'd 
 
 The Children from the Street 1 
 
 Far nobler he than King or Peer — 
 
 As on his bench he sat, 
 Surrounded by his little School, 
 
 His Birds, and Dog, and Cat. 
 True, he was poor ! Was Homer rich, 
 
 Or cynic Socrates ? 
 Does Wealth alone make mortals great, 
 
 Or alter Fate's decrees 1
 
 A workman's wooing. . 17 
 
 No ! no — the poor Shoemaker there 
 No rich reward might claim ; ♦ 
 
 No tomb of marble pure and white 
 Records his honour'd name ; 
 
 Yet in his Heart he felt a bliss, 
 To mortals seldom known, 
 
 And held within his breast a Joy- 
 That others might not own. 
 
 Oh ! brave John Pounds ! oh ! noble Heart, 
 
 Whose deeds of goodness shame 
 The paltry schemes of Statesmen proud 
 
 Who talk themselves to Fame ! 
 He solv'd the Problem of the Age — 
 
 And taught neglected Youth, 
 To leave the ways of vice and sin 
 
 For those of God and Truth ! 
 
 A WORKMAN'S WOOING. 
 
 I KNOW that my hands may be hard and rough, 
 That my cheek may be worn and pale ; 
 
 But my heart is made of a good sound stuff 
 That never will falter or fail ; 

 
 18 A workman's wooing. 
 
 And though in the World with my mates I stand 
 
 T<J share in the Battle of Life, 
 I take thee, my Girl, by thy dainty hand. 
 
 As my own, my bonny sweet Wife, 
 
 Though never a jewelled wreath may span 
 
 The curls on thy beautiful brow, 
 I'll pledge thee my Heart and Truth as a Man, 
 
 And love thee for ever as now ; 
 And though the bright dreams of Love's sunny prime 
 
 Too often the Future belie. 
 The steep hills of Life together we'll climb. 
 
 And conquer our fate — Thou and I. 
 
 My coat may be poor, my words be but few, 
 
 Yet there's never an ermin'd King 
 Can offer his Queen a present more true 
 
 Than mine of a Heart and a Ring ; 
 That tiny gold link, with which we may bind 
 
 Our fortunes in one common bond ; 
 And rear us a home where Happiness shrin'd 
 
 May dwell with Affection most fond. 
 
 What more would we seek 1 What more would we 
 havel 
 
 What more could fair Nature bestow ? 
 If, of all her gifts, we ventur'd to crave 
 
 The richest that mortals might know.
 
 THE CANKER IN THE ROSE. 19 
 
 For aye, dearest Girl, shall our wedded love 
 
 Flash — Star-like — a-top of our life ; 
 And never will I a base traitor prove 
 
 To my Heart, my Home, or my Wife ! 
 
 THE CANKER IN THE ROSE. 
 
 They say our land's a favour'd clime, 
 
 Where slaves can never be — ■ 
 Where Truth may boldly stand erect, 
 
 And Thought may flourish free. 
 We boast the wonders of the Loom, 
 
 The Engine, and the Mine ; 
 We count the sails which bear our name 
 
 To lands beyond the brine ; 
 Yet 'neath the glitter and the glare, 
 
 A stream of sorrow flows ; 
 Which may, perchance, o'erwhelm our land- 
 
 A Canker in the Rose ! 
 
 Go ! view the poor man's squalid lane ; 
 
 His hovel, bleak and small ; 
 Where pallid spectres starve and slave. 
 
 With scarce the strength to crawl ;
 
 20 THE CANKER IN THE ROSE, 
 
 And leave their children in the streets, 
 
 The bread of crime to win ; 
 To ripen for the hangman's touch, 
 
 And be our shame and sin. 
 What are the glories of our State 1 — 
 
 If none may interpose 
 To stay this dark and deadly blight — 
 
 This Canker in the Rose ! 
 
 We raise the Cross — the Gospel preach 
 
 To nations wide and far ; 
 From Zone to Zone, from Pole to Pole, 
 
 There's nought our path can bar. 
 Our rulers breathe with sentence bland. 
 
 How England dares to cope 
 With King or Czar, with Serf or Slave, 
 
 With Kaisar, or with Pope ; 
 And yet too oft they will ignore 
 
 The sorrows, wrongs, and woes, 
 Of those who toil for England's wealth. 
 
 Oh ! Canker in the Rose ! 
 
 Meanwhile, a distant murmur low, 
 The list'ner oft may hear, 
 
 A cry that breathes of evil days. 
 Of tempests drawing near.
 
 THE labourer's SON. 21 
 
 The starving forms, so lately scorned, 
 
 May in their hatred turn 
 On those who dared their lot despise, 
 
 And their appeal could spurn. 
 Oh ! may our statesmen be forewarn'd 
 
 To check this ill which grows 
 In silence dark, with giant strength, 
 
 A Canker in the Eose ! 
 
 THE LABOURER'S SON. 
 
 The incidents on which the following lines are founded, were 
 related to the author during a discussion on the policy of the 
 game laws. The father is supposed to be speaking. 
 
 Ah ! John, he was a noble youth — 
 
 And I, methinks, can see him now, 
 With God's own stamp of earnest truth. 
 
 Imprinted on his manly brow. 
 But we were poor, so very poor, 
 
 That oft we lacked our daily bread, 
 Till we our fate could scarce endui'e, 
 
 But anguish'd wish'd that we were dead.
 
 22 THE labourer's son. 
 
 They bade us work, and work we sought, 
 But hands were many ; wages scant ; 
 
 And though we onward hopeful fought, 
 We could not keep ourselves from want. 
 
 The Winter came with cold keen blast. 
 
 With ruthless frost, and blinding snow ; 
 And men were forced to cease at last 
 
 From toil, and idly homewards go. 
 We had no food, nor fire to warm 
 
 Our wasted frames and trembling hands ; 
 While round our cottage howl'd the storm 
 
 O'er frozen streams, and snow- wrapt lands. 
 My boy went forth, I knew not where, 
 
 From me a weary day he staid ; 
 Then he return'd and brought a hare, 
 
 From whence obtained he never said. 
 
 But two rough keepers, rushing in, 
 
 Their prisoner — my son — did claim : 
 My heart leapt wild my breast within, 
 
 And down I knelt in grief and shame. 
 Before the Justice soon he stood. 
 
 His moisten'd eyes fix'd on the ground, 
 While I for mercy for him sued. 
 
 And for him offer'd to be bound.
 
 THE labourer's SON. 23 
 
 But " poachers had increased of late, 
 No mercy really could be shown, — 
 
 Three months in gaol must be his fate : " 
 Thus Justice spake, with icy tone. 
 
 Those three months pass'd, I know not how, 
 
 And then my boy I saw again ; 
 Oh, God ! how changed was his brow, 
 
 With his imprisonment and pain. 
 " Where is my Mother 1 "— " Son, she's dead." 
 
 " And where is Lucy 1 " — " She is gone." 
 " All gone," he shriek' d, and bow'd his head, 
 
 And stood as if transfix'd to stone. 
 Henceforth he was an alter'd man. 
 
 And wander'd in the world apart ; 
 Intent on some deep, secret plan. 
 
 Which silent grew within his heart. 
 
 At length he bade to me farewell, 
 
 To Canada he meant to go : 
 I felt my breast with anguish swell. 
 
 And sank beneath the cruel blow. 
 'Twas for our good, he now has won, 
 
 With the rough labour of his hands, 
 A home which he can call his own, 
 
 SuiTounded with his smiling lands.
 
 34 THE emigrant's song. 
 
 And he has bade me to him come, 
 His happiness and joy to share : 
 
 Soon shall I leave my English home, 
 To dwell in comfort with him there. 
 
 Oh ! England, if thou wouldst retain 
 
 Thy strength and power e'en as of yore, 
 Let not thy children plead in vain. 
 
 Nor thoughtless crush the helpless poor 
 But rather with a kindly hand, 
 
 The outcast seek, the fallen raise ; 
 From them no more in coldness stand, 
 
 But train their young to better ways : 
 Else, oh ! beware, there is a God — 
 
 All nations reap as they have sown ; 
 Beware ! lest thou in wrath be trod, 
 
 And peace to^thee no more be known. 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S SONG. 
 
 Westward, Ho ! for the Delaware ! 
 Westward, Ho ! for the Sckuylkil's wave 
 A Freeman's home awaits us there — 
 There, where Toil its reward may have.
 
 THE emigrant's SONG, 25 
 
 To thee— Old Land — we bid farewell, 
 Thou wert to us a hopeless land : 
 Yet with a sigh we break the spell 
 Which binds us to thy foam-wash'd strand. 
 Westward, Ho ! where the fields are green ; 
 Westward, Ho ! where the corn waves high ; 
 And rich fi-uits smile the boughs between, 
 Flush'd and warm 'neath the cloudless sky. 
 Westward, Ho ! for the Delaware ! 
 Westward, Ho ! for the Sckuylkil's wave ; 
 A Freeman's home awaits us there : 
 Land of the Free, the Good, and Brave. 
 
 Then, Westward, Ho ! Boys ! Westward, Ho ! 
 With hopeful hearts we cross the main. 
 Our souls with Freedom's flame aglow. 
 No longer link'd to Care or Pain. 
 Far, far, from Tyrant's that oppress. 
 Who soul and body long have ground, 
 And wrung their wealth from pale distress, 
 Nor to their madness placed a bound. 
 Westward, Ho ! with oiir brawny hands, 
 Westward, Ho ! with our limbs so strong, 
 To win, with toil, the teeming lands. 
 And sing the Freeman's'proudest song. 
 Westward, Ho ! for the Delaware ! 
 Westward, Ho ! for the Sckuylkil's wave ; 
 A Freeman's home awaits us there : 
 Land of the Free, the Good, and Brave.
 
 HARD TIMES.* 
 
 From o'er the broad Atlantic wave, 
 
 A note of terror comes ; 
 Wliich brings despair to English hearts, 
 
 And dearth to English homes. 
 Our Mills are clos'd, our Looms are still, 
 
 Our Engines silent rust ; 
 Our massive Bales of wares are left 
 
 To moulder in the dust : 
 While pallid Forms, with aching hands, 
 
 Press close their fever'd brow. 
 For evil days are drawing near — 
 
 God help the Workman now ! 
 
 With Foodless shelves, and Fireless grates, 
 
 We scarce know whence to turn : 
 There is no Work : we must forego 
 
 The Bread we fain would earn. 
 With gloomy thoughts our souls are rife. 
 
 Dark scowls each anxious eye : 
 We cannot see our Children pale, 
 
 In silence starve and die ! 
 
 * Written during the Commercial Panic of 1857-58.
 
 HARD TIMES. 
 
 Though — far more blest than ive — they leave 
 
 A world where we must bow, 
 For evil days are drawing near — 
 
 God help the Workman now ! 
 
 Our statesmen war with rival creeds, 
 
 Intent on Party aim, 
 And leave us in our bitter needs, 
 
 The Pauper's alms to claim. 
 The hands which toil'd with honest zeal. 
 
 In Fact'ry, or in Mine, 
 Are left to starve, while Lords may sport. 
 
 And sip theii- Clubhouse wine ; 
 Still iron Mammon bids us toil 
 
 As heretofore — But how ? 
 For evil days are drawing near — 
 
 God help the Workman now ! 
 
 Oh ! ye who roll in luxury, 
 
 Ye Lords of Gold and Land, 
 Of your excess a portion spare, 
 
 To feed the famish' d band. 
 The Earth is God's. Its fulness fair 
 
 For all was sure ordain'd. 
 Beware ! lest ye a sin commit, 
 
 And die with conscience stain' d :
 
 28 TIMES OP WANT. 
 
 Men ! rather take the better path, 
 And Want with help endow ; 
 
 For God will bless the kindly hearts 
 That aid the workman now ! 
 
 TIMES OF WANT. 
 
 Oh ! Mar-y they have closed the Mill, 
 
 The looms are silent now ; 
 And we must stoop with heavy souls 
 
 Beneath the rod to bow. 
 I feel a throbbing in my heart — 
 
 A chill within my breast — 
 And long to lay my weary form 
 
 Within the grave to rest ; 
 For life has been a ceaseless strife 
 
 With cares that ever grew ; 
 We slav'd, and starv'd, and now, alas ! 
 
 Oh ! God ! what shall we do ? 
 
 I've seen thee weep, when thou did'st think 
 
 Thy tears I could not see ; 
 And seen thee put aside thy food 
 
 That baby fed might be ;
 
 TIMES OP WANT. 29 
 
 While oft thou forced a loving smile, 
 
 Although thy heart was sore ; 
 And kiss'd my pale and bloodless cheek, 
 
 And bade me grieve no more. 
 But now thou cans't not hide thy tears ; 
 
 Thy lips they quiver, too ; 
 Thy hand, it trembles in my own ; 
 
 Oh ! God ! what shall we do 1 
 
 Thy fingers they are thin and worn 
 
 With needlework so cheap ; 
 Thy eyes are red, thy brow is cold, 
 
 For want of rest and sleep. 
 Our little infant, fever' d, droons, 
 
 And soon will be no more : 
 It had not starv'd had I been rich, 
 
 But I, alas, am poor. 
 I wonder if the wealthy great 
 
 Would help us if they knew 
 Our wretched fate 1 The thought is vain ; 
 
 Oh ! God ! what shall we do ? 
 
 For never shall these lips of mine, 
 A pauper s pittance crave 
 
 While I have life, tho' after death 
 I fill a pauper's grave.
 
 30 THE poet's power. 
 
 My soul grows fierce. Oh ! that my voice 
 
 Could ring throughout the land, 
 And breathe the cares, the wants, and fate. 
 
 Of Labour's starving band ; 
 And bid the Lords of Gold beware, 
 
 Lest they, like us, may sue, 
 When Revolution comes, and cry — 
 
 " Oh ! God ! what shall we do ? " 
 
 THE POET'S POWER. 
 
 9' 
 
 Along the weary, gloomy path. 
 
 Which our forefather's trod, 
 With aching feet, and sadden' d hearts. 
 
 All hopelessly we plod. 
 Grim Want and Care our steps pursue. 
 For work is scant, and friends are few. 
 
 We view the great ones of the land 
 
 Pass by in lordly state ; 
 And in our souls we feel arise 
 
 A stern and bitter hate. 
 That they are rich, while we are poor ! 
 That we have less, while they have more !
 
 THE poet's power. 31 
 
 But we are human — we have souls, 
 
 A life our life within ; 
 And moments rise, when we would spurn 
 
 From us the tempter, Sin : 
 'Tis then we feel the Poet's power, 
 To cheer and soothe each lonely hour. 
 
 'Tis then we bless the pens that strive 
 
 To raise each lowly heart ; 
 And with their sweet impassion'd strains 
 
 The words of hope impart 
 To us, poor children of the soil, 
 Whose few frail years are pass'd in toil. 
 
 We bless them that they kindly bade 
 
 Our nobler feelings rise ; 
 And woke — with touch of genius rare — 
 
 Our inmost sympathies : 
 For this we love each Poet's name. 
 And crown them with a household fame. 
 
 Oh ! may our aspirations prove 
 
 The triumph of their art, 
 And bid the joys of Love and Peace 
 
 No more as dreamings start, 
 Until we feel unto us given 
 The means to make the Earth a Heaven,
 
 THE DYING WORKMAN. 
 
 I AM dying — so they tell me — may be 'tis for the 
 
 best 
 That these poor aching limbs of mine should have 
 
 some little rest ; 
 For I've labour'd hard and long, till my cheek was 
 
 pale with care ; 
 Till my brow was deeply furrow' d, and silver'd was 
 
 my hair. 
 My feeble strength is ebbing fast, my sight is 
 
 growing dim, 
 I know that Death is coming now, but have no fear 
 
 of Mm. 
 Come, kiss me. Wife ; and you, old Ralph, give me 
 
 your horny hand. 
 In death, aye faithful as in life, by your old mate 
 
 you stand. 
 
 These five-and-thirty years, my Man, we've rough'd 
 
 it side by side, 
 And in our weakness and our strength, we each on 
 
 each relied ;
 
 THE DTIXG WORKMAN. 33 
 
 And now, like to a shatter'd loom, Life's web I 
 
 weave no more ; 
 But leave this earth of scorn and hate, for Heaven's 
 
 radiant shore. 
 1 hear the strain of golden harps, the sound of angel 
 
 wings, 
 And feel — too late ! — 1 might have dar'd and done 
 
 far nobler things 
 Than idle all my youth away, Life's mellow sunny 
 
 prime. 
 Before the fi"Osts of Age had crown'd my head with 
 
 silv'ry rime. 
 
 But what was I ? What was I taught ? Son of a 
 
 drunken sire ; 
 Child of a hag, whose fingers plied my lips with 
 
 liquid fii'e ! 
 Eear'd in the kennel and the street, the filthy slum 
 
 my school, 
 Where shame-fac'd Vice at Virtue laugh'd, and 
 
 call'd her "slave" and "fool." 
 Man ! never once my infant lips were taught a word 
 
 of pray'r • 
 A wretched English Arab I — I could but lie and swear ! 
 What could I be but what I was? — a sign of 
 
 England's shame ! 
 Place in my stead your noblest man, and he would 
 
 be the same. 
 
 D
 
 34 THE DYING WORKMAN. 
 
 But I was sav'd, as well you know, by that foud 
 
 angel there, 
 Who, in the guise of Avedded Wife, hath made my 
 
 life more fair ; 
 A tender spell around my heart with winning grace 
 
 she wove, 
 And sooth'd my rugged nature down with gentle 
 
 words of love. 
 For Jier I dash'd aside the glass, and brav'd the 
 
 scoff and ban 
 Of former mates, and stood erect — no more a slave, 
 
 but— Man ! 
 Methinks the Rulers of the State, too oft but seldom 
 
 know 
 The debt of gratitude which they to England's 
 
 daughters owe. 
 
 Come, Daughter, come ; and you, my Boy ; kneel 
 
 down by me and pray 
 To Him, the Father of us all, that each may never 
 
 stray 
 From word of Truth, or path of Right ; but ever 
 
 strive to be 
 A comfort and a hope to her who made life sweet 
 
 to me.
 
 SCAB. SCAB. SCAB. 35 
 
 Another kiss, and then good bye ; the room is 
 
 growing dark — 
 I see the gates of gold and pearl — hark ! to the 
 
 music, hark ! 
 Good bye — good bye — no more for me will sound 
 
 the fact'ry bell, 
 The warp of life at last is cut ; God bless you all — 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 SCAB : SCAB ! ! SCAB ! ! ! 
 Or, THE COMBINATIONISTS' LOGIC. 
 
 " Scab," " Black Sheep," &c., are terms applied to those work- 
 men who act against the rules laid down by the generality of 
 Trades' Unions. This and the two followiug Songs were 
 written during the Shoemakers' Strike, at Northampton, in 
 1858 ; but it is only fair to state that several Trades' Unions, 
 such as the Bookbinders', of Loudon, and the Jlanchester Order 
 of Smiths', most earnestly deprecate any such conduct on the 
 part of their members. 
 
 Hunt him here, and hunt him there. 
 Shop-mates, hunt him ev'rywhere ; 
 Let each sot and drunken drab. 
 Join the chase, and hunt the "scab."
 
 6 SCAB. SCAB. SCAB. 
 
 JVkat's his crime ? He works for bread, 
 FoY little Charley — sick in bed. 
 Nothing else ? His wife is poor ; 
 He fain would make his income more. 
 Is that all ? He will not join 
 Our ranks, and with us all combine. 
 He dares to think ; and dares be free ; 
 Things which never more must be ; 
 For liberty is all a flam : 
 The People's progress all a sham : 
 And Bomba is our model king, 
 So we with glee will ever sing — 
 
 Hunt him here, and hunt him there. 
 Shop-mates, hunt him ev'ry where ; 
 Let each sot and drunken drab, 
 Join the chase, and hunt the " scab." 
 
 What of our hearts ? Oh ! they are stone, 
 Nor love nor mercy e'er will own. 
 Ou,r interests ? Oh ! fudge and stuff ; 
 We pay ourselves, and that's enough. 
 For our pleasure and our play 
 We have our shillings four a day.* 
 But are you just ? Don't know or care : 
 Ask me no more, or I will swear ! 
 
 * An allusion to the payment received by the " Strike " 
 
 officials.
 
 SCAB. SCAB. SCAB. 37 
 
 For law, for justice, or for right, 
 
 We do not care a blessed mite ! 
 
 Not common sense shall be our plan ; 
 
 We'll rule by force, by fear, and ban ; 
 
 And woe to him who dares to see 
 
 Things in another light than we ; 
 
 For every thing we say is law : 
 
 Now there's my speech, I'll say no more. 
 
 Hunt him here, and hunt him there, 
 Shopmates, hunt him ev'rywhere ; 
 Let each sot and drunken drab. 
 Join the chase, and hunt the " scab." 
 
 But why do you to Mm deny 
 
 His right the case himself to try ? 
 
 Because we cannot make him see, 
 
 That he ought never to be free 
 
 To choose his trade, or do his best 
 
 To serve and aid his interest. 
 
 Oh ! nonsense ! what is that to yoii ? 
 
 Tlieres work enough for all to do. 
 
 Ah ! yes ; but then we want to keep 
 
 It to ourselves, that none may reap 
 
 The slightest share ; but starve and slave 
 
 In workhouse yards, or find a grave. 
 
 Nay, this is lorong ! AVell, wrong or right, 
 
 For this I'll clench my fist and fight ;
 
 38 THE TYRANTS OP THE LAST. 
 
 No scholar I, but this I know, 
 The weakest to the wall shall go, 
 
 Hunt him here, and hunt him there, 
 Shopmatcs, hunt him ev'rywhere 
 Let each sot and drunken drab, 
 Join the chase, and hunt the "scab." 
 
 THE TYRANTS OF THE LAST. 
 
 Shame, shame, on ye all, False sons of the Last 
 
 Base traitors to Freedom and Right ! 
 Who o'er us, poor toilers, seek but to cast 
 
 The chains of your folly and might. 
 What do you care, that a poor man may sigh 
 
 In vain for a morsel of bread 1 
 No work let him have : no ! let the fool die, 
 
 And rot like a dog when he's dead ; 
 Aye, let his poor widow in wretchedness pine, 
 
 Or perish in bitter despair ; 
 Let Hunger and Sorrow relentlessly twine 
 
 Their claws on his children so fair I
 
 THE TYRANTS OF THE LAST. 39 
 
 Shame on ye, Dastards ; go, hasten abroad 
 
 Where kings in their tyranny reign : 
 Down, down, on your knees, hail each for your lord, 
 
 And worship the Scaffold and Chain. 
 For what are ye all, but mimics of those — 
 
 Who Justice and Liberty ban, 
 And set themselves up as the bloodiest foes 
 
 Of Freedom, of Truth, and of Man 1 
 Hounding our daughters, like wolves, thro' the town, 
 
 Reviling our sisters and wives. 
 Hooting and yelling our poor children down. 
 
 And bidding them flee for their lives. 
 
 Shame on ye, Cowards ! Oh ! can ye be men 
 
 With reason, with sense, or with thought. 
 To act like the brute, which growls in its den, 
 
 And glares in its fury when caught. 
 Go ! hire yourselves to the Pope, or the Czar, 
 
 And no longer in England remain : 
 Here on our daughters ye shall not make war. 
 
 Or your power for mischief retain. 
 This is no country for tyrants or slaves, — 
 
 This land of the brave and the free j 
 Curs, hie ye away beyond the salt waves, ; 
 
 With Louis and Pius to be.
 
 ON STRIKE. 
 
 Oh ! my Brothers ! pause and listen, 
 
 Ere the Son-ow and the Tears 
 Cause each sunken Eye to glisten 
 
 With the Grief of after-years ; 
 Ere the wretched Mothers, weeping, 
 
 Sob as though their hearts would break, 
 For their infant Darlings sleeping. 
 
 And their thoughtless Husbands' sake ; 
 Ere ye tramp on lonely Highways, 
 
 Through the Village or the Town, 
 Or in Cities' crowded by-ways, 
 
 Sadly wander up and down ; 
 For employment ever seeking 
 
 Where there's none, alas ! to give. 
 Till the Hunger-glance is speaking 
 
 That ye scarce know how to live. 
 
 ^rue, our path is often dreary — 
 True, the Joy-hopes seldom shine. 
 
 Cheering hearts with labour weary, 
 In the Fact'ry, Field, or Mine ; — 
 
 True, that Sin and Shame oppress us, 
 In each Court, and Lane, and Street,
 
 ON STRIKE. a 
 
 Where but Angels few may bless us 
 
 With their smiles so pure and sweet ; 
 True it is, our Children dying 
 
 From the poison breath of Drain, 
 Oft with fevered lips are sighing 
 
 For their daily Bread in vain. 
 Whilst we Toilers, bowed with anguish, 
 
 Aged grow before our day ; 
 And in Pauper hovels languish 
 
 Till our Spirits glide away. 
 
 But these Ills last not for ever, 
 
 Not all Iron is our chain, 
 Not all hopeless each Endeavour 
 
 To remove the olden stain 
 Round our Hearts for ever clinging, 
 
 Filling them with Scorn and Hate, 
 Truth and Reason from them flinging, 
 
 Till we murmur at our Fate, — 
 Murmur at the Rich man's treasures, 
 
 At his Houses, at his Wine, 
 At his dearly purchas'd Pleasures, 
 
 At his Halls which lighted shine; — 
 But, my Brothers, murmurs never 
 
 Taught our Souls the crown to win ; 
 Or with lofty Courage sever 
 
 Every link of Vice and Sin.
 
 42 THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. 
 
 Not by " Striking," or by spurning 
 
 Ev'ry boon which Science brings, — 
 With the aid of Art and Learning, 
 
 Shall we rise to nobler things. 
 Honest toil, and Temp' rate living, 
 
 Manly educated mind ; 
 Earnest soul, and Heart forgiving. 
 
 Are the means in each enshrin'd ; 
 With their aid, each ill degrading 
 
 We may swift from us remove. 
 And around us weave unfading 
 
 Wreaths of Joy, of Peace, and Love. 
 Now, my Brothers, I have ended, 
 
 And my simple Strain is o'er ; 
 If ye deem truth with it blended. 
 
 Go ye forth and " Strike " no more. 
 
 THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. 
 
 Thus spoke the Country to the Town : — 
 
 Oh! Sister, are they true, 
 These evil things which people speak, 
 
 And dare ascribe to you ?
 
 THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. 43 
 
 I hear of loathsome courts and lanes, 
 
 Where Vice and Fever dwell ; 
 Where Crime and Hate, and Shame and Sin 
 
 Combine for purpose fell : 
 
 Where selfish parents di-ain the glass, 
 
 Nor Love, nor Pity feel. 
 But bid their offspring roam the streets. 
 
 To starve, or lie, or steal ! 
 Where brutal fiends break the vows 
 
 At God's high altar made : 
 And kill the partners of their life 
 
 By blows, or crimson' d blade ; 
 
 Where painted harlots frenzied smile, 
 
 Or laugh in wild despair ; 
 Or reckless leap the silent Bridge, 
 
 And end their anguish there ! 
 Oh ! Sister — Dearest Sister — hear 
 
 The fond appeal from me — 
 Arise, and in thy strength sublime, 
 
 Say these no more shall be. 
 
 Then to tlie Country spake the Town : — 
 
 Why dost thou cast the stone ? 
 Art tJiou less stain'd with crime than I ? 
 
 Canst thou less evil own 1
 
 44 THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. 
 
 I have no ricks for Hate to burn 
 
 > 
 
 Nor woods where keepers' hide, 
 To mark the poachers' crouching form 
 Through fern and grasses glide. 
 
 Hast thou less offspring born of shame, 
 
 Our lasting stain to be ? 
 From drunken brawls and brutal fights, 
 
 Say, Sistex', art thou free ? 
 Then said the Country to the town — 
 
 We hoth are in the wrong, 
 We hoth have err'd, we both have fell, 
 
 And yet we both ai'e strong. 
 
 Then let us both with cheerful Zeal, 
 
 With Gentleness and Love, 
 With Mercy, Hope, and Faith divine, 
 
 These evils dare i-emove. 
 Nor each reproach with gibe and scorn. 
 
 Nor mutual strife endure ; 
 Bat raise our childi-en from the dust, 
 
 And bid them sin no more.
 
 JOHN O'NEILL. 
 
 One of the most promising signs of the time, is the persistent 
 efforts made by a large section of the toiling masses, to elevate 
 themselves from the social and political degradation which the 
 misfortune of centuries has imposed upon them. In the pro- 
 motion of their noble endeavours, they have no lack of leaders, 
 or writers, such as John O'Neill, whose pen gave utterance to 
 many a poem, full of intense fervour, on behalf of his fellow- 
 toilers; and of stern unflinching denunciation of their merciless 
 enemy and everlasting bane — Intemperance. He died, 
 almost unknown, save by name, a few months since, in London. 
 
 Ix times of old the Grecian bards 
 
 Deem'd Bacchus god divine ; 
 And with a lively measure sang 
 
 In praise of rosy Wine : 
 They hail'd it as the source of bliss— 
 
 The nectar sweet of Jove ; — 
 The true and loving friend of Man, 
 
 Of Harmony, and Love. 
 With Ivy garlands would they crown 
 
 The Idol of their song ; 
 And with the tabor, fife, and drum 
 
 They joiu'd tlie Satyr throng.
 
 46 JOHN o'neill. 
 
 " But tlicy were heathens," some will say, 
 
 " And xoe are Christians now ; 
 We own no mythic Ruler's sway, 
 
 Nor to such idols bow ! " 
 Men, is this true ? Hath never Bard 
 
 Sang in these later days 
 Of Wine — of TVine — of rosy Wine ! 
 
 In notes of joy and praise % 
 Had Burns no voice, Mackay, nor Moore, 
 
 The soul to stir and move. 
 To send the passions mounting high, 
 
 And Life's destruction prove ? 
 
 While Gin-mad slaves in frenzy clasp 
 
 The soul consuming chain, 
 And let their famish'd offspring pine 
 
 In hunger, cold, and pain ; 
 Or roam the wet and stony streets, 
 
 To earn the bread of crime ; 
 And on the frowning Gallows mock 
 
 Our Bible-creed sublime ! 
 While gilded temples ope their doors — 
 
 Where lights and mirrors glare — 
 Where meet the Harlot and the Thief 
 
 To drown remorse and care.
 
 THE OLD, OLD TALE. 47 
 
 Is this the Poet's mission true 1 
 
 The lesson he should preach ? 
 To praise the gay handmaid of crime, 
 
 And her enticements teach ? 
 No, no ! the high and noble aim 
 
 To each great Singer given, 
 Is e'er to lead men's erring hearts 
 
 From things of Earth to Heaven : 
 To elevate each mortal mind ; 
 
 To bid us think and feel ; 
 To do our best for fellow kind, 
 
 As did poor John O'Neill. 
 
 THE OLD, OLD TALE. 
 
 Ou ! how I flutter'd in his arms — 
 
 His heart's own darling dove — 
 And gaz'd upon his manly brow. 
 
 All flush' d with hope and love. 
 He told me that his hands were strong, 
 
 The world was free and wide : 
 Would I forsake my childhood's home 
 
 And be his bonnv bride ?
 
 48 THK OLD, OLD TALE. 
 
 Five happy years in joyance sped — 
 
 Five happy years of bliss — 
 Since I, with fond assenting smile, 
 
 First crown'd his happiness. 
 Three prattling children bless' d our love, 
 
 And climb' d their father's knee 
 To seek his bright and tender gaze ; 
 
 Oh ! who more glad than we 1 
 
 Another year. How chang'd the scene ! 
 
 A happy home no more ! 
 A weeping wife, and offspring pale. 
 
 In silence watch the door ; 
 Till stagg'ring footsteps on the stairs 
 
 Bid them all startled flee 
 Their drunken father's sad return 
 
 From madden'd revelry. 
 
 " Come, woman, brandy give me quick ! " 
 
 With fury wild he cried. 
 " No ! husband, never ! by my soul," 
 
 In sternness I replied. 
 I mark'd the fearful demon look — 
 
 The clench'd determin'd hand — 
 Extended arm — low mutter d cvtrse — 
 
 And scarce with fear could stand.
 
 THE OLD, OLD TALE. 49 
 
 Blow after blow upou me fell ; 
 
 Our little children cried : 
 Another blow ; and oh, my God ! 
 
 The aim from me was wide. 
 I heard a low and stifl'd wail, — 
 
 Oh ! how my heart did thrill ; 
 A darkness seem'd to cloud my sioht 
 
 A sob — and all was still. 
 
 The morning light in brightness shone 
 
 Upon the chamber floor, 
 Where lay my child, with bleeding brow, 
 
 To rise in life no more. 
 His little curls, so soft and fair, 
 
 With blood were damp and cold ; 
 No more my arms his tender form 
 
 In fond embrace might hold. 
 
 Alas ! that fatal, bitter morn. 
 
 How could I calm my woe 1 
 My sober'd husband's breaking heart 
 
 The truth could scarcely know. 
 In yon churchyard my darling lies ; 
 
 And o'er the blue salt sea. 
 His father pines — exil'd from home. 
 
 From Hope, and Love, and Me.
 
 GLIMPSES OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 EvKR yearning, as of Old, in these days of Steam 
 
 and Gold, 
 For the Glorious, the Beautiful, the Happy, and 
 
 the Free, 
 A thousand gentle fancies in the Dreamer's breast 
 
 unfold, 
 lu all their purple ripeness, with their visions 
 
 ■uncontroll'd. 
 Of the bright and sinless Future which our fallen 
 
 world shall. see. 
 
 When no more shall Toilers sigh, nor their palefac'd 
 
 Children cry — 
 In their squalid hovels crouching in each fever 
 
 reeking room — 
 For one moment with the Flowers, 'neath the 
 
 pleasant country sky, 
 With the grass below their feet, with the branches 
 
 waving high, 
 Till forgotten are their Sorrows, all their Misery, 
 
 and Doom.
 
 GLIMPSES OF THE FUTURE. 51 
 
 When the crimson cloud of War never more shall 
 
 dim the star 
 Of our Happiness and household Joys, or cast 
 
 its fatal shade 
 O'er the troubl'd path of Man, and his aspirations 
 
 mar. 
 Till — a prodigal of Hate — from the Right he 
 
 wanders far, 
 And the golden fruit of Love and Hope before 
 
 him lie decav'd. 
 
 "When no more shall Passion blind, nor dark 
 Ignorance shall bind 
 With the selfwrought chain of Vice and Shame — 
 the links and gyves of Sin — 
 God's own noblest gift to Man, in our mortal frame 
 
 enshrin'd, 
 Fair Creation's masterpiece — The illimitable MIND, 
 Which, enfranchis'd from its thrall, shall a crown 
 of triumph win. 
 
 When poor Labour's weary heart never more shall 
 fiercely start 
 With the reckless jealousy of Class — the hatred 
 deep and stem —
 
 52 GLIMPSES OP THE FUTURE. 
 
 Such as only those can feel who have borne the 
 
 bitter smart 
 Of viewing all their nearest and their dearest ones 
 
 depart, 
 For the lack of warmth and food which they 
 
 tvould, but could not, earn. 
 
 When the Sun of Truth shall shine with a radiance 
 
 divine, 
 Evermore suffusing with a joy each bud which 
 
 decks the sod ; 
 While Content around each soul shall, like clinging 
 
 ivy, twine, 
 Till the nations of the Earth in one brotherhood 
 
 combine. 
 Each united in one common creed, and to one 
 
 father— GOD !
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIEE 
 
 RAMBLES, INCIDENTS, 
 
 AND 
 
 LEGENDS
 
 IN'ORTHAMPTONSHIRE RAMBLES, 
 
 THE CHARNEL VAULT AT KOTHWELL. 
 
 Several years ago a vault was discovered beneath the ancient 
 Cliurch at Eothwell, or " Rowell," in which was contained an 
 immense number of human skulls and bones, regularly piled in 
 layers, and said to consist entirely of remains belonging to men 
 of large stature. The origin of this extraordinary collection 
 has never been satisfactorily ascertained, although many writers 
 of learning and eminence have attempted to solve the enigma. 
 The local tradition attributes the remains to be those of the 
 slain in a great conflict, supposed to have taken place near to, 
 or at, RothweU, in ancient times, when the place was — accord- 
 ing to some writers — the metropolis of that part of England. 
 A charter fair is held here every year, on which occasion the 
 vault is open for public inspection. 
 
 Dowx to the vault— the gloomy Vault — with cau- 
 tious step.s we go ; 
 
 Dowu to the charnel-house of Death, the olden 
 porch below.
 
 56 CHARNEL VAULT AT KOTHWELL. 
 
 The air aroimcl feels cold and damp, the taper 
 waxeth dim, 
 
 While fancy fills the sombre shades with grisly 
 phantoms grim. 
 
 Without — a laughing crowd surrounds the show- 
 man's grinning mimes ; 
 
 Within — a pile of fleshless bones tells us of other 
 times. 
 
 Without — the day is passing fair — the sunlight 
 gems the flowers ; 
 
 Within — 'midst darkness, skulls, and bones, we, 
 sadden'd, muse for hours. 
 
 Strange problem of the mystic Past — shall Man the 
 
 curtain lift 1 
 Or, shall the swelling sands of Time still o'er the 
 
 secret drift 1 
 That we may never know to whom these whiten' d 
 
 bones belong'd ; 
 Or on what field of peace or strife, in love or hate 
 
 they throng'd. 
 S weird they the Norman's robber ranks ? Came 
 
 they in prow of Dane 1 
 Or rais'd they high the Saxon's flag across the 
 
 Northern main 1 
 Or were they sons of mighty Eome, whose stern and 
 
 fearless tramp 
 Oft scar'd the wolves that ventur'd near the earth- 
 work bounded camp 1
 
 CHARNEL VAULT AT ROTHWELL. 07 
 
 Pei'chance they were of Harold's race, and when he 
 
 wounded fell, 
 On Hastings' plain, the tidings flew o'er valley, 
 
 hill, and delJ, 
 Till Rothwell's wall-girt town it reached, and cries 
 
 for vengeance rang 
 High o'er the clash of shields and swords, o'er 
 
 spears and bucklers clang ! 
 But why recount the tale of blood 1 The Saxons 
 
 fought in vain ; 
 And blue-ey'd maids, and matrons pale, wept o'er 
 
 the murder'd slain ; 
 While aged monks, with trembling hands, piled up 
 
 the ghastly dead, 
 For whom no requiem was sung, nor priestly prayer 
 
 was said. 
 
 But who can tell, or who can part, the Mythic from 
 
 the Real; 
 And from these eyeless, fleshless, skulls the rays of 
 
 Knowledge steal 1 
 In Learning, Science, Art, and Skill, men daily 
 
 grow more wise ; 
 Yet still the portals of the Past each Vandal hand 
 
 defies. 
 Like us, men liv'd, and lov'd, and sung — for baubles 
 
 fought and died ; 
 And bow'd them down to earthly gods, in ignorance 
 
 and pride.
 
 58 MONUMENTS IN WAUKTON ClIUHCH. 
 
 Yet why should we regret their fate 1 They had no 
 
 hopes above 
 The Northern Gods, whose spell hath wan'd before 
 
 the Cross of Love. 
 
 THE MONUMENTS in WARKTON CHURCH. 
 
 In St. Edmund's Church, Warkton, are four very sumptuous 
 monuments to the Montagu family. That of .John, Duke of 
 Montagu, ob. 1794, and Marj', Duchess of Montagu, ob. 1751, 
 are bj^ Roubilliac; and that of Mary, 'Duchess of Buccleucli, 
 ob. 1776, is by Peter Matthias Van Gekler ; the fourth was 
 erected a few years since, to the memory of Elizabeth Mon- 
 tagu, Duchess Dowager of Buccleuch. The cenotaphs are 
 placed in a part of the church built expressly for their recep- 
 tion, and in their union of beauty, taste, sentiment, and work- 
 manship, they are probably unsurpassed by any of the same 
 class in Europe. Had they been placed in a cathedral, they 
 would have attracted the attention of thousands, and have 
 escaped from an obscurity which they do not deserve. 
 
 I BARB my brow and stand alone 
 To muse in silence on the Art, 
 
 Which from the cold and senseless stone 
 Can bid the Dreams uf Fancy start ;
 
 MONUMENTS IN WARKTON CHURCH. 59 
 
 And with tlie hand of skill renew 
 
 The features of the dead and gone, 
 Till — as the moveless forms we view — 
 
 We stay each tear and cease to mourn. 
 No marvel that the wealthy Great 
 
 Their marble cenotaphs should rear, 
 Where studied groups, in changeless state. 
 
 And grave and classic guise appear. 
 Yet, oft I think a humble grave 
 
 In some quaint churchyard, green and old, 
 Where stately trees their branches wave. 
 
 And cast their shadows o'er the wold, 
 J should prefer : for There might fall 
 
 The tear of pure Affection sweet, 
 Too oft restrain'd in princely hall, 
 
 Where Rank, and Wealth, and Beauty meet. 
 A simple headstone, with my name, 
 
 A few wild flow'rets from the woods, 
 Are all that I in death would claim, 
 
 In these calm rustic solitudes. 
 'Tis true no eyes might gaze in awe 
 
 On sculptur'd urn, or tablet proud ; 
 No stately monument procure 
 
 The wonder of the heedless Crowd. 
 But then the birds would ever sing- 
 High o'er my tomb ; and violets blue 
 Their rich and fragrant incense fling 
 
 Where cowslips pale primroses woo ;
 
 60 MONUMENTS IN WARKTON CHURCH. 
 
 And village Maids perchance might wend 
 
 Their way, my resting place beside, 
 To meet some Swain or loving Friend 
 
 In whom their hearts might dare confide. 
 And here sometimes the Old might come, 
 
 Their weary aching limbs to rest ; 
 And dream of that bright promis'd home 
 
 Where smile the Angel Singers blest ; 
 Or when the Children flock aronnd, 
 
 And bid them some old tale relate, 
 Might point unto the grassy mound, 
 
 And tell them of the Poet's fate : 
 How oft his humble pen had sought 
 
 To cheer each fellow toiler's heart. 
 With gems from secret mines of thought, 
 
 Or songs which could a joy impart ; 
 Of how he battled for the Right, 
 
 And spurn'd the sophistries of Wrong ; 
 And learnt in suff"ring all his might. 
 
 And found his Weakness made him Strong !
 
 THE CASTLE CLOSE, BARTOX SEAGRAVE. 
 
 The Castle, built by Nicholas de Seagrave, Marshal of England, 
 in the time of Edward II., was situated here. Popular tradition 
 asserts that the destruction of the fortress took place, by the 
 orders of Cromwell, during the period of the Civil Wars. The 
 only vestiges now existing are the mound on which the castle 
 was built, and the surrounding trench wliich formed the moat. 
 The neighbouring church of St. Botolph's bears immistakable 
 marks of its Saxon origin, and, despite its motley additions, 
 forms au object of interest for the antiquary. 
 
 Oh ! beautiful Barton, how oft have I stray' d 
 
 Beneath the gi-een boughs of thy tall stately trees ; 
 Or silently rambled o'er each grassy glade, 
 
 Or rested on some mossy knoll at my ease. 
 How lovely and quiet the groves seem around, 
 
 How softly and sweetly the Ise stream doth flow ; 
 Still near to the base of the old Castle mound, 
 
 It waters the meads, as in times long ago. 
 Aye, in times long ago, when Rapine and War, 
 
 O'er England's proud cities, with crimson hand 
 sped. 
 And bade hills and vallies to echo afar, 
 
 The cry of the Dying, the wail for the Dead !
 
 62 CASTLE CLOSE, BARTON SEAGRAVE. 
 
 Here England's stern Marshal his castle-home rear'd, 
 
 And often would frown from the battlements high, 
 In scorn and defiance on foes that appear d, 
 
 His will and his power to spurn and defy. 
 Here watch'd the grim Warden all coated in mail — 
 
 Above him the banner would flaunt from the 
 wall ; 
 And here Seagrave's Lady oft felt her heart quail. 
 
 Lest in the hot skirmish her husband should fall. 
 Here in the bright sunshine each knightly lance 
 gleam' d, 
 
 As proudly, yet gaily, they rode to the fi-ay ; 
 Or fought in the tilt-yard, or lazily dream' d 
 
 Of Beauty's fair smile, or of wars far away. 
 
 But where are they now — those fierce Spirits bold. 
 Whose shout from the turrets so grandly would 
 ring — 
 Whose swords gleam'd so brightly, as in times of 
 old. 
 Defending their Castle, their Lord, and their 
 King? 
 The red flames shot high from the grey batter' d 
 wall, 
 The last brave retainer lay stretch' d in his gore. 
 Ere Cromwell's stern legions could enter the hall. 
 Where Cavaliers gaily should meet never more.
 
 MARY OF VALENCE. G3 
 
 Chang'd, cliang'd is the scene, May blossoms now 
 bloom, 
 And fond lovers roam, their sweet secrets to tell ; 
 The sunshine of Peace long hath banish' d the 
 gloom — 
 The heart-rending sorrows of War's bitter spell. 
 
 MARY OF VALENCE. 
 
 The Castle of Fotheringhay was once in the possession of Mary 
 of Valence, or Yalentia, >\-ho was married to Audemare, Earl of 
 Pembroke, who fell in a tournament on the day of the nuptials; 
 whence she is characterised by the poet Gray, as the 
 
 " Sad Chatillion, on her bridal morn, 
 That wept her bleeding love." 
 
 The castle is not now ui existence. 
 
 Oh ! bright was the dawning 
 
 Of that Summer morning ; 
 When the lark carol' d high o'er the dew spangled lea. 
 
 And blossoms were springing, 
 
 Their rich odours flinging 
 On the soft balmy wind as it swept by each tree.
 
 64 MAUY OF VALENCE. 
 
 The helmets were glanciug, 
 
 The chargers were prancing, 
 The silk pennons waved in the warm sunny rays ; 
 
 The joy-bells were ringing, 
 
 The minstrels were singing 
 To the music of harps, in brave Audemare's praise. 
 
 With heart pleasure-laden, 
 
 She call'd to each maiden 
 To deck her with roses, and with gems bind her hair, 
 
 But one simple blossom 
 
 To place on her bosom, 
 And, "Oh ! I am ready; where's my Audemare fair?" 
 
 Still smile, Lady Mary ; 
 
 Nor mark how they tarry, 
 The gay champions and knightsof thy own Audemare : 
 
 For soon will thy gladness 
 
 Be chang'd into sadness, 
 And the joy of thy heart unto sorrow and care. 
 
 Hark ! hear the monk singing — 
 His voice mournful ringing 
 Through the woodland and glen — a wild dirge for 
 the dead ; 
 Or sentences holy. 
 As sadly and slowly 
 The arm'd serfs bear the corpse from the field where 
 it bled.
 
 MART OF VALENCE. 65 
 
 Still nearer and nearer — 
 
 The chant swelling clearer — 
 The litter approacheth the grey castle walls j 
 
 Woe, woe, to the Maiden ! 
 
 The tidings — death laden — 
 Oh ! who shall convey to those old Norman halls 1 
 
 But Love has its feeling-s, 
 
 Its mystic revealings, 
 That e'er warn the fond heart of ills hoverins: near : 
 
 Her brow lost its brightness ; 
 
 Her soul lost its lightness ; 
 And her sunshine of life seem'd all clouded and 
 drear. 
 
 Her smile lost its sweetness, 
 
 As with madden'd fleetness 
 Through the courtyard, 'neath archway, o'er draw- 
 bridge, she flew 
 
 Past warder, past archer. 
 
 Past startled road marcher. 
 Till she reach' d the pale form of her Audemare true. 
 
 With deep lamentations — 
 
 With fierce exclamations — 
 Did she kiss the blue lips, in her frenzied despair : 
 
 Then sobbing, fell fainting, 
 
 Her Lover's blood tainting 
 Her white bridal roses, and his love-scarf so fair ! 
 
 F
 
 THE FUNERAL or MARY, QUEEN of SCOTS. 
 
 After the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, at Fotheringhay, 
 Elizabeth directed tlie body of her victim to be interred with 
 royal honours, in the ancient cathedral of Peterborough. 
 Several chroniclers have given an account of the funeral, which 
 reads like a hideous mockery, after the treatment to which 
 Mary had been subjected during her lifetime. 
 
 Aye ! crown her now, poor murder' d Queen, 
 
 Ye titled mourners kneel, 
 And stimulate the grief and pain 
 
 Your hearts could never feel, 
 When, in her prison'd wretchedness, 
 
 For liberty she sigh'd ; 
 Or strove in vain with tears and prayers. 
 
 To melt the Tudor's pride. 
 
 Let tapers blaze, and pennons wave, 
 
 And wardens line the hall ; 
 Let shields display their antique charms 
 
 Above the sombre pall ; 
 What boot they now, these honours rare. 
 
 This royal pomp and state 1 
 Can they restore the dead to life. 
 
 Or close the scroll of Fate 1
 
 FUNERAL OF MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 67 
 
 Can they recall the early days — 
 
 So joyous and so blest — 
 "When France's gay and sunny soil 
 
 Her feet in gladness prest ? 
 Through all the splendour and the glare, 
 
 Which mark the gorgeous scene, 
 Who can forget the headsman's axe 1 
 
 The pale and bleeding Queen 1 
 
 And tJioH, stem Queen, whose jealous hate 
 
 Thus ruthlessly could doom 
 The lovely rival of thy crown 
 
 So early to the tomb ; 
 If ever sigh from broken heart 
 
 May dare against thee plead. 
 Beware ! lest thou, in life's last days, 
 
 Seek mercy in thy need. 
 
 For more of Love, and more of Truth, 
 
 Thy helpless victim knew, 
 Than ever thou, in all thy pride, 
 
 Ai'ound thy throne might view. 
 'Tis not the rank nor yet the gold 
 
 That can affection move, 
 A gentle mind and kindly heart 
 
 Alone we learn to love.
 
 NOETHAMPTON. 
 
 ' The proud beauty of the Midlands," — Pennant. 
 
 I STAND amid the moving: crowds which throne: each 
 
 busy street, 
 Where wagons, carts, and hucksters' stalls, in wild 
 
 confusion meet ; 
 And palefac'd toilers listless roam, and country 
 
 damsels stray ; 
 Or loud-tongued politicians blame the statesmen of 
 
 the day ! 
 Here portly farmers speak of crops, or moot the 
 
 price of grain ; 
 There Crispin's sons, with bitter speech, of new 
 
 machines complain. 
 But few who play their daily part in each strange 
 
 scene of life. 
 E'er think that here the robber Dane and Saxon 
 
 met in strife.
 
 NORTHAMPTON. 69 
 
 Aye, where the hawkers vend their wares, and noisy 
 
 urchins play, 
 To gloomy Thor, the savage Dane would bow him 
 
 down and pray. 
 To pray — his battle axe still wet with Saxon 
 
 maiden's blood- 
 To pray — where smoking ruins mark'd where once 
 
 a church had stood-^ 
 To pray — while dark rob'd monks and nuns lay 
 
 bleeding in each cell j 
 And all around the sword and flame work'd War's 
 
 own bloody spell. 
 Oh ! God be thank'd, these times arc past, and 
 
 England may in peace 
 Behold her glory, wealth, and strength, still ever- 
 more increase. 
 
 And yet T fain would linger still, and with impulsive 
 strain. 
 
 Recall the splendours of the past, and bid them live 
 again : — 
 
 An endless train of noble forms slow pass before my 
 sight, 
 
 Tlie Monarch, Prince, and belted Earl, the Church- 
 man and the Knight. 
 
 Again arise the castle walls, and from their turrets 
 high. 
 
 The silken banners blazon forth, and angry foes defy.
 
 TO NORTHAMPTON. 
 
 Ou ev'ry lofty battlement the Wcarders' helmets 
 
 shine, 
 And archers, on their trusty bows, in watchfulness 
 
 recline. 
 
 While slowly rings the vesper bell, or aged minstrels 
 sing 
 
 The famous deeds in Palestine of England's hon- 
 king; 
 
 And high-born maidens cast their glance of tender- 
 ness and love 
 
 On gallant youths, who, for their smile, their skill 
 in tournays prove. 
 
 Again the fiery chargers prance before the castle 
 gate. 
 
 Where pages young, in doublets gay, for steel-clad 
 nobles wait ; 
 
 And tease the burly serving man, or kiss the bashful 
 maid, 
 
 Or tremble at a monkish scowl, though never word 
 be said. 
 
 But, lo ! the dreams begin to fade, and other forms 
 
 I view : 
 The young and noble Cavaliers, to throne and 
 
 monarch true :
 
 NORTHAMPTON. 71 
 
 Again they I'aise the wine-cup high, and mirthful 
 
 ditties troll, 
 Or di'ink a bumper to their king, and raise a groan 
 
 for "Noll." 
 Away again — the fight is o'er, and all is flight and 
 
 rout ; 
 The clash of swords, and shrieks, and cries, mix with 
 
 the victor's shout : 
 The crimson flames shoot madly up, and terror 
 
 pales each brow — 
 The star of Royal Charles has wan'd, and Cromwell 
 
 triumphs now. 
 
 Away again — no more the curse of strife and civil 
 
 war 
 Brings mourning to each peaceful home, and spreads 
 
 distress afar j 
 But smiling crowds, and waving flags, and joyous 
 
 clanging bells. 
 And lusty cheers, and music strains, the march of 
 
 triumph swells : 
 'Tis England's Queen — her country's pride — who 
 
 rests upon her throne, * 
 SuiTounded by her people's love — secure in lliat 
 
 alone. 
 
 * Her Majesty visited Northampton, \.M4.
 
 72 NORTHAMPTON, 
 
 Oh ! contrasts strange, these epochs four — the fierce 
 
 and cruel Sweyne — 
 The Lion-King — the hapless Charles — and England's 
 
 darling Queen. 
 
 Oh ! that I could, with prophet eye, into the Future 
 
 peer, 
 And gaze upon the glories which shall crown each 
 
 coming year ; 
 When men shall cast away the brand, and hate and 
 
 war shall cease, 
 And each shall join his fellowman in works of love 
 
 and peace ; 
 When Want and Woe shall never more our land 
 
 with sorrow stain, 
 But joyous smiles and lighten'd hearts shall banish 
 
 care and pain ; 
 When men in thankfulness shall tread the bright 
 
 and blooming sod. 
 And raise their souls in grateful prayer to bless the 
 
 works of God.
 
 QUEEX ELEANOR'S CROSS, GEDD.TNGTOX. 
 
 At Geddington was formerly a royal seat, which stood in the 
 Castle or Hall Close, north-east of the church. Here, in 1188, 
 was held a council, or parliament, by Henry II., to raise money 
 for an expedition to the Holy Land. Six years later, Richard I. 
 of England, and William, King of Scotland, were here together 
 on a Good Friday. The corpse of Queen Eleanor rested here, 
 on its way from Harby, in Nottinghamshire, where she died, to 
 its final resting-place in Westminster Abbey. One of the 
 Crosses erected by Edward I. to her memorj'- still stands in the 
 centre of the village. It is a beautiful and richly-ornamented 
 structure, and in a good state of preservation. 
 
 Toll — toll — with a long deep roll, 
 Sobs the bell, as, in cross and stole, 
 Prays the Priest for the dead Queen's soul ; 
 And silent groups of people meet 
 Within the quaint and narrow street, 
 To bend the knee, and bow the head, 
 In sorrow for the queenly dead. 
 While in the dark sepulchral aisle 
 Of weeping Mary's ancient pile,
 
 74 QUEEN Eleanor's closs, geddington. 
 
 The hooded monks slow count each bead, 
 
 Or in the cloisters ceaseless plead 
 
 That earthly sins be now forgiv'n, 
 
 And Edward's Dove find rest in heav'n ; 
 
 And soft and low the mass is sung, 
 
 And to and fro the censors swung, 
 
 As blazing tapers cast a glare, 
 
 On England's monarch mourning there : 
 
 Beside the bier he takes his stand. 
 
 And clasps his brow with trembling hand ; 
 
 While toll — toll — with a long deep roll, 
 
 The bell's sad knell rings through his soul. 
 
 Toll — toll — with a long deep roll. 
 As vain would he his grief control. 
 And gazing on the altar screen, 
 Seek holy hopes on which to lean. 
 For oh ! the pain, and oh ! the woe 
 Of losing those whose truth we know ; 
 To wander t'hi'ough the World alone, 
 Nor find repose in crown or throne ! 
 Ah ! who like Her would dare again 
 Drink from his wound the poison stain, 
 And ever prove, in peace and strife, 
 A tender, loving, faithful wife ? 
 " My Eleanor, " he whisp'ring sighs, 
 " Oh ! smile on me from yonder skies ; "
 
 QUEEN Eleanor's cross, geddington. 75 
 
 And as he pray'd, the place did seem 
 
 To change as in some passing dream : 
 
 The song-s of angels met his ears, 
 
 With sounds of hai'ps from brighter spheres, 
 
 And looking up, joy fill'd his soul. 
 
 No more heard he the slow sad toll. 
 
 Oh ! joy, joy, for again he saw 
 The idol of his heart once more ; 
 In robes of light She stood array' d. 
 And smiles o'er her calm features play'd ; 
 To him more holy seems she now. 
 Than with the crown upgn her brow — 
 Aye, lovelier far than when in pride, 
 She nestled by his royal side. 
 He fain would speak, yet can but kneel — 
 A numbing silence seems to seal 
 His quiv'ring lips, as high above 
 She gently points with looks of love ; 
 And then dissolves the vision fair, 
 Till nought is left but empty air. 
 The monkish chaunt he hears again. 
 And, weeping, swells the solemn strain ; 
 He sees his nobles as they throng 
 The columns of the church among ; 
 While ever booms the slow deep roll — 
 Toll — toll — for Eleanor's soul.
 
 THE SKELETON. 
 
 On Thursday, March 24th, 1859, some men whilst ploughing in 
 Mr. Passmore's field, at Little Addington, turned up an adult 
 human skeleton, the head of which was found placed near its 
 feet. It was beheved by many to belong to a woman, who, 
 about nine years since, when in an advanced state of pregnancy, 
 suddenly disappeared from Ringstead, the village where she 
 resided ; having left her home one evening for the purpose of 
 meetuig her paramour. She has never since been heard of 
 although a reward of £200 was offered by government for 
 adequate information concerning her, if proved to have been 
 murdered. The person deceased went out to meet was stronglj' 
 suspected of the foul deed, and was obliged to fly from the 
 village from the dread of popular vengeance which was strongly 
 excited against him. The place where the skeleton was found 
 is about a mile from Eingstead. It was not deep in the soil ; 
 but it was the first time the land had been ploughed on for 
 several years. The skeleton was ascertained to be that of a 
 female. 
 
 Could they but speak — these flcshless bones, 
 
 So cold, so damp, and white— 
 Perchance the secret they might breathe 
 
 Of some wild fearful night,
 
 THE SKELETOX. 
 
 When darkness veil'd the rustic sceue^ 
 
 And Mercy bow'd her head, 
 As Guilt struck down his victim frail, 
 
 With hands all crimson red ; 
 And dug with eager, trembling haste, 
 
 The lone unhallow'd gi-ave, 
 To hide from human eyes the crime, 
 
 And Punishment to stave. 
 
 How strange to gaze upon the skull. 
 
 So grim and senseless now, 
 And think how once, Love, Hope, and Joy 
 
 Might flash across its brow ; 
 To dream how once the eyeless holes 
 
 Could in their gladness beam. 
 Or glisten at Affection's tone, 
 
 Or weep at Soitow's theme ; 
 To muse how once the heaving breast. 
 
 All flushing warm with life, 
 Could throb with varied feelings deep. 
 
 Of Peace, or Care, and Strife. 
 
 But these are gone, and thought alone 
 
 May dare recall the Past, 
 With all its chequer'd fleeting scenes, 
 
 And bliss too sweet to last.
 
 78 THE SKELETON. 
 
 Perchance some tender parent taught, 
 
 In Childhood's careless years. 
 Her maiden lips to breathe with love 
 
 Of infant hopes and feai's. 
 And when in after years he came 
 
 Her trusting heart to woo, 
 She listen'd to his earnest vows, 
 
 And blindly deem'd him true. 
 
 Perhaps he was, till Passion's dream 
 
 And stolen joys were o'er ; 
 Till all her charms, her yielding love, 
 
 Could sway him never more. 
 Then came the burning bitter Pain, 
 
 The soul-consuming Shame, 
 As, with a cold averted look. 
 
 Her love he would disclaim. 
 Then came the night of wan Despair, 
 
 Of tears that e'er would start. 
 As still she hop'd — but hop'd in vain : 
 
 For black Hate filFd his heart. 
 
 And stern resolve — and thoughts of dread- 
 Came flashing o'er his mind ; 
 
 And demon whispers oft he heard, 
 And promptings undefin'd.
 
 KETTERING CHURCH. 79 
 
 How, vfhen, or where, we may not know 
 
 Aught of the hidden crime, 
 Save these few bones ; but we may trust 
 
 To Conscience and to Time. 
 Xor rest or peace the miu-derer knows ; 
 
 E'en sleep deserts his eye : 
 His life is one fierce thi-obbiug pang. 
 
 And yet he fears to DIE. 
 
 KETTERING CHURCH. 
 
 The Tower of the Church was erected about 1450 ; but many 
 portions of the edifice are of an earlier date ; and the building 
 appears to have suffered much during the Civil Wars. Great 
 terror existed in Kettering during the great Plague. 
 
 I PASS beneath the olden porch of Kett'ring's stately 
 
 pile. 
 And wander 'mid the oaken pews which line the 
 
 lengthen' d aisle ;
 
 80 KETTEniNG CHURCH. 
 
 I see each lofty pillar' d arch, each Chapel silent now, 
 
 But where, in other times, the Monks to saints each 
 knee would bow, 
 
 'Mid tombs of Knights, of gentle Dames, of War- 
 riors fierce and bold ; 
 
 Ilium' d with richly mellow'd lights of purple and 
 of gold. 
 
 Which gleam'd thro' storied windows high, of bright 
 and gorgeous hue ; 
 
 While holy chaunts from trembling lips, would 
 float the ojicnings through. 
 
 I silent muse, and deem I view the long procession 
 
 slow — 
 The silver censors, crucifix, and monkish pomp and 
 
 show : 
 They fade, and, lo ! a white-hair' d Man, with deep 
 
 and earnest tone, 
 Reads from the Holy Book of Life, and makes its 
 
 blessings known, 
 As round the simple reading desk the anxious 
 
 hearers throng, 
 Anathemas no more to fear, nor shrink from priestly 
 
 wrong. 
 But this departs ; and, fierce and swift, the flames 
 
 of Civil War 
 Dart wildly o'er the peaceful scene, and terror 
 
 spread afar.
 
 KETTERING CHURCH. 81 
 
 " Quick ! quick ! I the church doors bolt and bar — 
 
 the loud alarum ring ! 
 They come, they come ! the Puritans ! -who fear 
 
 not Church or King." 
 Their swords and pikes ring on the doors, they 
 
 shake, they yield, they fall, 
 And grim-faced men, of ii'on mould, stride through 
 
 the sacred hall. 
 With reckless zeal they hack and hew the monu- 
 ments of stone — 
 The artist-di-eamings of a Past that shall no more 
 
 be known ; 
 WTiile storm-wiuds howl through broken panes, and 
 
 lurid light'nings glare, 
 And mock the desolation caus'd by mortal frenzy 
 
 there. 
 
 Another vision yet I see : the cloud has pass'd away ; 
 " The King has got his own again ; " the wand'ring 
 
 minstrels play ; 
 But, hush ! amid the hai*mony, the wine, the song, 
 
 and mirth, 
 A ghastly Shadow silent glides, and smites each 
 
 child of earth. 
 "The Pla.gue ! the Plague !" Away they fly ; but 
 
 whither, whither, where ? 
 In North and South, in East and ^\'est, the danger 
 
 meetE< them there. 
 
 G
 
 82 KETTERING CHURCH, 
 
 They rush within the holy walls, in penitence they 
 
 fall, 
 And God beseech, with teai's and sobs, for mercy on 
 
 them all. 
 
 But all these dreamings have an end — I wake, and 
 
 see the crowd. 
 The silken dress, the cotton gown, the humble and 
 
 the proud ; 
 I mark the jewell'd fingers clasp the velvet book of 
 
 prayer. 
 While horny hands turn over leaves, old, greasy, 
 
 worn, and bare. 
 Yet Rich and Poor are all alike before the sight of 
 
 God; 
 Death waits on each, and bids them rest beneath 
 
 the grassy sod. 
 And tells us not on earthly things to place our 
 
 sympathies. 
 But learn a lesson from the Past, its hopes, and 
 
 fears, and sighs.
 
 THE ANCIEXT READIXG-DESK IN 
 KETTERING CHURCH. 
 
 After the Reformation, the use of the Bible was allowed to the 
 people, and orders were issued by Heniy VIII. that one should 
 be placed in every place of worship, for public perusal ; but, 
 such was the value of a printed book in those days, that each 
 volume was securely attached, by means of chains, to the 
 reading desk. One of these desks is preserved in Kettering 
 church, with the chains still fastened to the covers of a Bible 
 and Fox's Book of Martyrs. Over the porch of the church 
 is a small stone chamber, supposed to have formerly been the 
 abode of the "morrow mass priest" and his attendant, whose 
 duty wa,s ''to sing masses for ever and ev°r" in the chauntry 
 chapel, still existing. 
 
 Look on this desk, so plain and bare, 
 
 Look on its rusty chains, 
 Look on the covers rotting there, 
 
 Defac'd with age and stains. 
 Perchance it seems but worthless now, 
 
 But not so deem'd the crowd, 
 Which cluster'd round the aged priest, 
 
 AVho read The Book aloud. 
 No more for priestly pomp and show 
 
 Their simple hearts might care ; 
 Of greater value to them seem'd 
 
 That Desk, so plain and bare.
 
 84 ANCIENT READIXG-DESK. 
 
 Ah ! never did the Fathers deem, 
 
 As they each mass did say, 
 Or slowly chaunt the choral psalm, 
 
 Or to the Virgin pray, 
 How soon the hallow' d star of Truth 
 
 Should in its gloi-y shine, 
 And swift disperse the clouds and gloom 
 
 Which darken'd Mercy's shrine. 
 Oh ! Freedom hath her relics, which 
 
 She guards with saintly care ; 
 But none in worth may e'er surpass 
 
 That Desk, so plain and bare. 
 
 Aye, there it stands — look on it now, 
 
 And scorn it if thou will ; 
 Nor let the flame of Liberty 
 
 Within thy bosom thrill ! 
 But unto us will it recall 
 
 That bright and glorious time, 
 When Luther burst the chains of Rome, 
 
 And preach'd the Truth sublime. 
 Let heroes have their monuments 
 
 Of marble, chaste and fair ; 
 But nobler is that relic old — 
 
 That Desk, so plain and bare.
 
 SIMON DE ST. LIZ. 
 
 Simon de St. Liz was the sou of Randoel le Ryche, wlio came 
 over with William the Conqueror. William wished the 
 Countess Judith, the widow of Waltheof, first Earl of North- 
 ampton, to marry Simon, but she refused on account of his 
 lameness ; but the king soon afterwards gave him her daughter 
 Maude in marriage. The union was celebrated with great 
 pomp and splendour ; and about 108-i Simon and Maude richly 
 endowed the various churches and religious establishments of 
 the town and county. Maude appears to have been instru- 
 mental in changing the fierce nature of her warrior husband, 
 who built Fotheringhay castle to do her honour, and afterwards 
 went to the Holy Land, in the time of Henry L, and was even 
 commencing a second pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre when 
 he died, and was buried within the walls of the Abbey of St. 
 Mary of Charity, in France. After his death, Maude became 
 the wife of David, king of Scotland, whose descendants inhe- 
 rited her estates. 
 
 Lord Simon was the bravest knight 
 In Norman William's train ; 
 
 He never shrank from foe in fight, 
 Or rais'd his sword in vain.
 
 8G SIMON DE ST. LIZ. 
 
 His brow was mark'd with seam and scar 
 His wounds had made him lame ; 
 
 Yet brilliant feats of chivalry- 
 Had brought him wealth and fame. 
 
 Lord Simon ne'er had bow'd his knee 
 
 At Love's own gentle shrine ; 
 And brighter than a Maiden's smile 
 
 To him seem'd War and Wine. 
 
 <' Ho ! ho ! "— laugh'd William to his knights- 
 
 " No heirs will Simon see, 
 Unless a maid for him be sought, 
 
 That he may wedded be." 
 
 Then each fair damsel blush'd and smil'd ; 
 
 But Judith's eyes flash'd fire ; 
 Her cheek was pale with hate and scorn ; 
 
 Her soul was fill'd with ire. 
 
 " Keep back your Norman wolves, or, Man ! 
 
 Beware the tigress' spring ! 
 I will not wed the man I hate 
 
 At beck of Bastard King ! " 
 
 King William frown' d. Lord Simon glar'd ; 
 
 Then grasp'd his axe and sword, 
 And would have sworn a fearful curse 
 
 But for the gentle Maude ;
 
 SIMON DE ST. LIZ. 87 
 
 Who knelt her dovra before the King : 
 
 " Oh ! Sire, my parent spare, 
 And let me be the sacrifice ; 
 
 I, Simon's fate will share." 
 
 Lord Simon bow'd his head, and said ; 
 
 " A soldier's words are few ; 
 But here's my hand, and here's my heart ; 
 
 Both, like my sword, are true." 
 
 " And though my nature may be rough, 
 
 More fit for war than play, 
 I brina; with me an earnest love . 
 
 That shall not pass away." 
 
 The bells were rung, the dance and song 
 
 Commingled with the wine ; 
 And loud the toasts went gaily round. 
 
 And bright each eye did shine : 
 
 While pennons flutter'd in the breeze, 
 
 And helms and lances shone. 
 As. at the Altar, Simon claimed 
 
 His bride for him alone. 
 
 Where flows the calm and placid Nene, 
 
 Through fields of waving grain, 
 Lord Simon built his castle home, 
 
 To guard his wide domain.
 
 88 SIMON DE ST. LI/. 
 
 And he would speak of knightly deeds — 
 
 Of battles lost and won ; 
 Of Saxon strongholds storm' d and burnt ; 
 
 Yet smile fair Maude had none : 
 
 For pious Nuns had train'd her heart 
 To things of peace and love ; 
 
 And when he prais'd the victor's march, 
 Her heart with grief would move. 
 
 He could not chide, nor yet reprove, 
 
 For, oh ! her tearful glance 
 Had touch' d- his stern and warlike soul. 
 
 And bade him leave his lance — 
 
 Aye, lance" and sword, and axe and shield, 
 With armour, plumes and all. 
 
 To rot and rust amid the dust 
 Below the castle hall. 
 
 And sadly musing on the past, 
 ■ He mourn'd the murder'd slain : — 
 " Oh, Christ ! have mercy on my soul, 
 I touch not sword again : 
 
 '■O" 
 
 But bow me down before Thy Cross, 
 
 In penitence sincere ; 
 For more than deadly grasp of foe 
 
 Thy anger, Lord, I fear."
 
 SIMON DE ST. LIZ. 89 
 
 AL ! dear to Maude seem'd Simon then, 
 
 And smiles adorn' d her brow, 
 As with a joyous pride she spake : — 
 
 " I love thee, Simon, now ; 
 
 Not all my lands, not all my gems, 
 
 My servants, or my gold. 
 Can ever be more dear to me 
 
 Than thou, my husband bold." 
 
 He fondly led her by the arm, 
 
 And wander'd down the gi-ove ; 
 Nor dream' d again of War and Fame, 
 
 But clung to Peace and Love. 
 
 The years roll'd by, and holy fanes 
 
 With wealth had they endow'd ; 
 Eeliev'd the poor ; and taught the great 
 
 Their duties to the crowd. 
 
 The people learnt their names to bless. 
 
 And priests for them to pray ; 
 Nor once did Simon's heart regret 
 
 The sword he flung away. 
 
 But in the fulness of his heart, 
 
 He long'd to view the shrine, 
 Where pilgrims bow'd, and fervent pray'd, 
 
 In distant Palestine.
 
 90 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 He parted from his darling Maude ; 
 
 Dowu dropp'd her trembling hands 
 Alas ! she never saw him more — 
 
 He died in foreign lands. 
 
 No monument of brass or stone 
 Eecords his life or fame ; 
 
 No earthly things like these we need 
 To save an Hero's name. 
 
 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 The circumstances on which these lines were founded occurred at 
 Bozeat, and afforded a painful instance of mischief arising from 
 the prevalency of an impaired state of morals amongst the 
 labouring population of our country districts. 
 
 From the water raise the Maiden, 
 
 Gather up her dripping hair, 
 Glossy once, and neatly braiden 
 
 O'er her brow so white and fair. 
 Shrink not from her as she, lying 
 
 On the damp and chilly grass, 
 Wears the look she wore when dying, 
 
 As the dream of Life did pass.
 
 THE SUICIDE. 91 
 
 Blame her not, but strive to borrow 
 
 Mercy from thy brighter fame ; 
 Kindly judge of Ellen's sorrow, 
 
 Of her agony and shame. 
 Think of her with heart all bi'oken, 
 
 By a faithless love betray' d, 
 Ev'ry vow once fondly spoken 
 
 False as he who had them made. 
 
 Oh ! the days of mortal anguish, 
 
 The repentance and the pain, 
 As in loneness she would langixish 
 
 For her innocence again ! 
 Oh ! the dread of scorn and laughter, 
 
 Haunting her by night and day 
 Till she feared not Death's hereafter, 
 
 As she cast her life away ! 
 
 With no heed of flowers springing, 
 
 In the woodland, grove, or lea ; 
 Nor of Nature's warblers' singing, 
 
 'Mid the branches of each tree. 
 Earth has lost its sunny brightness, 
 
 All is terror, clouds and gloom ; 
 And her spirit's early lightness 
 
 Sinks beneath her Sorrow's doom.
 
 92 THE SUICIDE. 
 
 From the homestead see her flying, 
 
 With her flush'd and burning cheek, 
 With her heart e'er inward sighing 
 
 Of the grief she might not speak. 
 See her by the silent water, 
 
 Clench'd her lips, and clasp'd her hands, 
 In her madness — wretched daughter ! — 
 
 Lost in dread resolve she stands. 
 
 See her eyelids — how they quiver ! 
 
 See the teardrops burning fall ; 
 See her form in terror shiver, 
 
 As she breathes farewell to all. 
 Then in desperation leaping 
 
 With no thought or care beyond 
 The wish to end her earthly weeping 
 
 In the lone and dreary pond.
 
 SIR FRANCIS TRESHAM. 
 
 Eushton Hall was founded by Sir Thomas Tresham, about 1595. 
 ISIany traditionary legends are associated with it, aud also with 
 the curious Triangular Lodge, situated in Rushton Park. 
 One remarkable circumstance connected with the Litter building 
 is that everj-thing is teixe, or threefold ! This has led to a 
 supposition that it was intended to be sjnnbolical of the Trinity. 
 Sir Thomas Tresham was cruelly persecuted for his adherence 
 to the faith of the Roman Church ; and when he died, in 1605, 
 his son Francis was easily induced, from the remembrance of 
 the injuries he had endured, to enter into the Gunpowder Plot. 
 The result is known to all. The conspirators were either 
 arrested, or saved themselves by flight. Tresham was among 
 the former, and was committed to the Tower, where he perished 
 — according to popular belief — by poison, on the 23rd Dec, 
 1606. It would seem that at this period all parties had lost 
 sight of the principles which constitute Tra"E Christianity, and 
 hence the hatred and persecution inflicted by either side. 
 
 DECEMBER 25th, 1605. 
 
 The Christmas chimes peal'd sweetly forth from 
 
 Rothwell's sacred fane, 
 As Tresham gaz'd, with listless eye, o'er Rushton's 
 
 snow- wrapt plain ;
 
 94 SIR FRANCIS TRESHAM. 
 
 And silent mus'd, with burning heart — with pas- 
 sions fierce and strong — 
 
 How once his faith had been upheld by Sword, by 
 Law, and Song : 
 
 While now its very name was plac d beneath the 
 vengeful ban 
 
 Of men who, in the name of Christ, enforc' d the 
 laws of man ; 
 
 And hunted those who once, in pride, made rulers 
 kneel as slaves, 
 
 But now lay trembling in their cells, or lifeless in 
 their graves. 
 
 He dreamt of masses chaunted slow, in tones of 
 
 grief and fear, 
 In cellars dark — in vaults and caves — where foemen 
 
 might not hear, 
 Or view the careworn, weeping few, who, with the 
 
 nerve of old. 
 Preferred to cling to Cross and Stole, and lose their 
 
 earthly gold. 
 And as he mus'd a troubled look came flashing o'er 
 
 his brow ; 
 His fingers sought the rapier's hilt. Why starts he 
 
 backward now ? 
 Hark ! Hark ! He hears the peasant's voice in 
 
 strains of gladness sing 
 The grateful carol of his heart to earth's Eternal King.
 
 SIR FRANCIS TRESHAM. 95 
 
 Down — down — ye dreams of blood and strife, begone 
 
 ye thoughts of dread, 
 Let not the Joy-day of the year be stain' d with 
 
 murder red. 
 If evil dreamings still will rise within thy busy 
 
 brain, 
 Take counsel, Man, and think of Him in lowly man- 
 ger lain ; 
 ^\^lo came to bless our hearts with faith ; our souls 
 
 with zeal to move ; 
 And teach us not to sla^ our foes, but conquer them 
 
 with love, 
 Nor breathe the lust of Hate and Scorn, nor Fury's 
 
 evil ban. 
 But kindly herald "Peace on Earth," and sing 
 
 . " Good-will to man." 
 
 DECEMBER 25th, 1606. 
 
 A blacken' d corse lies stark and cold within the 
 
 gloomy walls 
 That silent frown on stately Thames, amid the 
 
 snow that falls 
 In countless flakes, on hulls and masts — on boats 
 
 and barges grim. 
 Which, in the mist, glide o'er the waves, like spectral 
 
 fe.ncie3 dim :
 
 06 SIR FRANCIS TRESHAM. 
 
 And this the end of all the Toil, the Dreamings, and 
 
 the Strife ! 
 The crimson'd rack, the poison'd draught ; a form 
 
 devoid of life ! 
 A name for OA^er stained with shame — a nation's 
 
 bitter hate — 
 And talents lost, which, but for this, had made 
 
 their owner great. 
 
 Again the bells of Christmas peal their sounds of 
 
 joy and mirth, 
 And strive, for once, to hush the clang of Hate and 
 
 "VVar on earth ; 
 To stay the din of rival creeds, the aims of priest 
 
 and king, 
 And to the regions of the past their ceaseless 
 
 struggles fling. 
 But, lo ! this corse, these frowning guards, these 
 
 sounds of sword and spear 
 Arise, as though they fain would mock the welcome 
 
 strains we hear ; 
 But even yet the Emblem springs, e'en from the 
 
 bloody dust, 
 That never cause may dare succeed by means that 
 
 are not just.
 
 THE DEATH BRIDAL. 
 
 Founded on a tragical incident which occured at Kettering, 
 December 2 Jtb, 1858 ; when a young man — an acquaintance of 
 the author — committed suicide on the morning of his intended 
 marriage. He had taken some rooms, and furnished them ; but 
 not making his appearance at his sweetheart's home, the door 
 of his room was broken open, when he was discovered lying 
 lifeless on the bed, with a miniature of his betrothed and an open 
 prayer book before him, and a recently discharged pistol on tlie 
 floor. The report of the deadly weapon was heard by the 
 neighbours as the Waits were playing the Cliristmas Carol near 
 the house. The real cause of the fatal deed never transpired. 
 
 The Bride awaits her loving Lord : 
 
 AVhy lingers he so long 1 
 The time is past — yet comes he not 
 
 To join the festive throng ! 
 Ah ! little dost thou dream, poor Girl, 
 
 Of what thou soon must know ; 
 That thou must change thy bridal dress, 
 
 For Sorrow's garb of woe ! 
 Aye, from thy fair and maiden brow 
 
 Tear down thy bridal wreath — 
 Thy hopes are dash'd— thy dreams are flown- 
 
 Thy Lover sleeps in death !
 
 98 THE DEATH BRIDAL. 
 
 With bioeding brow, and blacken' d hands- 
 
 With limbs all stiff and stark — 
 In chamber lone his corse repos'd, 
 
 That morning cold and dark ; 
 The Christmas chimes were pealing loud, 
 
 And homes with joy were glad : 
 Oh ! who might dare, this day of mirth, 
 
 To murmur and be sad ? 
 But never in our cup of bliss 
 
 Is drop without alloy ; 
 And seldom may we dai'e to dream 
 
 But griefs our dreams destroy. 
 
 And thou, poor Girl, thy tears are vain ; 
 
 No more may he return 
 To bless with joy thy youthful heart. 
 
 Which now but lives to mourn. 
 With smile serene upon his lips — 
 
 He cold and lifeless lies. 
 No more to feel thy tender kiss. 
 
 Or hear thy sweet replies ; 
 And thou may'st weep, and thou may'st cry, 
 
 In anguish wild, forlorn ; 
 The sunshine of thy promis'd bliss 
 
 From thee for aye hath gone.
 
 THE DEATH BRIDAL. 99 
 
 Twas tTiee he lov'd, for thee he liv'd ; 
 
 He thought of thee iu death ; 
 Thy pictm-'d form alone beheld 
 
 Thy Lover's parting breath. 
 Oh ! who may dare depict the pain, 
 
 The anguish and despair, 
 Which wrung his warm and ardent soul, 
 
 And pierc'd his heart with care j 
 Till reason left her shaking throne, 
 
 And Madness came to guide 
 The uprais'd arm — and fatal aim— 
 
 Of Frank, the suicide. 
 
 Slow bear him to the church yard green, 
 
 Slow pace the grassy sod ; 
 Nay, tremble not, poor weeping Bride, 
 
 But trust and hope in God : 
 Heark'n to the words of peace and faith — 
 
 Of calm and holy trust — 
 With which thy Lover's lifeless form 
 
 Returns as dust to dust. 
 Alas ! thou canst not still thy grief : 
 
 With pain thy breast doth swell ; 
 Thy limbs grow faint— earth seems to fade — 
 
 Love — Husband — Frank — farewell!
 
 THE LEGEND OF BURLEIGH HOUSK 
 
 One of the most beautiful legends connected with the manorial 
 residences of our nobility, is tliat of Burleigh House. It has 
 ever been a favourite theme for poets, and some of the best 
 verses of Tennyson and IVIoore are founded on the subject. 
 The more exciting traditions of olden time may pass away and 
 be forgotten, but the affecting narrative of Lord Burleigh and 
 the Cottager's daughter will ever remain graven on the hearts 
 of those who have once heard it; and it will always — to use 
 the words of a Quarterly Keviewer — " form one of the finest 
 pages of romance in the British Peerage." 
 
 The Lord of Burleigh walketh slow, 
 
 With grave and sadden' d air, 
 In the park, and pleasant garden 
 
 Around his mansion fair. 
 The Summer sun, with golden shiue, 
 
 Gilds tree, and shrub, and flower ; 
 The fountain bright ; the sculpture rare ; 
 
 The grove and shady bower : 
 But all their beauties tempt in vain 
 
 The weary heart of him 
 Who museth of a happy Past 
 
 Ere eyoe with tears were dim :
 
 THE LEGEND OF BURLEIGH HOUSE, 10^ 
 
 Ere he had lost his Lily sweet — 
 
 The fairest, heart might see ; 
 For whoni he could his fortune yield. 
 
 Nor Lord of Burleigh be. 
 
 Oh ! happy, happy, happy time, 
 
 When— ^clad in lowly guise — 
 Unknown he left his stately halls, 
 
 To seek the smiling eyes 
 Of one who lov'd him for himself, 
 
 And not his rank or gold ; 
 A soul to whom his own could breathe 
 
 Its yearnings manifold. 
 And such a one to him became 
 
 His darling hope and pride ; 
 The list'ner of his earnest vows. 
 
 His young and lovely Bride. 
 But never, iu her wildest dreams, 
 
 Or strangest fancies free. 
 She deem'd that he who claim' d her love, 
 
 Could Lord of Burleigh be ! 
 
 He led her from the Cottage home. 
 
 From ev'ry olden tie. 
 That she migiit share his lowly fate — 
 
 With him succeed or die. 
 He led her to his stately hall — 
 
 The secret still his own —
 
 102 THE LEGEND OF BURLEIGH HOUSE. 
 
 And told her that Lord Burleigh lov'd, 
 
 And lov'd but her alone ! 
 " No ! no ! — she cried, and sobbing knelt — 
 
 " His love I do not need ; 
 So that thou but remain with me, 
 
 My heart is rich indeed." 
 He smil'd, and rais'd her gently up — 
 
 Each servant bow'd the knee — 
 " Look up, Fond Heart, and in thy Love, 
 
 The Lord of Burleigh see ! " 
 
 Transplanted Lilies seldom thrive, 
 
 They love their native glade ; 
 Beneath the warmth of sunnier skies. 
 
 The fairest Snowdrops fade. 
 And though she lov'd the titled Lord, 
 
 As best a bride became ; 
 That Lord when clad in lowly garb, 
 
 A fonder love could claim. 
 She spurn'd as dross the shining gold. 
 
 And priz'd as wealth the Mind ; 
 What wonder that in Burleigh's heart 
 
 Her form should dwell enshrin'd ! 
 Although within the marble tomb. 
 
 Her earthly shape may be — 
 Although no more her peaceful smile, 
 
 The Lords of Burleigh see !
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 
 
 Not a few of those brave-hearted soldiers who died amid the 
 pestilential marshes of Varna, or during the Crimean struggle, 
 or in attempting to reduce the rebellious population of India, 
 were born and reared in Northamptonshire homes ; and in 
 many a lonely dwelling there is reverently preserved some 
 hallowed little relic — of small value in itself, but precious from 
 the associations connected with it ; and the mother's eyes will 
 glisten as she relates the old tale of her poor noble hearted boy, 
 who perished while defending with his life the cause of his country. 
 One case of this nature was that of a young man, named Alfred 
 Marriott, of Kettering, who died at Allahabad, from the effects 
 of wounds received whilst in action against the Indian rebels. 
 He possessed in a great degree the sacred fire of genuine poetry ; 
 and it is to be regretted that he preferred to exchange the poet's 
 pen for the sword and a soldier's death in a far oflf laud. Such 
 is Glory. 
 
 Where Ganges' waters silent roll in beauty sweet 
 and calm ; 
 
 And Indian temples proudly smile from stately 
 groves of palm, 
 
 A wounded soldier dying lay, and writh'd in mor- 
 tal pain ; 
 
 His eye was dim, his clieek was pale, and moist with 
 crimson stain.
 
 10-1: THE DYING SOLDIER, 
 
 No mother's love, no sister's care, in that far land 
 
 he knew ; 
 But near his dying couch he saw the fierce and 
 
 stern Hindoo. • 
 He saw the burning glance of Hate e'er watch his 
 
 gasping breath ; 
 He saw the hands that long'd to clutch, and strangle 
 
 him to death. 
 He shudder'd as his eye he clos'd, and dream' d of 
 
 home again — 
 The grassy meads, the rural lanes, the daisy-span- 
 gled plain ; 
 The ancient church ; his cottage home, the sports 
 
 of early days ; 
 And in his trance no more he fear'd the Hindoo's 
 
 vengeful gaze. 
 
 No more he strode 'mid rebel hordes, 'mid scenes of 
 
 carnage dread ; 
 No more he heard the vultures' scream where lay 
 
 the ghastly dead. 
 No burning jungle staid him now, his path was 
 
 straight and clear ; 
 He trod again his native town, and clasp'd the 
 
 forms so dear ;
 
 THE DYING SOLDIER. 105 
 
 He heard the happy, peaceful chimes of distant 
 
 village bells, 
 And roam'd Xorthampton's shady gi-oves, and lone 
 
 romantic dells ; 
 Or stroll'd down lordly avenues, or from the brow 
 
 of hill 
 Would gaze upon the fields below, or on the rustic 
 
 mill ; 
 He saw the reapers at their toil, bind up the golden 
 
 sheaves. 
 Or rest them fi-om the noontide sun beneath the 
 
 shady leaves ; 
 While laughing children frolic'd by, and swallows 
 
 clove the air, 
 And manly forms, with earnest tone, commun'd 
 
 with maidens fair. 
 
 He saw again his childhood's home, more dear unto 
 
 him noiv 
 Than all the gorgeous palaces which India's clime 
 
 may show ; 
 And in that home he deem'd he view'd the object of 
 
 his love : 
 His heart was full, his breast glow'd warm, his soul 
 with joy did move :
 
 lOG THE DYING SOLDIER, 
 
 AVitli open arms he forward ruslx'd to meet the 
 
 maiden fair, 
 When, lo ! the start dispell' d his dream — he clasp' d 
 
 but empty air ! 
 A bitter sigh escap'd his lips, a low half-mutter'd 
 
 prayer ; 
 And, with his hands cross'd on his breast, alone he 
 
 perish'd there. 
 They plac'd his form in simple grove, unmark'd by 
 
 cross or stone, 
 And soon the very place itself to all will be un- 
 known. 
 Oh, England ! spare one tear for these brave hearts, 
 
 though poor they be ; 
 They sacrifice Home, Blood, and Life, that thou 
 
 may'st aye be free.
 
 THE FATAL DUEL. 
 
 Sir James Enyon was Lord of the IManor, of Floore, in the time 
 of Charles I., and was slaiu in a duel with Sir Nicholas Crispe. 
 According to Baker, the Northamptonshire Historian, " both 
 parties were vohmteers in the royal cause, and the dispute 
 arose at their quarters in Gloucestershire. The fatal result 
 made an indelible impression on the mind of the survivor, 
 who ever after wore mourning, except on the field of battle, 
 when he cherished the hope of being united to his friend by a 
 fortunate bullet ; and through life hallowed every return of the 
 melancholy anniversary by closing his chamber in darkness, 
 and devoting himself to fasting and prayer." 
 
 For many, many years, in friendship sweet, 
 Had their young hearts commingled as but one ; 
 
 Nor felt the baneful glow of Passion's heat 
 
 Their truth assail, or change their earnest tone, 
 As soul commun'd with soul on terrace lone, 
 
 Where on the twain, the Star of Evening pale 
 Would gently smile from its high azure throne ; 
 
 While softly sang the hidden nightingale, 
 Amid the leafy boughs of the siu-rounding vale.
 
 108 THE FATAL DUEL. 
 
 But, lo ! the flame of fierce rcbolliou spread, 
 Swift circling over England's peaceful land ; 
 
 Whose grassy plains would echo with the tread 
 Of Puritans, or fiery Rupert's band, 
 Who, for their king, would wave each gleaming 
 brand ; 
 
 Nor did Sir James, nor Crispe, his friend, restrain 
 The zeal they felt, but fearless chose to stand 
 
 Amid the few, who strove — but strove in vain — 
 To raise the fallen throne of hapless Charles again. 
 
 One eve — one fatal eve — they deeply drank ; 
 
 And strife was kindled at some fancied slight : 
 Till Love gave way to Hate, and neither shrank 
 To meet each other in the hostile fight : 
 And as their swords they cross'd, the flashes 
 bright 
 Shone qui v' ring in the pale gray beams of morn^ 
 
 Which cast o'er each a wild unearthly light, 
 And stern ilium' d the bitter glance of scorn. 
 And the proud heaving breasts with angry passions 
 torn. 
 
 No sweet remembrance of the Past might swell 
 Their soiils within, and reconcile the twain, 
 
 But fierce and fast the sword-thrusts pass'd, till fell 
 The Lord of smiling Floore, on dew damp plain;
 
 THE FATAL DUEL. 109 
 
 Then knelt Sir Nicholas, and rav'd in vain ; 
 And beat his breast, and weeping, bow'd his head 
 
 In grief and sorrow for the murder' d slain ; 
 Nor rest he more might know, for round his bed 
 At night would ghastly phantoms shriek, "He's 
 dead — dead — dead." 
 
 With haggai-d face he sought his monarch's camp, 
 
 And in the fray was e'er the foremost seen ; 
 The first to hear the foeman's stealthy tramp. 
 
 The last to leave the blood-stain' d battle scene ; 
 
 For e'er he thought with mortal anguish keen. 
 Of dying Enyon, who, with trembling sigh, 
 
 Forgave the murd'rer's deed, and smil'd serene ; 
 Till Crispe would clasp his hands, and madly cry 
 Tn his remorse, aloud, and long that he might die. 
 
 But, ah ! no bullet swift, nor gleaming blade. 
 Could end his sad career of pain and woe ; 
 In penitence he sought the gloomy shade 
 
 Where he was born and rear'd, and taught to 
 
 know 
 The chequer'd follies of Life's pomp and show, 
 And here in peace he pray'd to be forgiven 
 
 By Him who bids the seasons come and go ; 
 And when at length the threads of life were riven, 
 >Yit]i hands cross'd on his breast, he, dying, lookd 
 to Heaven,
 
 NASEBY. 
 
 " The site of the battle is a wide and long stretch of ground, with 
 a gentle slope from the northern and southern extremities to 
 the lower space between, about one mile north of the village. 
 There are some depressions in the field, but it is not generally 
 broken, though somewhat of its ruggedness is now probably 
 worn off. At the time of the fight it was an open heath, and 
 remained, until the present centurj', a rough undulating strei'ch 
 of higli moorland, covered with gorse and fern, and scattered 
 bramble bushes." — Whelan. The fight commenced with a 
 forlorn hope of three hundred Roundheads, who advanced 
 towards the Royal army, but were charged by Prince Rupert, 
 and driven back with great loss, their leader, Ireton, being made 
 prisoner. Rupert and his followers pursued their foes for a 
 great distance; but, on returnuig, foimd that Cromwell and his 
 Ironsides had gained the field, and that the King had fled in 
 the direction of Leicester. Many relics of the conflict — 
 such as sword hilts, cannon balls, &c. — are still occasionally 
 dug up by the spade of the farm labourer. 
 
 On the sloping ridge of the Moorland, where 
 
 The Furze blossoms shone in the blithe June morn, 
 
 The Royalists stood with a fearless air, 
 
 And gaz'd on their foes with a smile of scorn ;
 
 XASEBY. Ill 
 
 Till the Eouudheads frown' d, and their fingers 
 clench' d 
 
 The hilts of their swords with a close tight hold — 
 The grasp of an Hate, which ne'er would he quench'd 
 
 Till the red blood stream' d on the hill side mould. 
 
 The gay banners wav'd in the morning breeze, 
 
 With the pride and pomp of a happier day ; 
 Yet long ere the night wind sigh'd through the trees, 
 
 All crimson' d and torn, on the grass they lay. 
 But, hark ! to that shout, and the quick firm tramp 
 
 Of the grim-fac'd men, in their corselets bright, 
 As they fearless march to the Monarch's camp, 
 
 With their stout arms nerv'd for the last dread 
 fio-ht. 
 
 'o^- 
 
 "What? Ho! Eupert, quick ! To horse, Prince, away! 
 
 On the foemen's helms let thy sword strokes ring — 
 See ! Ireton, himself, leads on to the fi'ay — 
 
 Now, Prince, do thy best for thy own true King !" 
 No more ! but away ! lo ! the war steeds swept 
 
 With a light'ning speed to the plain below ; 
 And the riders' hearts with a stern glow leapt. 
 
 As before them stood — like a wall — the foe. 
 
 With a loud wild shout, and the fierce sharp thrust 
 Of their own keen swords, they gallantly spring 
 
 On the Roundheads' ranks ; and down to the dust. 
 With a curse, the flower of their foes they fling.
 
 112 NASEBY. 
 
 Through the green corn fields — through the lone- 
 some wood — 
 
 The Cavaliers swift in the War-chase ride, 
 Till their spurs are moist with the foam and blood 
 
 From the quiv'ring flesh of each courser's side. 
 
 High the bright sun shone with a rich warm glare, 
 
 As th' Royalists paus'd in their reckless speed, 
 To heark'n to the cry which thrill'd through the air ; 
 
 " Back, back to your King, in his sad dire need." 
 Again, back again, with their blades still red. 
 
 Back, back to the field, where the Roundheads' 
 bi'and 
 With a Victor march had in triumph sped — 
 
 The Prince, wi'th a shout, darts on with his band. 
 
 Too late ! for the King, with his train, has flown 
 
 From the blood staiu'd field, a fugitive poor. 
 In the land where erst his crown and his throne. 
 
 In their strength and pow'r, seem'd for aye secure. 
 loo late ! and the heart of the proud Prince falls; 
 
 And his eyes are moist with the salt, salt tears ; 
 With a loud wild cry for his King he calls, 
 
 But the victor's hymn is all that he hears.
 
 BOUGHTON HOUSE. 
 
 This palatial mansion is one of the residences of the Duke of 
 Buccleuch, and is situate about two miles from Kettering. It 
 was oiiginally erected by Ralph, Duke of Montague; and the 
 traces of its original grandeur are still to be found in the 
 splendid terrace on the principal front, and in the canal, nearly 
 a mile in length, which runs through the park. The subjoined 
 Ode was written at the urgent request of several of the Duke's 
 tenantry, on the occasion of the marriage of his eldest son, the 
 Earl Dalkeith, with the Lady Louisa Hamilton, Nov. 10, 1859. 
 
 RECITATIVE. 
 
 Though sombre, dark, and cheerless dawn 
 The wintry, cold, November morn ; 
 Still Joy shall chase the gloom away, 
 And acclamations hail the day — 
 The day which views the loving pride 
 With which young Dalkeith claims his bride, 
 And clasps her to his noble breast, 
 In her affection wrapt and blest ; 
 I
 
 114 BOUGHTON HOUSE. 
 
 E'en I — a Liwlj Bard — would fain 
 Awake my harp's responsive strain, 
 And for a bridal garland bring 
 The simple verses which I sing, 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Gone, gone are the knightly daj^s of old. 
 
 When the Minstrel Harpers sang ; 
 When the Grey Monks left their beads untold, 
 
 To list to the cheers which rang 
 From the lusty throats of warders brave — 
 
 To their Chieftain leal and true — 
 As, bowing the knee, they welcom'd home 
 
 The Bride of the bold Buccleuch. 
 
 The claymore is sheath' d, the bucklers swing 
 
 In peace from the oaken wall ; 
 No more the clash of the lances ring 
 
 From turret, fr-om roof, and hall. 
 Flown are the dreams of chivalry bright. 
 
 And flown are their glories too ; 
 No more will the bronze-fac'd champions hail 
 
 The Bride of the bold Buccleuch. 
 
 RECITAIIVE. 
 
 But why should I thus sad prolong 
 The notes of my impulsive song.
 
 BOUGHTON HOUSE. 115 
 
 In mom-nful wailings foi' the past, 
 As though the things of earth could, last ? 
 Away, ye thoughts : let happier strains 
 Awake the echoes of the plains. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 In the rich fond warmth of thy maiden heart, 
 
 Young Bride, nestle close to tliy fond love's side, 
 For ne'er shall his soul refuse to impart 
 
 Its truth, or its love, to his own sweet Bride. 
 Hark ! hark to the cheer ! — to the cheer which swells 
 
 From the Highland crags — from the Lowland 
 plains — 
 From the smiling homes of the English dells, 
 
 Where Contentment lives, and Happiness reigns ; 
 And hark to the peal of the dancing chimes, 
 
 That merrily ring from the belfry old. 
 With the welcomes rare of the simple times 
 
 When a heart was dear, dearer far than gold. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 No empty tributes do we bring ; 
 No idle praises do we sing : 
 But with a welcome, fond and true, 
 We hail the Bride of young Buccleuch.
 
 116 BOUQDTON HOUSE. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Like the snow-white buds which graceful entwine 
 
 In a circling wreath on thy lovely brow, 
 May the roseate hopes of the Future shine, 
 
 E'er as brightly and smiling as now. 
 May never storm-cloud o'er thy Life-path frown, 
 
 Or the glory dim of thy heart's sunshine ; 
 May never a grief on thy soul weigh down, 
 
 Or rend with a pang, the fair breast of thine ; 
 May the golden smile of a summer day, 
 
 When the blossoms thrill with their sweet perfume, 
 Be the emblem rare of thy young life's way, 
 
 In the radiant sphere where the heart-joys bloom* 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 No empty tributes do we bring ; 
 No idle praises do we sing : 
 But with a welcome, fond and true, 
 We hai] the Bride of young Buccleuch.
 
 ROCKINGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 The Castle is erected on a stately eminence, which overlooks 
 the grassy vale of the Welland; and in former times it 
 consisted of a large keep, defended with double-embattled 
 walls, and numerous towers, of which the two bastions which 
 flanked the gateway are the only parts now remaining. Con- 
 siderable historical interest is attached to the fortress, which 
 was formerly a favourite resort of the early English Sovereigns. 
 The present mansion is situate in the courtyard. A tlower 
 show is annually held here, when the noble terraces, spacious 
 lawns, and beautiful gardens are thro-v\Ti freely open to the 
 public. 
 
 Far better thus — that, 'neath the ancient trees, 
 The archway grim, or on each terrace wide, 
 Where warriors oft have fought, and bled, and died, 
 
 These smiling groups should breathe the summer 
 breeze, 
 
 Sweet laden with perfumes from grassy leas, 
 
 From woodland groves, or streamlet's mossy side. 
 Than that tiie reckless dreams of blood and pride, 
 
 Should all our noblest aspirations sieze :
 
 118 THORPE MALSOR. 
 
 For it must surely be a holier airn 
 
 To emulate in arts of Peace, nor claim 
 The dubious honours of the field of strife, 
 
 Where War lifts up on high the crimson'd wreath, 
 And twines it round the shrinking brows of Life, 
 
 Which homage yields unto its victor — Death ! 
 
 THORPE MALSOR. 
 
 Thorpe Malsor is a pretty little village, situate about two miles 
 from Kettering, and tlie seat of the Maunsell family. A curious 
 legend is extant of one of their ancestors, who fought at the 
 battle of Naseb}', and was wounded and left for dead. The 
 body was about to be stripped preparatory to burial, ivhen a 
 young woman, the daughter of an apothecary, happened to be 
 on the field, and finding his hand to be very soft, exclaimed — 
 " This certainly was a gentleman." She further observed that 
 she felt a pulse, and consequently, that he was not dead. She 
 put off her petticoat, and wrapping him in it, had him conveyed 
 to a neighbouring village, where he recovered. Mr. Maunsell, 
 being thus providentially rescued from death, lived for some 
 years afterwards, and emploj'ed the young woman as a 
 housekeeper, till the time of his death, when he left her a 
 handsome annuity. 
 
 Long have I known the fierce and restless throb 
 Of smoke-dried teeming Cities, where 
 
 Is often heard the low and wailing sob 
 Of Labour mourning in despair — -
 
 THORPE MALSOR. 119 
 
 Where many-window'd Fact'ries sternly frown, 
 
 Like sullen Giants, coldiv grim : 
 Where Steam, to mighty engines harness'd down, 
 
 E'er booms proud Mammon's triumph hymn — 
 Til] my poor weary heart was flush'd and stir'd, 
 
 And would no more — Slave-like — be driven ; 
 But rather, as some wounded flutt'ring bird. 
 
 Aye sought to wing its flight to Heaven. 
 
 But noio I tread the soft and grassy plain. 
 
 Or seek the woodland's solitude ; 
 Or in the lone and silent country lane, 
 
 Feel all my soul with joy imbued : 
 While in my breast a thousand fancies throng 
 
 Fond nestling there like some young dove, 
 Till, with a burst, they ripen into song — 
 
 The strains of high immortal love. 
 A love which fain would rouse men's sympathies 
 
 To nobler, brighter, purer themes, 
 Than those which clog their minds with soulless ties. 
 
 And prove but vain and fleeting dreams. 
 
 And here, fair Thorpe, hath my young soul divin'd 
 
 The subtle secret of the spheres ; 
 How kindred thoughts and feelings ever bind 
 
 In one fond link, which life endears.
 
 120 THORPE MALSOR. 
 
 The humble Toiler's aspiratious pure 
 
 With those his richer brethren feel ; 
 To sing the mortal ills which men endure, 
 
 And strive their sufferings to heal. 
 For false are those base slaves whose tongues e'er dare 
 
 To breathe the cold and senseless lie — 
 That llich and Poor for each can never care, 
 
 But in their hatred, aye, must die ! 
 
 Oh ! dearest Thorpe, my thoughts are link'd with 
 thee ! 
 
 And ever in my dreams I view 
 Thy winding walks, thy groves, and grassy lea — 
 
 For ever old, yet ever new. 
 I love thee for the mem'ries sweet and blest. 
 
 With which I shrine thy simple name 
 Within this lowly heart which knew not rest 
 
 Till thou its love had sought to claim. 
 May ne'er the Vandal hand of change efface 
 
 Thy smiling charms — thy beauties rare — 
 Or rob thy blooming landscape of its grace — 
 
 A grace which time itself could spare.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 J
 
 MISCELLANEOUS TOEMS. 
 
 HERBERT ARLE. 
 
 Dear Sister, raise me gently up, and ope the case- 
 ment wide, 
 That I may view the naiTow path which winds 
 across the lea, 
 For Herbert Arle has fondly said that I shall be his 
 bride, 
 And to-day, to-day he's coming, he's coming unto 
 me. 
 
 They told me that another form, with tender vows, 
 he woo'd, 
 And my poor soul too soon, alas ! the lying tale 
 belie v'd, 
 Till in my bitter wretchedness and agony I rued 
 The hour in which my plighted troth I fancied 
 was deceiv'd.
 
 124 HERllERT ARLE. 
 
 But it was false — so Herbert says — from me he 
 never rov'd, 
 Although he left his father's home to cross the 
 foamy sea, 
 Still never for a moment I by him was unbelov'd, 
 And to-day, to-day he's coming, he's coming back 
 to me. 
 
 Tray draw the little curtains back, and place the 
 fuschia where 
 So oft I used to stand and watch in loneliness for 
 him. 
 Till weary with my vigil drear I sank into the chair, 
 My young heart anxious with its doubts, my eyes 
 with weeping dim. 
 
 From yonder shelf, dear, reach me down that Testa- 
 ment of mine. 
 It was my Herbert's birthday gift — inside beliold 
 his name. 
 And as he placed it in my hands he said, " While 
 stars should shine 
 His heart to me would ever be in constancy the 
 same. " 
 
 What rio-ht had I to doubt his word, or for a mo- 
 ment fear 
 That he to love, or thrice-told vow, could e'er a 
 traitor be %
 
 HERBERT ARLE. 125 
 
 Tliere was no cause for me to shed a single sio-h or 
 tear, 
 For to-day, to-day he's coming, he's coming back 
 to me. 
 
 Girl, do I look so very thin 1 my cheek so very pale? 
 My eye so sunken and so bright ? Nay, do not 
 turn away ! 
 'Tis false ! I'm getting well again, and soon we'll 
 roam the vale, 
 As in the happy, joyous time, when we could 
 romp and play. 
 
 And you shall be my bridesmaid, dear ; white 
 blossoms we will wear, 
 They'll look so pretty and so nice, with Herbert 
 by my side ; 
 Oh ! how the village gossips old will ope their eyes 
 and stare. 
 As from the ivy cover' d church my Herbert leads 
 his bride. 
 
 Fair Autumn's sunny splendours glint the forests 
 grand and old, 
 Where leafy branches softly surge like ripples on 
 the sea ; 
 The joy-hopes of my stricken heart again their wings 
 unfold, 
 For to-day, to-day he's coming, he's coming back 
 to me.
 
 126 HERBERT ARLE. 
 
 See there he is, just by the stile, beneath the syca- 
 more ; 
 But who is that whom thus he leads with loviner, 
 gentle care ? 
 Methinks I've seen that flaunting dress and coquette 
 air before ! 
 She turns her head — I know her now — ray rival, 
 Alice Clare ! 
 
 I see it all — they sought to mock my misplac'd 
 foolish love, 
 To trample on my outrag'd soul, and triumph in 
 my pain ; 
 But they, poor fools, may scarcely know how strong 
 the heart can prove. 
 How, crush'd and bleeding, it can rise and laugh 
 in proud disdain. 
 
 But for this slight, no scorn had fill'd this woman's 
 breast of mine, 
 Nor had my hopes have dar'd so soon o'er love 
 the victors be. 
 Go forth, false hearts, I curse ye not, though joy no 
 more be mine, 
 Though never, never more he's coming, coming 
 back to me.
 
 THE MAIDEN'S FAREWELL. 
 
 I WILL not chide thee for the past, 
 
 Though sore my maiden heart doth swell. 
 
 This interview shall be the last, 
 
 And then — and tlien — False One, farewell! 
 
 If I had deem'd thou false could be, 
 And ev'ry vow thou breath'd untrue j 
 
 I might not thus have wept for thee, 
 Or learnt my hapless love to rue, 
 
 P'arewell — farewell, and with thee take 
 No blessing from my broken heart, 
 
 Although it may, for mem'ry's sake, 
 Forbear to curse thee as we part. 
 
 Go ! Traitor, go, and me forget ; 
 
 Go ! praise the flash of beauty's eye ; 
 Go ! Leave me to my vain regret ; 
 
 To mourn — to languish— and to die. 
 
 o
 
 NORTHAMPTONSHIRE LANES. 
 
 T WOULD not dwell in Southern lands, 
 Where Learning roves 'mid classic shrines ; 
 Where wavelets dance on golden strands, 
 And bright the eye of Beauty shines. 
 Though poor my purse, and low my lot, 
 Yet Freedom far too well I love. 
 E'er to renounce my humble cot. 
 And through the land of Tasso rove. 
 No, no ! let others praise the gleam 
 Of glory on Italian fanes, 
 My choice shall be the Poet's theme, 
 And England's pride — our Country Lanes. 
 
 The snowy spray of trees in Spring ; 
 
 The song of birds in summer time ; 
 
 The glitt'ring insects on the wing ; 
 
 The distant church bells' gentle chime ; 
 
 The velvet grass on which we tread ; 
 
 And Nature's fairer beauties wild : 
 
 All have a charm — not from the dead — 
 
 And breathe of pleasure undefil'd. 
 
 Far dearer than the marble halls. 
 
 Upon the warm Italian plains, 
 
 Are these bright scenes, which Labour calls 
 
 Her best belov'd — our Country Lanes.
 
 SWEET13RIAR ROW, 
 
 Sometimes in our dreamings we meet with the 
 gleamings 
 Of joys and of pleasures we never may know : 
 And such were my feelings — Life's secret revealings — 
 When first I dar'd venture down Sweetbriar 
 Row. 
 
 For there, with her mother — at sea is the brother — 
 Resides a fair Maiden, the sweetest I know ; 
 
 That were I a stoic, my feelings heroic 
 
 Would yield to the Beauty of Sweetbriar Row. 
 
 A Damsel the neatest, compactest, completest, 
 The loveliest Darling on earth here below ; 
 
 Whose laughing and smiling, each sorrow beguiling. 
 Makes happy the cottage in Sweetbriar Row. 
 
 I feel a strange yearning — a kind of heax't-burning — 
 And fain would my bachelor pleasures forego ; 
 
 For all things comparing, I'd rather be sharing 
 The snug little Eden of Sweetbriar Row. 
 
 K
 
 130 woman's rpiDE. 
 
 But, truly confessing, I fear that's a blessing 
 That ne'er will be granted to me here below ; 
 
 Yet whate'er my fate is — digging gold ov potaties— 
 I'll ever think kindly of Sweetbriar Row. 
 
 May never a morrow dawn clouded with Sorrow j 
 But Peace and Contentment continually flow 
 
 In sunshiny brightness, and glad-hearted lightness, 
 To bless the dear Maiden of Sweetbriar Row. 
 
 WOMAN'S PRIDE. 
 
 Let him pass me scornful by, 
 
 What care 1 1 
 To look as cold I can try. 
 So for looks — What care 1 1 
 
 The pangs I feel he shall not know ; 
 
 Nor sigh, nor tear my love shall show. 
 
 Another heart he may woo ; 
 
 WTiat care I ^ 
 He may court, and wed her too, 
 That he may — What care 1 1 
 So that my grief he doth not know. 
 Until in death my love I show.
 
 WHERE THE CLUSTERED IVIES CREEP. 131 
 
 Then he may his error find ; 
 What care I ? 
 
 Wish he had not been so blind ; 
 
 Hopeless wish — What care 1 1 
 Though peace and rest no more I know, 
 A broken heart his grief shall show. 
 
 WHERE THE CLUSTERED IVIES CREEP. 
 
 Where the clustered Ivies creep, 
 
 In the cold and pale moonshine. 
 
 Silent bow thy head and weep — 
 
 Oh ! Lady fair, lady mine ! 
 
 For paler than the moonbeam's light, 
 
 And colder than their ghostly shine, 
 
 Thy heart's Love lies where rag'd the fight 
 
 Which stain'd with blood the banks of Tyne. 
 
 Knight ! I pray thee leave me now. 
 Here alone before the shrine, 
 For my Love to mourn and bow : 
 Oh ! Uarliny hravc, darling mine !
 
 132 WHERE THE CLUSTERED IVIES CREEP. 
 
 Why didst thou leave thy bonny home, 
 Thy stately keep with turrets nine, 
 To crimson with thy blood the foam 
 Which laves the banks of silver Tyue 1 
 
 Lady ! I have gold and land, 
 
 And they all shall aye be thine, 
 
 If I win thy lily hand, 
 
 Oh ! Lady fair, lady mine ! 
 
 Weep not thy Love, for false was he ; 
 
 Round other forms his arms would twine ; 
 
 Far better for thy sake that he 
 
 Thus sleeps besides the banks of Tyne. 
 
 False ! Sir Knight ! false to thy glave, 
 Take thou back each word of thine : 
 My Love was ne'er a dastard slave ; 
 Oh / Darling brave, darling mine ! 
 Untarnish'd was my true Knight's shield 
 No thought of evil dimm'd its shine : 
 My heart to thee I cannot yield. 
 It buried lies by gentle Tyne. 
 
 Listen, Lady ! I am strong ; 
 Gems I have, and silks, and wine ; 
 They to thee shall all belong — 
 Oh ! Lady fair, lady mine 1
 
 AH ! OFT WILL WE REMEMBER. 1 33 
 
 If not, tliere is a castle grim, 
 With cells therein where thou shalt pine, 
 And sob and mourn in vain for him 
 Who rests besides the banks of Tyne. 
 
 Back ! base wretch ! no Knight art thou, 
 Scorn alone from me is thine. 
 Look ! He stands beside thee now ! 
 Oh ! Darling brave ! darling mine ! 
 Now fly, thou guilty craven, fly ; 
 Frustrated in thy base design. 
 My Love still lives ! He did not die 
 Wliere flows the sweet and lovely Tyne. 
 
 AH! OFT WILL WE REMEMBER. 
 
 Ah ! oft will we remember 
 
 The times long — long ago, 
 When first life's sweetest pleasure 
 
 Our youthful hearts might know ; 
 As fondly we would wander. 
 
 Thy fair hand clasp'd in mine. 
 Or with a joy still fonder, 
 
 I press' d my lips to thine.
 
 134 All ! OFT WILL WE REMEMBER. 
 
 We dream'd not of the morrow — 
 
 Its bitter pains and care — 
 Its heart-consuming soitow — 
 
 Its anguish and despair ! — 
 When I from thee departed 
 
 To cross the foaming main. 
 And left thee weary hearted 
 
 To weep for me in vain. 
 
 They told thee I had perish'd — 
 
 That they had seen my grave- 
 Yet still thou ever cherish'd 
 
 The locket which I gave ; 
 And when they bow'd before thee, 
 
 To crave thy heart and hand, 
 And vow'd they did adore thee— 
 
 The fairest in the land. 
 
 Still from them turn'd thou coldly, 
 
 Till one — a noble youth — 
 Did speak to thee more boldly, 
 
 And fliou believ'd his truth. 
 Again the halls were lighted, 
 
 And shone on jewels rai-e ; 
 Again thy vows were plighted, 
 
 Aud no one cried " Forbear."
 
 DOXATl'.S COMET. 135 
 
 They led thee to the altar, 
 
 Nor deem'd that I was near, 
 Oh, how thy voice did falter ! 
 
 I still to thee was dear. 
 But I, unknown, returning, 
 
 Had mingled with the crowd, 
 And, oh! my spirit's yearning, 
 
 I might not — could not shroud. 
 
 There was no time to linger^ 
 
 No time — or I had seen 
 The ring placed on thy finger — 
 
 A bar each heart between. 
 But I sprang forth and uani'd thee ; 
 
 My arm was round thee thrown : 
 Old love prevail'd^I claim'd thee — 
 
 And now thou art mine own. 
 
 DONATFS COMET, 1858. 
 
 With fiery speed, it darts from distant realms 
 Of boundless space, where countless orbs revolve 
 In everlasting orbits vast ; and stars 
 In millioiis crown the imiverse sublime,
 
 ir>6 DON ATI's COMET. 
 
 From where— far beyond our weak mortal ken — 
 Doth world succeed to world, e'er seeming near, 
 Though miles and miles apart, and numberless, 
 Aye, even as the golden grains of sand 
 On which the foamy waves of ocean leap. 
 
 The Earth primeval, long ere man was form'd. 
 Beheld its graceful curving form adorn 
 The azure firmament : and when the tribes 
 Of men o'er earth were spread, they gaz'd in awe 
 On the — to them — dread fearful sign of Him, 
 Whose will can guide the planets in their course. 
 And priests would falter in their prayers, and haste 
 To offer up the bleeding sacrifice ; 
 While kings would quake with fear, cold, undefin'd ; 
 Yet babes would gaze and smile in innocence, 
 While clasp'd within their weeping mothers' arms. 
 
 The multitudes would throng the temples proud, 
 Of fabled gods, or senseless idols frail. 
 And bow them down in terror unrestrain'd, 
 And beat their breasts, or hopeless cry aloud, 
 Till nobler creeds prevailed, and science bared 
 The hidden secrets of the spheres, and told 
 How simple, yet profound, the laws which guide 
 Fair nature on her ceaseless march ; and prove 
 The far-seeing wisdom, and love divine, 
 Of God, the Great Eternal Architect 
 Of the Earth, and Heavens, and all therein.
 
 ONWARDS. 
 
 Whene'er you love a maiden fair, 
 
 And she receives you coldly ; 
 Let not her frown bid you despair, 
 
 But, manlike, woo her boldly. 
 Then, should your pleadings prove in vain, 
 
 Pine not in sadness lonely, 
 But seek some other heart to gain. 
 
 And bid it love you only. 
 Let not your hopes be as the reed 
 • ^^^lich bends before the blast, Man ! 
 The longest day — the toughest fray — 
 
 Must surely end at last, Man ! 
 
 If inward yearnings bid you rise 
 
 From your condition, lowly, 
 To mingle with the Good and Wise, 
 
 And share their mission holy : 
 Go fearless on, nor anger feel 
 
 At those who stand before you : 
 If you but rise, the slaves will kneel, 
 
 And, as a God, adore you.
 
 138 BERNARD. 
 
 The owner of a dauntless heart, 
 Though poor his lot may be, Man ! 
 
 E'er plays in Life the victor's part. 
 And stands erect and free, Man ! 
 
 In Love and Fame, 'tis aye the same, 
 
 And will be so for ever, 
 The golden laurel they shall claim, 
 
 Who omoard still endeavour. 
 And upward gaze — the ill and strife 
 
 Of mean hearts proudly scorning — 
 And deem the griefs and cares of life 
 
 ^^ 
 
 As night before the morning. 
 
 Then never shrink, but battle on 
 Till Truth and Right prevail, Man! 
 
 The Kings of Thought their triumphs won. 
 By daring not to fail, Man ! 
 
 BERNARD. 
 
 Swift let it flash with light' ning speed 
 
 O'er each electric wire, 
 That England's Saxon heart still glows 
 
 With Freedom's quenchless fire !
 
 BERNARD. 139 
 
 That NEVER to a Despot's frown 
 
 Her Lion Soul will yield ; 
 But fearless raise her arm of might, 
 
 The poorest Exile shield ! 
 Tliat though a Tyrant's steel-clad serfs 
 
 May growl across the sea, 
 She'll clasp her birthright to her heart. 
 
 And dare, aye, dare be free ! 
 
 She needs no armies, fierce and grim, 
 
 To guard her Monarch's throne ; 
 But trusteth to her People's love. 
 
 And lives in tJiat alone. 
 She fears no Murd'rer's gleaming blade, 
 
 Nor Revolution dark ; 
 But saileth o'er the troubled waves, 
 
 Secure in Freedom's Ark. 
 No friend to spies, or coward plots. 
 
 Will dear Old England be, 
 While panoplied with Truth and Right, 
 
 She dares, and will be free ! 
 
 Aye, even so, though kings combine 
 And strive to cause her fall, 
 
 Witli scornful smile, erect she'll stand. 
 And proud defy them all.
 
 HO STEPHENSON. 
 
 Sweet liberty she loves too well 
 
 E'er once with it to part, 
 Aye ! sooner from her throbbing side 
 
 The red life-blood shall start : 
 And sooner shall her darling ones 
 
 In death extended be, 
 Than she submits to kings or slaves 
 
 And never more be free ! 
 
 STEPHENSON. 
 
 Around the doors a multitude — 
 
 Voice hush'd, and bright eye dim — 
 In calm expectant silence wait 
 
 The funeral of him — 
 Of Him— tlie lowly miner's son, 
 
 Who battled with his fate ; 
 And fought his way till England bade 
 
 Him stand amidst her great. 
 A sudden start — the crowd falls back — 
 
 " Throw back the portals wide : " 
 Frown not, ye shades of haughty kings. 
 
 With looks of iujur'd pride :
 
 STEPHENSON. 141 
 
 A gi-eater king than ye we briug 
 
 To rest -within the aisle, 
 And shed another glory round 
 
 The old time-honour'd pile. 
 
 Though never golden circlet deck'd 
 
 His clear and manly brow ; 
 Though never j 8 weird purple bade 
 
 The thoughtless thousands bow ; 
 Though never title lent its charm — 
 
 An empty charm 'tis true — 
 To mark the nation's meed of praise 
 
 To him so justly due ; 
 Yet still a king 'mid giant minds 
 
 And lofty souls he reign'd, 
 And not the less that warfare ne'er 
 
 His peaceful trivimphs stain'd. 
 No ruin'd cities mark'd his track ; 
 
 No weeper curs'd his name : 
 He sought no crimson'd laiirel wreath 
 
 To cloud his well-earn'd fame. 
 
 The lofty arch, whose span unites 
 The once divided shores ; 
 
 The iron path, where, night and day, 
 The darting engine roars ;
 
 142 EGYPT. 
 
 The stately dock, where countless prows 
 
 Secure in safety ride ; 
 The works of high and wondrous skill — 
 
 Old England's boast and pride ; 
 By these alone his name shall live, 
 
 When lesser names shall die ; 
 A sign of hope for failing hearts 
 
 That doubting fear to " /ry." 
 Calm let him sleep by Telford's dust, 
 
 His crown of glory woUj 
 And bid our children tread the path 
 
 Of Robert Stephenson. 
 
 EGYPT. 
 
 In dreamy mood, methought I saw the banks of 
 
 Egypt's Nile, 
 Where — 'midst the lonely gToves of palm — frown'd 
 
 each cold massive pile ; 
 The ruin'd temples of an age when slaves in silence 
 
 bow'd. 
 And crafty priests with gorgeous rites could awe the 
 
 shrinking crowd
 
 EGYPT. 143 
 
 Whilst some grim Ptiaraoh sternly ruled, — the 
 
 monarch of the hour — 
 And bade his Hebrew slaves erect his monument of 
 
 power, 
 
 The giant record of his race ; which even now, sub- 
 lime, 
 
 Swells up from Egypt's burning sands, and mocks 
 the hand of Time. 
 
 What mighty changes has it seen, as there it change- 
 less stood. 
 
 In calm majestic glory 'midst the Desert's solitude. 
 
 Where now is Egypt's wondi'ous lore, her science, 
 and her skill ? 
 
 And where the arts with which she bow'd the nations 
 to her will ? 
 
 Did e'er her proud magicians dream their altars 
 would decay ; 
 
 That Egypt's pride, her strength, and pomp, would 
 pass as clouds away ] 
 
 And lions prowl, and vultures creep, and slimy rep- 
 tiles crawl. 
 
 Where dwelt the juggling hierophants, and sphinxes 
 glared on all ! 
 
 Where now are all the galleys deck'd with bumish'd 
 
 gold and gems, 
 Which floated on the sacred stream like queenly 
 
 diadems ?
 
 144 EGYPT. 
 
 And where her uum'rous armies vast, whicli rais'd 
 her o'er the lauds 1 
 
 And where the ships which tilled her ports, or 
 nestled on her strands 1 
 
 In vain the Greek has sought to solve — aye, and tlie 
 Roman too — 
 
 The hidden problem of the past, as each successive flew 
 
 With sword triumphant o'er the land, till super- 
 stitious dread 
 
 Alai'm'd their souls, and bade them flee the country 
 of the dead. 
 
 The silver Queen still rules the night, the stars still 
 noiseless move, 
 
 Still seasons change, and Winter's frown brings 
 Summer's smile of love ; 
 
 But where are those whose intellect, and high 
 aspiring mind. 
 
 In Theban halls, and Memphian stones, their death- 
 less thoughts enshrin'd? 
 
 The quaint and hieroglyphic piles to read we strive 
 in vain. 
 
 As yet no mortal may unfold the secrets of the plain j 
 
 Still this we know, and this we feel, that Thought 
 but seldom dies. 
 
 But ever lives in song or stone, to wake our sym- 
 pathies.
 
 THE DYING POET. 
 
 All bath'd in radiant golden light, 
 
 The Earth in beauty lay ; 
 While in the west, the crimson clouds 
 
 In glory roll'd away. 
 A silence reign' d with sway supreme, 
 
 Amid the leafy woods, 
 Save when some feather' d songster's voice 
 
 Rang through their solitudes. 
 
 On such an eve — through lattice green, 
 
 Where grew the curling vine — 
 Above the roses sweet perfume. 
 
 And graceful eglantine, 
 The zephers stole, in whispers soft, 
 
 Towards the couch of pain. 
 To cool the Poet's burning brow. 
 
 And bring him ease again. 
 
 Poor Soul ! his thoughts were with the past- 
 Life's cloudless happy spring — 
 
 When first his trembling fingers touch' d 
 His harp's enchanted string ; — 
 
 L
 
 146 TIME TRIES ALL. 
 
 When in his dreams on Hope's broad wing 
 
 His spirit soar'd above — 
 When love seem'd all the world to him. 
 
 And all the world was love. 
 
 Ere came the change, the fatal blight, 
 
 Of blissful Hopes destroy' d — 
 Ere he had learnt to mourn the wreck 
 
 Of all he once enjoy' d. 
 He smiled : and then he gently laid, 
 
 As though to sleep, his head ; 
 One trembling sob — one murm'ring sigh — 
 
 And he was with the dead. 
 
 TIME TRIES ALL. 
 
 He did not smile as they did smile, 
 Nor bow on bended knee ; 
 
 He did not speak as they did speak, 
 
 . In strains of flattery. 
 
 I ask'd him why he censur'd those 
 Who seem'd so kind to me 1 
 
 He fix'd on me his earnest gaze — 
 "'T/s Time Tries All;' said he.
 
 THE WRECK. 14< 
 
 My riches fled. My former friends 
 
 But coldly look'd on me, 
 No kindly word, or gentle look, 
 
 !My heart could hear or see ! 
 Again I met with Him I lov'd, 
 
 I thought he too would flee : 
 But, no ! he clasp' d me in his arms — 
 
 "":f'w Time Tries All" said he. 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 A REMINISCENCE OP THE ROYAL CHARTER. 
 
 In its angry rage, loud the fierce storm roars. 
 
 While the frost nips keen, and the rain falls fast, 
 As the good Ship di-ifts to the rock-bound shores, 
 
 Like a child's frail toy, in the tempest blast; 
 And the stout hearts shrink, and the bronz'd cheeks 
 pale, 
 
 In that moment dread of bitterest gloom, 
 As the Storm Fiend leaps through the rifted sail, 
 
 With a loud shrill laugh o'er his victims' doom.
 
 148 THE WRECK. 
 
 From the rich gold lands of the' Southern Sea, 
 
 Had the good Ship sped o'er the dancing foam , 
 And many a heart in its joy throbb'd free 
 
 With thoughts of Country, of Love, and of Home. 
 And the Father clasp'd — in his dreams — his child : 
 
 And the Mother thought of her darling son ; 
 And the Maiden's face with a sweet joy smil'd 
 
 As she mus'd of friends, or a dearer one. 
 
 But the pale grey beams of the cold bleak morn, 
 
 Gleam' d sadly athwart on the corse-strewn shore, 
 Where the black hull lay, like a thing of scorn. 
 
 To ride in its pride and its might no more : 
 Where the gold weighs down — like a red death- 
 crown — 
 
 On weed-tangled brows that peacefully rest, 
 Undisturb'd by care, or the world's harsh frown, 
 
 'Neath the bright white foam of the dark wave's 
 crest. 
 
 While the weepers stand on the fatal strand ; 
 
 Or silently roam o'er the wave-lash'd coast ; 
 With an anxious eye, and a trembling hand, 
 
 For some relic fond of the lov'd and lost ; 
 To be treasur'd, oh ! with a jealous care. 
 
 Through the long, long days, of the future di'ear, 
 Till the dreams of Life yield to visions fair. 
 
 Of a happier Land and a brighter sphere,
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 How oft we find Life's golden dreams 
 
 In silence disappear ; 
 And hearts we once could deem so true 
 
 Prove false and insincere ; 
 While ev'ry bright and cherish'd hope, 
 
 Replete with promise fair, 
 Dissolves as Autumn's crimson clouds — 
 - Our Castles in the Air ! 
 
 Alas ! the bitter truth we learn. 
 
 As we in life proceed, 
 That those who trust in loords, but lean 
 
 Upon a broken reed : 
 That each fond wish — each treasur'd aim- 
 
 And all our toil and care. 
 In spite of all our tears and pain, 
 
 Prove Castles in the Air ! 
 
 Turn where we will, 'tis e'er the same, 
 Though rank be low or high — 
 
 The Monarch proud, the Toiler poor, 
 View all their joys pass by ;
 
 150 LIVE, STILL LIVE FOR ME. 
 
 One would renounce his pomp and state 
 
 For Labour's simple faro ; 
 The Toiler fain would be a Lord ; 
 
 Oh ! Castles in the Air ! 
 
 "LIVE, STILL LIVE FOR ME." 
 
 Although the shades of grief surround 
 
 My youthful soul with care ; 
 Resign' d and calm shall it be found, 
 
 Unting'd by wan despair. 
 The cloud may show its darkest side, 
 
 The night its deepest gloom. 
 And each bright hope for which I sigh'd. 
 
 Have met Life's changeless doom ; 
 But still my brow shall never show 
 
 That Grief can victor be, 
 If thou — Dear Love — thy words will prove-, 
 
 And live, still live for me ! 
 
 Let summer friends in haste depart. 
 
 When rumour breathes of ill, 
 Thy smile shall cheer and soothe my hearty 
 
 And make it happier still ;
 
 FRAXKLIN. 151 
 
 Let fame and fortune pass away 
 
 And leave me weak and poor ; 
 Let every cliance in Life decay, 
 
 To be reviv'd no more : 
 Yet still my brow shall never show 
 
 That Gi'ief can victor be. 
 If thou — Dear Love — thy words will prove, 
 
 And live, still live for me. 
 
 FRANKLIN. 
 
 Where frown the snowy Arctic shores, 
 
 Upon the ffozen Main ; 
 Where seldom Man has dar'd to tread, 
 
 And home return again ; 
 Where never grass, nor shrub, nor tree, 
 
 Eelieves the dreary gloom ; 
 And Upas chills from Ice-lands white, 
 
 Thi'ough giant mist- wreath's loom : 
 
 U here Franklin sleeps. Aye ! with his band 
 
 Who fearless ventur'd forth, 
 From Love and Home, to seek and dare 
 
 The dangers of the North ;
 
 152 FRANKLIN. 
 
 To solve the problem, dark and dread, 
 
 Which loe may never know, 
 Of seas where canvass may not spread, 
 
 Or float the slim canoe. 
 
 God rest their souls ! What bitter pangs 
 
 For those they left behind 
 They must have felt ; what vain regrets 
 
 Have worn each drooping mind, 
 As, day by day, they struggled on 
 
 To fall, to faint, and die. 
 Surrounded by the sheets of snow — 
 
 Their dirge, the tempest's sigh. 
 
 The icy berg — the shifting floe — 
 
 The unknown fearful sea — 
 The endless plains of Sea and Snow — 
 
 Their monument shall be. 
 Long will they live the mem'ries stern 
 
 Of that grim spectral shore ; 
 Of those for whom their country weeps — 
 
 Whom we may see no more.
 
 ITALY ! 
 A PeophecT; written and printed in 1855. 
 
 Alas ! for Thee, Poor Italy ! 
 
 The curse is on thy brow ; 
 Thy Temples, and thy Palaces 
 
 Lie desolated now ! 
 
 Oh ! sad and mournful is the fate 
 Which Time hath brought to Thee— 
 
 Whose wide dominion was the AVorld, 
 Whose boundary, the Sea ! 
 
 But yet thy great and noble acts — 
 Though buried in the Past — 
 
 Around thy name and destiny, 
 A flick'ring splendour cast. 
 
 And who shall dare forbid the hope 
 That Thou again may rise, 
 
 To live in Glory, Fame, and Strength, 
 And by t.lie Past made wise 1
 
 I5i 
 
 MARY, 
 
 Lo ! in the Noktii,* all radiant shines 
 
 The advent of the dawn, 
 When Thou shalt dash thy chains aside, 
 
 And laugh thy foes to scorn ! 
 
 When olives rich shall glad thy fields 
 With smiles of Peace and Love ; 
 
 When joy shall tune thy Daughters' songs, 
 As through thy vines they rove : 
 
 When Babes shall lisp, and dance, and play, 
 
 Upon each Mother's knee ; 
 And Thou shalt feel the glorious bliss 
 
 Of Freedom's Jubilee. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 " Nay, William, stay "—Poor Mary cried- 
 
 " Depart not thus from me ; 
 Thou art far safer by my side. 
 
 Than on the foamy sea." 
 
 * Sardinia.
 
 MARY. 1 55 
 
 In vain she falt'ring breathes the words ; 
 
 He heara not prayer or wail, 
 For o'er the waves the Lily glides 
 
 With stretch'd and flowing sail. 
 
 Far, far away o'er Ocean's breast, 
 
 Away where breakers roar, 
 And crested waves in fury dash 
 
 Against the rocky shore : 
 
 Till manly brows are pale with fear, 
 
 And hearts are still with dread ; 
 As thunders roll, and lightnings flash. 
 
 Among the sails o'erhead. 
 
 Two Summers fair have grac'd the earth, 
 
 Since William bade farewell 
 To her who won his sailor heart 
 
 With Love's own witching spell. 
 
 Upon the Lily's deck he stands, 
 
 And dreams of love and home ; 
 Too slow for him the good ship cleaves 
 
 Aside the ocean foam. 
 
 " Swift, swift, my bark, before the winds 
 
 With arrowy floetness fly ; 
 Till thou dost rest in England's port 
 
 Beneath an English sky."
 
 156 " "" MARY. 
 
 " See, see the distant dark'niug streak 
 
 Above the ocean line ; 
 Joy, joy, my soul, it is the land — 
 
 The bonny land of mine " 
 
 The port is reach'd, and William springs 
 
 With haste on to the shore ; 
 " A post chaise, quick " — away he rides 
 
 To meet liis love once more. 
 
 " Quick, quick, my boy, your whip and spurs 
 
 Spare not, nor use in vain 
 Till in these arms I fondly clasp 
 
 My Mary's form again." 
 
 Through village old, through busy town. 
 
 The steeds drive madly on, 
 The distant spire becomes more near 
 
 Till William's home is won. 
 
 He hastens to the ancient porch, 
 
 All — all was silent there — 
 An icy coldness numb'd his heart — 
 
 To breathe he scarce could dare. 
 
 An unknown terror fill'd his breast, 
 With fear he scarce could stand. 
 
 But ope'd the well-known cottage door, 
 With cold and trembling hand.
 
 THE DESERTED. 157 
 
 A step, — a rush — a kiss — and then 
 
 A word of fondness warm — 
 Ah ! wretched man, why starts he back ? 
 
 He clasps a lifeless form ! 
 
 THE DESERTED. 
 
 Gaze, Herbert, gaze on this wan face 
 That once to thee could seem so fair : 
 Each smile is flown — each simple grace — 
 Which thou didst say wert ling' ring there ; 
 Yet, in its sadness, thou may'st trace 
 Forr/iveness 'midst its lines of care. 
 
 Oft I recalVd, with moisten'd eyes, 
 How thou my hand first softly press'd ; 
 And sought an answer to thy sighs. 
 As thou didst clasp me to thy breast : 
 With thee I shar'd Love's sympathies — 
 In till/ affection rapt and blest.
 
 158 THE DESERTED. 
 
 Oh ! hast thou e'er, at midnight hour, 
 Remomber'd me, in silent thought, 
 Or felt Remorse, with stinging powei". 
 Upbraid thee that thou idly sought 
 To crush the weak and helpless flower — 
 To blast the hopes with promise fraught ! 
 
 See, Herbert, see thy gift to me — 
 This simple golden locket rare- 
 Sad pledge of thine inconstancy, 
 Lone witness of my wild despair ; 
 When — lost to Love, to Hope, and Thee— 
 I scarce the pangs of life could bear. 
 
 Long, long have I my fault aton'd, 
 
 Deserted by the world and thee ! 
 
 By father, mother, all, disown' d, 
 
 No peace or rest was left to me ; 
 
 In vain I pray'd, and wept, and moan'd. 
 
 No comfort sweet my heart could see. 
 
 Each lonely night, in this poor room, 
 I've watch'd the ling'ring moments fly ; 
 And long'd to lay me in the tomb, — 
 Death's refuge from each tear and sigh — 
 Nor all its awe, its chillsome gloom 
 Could e'er dispel the wish to die.
 
 FALLEN ! 1^^ 
 
 For oft I dreamt of that bright laud, 
 Far, far from these domains of woe, 
 Where angels in their glory stand ; 
 Where hearts no more may anguish know ; 
 And e'er I long'd to reach its strand. 
 And to my Lord for mercy go. 
 
 Farewell— a darkness veils my eyes, 
 Thy kneeling form no more I see ; 
 Yet I forgive thee, e'en as I 
 Hope that my Lord will pardon me. 
 Farewell— I rise— I mount— I fly— 
 From ev'ry earthly trammel free. 
 
 FALLEN ! 
 
 Oh ! beautiful and innocent 
 Was her young soul within : 
 
 No taint defil'd its purity j 
 Her heart was free from sin. 
 
 No brighter worth was e'er enshrin'd 
 
 In Poet's teeming brain ; 
 Oh ! that her maiden holiness 
 
 Could be restored again.
 
 160 ROSALIND. 
 
 The Tempter came. With words of guile 
 
 He led her heart astray ; 
 Her guardian angel spread her wings, 
 
 And, weeping, flew away. 
 
 The Tempter won — His victim fell — 
 
 And now in grief and pain 
 Her spirit agoniz'd recalls 
 
 Life's early days again. 
 
 ROSALIND. 
 
 For thee no brazen trumpets blow, 
 For thee, no silken banners wind. 
 Yet thou art ever in the heart 
 Of haughty Strathclyde's Rosalind. 
 Aye ! dearer thou than belted Earl, 
 Or Prince with all his vassal train ; 
 I care not for thy lowly birth, 
 But loving, am belov'd again. 
 
 The Monarch's crown of peerless worth, 
 Though it may bid ambition start, 
 Can never yield the smiles of joy 
 Unless shared with some faithful heart ;
 
 HUBERT. 161 
 
 And I would rather be with thee, 
 
 Than wear Rank's trappings false and vain ; 
 
 The heart alone shall be my guide, 
 
 For, loving, I am lov'd again. 
 
 For thee my fortune I resign ; 
 For thee, I rank and all forego ; 
 For thee, I leave my father's halls 
 To share thy future weal or woe. 
 A simple cottage in the vale, 
 Shall hear my voice echo the strain 
 Of how I left my castle home. 
 To love, and be belov'd again. 
 
 HUBERT. 
 
 Oh ! mother, mother, do not weep for thy poor 
 
 dying boy, 
 Nor blame the hand which thus deprives thy heart 
 
 of all its joy ; 
 For never since that fatal eve when she was lost to 
 
 My soul has known one hour of rest, from pain or 
 anguish free. 
 
 M
 
 102 THE TIFF. 
 
 I could not pass the meadow path, or wander through 
 the grove, 
 
 But ev'ry flower and ev'ry tree recall'd my days of 
 love j 
 
 On Sabbath days, the church-yard old with trembling 
 feet I trod. 
 
 And, weeping, monrn'd the loss of her who lay be- 
 neath the sod. 
 
 I ever saw her in my dreams, in all my silent woe ! 
 I see her now — she smiles on me — nay, do not 
 
 tremble so — 
 A calmness glides across my heart — no more its 
 
 feelings swell, 
 My life is ebbing — kiss me now — I go — mother, 
 
 fai'ewell ! 
 
 THE TIFF 
 
 You had better go away, John, 
 Nor for my love implore. 
 
 For I your sweetheart will not be, 
 So trouble me no more.
 
 THE TIFF. 
 
 163 
 
 What is the use of talkiug thus ? 
 
 I will not walk with you ; 
 Now, John, be oflf, you hinder me,— 
 
 Indeed, I'm sure you do. 
 
 You had better go away, John, 
 
 You really bore me quite ; 
 Dont tell me I am "beautiful" — 
 
 That I'm your soul's " delight." 
 Provoking 'tis, I do declare, 
 
 That me you torment yet ; 
 I'm sui-e that such a swain as you, 
 
 No damsel yet has met. 
 
 You had better go away, John ; 
 
 Ah ! what is that you say- 
 That you " wiU take me at my word, 
 
 And walk with Fanny Grey." 
 You cannot be in earnest, John, 
 
 To leave me all alone ; 
 Why dont you know I love but you 1- 
 
 You are my darling, John. 
 
 Oh ! go not then away, John, 
 
 My error I confess. 
 My heart is yours, and you, I trust, 
 
 Will love it none the less,
 
 164 TRUE LOVE NEVER RUNS SMOOTH. 
 
 Because I cast the mask aside, 
 And bared my maiden heai't, 
 
 'I'hat you might know my secret thoughts; 
 Nor from me cold depart. 
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER 
 RUNS SMOOTH. 
 
 Oh ! there's a young man comes courting poor me, 
 
 By night or by day he will not let me be ; 
 
 'Tis in vain that T frown, look solemn and glum, 
 
 Or keep my mouth just as if I was dumb ; 
 
 For 'tis all of no use, he wont let me be, 
 
 But always is coming, and bothering me. 
 
 Oh ! dear ; oh ! dear ; I wish he would go, 
 A troublesome man shall ne'er be my beau. 
 
 If I go to the church, or go to the fair, 
 'Tis a thousand to one that he will be there ; 
 And if I leave home for a stroll in the street. 
 The tiresome fellow I'm certain to meet ;
 
 TRUE LOVE NEVER RUXS SMOOTH. 1G5 
 
 While if in the house I should happen to be, 
 He always is coming, and bothering me. 
 
 Oh ! dear, oh ! dear, I wish he would go, 
 A troublesome man shall ne'er be my beau. 
 
 He says that he loves me, perhaps it is true, 
 But then, with the matter, I've nothing to do ; 
 I'm very well plcas'd with my single life. 
 And should I get tired T wont be his wife ; 
 Still 'tis all of no use, he can't let me be. 
 But always is coming and bothering me. 
 
 Oh ! dear, oh ! dear, I wish he would go, 
 A troublesome man shall ne'er be my beau. 
 
 Yet, if he's in earnest, perhaps 1 might try 
 To see if my heart wUl for ever deny 
 His prayers, and his wishes ; for really I'm sure, 
 There's some evils exist which we must endure ; 
 And if I dont have him, he'll ne'er let me be. 
 But' 11 always be coming and bothering me. 
 
 Oh ! dear, oh ! dear, I wish I could know 
 How to get rid of this troublesome beau.
 
 THE CHILD AND THE VIOLET. 
 
 Once a fair hah-'d child, in the woodlands wild. 
 Carelessly roam'd through Nature's bowers ; 
 
 With joy infantine his hands would he twine, 
 And thoughtless pluck her fairest flowers. 
 
 Gay Daffodils he — with a childish glee — 
 In gay wreaths bound around his brow, 
 
 With the Daisy white, and the Crocus bright, 
 Nor mark'd their forms in sadness bow. 
 
 Still onward he went, with his mind intent 
 On gath'ring all that he might view — 
 
 Star of Bethlehem, and the woodland's gem — 
 The lovely, dreamy Violet blue. 
 
 And soon did he find, 'mid the green leaves shrin'd— 
 Where hedgerow trees, with shelt'ring care, 
 
 Forth their broad arms cast, from the fierce north 
 blast, 
 To shield its tiny blossoms fair — 
 
 The pride of the grove ; the flower of our love ; 
 
 The purple princess of the woods, 
 Whose modesty shames the airs of our dames, 
 
 Who flaunt their charms in vainest moods.
 
 THE CHILD AND THE VIOLET. 167 
 
 The child's sparkling eyes, at sight of the prize, 
 Beam'd with a lustre, radiant, bright ; 
 
 And his soft cheek glow'd with a flush that show'd 
 His heart's rich fulness of delight. 
 
 Forth he gaily sprang, with a cry that rang 
 Like music through the long groves lone, 
 
 Where the timid hares peep'd forth from their lairs, 
 Or crouch' d behind some moss-clad stone. 
 
 When suddenly down fell his flow' ret crown, 
 Wither'd and dead, its young strength gone. 
 
 Like the dreams of hfe that sink 'neath the strife 
 Of worldly warfare, hate, and scorn. 
 
 With a backward start, and a falt'ring heart, 
 The child withdrew his spoiling hand ; 
 
 And then with the glance of a soul-wrapt trance 
 The dying buds he slowly scann'd. 
 
 Till the violet fair, with its fragrance rare, 
 
 Did seem to crave his pitying love ; 
 As though with a charm it fain would disarm 
 
 The infant monarch of the grove. 
 
 And the spring's fond flower, with a mystic power. 
 His young heart rul'd with strange wild sway 
 
 As he, bending down o'er his faded crown, 
 The glist'ning dewdrops kiss'd away.
 
 1G8 THE LAST APPEAL. 
 
 And e'en as his lips touch'd the purple tips, 
 The laughing fays all dancing sprang 
 
 From beneath the blades in the long green glades 
 Where ne'er the stroke of axe had rang, 
 
 They danced, and they leapt ; and in and out crept ; 
 
 In their ffolicsome elfin sport ; 
 While the fairies bright, in their robes of light. 
 
 The young child led to th' Elf-king's court. 
 
 And a thousand sights, rich joys, and delights, 
 They brought for his glad heart to share : 
 
 With music and song they fondled him long, 
 And smooth'd his silk-like golden hair. 
 
 Till a soft calm sleep seem'd to gently creep 
 O'er his eyes that were wearied sore ; 
 
 Then the gi'ateful things, on their thin gauze wings, 
 Homeward the child in safety bore. 
 
 THE LAST APPEAL. 
 
 Pbat, do not come to court me, Ptalph, 
 
 Your wooing is in vain ; 
 For though I know and feel your worth. 
 
 My heart you ne'er will gain.
 
 THE LAST APPEAL. 1G9 
 
 I fain would love you if I could, — 
 
 To do so I Lave tried — 
 But though your friendship I esteem, 
 
 I may not be your bride. 
 Nay, Ralph, why should you look so sad ? 
 
 Why should you thus despair ? 
 In England there are maidens yet 
 
 Whose hearts for you may care. 
 
 And you may find one to your mind, 
 
 To share your fate in life ; 
 To bless you in the moments dark 
 
 Of trouble, and of strife. 
 I know your heart is kind and good. 
 
 Your nature noble too, 
 And that each vow your lips may breathe 
 
 Will — like yourself — be true ; 
 But, Ralph, I cannot bid you hope, — 
 
 Nay, do not tremble so, 
 'Tis better you should know the truth. 
 
 Than wake to future woe. 
 
 For you. Poor Ralph, I truly feel, 
 
 Yet I nought else can do ; 
 To have the hand without the heart 
 
 Would anguish bring to you.
 
 170 THE LAST APPEAL, 
 
 I know the pang is hard to bear, 
 
 But, Ralph, pray do not grieve ; 
 'Tis better I should speak the truth 
 
 Than your fond soul deceive. 
 The cloud will swiftly pass away, 
 
 The sorrow cease to swell — 
 And you will find another heart 
 
 To love, and love you well.
 
 "MOURN, MEN OF ISRAEL." 
 
 Mourn, Israel, mourn ! for the Spoiler hath come 
 And this day beholds thy last look on thy home : 
 The glories of Zion no more shalt thou see, 
 For, ere the day wanes, thou a captive shalt be ! 
 
 Oh ! woe, woe to the hour, when in thy fell pride. 
 The God of thy Fathers thou spurn' d and defied ; 
 For the wild rolling wave of Egypt's dark sea 
 Shall not pant more vainly or helpless than thee. 
 
 The shade of the Cypress — the chill of the Tomb, 
 Shall not be more dark, or more cold than the gloom 
 Which the pangs of despau* shall cast around thee 
 When, a slave, thou shalt kneel and sigh to be free ! 
 
 Long, long shalt thou languish, unable to save 
 The land of thy Monarchs from foot fall of slave, 
 Till Jehovah's wrath shall away pass from thee, 
 And thou from thy fetters art ransom'd and free.
 
 THE CAROL SINGERS. 
 
 The cheerful fire, with ruddy glow, 
 
 Shone tliroucrh the windows low and dim 
 As, cold and homeless, in the snow. 
 
 Two children sang a Christmas Hymn. 
 Amid the noise of pealing chimes, 
 
 Amid the harmony and mirth. 
 They sang how in the olden times, 
 
 A Child brought down goodwill to earth. 
 
 How lonely shepherds in the plains, 
 
 Heard angel choirs with rapture sing 
 The ever sweet and welcome strains 
 
 Of honour to the new bore King ! 
 How came the Magi from afar. 
 
 With golden gift and costly gem ; 
 To bow before the rising star, 
 
 And hail the babe of Bethlehem, 
 
 As thus the children plaintive sung 
 The humble carol's simple tune ; 
 
 Their voices touch' d a heart unstrung 
 With care and grief in life too soon. —
 
 THE CAROL SINGERS. 
 
 173 
 
 A Mother mourn'd her darling ones, 
 Who, faithful to their Country's call, 
 
 Had brav'd the foeman's hostile guns, 
 And dar'd in Freedom's fight to fall. 
 
 One clove his path up Alma's height, 
 
 Through each dread line of steel and flame ; 
 In Balaclava's hero fight, 
 
 He death preferr'd to flight and shame. 
 His sire pac'd through the trenches damp 
 
 In watchings for the coming fray; 
 For oft the Russ, with stealthy tramp, 
 
 Would strive by craft to gain the day. 
 
 At last there came a random shot 
 
 Which pierc'd the father's lion breast ; 
 His comrades rush'd towards the spot — 
 
 Too late ! His soul in death did rest. 
 Such was their fate — the sire and son. 
 
 For England's cause, for love, and right. 
 They Freedom's battles nobly won, 
 
 And help'd the foeman's strength to smite, 
 
 Alas ! that War should even now 
 
 Stalk forth with hands all bloody red, 
 
 Through India's clime, where thousands bow- 
 In tears and sorrow for the dead.
 
 174 THE SOLDIER OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Oh ! that the time arrived would be 
 
 When Strife and War should over cease — 
 
 When, leagued in love and arnity, 
 
 Mankind should hail the Prince of Peace ! 
 
 THE SOLDIER OV THE CROSS. 
 
 He did not die 'mid War and Strife, 
 
 Upon the blood-stain'd field, 
 Where bleeding forms — with curse and oath — 
 
 To God their spirits yield ! 
 He did not die like Earth's proud kings, 
 
 'Mid regal pomp and state : 
 Death's angel clasp'd him 'neath his wings, 
 
 And bore him to the gate 
 Of those bright realms beyond the sky — 
 
 The Martyr's blissful home ; 
 Where never sorrow, tear, nor sigh, 
 
 Within its bounds may come. 
 
 He bravely fought, but not in aid 
 
 Of proud and turban' d Turk ; 
 His battle fields were courts and lanes, 
 
 Where vice and fever lurk !
 
 PEACE. 175 
 
 To feed the hungry, aid the poor ; 
 
 Redeem outcasts from shame ; 
 He gave his all, and yet the world 
 
 Scarce knows his humble name : 
 But He who rules the stai'ry spheres, 
 
 And frames our mortal dust, 
 Will place him on His own right hand. 
 
 With love and wisdom just. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 If fell ambition would but cease 
 
 To sway the hearts of Kings, 
 We then might dare to hope and wait 
 
 For brighter, happier things : 
 The weeping lands, that bleeding mourn 
 
 The curse of factious strife, 
 Would welcome Peace with smiling joy, 
 
 And leap anew to life. 
 
 For oh ! we dearly love the joys 
 Which she alone canst bring ; 
 Lud, for her sake, the warrior's sword 
 Wc daro from us to fliug.
 
 176 DYING. 
 
 Then linger not, dear Peace, but come 
 
 And social love restore, 
 Among the nations of the earth, 
 
 And bid them war no more. 
 
 DYING. 
 
 Farewell ! The thought I cannot brook 
 
 That thou from me will soon be gone ; 
 That I on thee no more shalt look, 
 
 But lone and weeping for thee mourn. 
 I view thy cold and glassy eye j 
 
 I see thy pale and bloodless cheek ; 
 And hear thy low and feeble sigh, 
 
 Which breathes the prayer thou canst not speak. 
 Farewell ! Thy gentle spirit soon 
 
 Will enter Heaven's bright domain ; — 
 Belov'd of God — Oh ! precious boon — 
 
 Cheap purchas'd with a life of pain. 
 Within the gloomy borderland 
 
 Of Death, thy soul lias tarried long, 
 Impatient with the blest to stand — 
 
 To join the Angels' choral song :
 
 BBIGHTER DAYS. 177 
 
 Aud thou hast seen, with sweet dehght, 
 
 The visions of thy future home, 
 Where forms celestial, cloth'd in white, 
 
 E'er bid thee haste, aud to them come. 
 Farewell ! Again I breathe the word 
 
 Which bids my eyes with tears to swell — 
 Which rends again the spirit sear'd, 
 
 That scarce can breathe the word — " Fareioell," 
 Until the restless hand of Time 
 
 Shall bring the common doom to me ; 
 And waft my soul, with joy sublime, 
 
 To Heaven, Hope, Repose, and Thee. 
 
 BRIGHTER DAYS. 
 
 When the tics of Life are broken, 
 And those we love from us depart ; 
 When the fatal words are spoken, 
 W^hich fall in sadness on the heart : 
 T/ie7i, the anguish of our sorrow 
 We feel in all its bitter woe ; 
 Hopeless of the brighter morruw, 
 When tears and sighs we shall not know, 
 
 K
 
 178 WHAT WE MIGUT HAVE DONE. 
 
 As the silent stars prevailing 
 O'er clouds of dark and sombre hue ; 
 So shall end our grief and wailing, 
 If we to each will be but true. 
 After storms, the sunbeams starting, 
 Shed rich refulgence o'er the plain ; 
 Thus the sorrows of our parting 
 Shall we forget, and meet again. 
 
 WHAT WE MIGHT HAVE DONE. 
 
 In Youth we start with brave resolves 
 
 To win a rare and lofty name — 
 To be enroll' d amid the few 
 
 Who have secur'd the crown of fame. 
 But when our brows with age are grey — 
 
 W^hen Life's brief com'se is all but run- 
 Each restless soul, with weary sigh. 
 
 Will muse on what it might have done. 
 
 All dark and drear the Past will seem. 
 Wherein the loss outweighs the gain ; 
 
 The idle, empty, passing dream 
 Of moments objectless and vain :
 
 SHOULD THOU BY FORTUNE BE CAST DOWN. 179 
 
 And ev'ry laurel we have claim'd, 
 
 Each high achievement we have won ; 
 
 But cause the soul to beud and mourn, — 
 To weep for what it might have done ! 
 
 The precious time to Folly thrown, 
 
 The hours to Self indulgence lent, 
 The many days in useless sighs 
 
 And coward lamentations spent — 
 If used aright with cheerful zeal, 
 
 Would calm our hearts till life had run ; — 
 Would help us win the glory-crown, 
 
 Nor moui'n for what we mirjht have done ! 
 
 •'SHOULD THOU BY FORTUNE BE CAST 
 
 DOWN." ^ 
 
 Should thou by fortune be cast down, 
 Yet brave resolve to rise again ; 
 
 To strive, and win the joys which crown 
 Our earthly pilgrimage of pain.
 
 180 SHOULD TllOV BY FORTUNE BE CAST DOWN, 
 
 Go fearless on, nor list to those 
 
 Who from thy path to turn thee try ; 
 
 Who tell thee " Life is but despair," 
 Believe them not, for 'tis a lie. 
 
 When Ignorance at knowledge rails. 
 
 And says—" 'Tis folly to be wise j " 
 That lore scholastic ne'er prevails. 
 
 But from the light of Reason flies ; 
 When Bigots say that we were made 
 
 To live, to suffer, and to die, 
 Without one joy or earthly bliss : 
 
 Out on them all, they do but lie ! 
 
 When grave debaters, cold and proud, 
 
 E'er strive, with faction's aid, to make 
 An unfair law for Labour's crowd, 
 
 Another for the rich man's sake ; 
 And when reprov'd with being unjust, 
 
 Declare it is in vain to try 
 The law of kindness with the poor : 
 
 Out on them all, they do but lie ! 
 
 When despots prate of right divine ; 
 
 When statesmen plead for selfish end ; 
 When sophists preach that formal rites. 
 
 Not faith and truth, their creed defend ;
 
 HTMNS FOR PEACE. 181 
 
 When misers rail at pelf and self ; 
 
 When mortals vow for love to die ; 
 "Wlien Beauty would her charms forswear ; 
 
 Out on them all, they do but lie ! 
 
 HYMNS FOR PEACE. 
 Written during the Russian Wai\ 
 
 I. 
 
 Great Lord ! thy arm of might extend. 
 
 And bid the din of warfare cease ; 
 Convert each foeman to a friend — 
 
 Opponents but in arts of peace. 
 The cannon's loud and angry roar — 
 
 The bitter clash of hostile swords — 
 The plains where slain lie scatter'd o'er — 
 
 The homes destroyed by ruthless hordes : 
 Oh ! Lord, let these no longer be 
 
 Earth's dark disgrace, and Man's dread shame 
 But let each heart incline to thee, 
 
 And learn to bless thy holy name.
 
 182 HYMNS FOR PEACE. 
 
 Then shall the nations, sweetly changed 
 From strife to love's own fondest mood, 
 
 Be never more from each estrang d, 
 But flourish ever wise and good. 
 
 II. 
 
 To Thee ! our Saviour, Guide, and Friend, 
 Our knees in humbleness we bend ; 
 And hopeful breathe the earnest prayer. 
 That Thou this land from strife will spare. 
 By the widow's cheek so pale ; 
 By the orphan's bitter wail ; 
 By the captive's helpless fate ; 
 By the homes all desolate ; 
 By the lands, untill'd, unsown ; 
 By the pangs which we have known. 
 For loss of father, brother, son — 
 Without a prayer, to judgment gone ! 
 By each village, burnt and black ; 
 By the red and bloody track 
 Of the armies, which now stand 
 To curse with war each peaceful land ; 
 We Thee implore, that Thou, thine hand 
 Extending o'er each hostile strand, 
 May stay the torrent of the war ; 
 And cause to beam fair Mercy's star !
 
 THE CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 183 
 
 Lend us Thy aid that strife may cease ; 
 And vict'ry bring ns Joy and Peace ; 
 Whose smiles shall cause the earth to bloom, 
 And swift dispel the cloud of gloom 
 Which shroud our hopes, and shed dispair 
 O'er hearts that once were free from care : 
 Grant this, oh ! Lord ; and earth shall ring 
 With praise to Thee— Eternal King ! 
 Whose word is love — whose smile is law- 
 Unchanging, changeless, CYermore. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 
 Written on the occasion of the death of the Author's Mother. 
 
 Hark ! the merry chimes are pealing 
 
 From the belfry loud and clear ; 
 Tear-drops down my cheeks are stealini 
 
 As the joyous sounds I hear. 
 Children are Christ's carols singing 
 
 In the fi-ost, and in the snow ; 
 Every strain my soul is bringing 
 
 To the Comforter of Woe !
 
 184 THE CHRISTMAS CHIMES, 
 
 Him — whose cradle was a manger — 
 Him — who died upon the tree — 
 
 To earthly peace and joy a stranger - 
 That Mankind might all he free ! 
 
 Still, my soul, with anguish smarting, 
 
 Yearns unto the silent dead — 
 Yet I feel the pang of parting 
 
 Ere her gentle spirit fled ! 
 Oh ! the hands clasp'd close in son-ow, 
 
 Her beloved son to leave ; 
 Hopeful yet of the '' to-morrow " 
 
 In the realms where none may grieve. 
 Oh ! the arms so fond enfolding 
 
 Mine to her in fond embrace ; 
 Whilst her blue lips, slow unfolding, 
 
 Breath'd of God's eternal grace. 
 
 Gone, alas ! a priceless treasure 
 
 Seems for ever lost to me ; 
 Never more my heart with pleasure 
 
 Will rebound, as fancy free. 
 Like the leaves in Autumn falling 
 
 From the lone and sombre groves> 
 Death from me is ever calling 
 
 All my fondest, truest loves.
 
 THE FLIGHT OP TIME. 185 
 
 Every heart-string now is riven, 
 
 Every nerve is rack'd with pain, 
 Let, Oh ! God, to me be given 
 
 The repose I seek in vain. 
 
 Let not Life's severest trial 
 
 Bow me down before my day ; — 
 Thou who know'st the self denial 
 
 I endure "'neath sorrow's sway." 
 To Thy mercy still a stranger 
 
 Onward do not let me go, 
 Through the world a hopeless ranger — 
 
 Do not, Lord, let it be so : 
 But assist my weak endeavour 
 
 To be ever truly Thine ; 
 From Tliy way departing never 
 
 Wliilst this wayward life is mine. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 
 
 Revolving Time finds Mankind cliang'd 
 As each succeeding year fleets by — 
 
 Many a loving heart cstrang'd, 
 And left to linger, pine and die.
 
 186 THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 
 
 The mask torn off from Falsehood's face ; 
 
 Transformed to friends our seeming foes ; 
 And those we clasp'd in Love's embrace, 
 
 In Death's cold arms have found repose. 
 Many a dream has been dispell'd ; 
 
 Many a strain has ceas'd to flow ; 
 And those who erst Man's homage held, 
 
 Find fickle Fate can frowns bestow. 
 
 Oh ! could old times once more return, 
 
 No more neglected should they be : 
 But, from the Past, the soul shoirld learn 
 
 Its thoughts from Folly's chains to free. 
 Alas ! we feel the flight of Time, 
 
 With age each form begins to bend ; 
 Yet oft we spurn the truths sublime 
 
 Which might to us contentment lend : 
 For what are crowns, or gems, or gold, 
 
 Compar'd with promis'd joys above ; 
 Where bliss repays pain thousandfold. 
 
 And for our faith yields boundless love 1
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIEERS. 
 
 COPIES. 
 
 The Duke of Argyll 1 
 
 The Duke of Buccleuch ... 4 
 The Duke of Devonshire ... 4 
 
 The Marquis of Bristol 2 
 
 The Marquis of Exeter 5 
 
 The Earl Brownlow 1 
 
 The Earl of Denbigh 2 
 
 The Earlof Euston 2 
 
 The Earl Fitzwilliam 4 
 
 The Earl Spencer 10 
 
 The Viscountess Hood 1 
 
 Viscount Raynham, M.P. 1 
 
 Viscount Campden 1 
 
 Lord Aveland 1 
 
 Lord Brougham 4 
 
 Lord Burghley, M.P 4 
 
 Lord Famham 4 
 
 Lord St. John 2 
 
 Lord St. Leonards 12 
 
 Lord Stanley, M.P 1 
 
 Lord Southampton 4 
 
 Lord AVharncliffe 1 
 
 Sir W. de C. Brooke, Bart. 1 
 Sir E. H. L. Dryden, Bart. 2 
 Sir P. P. Duncombe, Bart. 1 
 
 LadyDuncombe 1 
 
 Sir C. E. Eardley, Bart. .. 1 
 Sir F. H. Goldsmid, Bart., 
 
 Q.C., M.P 1 
 
 Sir B. F. Head, Bart 2 
 
 Sir S. M. Peto, Bart., M.P. 2 
 The Rev. Sir G. S. Robin- 
 son, Bart 2 
 
 COPIES. 
 
 SirF. Shuckburgh, Bart.... 1 
 Sir John Bowring, D.C.L. 1 
 Sir David Brewster, K.H., 1 
 
 F.R.S 1 
 
 Sir J. B. Burke, I 
 
 Sir C. D. Crosley 1 
 
 Sir P. Fairbaim 1 
 
 Sir Fitzroy Kelly, Q.C., 
 
 M.P 2 
 
 Sir R. J. Murchison, F.R.S. 1 
 The Rt. Hon. Sir L. Peel... 1 
 
 Sir J. Prior 1 
 
 Sir E. S. Walker 1 
 
 Sir J. G.Wilkinson, RF..S., 
 
 D.C.L 1 
 
 Sir J. Watts 2 
 
 E. Baines, Esq., M,P 1 
 
 T. Bazley, Esq., M.P 2 
 
 C. Buxton, Esq., M.P 4 
 
 G. Cubitt, Esq., M.P 2 
 
 Grant Duff, Esq., M.P. ... 2 
 J. H. Gurney. Esq., M.P.... 
 R. Hanbury, Esq , M.P. ... 
 G. W. Hunt, Esq., M.P. ... 
 W. Jackson, Esq., M.P. ... 
 R. Knightley, Esq., M.P.... 
 E. A. Leatham, Esq., M.P. 
 W. N. Massey, Esq., JI.P. 
 R. M. Milnes. Esq., M.P.... 
 
 Titus Salt, Esq., M.P 
 
 M. D. Hill, Esq., Q.C 
 
 E. F. Law, Esq., Mayor of 
 Northampton 1
 
 188 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 copirs. 
 Charles Knight, Esq 2 
 
 •T. Payne, Esq., Q.C 1 
 
 Major-Gencral Cartwright 3 
 
 C. Hughes, Esq.. Clerk of 
 
 tlie Peace, Northamptn 1 
 
 General Bouverie 4 
 
 Kev.G. E. Maunscll.Thorpe 
 
 Jlalsor 3 
 
 Rev. Thomas James, M.A. 
 
 Theddingworth 2 
 
 Rev. T. J. Biggc, M.A., 
 
 Rockingliam 
 
 Rev. T. 11. Madge, M.A., 
 
 Kettering 
 
 Rev. J. M. Simpklnson, 
 
 M.A„ Brington 
 
 Rev. W. M. n. Church. 
 
 M.A., Geddington 
 
 Rev. C. Girdlestone, M.A. 
 Rev. T. W. Barlow, M.A., 
 
 Little Bowden 
 
 Rev. J. Field, M.A 
 
 Rev. II. y. Broughton, 
 
 M.A., Wellingborough 
 Kev.G. P. Stopford, M.A., 
 
 Warkton 
 
 Rev. L. V. Ilarcourt, M.A., 
 
 London 
 
 Rev. W. Tyler, London ... 
 Rev. Sidney Gedge, M.A. 
 
 Northampton 
 
 Rev. C. Isham, M.A., Lam- 
 port 
 
 Rev. T. W. Carr, M.A., 
 
 Loddington 
 
 Rev. W. Law, M.A 
 
 Hon. and Rev. L. Noel, 
 
 M A., Exton 1 
 
 COPIES. 
 
 Rev. A. W. Brown, M.A., 
 
 Gretton 
 
 Rev. T. Pnist, Nortliamptn 
 Rev. D. IMorton, BI.A., 
 
 Rothwell, 
 
 Rev. R. Roberts, M.A 
 
 Rev. P. II. Knight, M.A.... 
 Rev. T. Drake, JM.A., Bar- 
 
 row-on-Soar 
 
 Rev. D. Glover, M.A., 
 
 Kingstliorpe 
 
 Rev. G. Capron 
 
 Rev. F. Tearle, M.A., Ket- 
 tering 
 
 Rev. J. Lynes, M.A. 
 
 Melchbourne 
 
 Rev. A. Rigg, M.A 
 
 Rev. — Wilson, M.A 
 
 Hon. and Rev. F. ToUe- 
 
 mache, Harrington 
 
 Rev. C. Heycock 
 
 The Hon. Mrs. Maunsell... 
 The Hon. Mrs. Watson ... 
 The Hon. Mrs. Sawbridge 
 The Hon. F. P. N. Vernon 
 Dr. Spencer Hall, Derby... 
 
 The Hon. Miss Palmer 2 
 
 G. Godwin, Esq., London 2 
 
 G. Palmer, Esq 1 
 
 H. O. Nethercote, Esq 2 
 
 Thomas Rothwell. Esq., 
 
 Manchester 2 
 
 James Hanson, Esq., Brad- 
 ford 1 
 
 Dr. Mark, Manchester 2 
 
 J. F. Hollings, Esq., Lester 1 
 A. Macmillian, Esq., Cam- 
 bridge 1
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 189 
 
 COPIES. 
 
 J. B. Baker, Esq 1 
 
 "W. llice, Esq., Weston 
 
 Flavel 1 
 
 Dr. J Watts, Manchester... 1 
 W. Smith,Esq.,?;ortbampn 2 
 J. li. Portal, Esq., North- 
 ampton 1 
 
 H. H. U. Uungerford, Esq,, 
 
 Diugley 1 
 
 J. W. Uipley, Esq 1 
 
 S. Mendal, Esq 1 
 
 R. Charlton, Esq., Bristol 1 
 
 J. W. Parker, Esq , Oxford 1 
 
 — Eland, Esq., lligham 
 Ferrers 2 
 
 G. Eurnham, Esq 1 
 
 T Hamilton, Esq 1 
 
 John Phillips, Esq 2 
 
 — Isted, Esq 2 
 
 G. Eooke, Esq 1 
 
 J. Yorke, Esq., Thrapston 1 
 
 J. Woolley, Esq., Leeds ... 1 
 
 ]V[iss L. Lewis 1 
 
 Thos. Piper, Esq , Loudon 1 
 G. Smith, Esq., London ... 2 
 G-. I'lucknett, Esq., London 1 
 S. Andrews, Esq., Lom^on 1 
 Thornton Hunt, Esq., Lon- 
 don 2 
 
 Professor Donaldson, Lou- 
 don 2 
 
 T. E. Cliffe Leslie, Esq., 
 London 
 
 F. R. Reilly, Esq., London 
 
 J. Plummer, Esq., London 
 
 Mrs. E. Thomas, London... 
 
 Mr. S. Plum-.iier, London... 
 
 Mr, G Althoip, Bradijid 
 
 COPIES. 
 
 Mr. J. Stevenson, North- 
 ampton 
 
 n . Terry, Esq., Northampt 
 J. Becke.Esq ,Northamptn 
 H. P. Markharn, Esq., 
 
 Northampton 
 
 W. Mu pliy, Esq , Wel- 
 lingborough 
 
 J. Tucker, Esq., Paveuham 
 P. McLoskcy, Esq., M D., 
 
 Rothwell 
 
 W. Dash, Esq., Kettering 
 J. Wallis, Esq., Kettering 
 J. T. Stockburn, Esq., 
 
 Kettering 
 
 Josepli Stockburn, Esq., 
 
 Kettering 
 
 M. P. Manfield. Esq., 
 
 Northampton 
 
 G. De Wilde, Esq., North 
 
 ampton 
 
 R. Biddies, Esq., Kettermg 
 
 Mrs. Leech, Kettering 
 
 Mr. H. Draper, Kettering 
 Mr. R. Haseltiue, Bilstou 
 Mr. F. Wallis, Kettering... 
 
 Mr. Hales, Kettering 
 
 Mr. J. Baker, Kettering ... 
 
 Mr. F. Wrigley 
 
 Mr. S. Marshall, Loudon... 
 
 Mr. C. Mill, Loudon 
 
 Mr. J. Wells, Northampton 
 Lucas, Brotliers, Loudon... 
 
 Sir. Drage, London 
 
 Mr. Hamer, Leeds ...., 
 
 Mr. Lee, Leeds 
 
 Mr. Addey, Leeds 
 
 Mr. Peebles, Kettering
 
 AVORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 1. 
 
 Dedicated to tht Might Honourable Lord Bnmijham. 
 
 FREED03I OF LABOUR: 
 
 A DEFENCE OF THE TRUE RIGHTS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 "There lies before me a short treatise by a working mac, 
 popularly writteu, * * * * -^vith a view of removing tlie 
 prevalent but dangerous delusions on the subject of capital and 
 wages, by explaining the true principles of economical science 
 on this head. No student of that philosophy at either of the 
 English— nay, at any of the Scotch Universities, where it is 
 more studied — could have produced a better reasoned tract, or 
 one showing more entire acquaintance with the principles." — 
 LoKD Brougham, in ins speech at Liverpool, on 
 Popular Literature. 
 
 3. 
 
 Dedicated to the. liight Honourable Lord Brougham. 
 
 STRIKES: 
 
 * THEIR CAUSES. EVILS, AND RESULTS. 
 This work has received the decided approbation of the press, etc.
 
 3_ 
 
 Dedicated to the Members of the Building Trades. 
 
 A EEPLY 
 
 TO THE "PRIZE ESSAY ON THE NINE HOURS MOVEMENT," 
 OF THE BUILDING OPERATIVES. 
 
 " His noble friend (Earl Granville) had correctly stated the true 
 principles affecting this question ; but he would forgive him for 
 stating, that he had not stated them more correctly, or more dis- 
 tinctly, than had been done by a working man in one of the midland 
 counties." — Lord Brougham, House of Lords, Aug. 2, 1859.— 
 See Times, Aug. 3. 
 
 4. 
 
 Dedicated (by permission) to the Right Honmirable 
 
 The Earl of Shaftesbury. 
 
 THE RIGHTS OF LABOUR: 
 
 BEING AN APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED 
 
 KINGDOM, AGAINST THE TYRANNY, FOLLY, AND 
 
 INJUSTICE OF TRADES' UNIONS IN GENERAL. 
 
 5- 
 
 Dedicated (by permission,) to this Bight Honourable 
 Lord St. Leonards. 
 
 SOME REMARKS 
 
 ON A PAMPHLET, BY J. T. DUNNING, ENTITLED 'TRADES' 
 
 UNIONS AND STRIKES: THEIR PHILOSORHY AND 
 
 INTENTION."
 
 AN ADDRESS 
 
 TO THE BUILDING OPERATIVES AND WORKING MEN OF 
 THE WEST RIDING. 
 
 " I have another working man to cite, in consequence of having 
 received this morning a document, as if the author had had a 
 presentiment that I was about to attend a meeting of worliing 
 men. I allude now to a working man who has distinguished 
 himself, not in mechanism, but in a subject of a higher order than 
 working men generally enter into — I mean a most excellent 
 address, well reasoned, upon a most important subject, namely, 
 that of strikes, referred to by Mr. Brown. Upon this subject 
 great mistakes have been committed by some who have been 
 setting labour against capital, as if capital were the enemy of 
 labour. Such doctrines are apt to injure the men who put them 
 forth far more than their employers. I allude to John I'lummer, 
 whom two years ago I had to quote for another pamphlet he wrote. 
 This man is a working staymaker of Kettering, Northamptonshire, 
 and he has just published an address to the working men of York- 
 Shire to dissuade them from any such injurious, and at times most 
 costly, proceedings as those of setting up labour in opposition to 
 the capital employed. (Cheers ) I can only say of one of these 
 tracts, that no man could reason the subject better, and shall say 
 the same of the present ; and I hope and trust that my old friends 
 and constituents of Yorkshire will give a serious and calm attention 
 to Mr. Plummer's reasoning." — Speech of LoudBkoughamon 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE LIVERPOOL FrEE LIBRARY AND MuSEUM, 
 
 Wednesday, Oct. 17th, 1860. 
 
 Tu he had of Thos. Waddington, Printer a,nd PuUislier, 
 High IStreet, Kettering, or of the Author.
 
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