LIBRARY 
 
 University of Ca' 
 
 IRVINE
 
 MARY, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES URQUHART. 
 
 DUNDEE: 
 
 PRINTED BY JOHN LENG & CO., BANK STREET. 
 
 1883.
 
 sio\ 
 (Jl 
 
 M3
 
 Jttother. 
 
 No mighty name, 
 
 In letters large, appears upon this page, 
 Of Lord or Laird of powerful patronage, 
 
 To aid my fame : 
 
 No fulsome Ode am I obliged to write, 
 To feed the vanity of some witless wight, 
 And lower myself in his and others' sight, 
 
 All for a selfish end : 
 Though all be shrouded in Oblivion's night, 
 
 I'll on myself depend. 
 And, as each line was writ 
 Because I found a pleasure penning it, 
 
 I'll still let Love 
 
 Be high above
 
 IV. DEDICATION. 
 
 Each baser passion, when I cast my all 
 On Literature's rough sea, 
 
 Having no hopes to wreck with it, and fall 
 And overwhelm me. 
 
 Therefore I choose 
 
 To cull these first-fruits of my doubtful muse 
 
 (Convinced that thou wilt not the gift refuse), 
 And offer them to ihee.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Dedication, ..... 3 
 
 Mary : A Sketch in Four Parts : 
 
 Spring, 9 
 
 Summer, . 24 
 
 Autumn, .... 41 
 
 Winter, .... 53 
 
 The Lay of the Latest Minstrel Canto I., . . 76 
 
 To Inspiration, ... 95 
 
 Thought, ... . 96 
 
 God, ..... 97 
 
 Before the Bridge, ...... 98 
 
 Beyond the Bridge, .... 99 
 
 The Pride of Man, . 100 
 
 Man's Vanity, .... 101 
 
 Earthly Happiness, . . . 102 
 
 The Thought of Death, ... 103 
 
 Death, .... 104 
 
 To a Bank Note, 105
 
 VI. CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Spring, ....... 106 
 
 After a Summer Shower, . . . . 107 
 
 An Autumn Night, . . . . .108 
 
 October, 109 
 
 In Winter, ....... 110 
 
 To my Mother at Christmas, during a Painful Illness, 111 
 
 Ode to my Sister, . . . . . .113 
 
 Ode to my Dear Friend, H. M. M. R., on his Birthday, 127 
 Ode to my Friend, J. M., on the Occasion of his Birth- 
 day, 14th May, 1881, 135 
 
 Lines on Poetry, Written for a Lady in an Album, . 1 46 
 
 A Summer Eamble, . . . . .150 
 
 A Rhapsody, . . . . . . 155 
 
 To Summer Late in Coming, . . . .158 
 
 Harmony, ...... 161 
 
 Lines, ....... 162 
 
 Economy of Time, . . . . . 166 
 
 Reality, 167 
 
 Vain Love, ...... 168 
 
 To the Spirit of Poetry, . . . . .170 
 
 To Mary Distant, . . . . 171 
 
 ToMary > .... ... 172 
 
 To Mary, .... . . 173
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To Katie, ....... 174 
 
 To E. L., 175 
 
 To Isobelle, ....... 176 
 
 To the Same, ...... 177 
 
 To the Old Love, ...... 178 
 
 An Explanation, . . . . . 180 
 
 My Star, ....... 181 
 
 The Lover, . . . . . . 183 
 
 Vain Regrets, ...... 184 
 
 The Newsboy, . . . . . 186 
 
 Song : Twilight Fancies, . . . ... 189 
 
 The Miller's Song, ..... 190 
 
 "The AuldHoose," . . . .192 
 
 Willie and I, ...... 194 
 
 God, from a World, &c., ..... 196 
 
 " God shall Wipe away all Tears from their Eyes." . 197 
 " Behold I Stand at the Door and Knock, " . .198 
 
 Jesus, Take my Soul to Thee, .... 199
 
 MARY: 
 
 A SKETCH /JV FOUR PARTS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 'Twas morning 1 of a day in Spring's third month 
 That time when Earth has just been born again 
 From out the womb of Winter's chaos dark, 
 Into Creation's life and light restored ; 
 When Nature, gentle parent, freed from all 
 The troubles consequent upon her trial, 
 Has just begun to wipe her weary eyes, 
 And smile once more serenely through her tears, 
 And when, revived, she speedily begins 
 To clothe her offspring in the tender garb 
 Befitting childhood, woven by herself, 
 And rich with every difference of shade ; 
 
 Bedecked with ornaments which can alone 
 B
 
 10 MARY. 
 
 Be found within her everlasting stores : 
 A garb of emerald verdure, richer far 
 Than all the gaudy robes of eastern state, 
 Jewelled with the snowdrop, type of purity, 
 And heaven-sent token of sweet Innocence ; 
 And beauteous primrose in the mossy shade, 
 With every artless grace of modesty ; 
 And lowly violets, content to dwell 
 Half hidden 'mong the more ambitious herbs ; 
 And near to them, the loved forget-me-not, 
 Drooping its head, and seeming silently 
 To share the grief of those who once did make 
 Its fragile flower the type of changeless love 
 Or lasting friendship, and who since have found 
 How sadly true the simile has proved, 
 And what a satire on inconstant man 
 Hideth beneath the beauty of its name ; 
 And many a budding tree and curly leaf 
 Send a fresh thrilling fragrance over all, 
 And serve as annual heralds of a birth, 
 Celestial and eternal, that awaits 
 Our longing souls beyond the dreary tomb 
 Of this mortality, gladdening our hearts 
 With the assurance that as Winter seemed
 
 MARY. 11 
 
 Like as its dreariness would last for aye, 
 When Springtime suddenly dispelled the gloom, 
 And cast abroad a universal joy, 
 So, in due course, will life's dark night away, 
 And yield its place to never-ending day ! 
 Twas morning, and the newly-risen sun 
 Was mounting slowly up the heavenly height, 
 And shedding from his radiant face of smiles 
 Beauty and brightness, heat and happiness, 
 Gliding among the snow-white woolly clouds 
 That tell of intervening showers to come, 
 Dispelling from the hills their midnight garb, 
 And waking earth to life, and joy, and woe. 
 The dews, like tear-drops in an infant's eyes 
 (Which, disappearing with the short-lived grief, 
 Add lustre to the beauty of the smile). 
 Sparkle like diamonds set in finest gold; 
 And scented odours fresh from opening buds 
 Are borne upon the exhilarating air. 
 The woods resound with melodies of birds, 
 Singing the praises of the early year ; 
 And streamlets, loosened from their icy bonds, 
 Sparkling with glee, dance to the merry tunes. 
 Brightly the morning creeps across the hills
 
 12 MARY. 
 
 That guard the village, nestling in their shade, 
 Summoning the labourer to his wonted work, 
 And sending Hope refreshed into the world : 
 For Hope is nearest in the early morn, 
 And loves to dwell among its short-lived hours, 
 And sport with hearts from which she flies away 
 As noon comes on, and night succeeds the day. 
 Nowhere upon the Earth's expansive breadth 
 Did Springtime lend a lovelier morning-time 
 Than o'er this village, giving forth a fresh 
 And brighter beauty to each lowly cot, 
 Whose only ornament was homeliness ; 
 Dispensing brightness in the sun's young rays, 
 And freshness from the budding foliage. 
 
 'Twas on this morn, and in this village, then, 
 
 That Jacob Morris, leaving for his work, 
 
 Was standing at his little cottage gate, 
 
 Wishing his wife good morning with a kiss ; 
 
 And waiting near him was a fair young maid, 
 
 Who scarce had merged from childhood's tender years. 
 
 With fragile form, and timid liquid eyes 
 
 Of deep dark blue, and golden, flaxen hair, 
 
 That shone and sparkled in the morning sun,
 
 MARY. 13 
 
 Like waving waters of a sunlit stream ; 
 Whose modest air bespoke a tender heart, 
 And in whose gait sweet innocence reposed. 
 
 With heart as light as Fancy in a freak, 
 Forth to his daily work he wends his way, 
 While Mary sports and gambols by his side, 
 And cheers him for the labours of the day. 
 
 And as they hied along the woods and lanes, 
 
 The child would gather wild flowers from the fields, 
 
 And gaily decorate her rustic dress, 
 
 With all their beauty and variety 
 
 With many a budding rose and daisy pale, 
 
 That strove in vain to rival in their hue 
 
 The healthy fairness of her loveliness, 
 
 And came off losers by comparison. 
 
 Now she would hang upon her father's arm, 
 
 And sing some little song, in which he'd join 
 
 His lusty tones, and chorus as they went ; 
 
 When, chancing some gay butterfly to spy, 
 
 Away she'd go, careering on in joy, 
 
 Chasing the insect on from flower to flower, 
 
 And laughing in her aimless playfulness.
 
 14 MARY. 
 
 While all the time her father smilingly 
 Would watch her with the anxious eye of love r 
 And laugh with her, then call her to his side 
 To vent his feelings in a fervent kiss, 
 Which she would pay with manifold return, 
 And walk with him a little hand-in-hand, 
 And talk of everything she chanced to think of r 
 Asking strange questions, which the wisest man 
 Would fail to answer, but which seemed to her 
 Quite simple, in her blissful ignorance. 
 
 So on they went, while childish innocence 
 
 (Itself the soul of all true happiness) 
 
 Shone like the morning sun hi cheering rays, 
 
 Upon the heart o'ershadowed with the cares 
 
 Of life's experience, till, having walked 
 
 Along with him as far as was her wont, 
 
 And having placed some wild-flowers in his coat, 
 
 She sweetly turned her pretty mouth to his, 
 
 And, with his blessing, hied her home again. 
 
 But every now and then she stopped and turned, 
 
 And waited till her father did the same, 
 
 Then threw him showers of kisses, that did seem 
 
 To make the air far fresher, and the scene
 
 MARY. 1 
 
 Far brighter, for the beauty of their purity. 
 
 And when at last she lost him to her eye, 
 
 She went about with childish business 
 
 To pick some flowers wherewith to deck the house. 
 
 And carry fragrance with her into home. 
 
 Gathering the buds in rich profusion strewn 
 
 Along the roadside, wandering happily, 
 
 She hied along, passing the villagers 
 
 Wending their way in batches to their work, 
 
 Who often stopped and turned to re-admire 
 
 The lovely child, and watch her disappear ; 
 
 And whose kind looks she'd pay back with a smile, 
 
 So pure and modest in its gracefulness, 
 
 That even the Angels guarding her young life 
 
 Could hardly have surpassed it till she came 
 
 Into the village, and arrived at home. 
 
 Oh ! what an influence one loved little child 
 
 Can have upon the actions of a man, 
 
 To keep his wayward footsteps on the path, 
 
 And urge him on to new and higher aims ! 
 
 When wife and friends have failed to wean him from 
 
 Some habit long and frequently indulged, 
 
 How often does the powerless little babe
 
 16 MARY. 
 
 Bestir his sluggish conscience and renew him ! 
 
 'Twas this same influence that, some years ago, 
 
 Had weaned poor Jacob from the ways of vice, 
 
 And changed a votary of drunkenness 
 
 Into a type of honest labourer ; 
 
 'Twas such that gave him relish for his work, 
 
 And quenched the thirst for sinful licenses, 
 
 That armed him strong against Temptation's power, 
 
 And made him scorn its base and wily voice. 
 
 Mary at home helps mother with her work, 
 Lending her all her small but willing aid, 
 Brightening the place, and making labour seem 
 A pleasant duty to those all around ; 
 Talking and laughing on incessantly, 
 And shedding forth o'er all a cheerfulness 
 That lifts the burden of the hours away, 
 And causes them to pass so swiftly by 
 That no one marks the progress of their flight. 
 
 Thus merrily they pass the hours of work, 
 Smoothing the ruggedness of duty's task 
 With many a work of love, and never feel 
 The weariness of labour done unwillingly.
 
 MARY. 17 
 
 Then, having their domestic duties done, 
 And made the humble little cottage seem 
 A fairy bower, the mother and her child 
 Stroll out together 'mong the woods and lanes, 
 To welcome father coming home from work. 
 "With tidy dress, and singing some old air 
 The mother knitting, while the child looks on, 
 Trying to imitate they are indeed 
 A picture of perfected homeliness. 
 
 And as they go the evening shadows fall 
 Slowly, and lengthen 'midst the sun's last rays, 
 Casting a solemn quietude o'er the scene, 
 And shading Nature's features for her sleep. 
 The ploughman looses from his lonely toil, 
 And takes his dumb companions home to rest ; 
 The shepherd, whistling on his trusty dog, 
 Assembles all his charges in the fold ; 
 The labourers wend their way to home again, 
 And rest is regnant o'er the peaceful scene. 
 
 Where in the wealthy man's luxurious ease, 
 That ever breedeth crowds of after ills, 
 Or in that state of listless indolence
 
 18 MARY. 
 
 Whose sole reward is ofttimes discontent, 
 Or where on Earth's wide circle do we find 
 A pleasure and contentment half so sweet 
 As that which follows the laborious day, 
 When, wearied with the toil of honest work, 
 The honest man enjoys his merited repose ? 
 
 They meet their father near the village green, 
 Where at the fall of even the village youth 
 Met to beguile the evening hours away 
 In manly sports and innocent delights ; 
 While old folks, mindful of the days gone by, 
 When their old limbs, now feeble, frail, and stiff, 
 Could leap and dance with any on the green, 
 Would sadly grieve to think how soon all there 
 Must fade and wither like unto themselves, 
 And leave their sports with others, far behind ; 
 But yet they'd feel a love to linger there, 
 Where visions of the happiest hours of day 
 Would flit across their memories' broken glass, 
 And make them feel in spirit young again, 
 When aims were high, and every cloud was lined 
 With the bright edging of a silvery hope, 
 Dispelling for a time the frozen thoughts
 
 MARY. 
 
 Those shadows of the grave that chill the hearts 
 Of palsied age, thrilling 1 the feeble pulse, 
 And momentarily giving life renewed. 
 And then the happy trio hie them home, 
 Content with life, and having little else. 
 
 No anxious thoughts disturb their tranquil rest 
 Of what to-morrow's ventures may bring in ; 
 No dreams of riches lost and fortunes won 
 Molest the mind which poverty becalms : 
 For peaceful slumber is the sure reward 
 Of honesty and labour, and befriends 
 The poor man on his mattress made of straw 
 Oft'ner than lordlings in their luxury. 
 
 In such a quiet and commonplace routine 
 This happy household went from day to day, 
 Working for love, and resting but to work, 
 And all to gain the other's happiness. 
 
 And then comes Sunday, God-begotten rest ! 
 
 Our earthly type of Paradise to come ! 
 
 Without whose blessed heaven-like repose 
 
 This world would waste, and, with'ring, quickly die
 
 20 MABY. 
 
 It is a gift some sadly underrate, 
 
 And oft such take advantage of its peace 
 
 To prosecute their longings after ease ; 
 
 While others grumble at its tediousness, 
 
 And deem it but a bar to occupation. 
 
 The blessed Sabbath, on which God Himself 
 
 Did choose to rest in His almighty work, 
 
 Is given divinely, and shall mortals dare 
 
 To doubt and question its utility ? 
 
 When its repose doth follow honest work, 
 
 And furnish rest from labour, then it seems 
 
 Like kindly showers that freshen parched land 
 
 And turn it fit for culture, or the blood 
 
 Injected into dying man's dried veins, 
 
 Which giveth life again, and sends him forth 
 
 Unto his work a new and grateful being. 
 
 On Sunday Jacob and his loving wife, 
 
 With their fair child, dressed in their sober best, 
 
 As certain as the parish priest himself, 
 
 Went to the little ivied village church, 
 
 And heard the Gospel simply preached, and prayed 
 
 With thankful hearts and peaceful consciences. 
 
 The Minister, a godly good old man,
 
 MARY. 21 
 
 Told them of Jesus' love, and rich rewards 
 That are in store, and never raged and raved 
 About Damnation, Devils, and the Hell 
 Of everlasting" torment, like those fiends, 
 Calling- themselves religious, who believe 
 That they are safe, and consequently damn 
 All other creeds more gentle than their own. 
 
 And after service of a modest length, 
 
 They sometimes met their Pastor in the porch, 
 
 And sat with him, or walked among the tombs 
 
 Of parted friends, and heard his counsel. Then, 
 
 With his blessing, turned away, and walked 
 
 Back to their cottage, talking as they went 
 
 To passing friends, and of the things they'd heard. 
 
 And if perchance the day proved to be fine, 
 
 Their dinner o'er, and having doffed their best, 
 
 And donned some homelier vestments, they would g(v 
 
 Admiring God in Xature, some quiet walk 
 
 Into the woods ; and, seeking a retreat, 
 
 Some shady place, where solemn stillness reigned 
 
 O'er all surrounding beauty, there would sit 
 
 And listen to the words which Jacob read
 
 22 MARY. 
 
 From out the Holy Book ; and, having had 
 
 Their fill of explanation rudely given 
 
 By him to whom all was a mystery, 
 
 Would wander on, singing some holy song, 
 
 And waking up the echoes of the wood 
 
 To praise the Everlasting Deity. 
 
 Then home again to have a frugal meal, 
 
 At which some next-door friend might chance to be, 
 
 To pass the time until the church bell's toll 
 
 Summoned them to the house of God again. 
 
 i 
 
 The bell rings out, the villagers drop in, 
 And take their seats with decent reverence ; 
 And now comes youth, all fresh and cheerily, 
 With light elastic step, and gaily dressed, 
 And now old age, drooping its hoary head, 
 Leaning on staves, with frail and tottering limbs, 
 Seeming as if this call would be the last. 
 And Jacob and his wife would early come, 
 Amidst th' admiring glances of their friends, 
 While Mary took her seat among the choir, 
 And sang in hymns the praise of God, while all 
 Admired her voice, and whispered that she seemed 
 Like to an angel at the throne above.
 
 MARY. 23 
 
 'Tis such a life as this I long to lead ! 
 Far from the envious strife and noisy din 
 Of busy towns, where disappointment feeds 
 On the torn hearts of many a hopeful youth ; 
 Where Melancholy broods o'er lonely lives 
 Of learned students, and assists the speed 
 Of dreary Death, where misery bestrides 
 The daily street ; where vain and pompous pride 
 Treads down the lowly, and bedecks itself 
 With every outward ornament of worth ; 
 Where vice is rampant and conspicuous, 
 When holiness and goodness should prevail ; 
 And prostitution, rotting in the streets, 
 Contaminates the fairest of our race. 
 Oh ! how I sigh for rural solitude, 
 Where every thought darts freely thro' the mind, 
 Where peace presides o'er all, and where the soul 
 Of man may rest, if such it can on Earth ! 
 There, hushed to sleep by streamlets' melody, 
 And wakened by the hymns of heavenly larks, 
 Roaming thro' woods, enraptured with the lays 
 Of beauteous birds, and worshipping my God 
 In Nature's Temple, let me live a life 
 Of innocent content, and happy die !
 
 24 MARY. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Summer hath cast her mantle o'er the scene, 
 And clothed the meadows in a richer green, 
 Hath given new colour to the rip'ning corn, 
 And fragrant freshness to the dewy morn. 
 The heather blooms upon the mountain tops, 
 And wild flowers mingle with the verdant crops, 
 The dewdrops nestle in the perfumed flowers, 
 And sunbeams dance among- the morning- showers. 
 The nightingale singing out his heartfelt love, 
 The hymns of larks heard softly from above, 
 The blackbird whistling on a lowly tree, 
 The rippling streamlet with its melody, 
 The ringing woods, the verdure of the trees, 
 The universal harmony of busy bees 
 All are the heralds of the joyous mirth 
 Which Summer scatters freely o'er the Earth. 
 
 Summer when every beauty decks the vale, 
 And every songster swells the tuneful gale, 
 When from their clover beds the larks arise 
 To sing their hymns among the morning skies,
 
 MARY. 25 
 
 When clouds but come to quickly pass away, 
 And lend a varied beauty to the day, 
 Summer hath come, all Nature tells the tale, 
 From loftiest summit down to deepest vale ! 
 
 Now Xature, like a lovely rosy maid, 
 
 In all the charms of healthfulness arrayed, 
 
 Just ere she enters on her womanhood, 
 
 Smiling: on all, and with a multitude 
 
 Of ways engaging-, bright and ofttimes coy, 
 
 Lends unto all her own apparent joy. 
 
 The woods, with every leaf of foliage crowned, 
 With ivied trunks, and wild flowers strewn around, 
 Where, hanging from the intertwining trees, 
 The honeysuckle scents the cooler breeze, 
 Are filled with warblings and the mild perfume 
 Of budding wild flowers bursting into bloom. 
 There 'mong the mossy knolls and ferny dells 
 Romance and Poetry enweave their spells 
 About the worldly traveller's heated brain, 
 And bid him taste of Paradise again. 
 The bubbling stream, melodious as it flows 
 
 Through shady glens, or where it dancing goes 
 c
 
 26 MARY. 
 
 'Midst golden sunbeams, tinkling like a bell, 
 Mingles its music in the joyful swell. 
 
 How sweet it is, how ravishingly sweet, 
 
 After a toil beneath the summer's heat 
 
 To lay one down in some old shady wood, 
 
 To rest awhile and dream in solitude ! 
 
 How the glad song-birds trill on every tree ! 
 
 How musical the streamlets seem to be ! 
 
 How fresh and verdant from without, where all 
 
 Labour beneath the Sun's enslaving thrall ! 
 
 Here, by the brink of some clear crystal pool, 
 
 The air is fresh, the zephyr's breath is cool, 
 
 And over all the shaded loveliness 
 
 Dwells a deep sense of liberty and peace ; 
 
 And, listless laid where everything is still, 
 
 Our wayward thoughts would wander at their will, 
 
 Or, cradled by Nature to repose, we find 
 
 A balm to soothe the troubles of the mind. 
 
 Of all the seasons that bedeck the scene 
 With varied splendours, Summer reigns the queen ; 
 For every charm which Springtime's freshness lent 
 Is now iratured and lovelier " cent, per cent."
 
 MAKY. 27 
 
 No sudden clouds now dim the sun's clear ray, 
 And sullen mar the beauty of the day ; 
 But from the early morn till twilight's fall, 
 An azure sky spreads brightly over all. 
 And when the Sun in glorious state has set, 
 Its crimson light, departing, lingers yet, 
 As if 'twere loth to go, then slowly dies, 
 And from the East the night's dark shadows rise. 
 
 This is the time when Beauty from her throne 
 In heaven descends, and claims the Earth her own ; 
 When to her shrine from Industry and Arts 
 Poor mortals come to sacrifice their hearts 
 The farmer, wearied with his Springtime's toil, 
 Now rests him from his labours for a while, 
 And, having done his duty, leaves to God 
 To rear the harvests from the seeds he's sowed. 
 The pale-faced Clerk now shuts his musty books, 
 And hies him off to sport beside the brooks ; 
 Or. tourist clad, as Highland mountaineer, 
 Fatigues himself where sportsmen chase the deer ; 
 The learned Judge doffs the judicial wig, 
 (That shallow hoax to make the man look big), 
 And Justice chaste, on doubtful pleasures bent,
 
 28 MARY. 
 
 Sets out to " do" the icell-known Continent ; 
 
 The ragged urchin now can happy be, 
 
 And for a time forget his misery ; 
 
 And pedagogues shut up the ponderous tome, 
 
 And send their prisoners to the longed-for home. 
 
 'Tis in Life's summer when our hopes are strong, 
 Ere yet we've mingled in the world's vast throng 
 Of striving, cheating, suffering, and woe, 
 That any of Earth's few fleet sweets we know ; 
 Ere forth into Life's battle we have rushed, 
 Before youth's darling fancies have been crushed ; 
 When every star that shines upon us seems 
 To point realisation of our dreams. 
 
 Now to our tale. Some years have glided by 
 
 Since last we left our little family, 
 
 But every day and every year has been 
 
 Passed in the simple, loving old routine ; 
 
 Except that, in the closing of last year, 
 
 Poor Jacob lost his life-companion dear, 
 
 And Mary a fond mother. Oh ! how hard it seemed. 
 
 Just when the sun of happiness had beamed 
 
 Upon their household, that Death's sombre cloud
 
 MAEY. 
 
 Should gather round and all Life's pleasures shroud. 
 
 But as the calm that follows tempests o'er 
 
 Seems far more tranquil than it was before, 
 
 So this small household, quite resigned at last, 
 
 Could think regretless on the happy past ; 
 
 And oftentimes, when twilight bathed the scene, 
 
 And evening falling shadowed all serene, 
 
 Returning from the labours of the day, 
 
 They'd cross the churchyard on their homeward way, 
 
 And rest them where the lost loved one was laid 
 
 To sleep beneath the church tower's sheltering shade. 
 
 The lovely child, so gentle and so good, 
 Has now attained her early womanhood, 
 Replete with every charm and every grace, 
 And stands confessed the beauty of the place ; 
 No empty pride, no well perfected art, 
 Soils the pure utterings of her simple heart, 
 But, innocent herself, she fears no ill, 
 And every action follows on her will ; 
 Guided by Nature in simplicity, 
 Her words and life are clothed with purity ; 
 Nor rigid forms nor icy etiquette 
 About her manner their cold shades beget.
 
 30 MAKY. 
 
 How unlike that fair beauty of the world 
 Powdered and painted, pampered up, and curled, 
 Till every feature of her first creation 
 Is either lost or hid in affectation ! 
 
 'Twas evening- now, and everything was still, 
 Save for the murmuring- of some distant rill, 
 Or nightingale's sweet vesper ; twilight's shade, 
 Brooded serenely over hill and glade ; 
 The rising Moon just sent the faintest beam 
 Thro' the dark trees above upon the stream, 
 Spreading a fairy lustre where it fell, 
 And deepening the darkness of the dell. 
 
 There in the peaceful solitude and shade 
 
 Of arching foliage, the same fair maid, 
 
 Pensive and sad, beside the streamlet lay, 
 
 Watching its wavelets as they fled away ; 
 
 And as she watched the waters disappear, 
 
 Now sparkling bright, now darksome-like and drear, 
 
 She thought of her past life, how bright it was, 
 
 And how it now seemed dark and dull, because 
 
 She loved in doubt but, whether dark or bright, 
 
 The waters hurried on and vanished out of sight.
 
 MARY. 31 
 
 She murmured low, " How happy would I be 
 
 If I but knew he really loved me ! 
 
 Fain would I quell the doubts that will impart 
 
 The pangs of sorrow to my doting heart ; 
 
 In vain I strive to calm my rising fears, 
 
 And stem the torrent of those wilful tear.s. 
 
 Yet, why should I repine ? Hath he not said, 
 
 That I, so lowly, am the only maid 
 
 His heart hath ever owned ? Can I not trust 
 
 The word I love so well ? Yet fears will thrust 
 
 Their dreary shades upon the darkening sky 
 
 Of my soul's happiness. 'Tis strange that I 
 
 Should love and basely doubt ! Nor can I tell 
 
 Of any reason that this dreary spell 
 
 Should cast a dimness over every light, 
 
 And shed at noon the sadness of the night ; 
 
 Yet all may be but fancies of a brain, 
 
 Where only Love's contending thoughts remain ! 
 
 Oh ! that yon orb, whose silv'ry rays illume 
 
 This fairy stream, could chase the dismal gloom 
 
 That's settled on my soul, and cause the ray 
 
 Of trustful love to light my heart alway !" 
 
 Thus wrapt in thought, she sees not draw her near
 
 32 MARY. 
 
 The object, loved, of all her hopes and fear, 
 
 Until he, treading on the underwood, 
 
 With crackling- noise, disturbs the solitude ; 
 
 She starts, and views him with an eager gaze. 
 
 Half frightened and surprised, and then repays 
 
 The kiss of his fair greeting. Oh ! can words relate 
 
 The thrilling joy she felt, the heavenly state 
 
 Her soul delighted knew ? Her doubts and fears, 
 
 Like morning mists, whene'er the sun appears, 
 
 Vanished and fled, nor left a trace behind, 
 
 To soil the bliss that brightened up her mind. 
 
 How eagerly his every word she hears 
 
 The lying term that flatters and endears, 
 
 The promise never kept ! How every kiss 
 
 Is treasured by her soul ! Her happiness 
 
 Is now wrapt up in him. Oh ! can it be 
 
 That such a love will reap but misery ? 
 
 But now they walk, and as they wend their way 
 Without the den, the full resplendent ray 
 Of night's fair guardian floods the dewy scene, 
 And bathes the woodlands in a silv'ry sheen. 
 And each, with different feelings of delight, 
 View the soft splendours of the Summer's night,
 
 MARY. 33 
 
 "When the hot sun, with all its gaudy glare, 
 
 Has run its course, and left the heated air 
 
 To cool among the moonlight, and when every dale 
 
 Is wrapt in solemn shadow, and the gale 
 
 Is hardly heard, as, perfumed with the best 
 
 Of Nature's sweets, it murmurs from the west. 
 
 Tis now, when night has chased the busy day, 
 
 With all its fleeting fortunes far away, 
 
 And caused its strife and noisy din to cease, 
 
 That Nature rests, and from the realms of peace 
 
 A heavenly calm succeedeth, and 'tis now 
 
 The mind reposes, and the fevered brow 
 
 Is cooled in needful sleep. 
 
 Still on they go, 
 
 Chatting of things that only lovers know, 
 And only lovers interest, until they come, 
 With slow, unwilling footsteps nearer home. 
 
 Waiting to say the long put-off " Good-night," 
 They linger 'midst the pale and pure moonlight, 
 Beside the churchyard wall, whilst Mary shows 
 " Just where that lonely weeping willow grows," 
 Her mother's resting-place a little mound 
 Of well-trunmed grass, with branches neatly bound.
 
 34 MART. 
 
 And for a time a silence fell o'er all, 
 
 And both were lost in thought. Did not the call 
 
 Of conscience ring- throughout his heart, and make 
 
 Remorse o'ercome design ? Did he not quake 
 
 To face the strength of innocence-? Ah ! when 
 
 The fire of carnal love is lit in men, 
 
 Not all the forces of their minds can stay 
 
 The horrid power from wielding full its sway ! 
 
 Truly she looked most fair as there she stood, 
 With one soft hand in his, her charms imbued 
 With welling love and gratitude ; her eyes, 
 Of ocean's depth, and blue as Naples' skies, 
 With wistful looks were gazing on the place 
 Where her lost guide lay sleeping ; o'er her face 
 Passed just a tinge of sadness, while he told 
 His tale of love " What tho' the flowers unfold 
 Their varied forms and sweeten every lea 
 With od'rous breathings ; tho' on every tree 
 The nightingale pours forth his am'rous note, 
 And on the zephyrs music makes to float 
 If thou art absent from me ! Let the skies 
 Hang cloudless as they will, my dazzled eyes 
 Will show them dull and dreary, if may be
 
 MARY. 35 
 
 They wander from thy brightness ! All to me, 
 When thou art gone, is like a summer's day 
 When mists have chased all cheerfulness away. 
 Life would without thee be but lengthened pain, 
 Too frightful even in fancy to sustain ; 
 More dread than death itself in all its drear 
 And dismal mystery, for hope and fear, 
 And their attendant miseries, all sink 
 Into the Grave's oblivion. Oh ! but think 
 On Springtime robbed of every tender flower, 
 Of clouded Summer days that ever lower, 
 On Heaven without the light of God, and see 
 My life on earth, my love, devoid of thee !" 
 
 " Hush ! Hush ! enough ! for I now swear to you 
 By all I hold most sacred, I shall bear you true. 
 To-night has given a happiness to me, 
 Which I once sadly thought could never be, 
 Yet prayed for daily. Many a heavy hour 
 I've watched, regardless of sleep's potent power, 
 And kept love's weary vigils, while my breast, 
 Tossed with an ever present wild unrest, 
 Bore its grim load alone, nor dared to ope 
 Its smallest corner to a ray of hope
 
 36 MARY. 
 
 Which seemed to shine in mockery, and give 
 But better light wherein Despair might live. 
 Thus had I gone all lonely on my way, 
 Sorrowing in secret, on from day to day, 
 Till the long sighed-for light of heaven at last 
 Had chased away the sorrows of the past. 
 But now that all these dismal fears are fled, 
 And once again the balm of peace is shed 
 Upon my gladdened soul, henceforth I strive 
 To prove me worthy of thee, and contrive 
 To show my love by my devotedness, 
 And making thy will mine, and only peace 
 And love will be our portion." 
 
 Listening intent, 
 
 Folding her in his arms, he downward bent, 
 And kissed the earnest face, now glad, and free 
 From doubt, yet full of lovely modesty. 
 
 After a lingering kiss, and having said 
 The necessary " Good-night," so long delayed, 
 They hie them to their homes. But not until 
 The dark'ning night and intervening hill 
 Baffled her sight did Mary think to stay
 
 MARY. 37 
 
 Her honeyed showers of kisses, and obey 
 Her struggling sense of duty. 
 
 When alone, 
 
 And left with nothing stirring but his own 
 Unrestful conscience and the mournful wind, 
 Conflicting sentiments disturbed his mind, 
 And rendered him unhappy. 
 
 " Would this tie 
 
 Were loosened and undone ! I wonder why 
 My resolutions are of no avail 
 To carry out my purposes, and fail 
 Even before they're tried. I did not count 
 On this result, on such a foul amount 
 Of sick'ning love rot. Yet I cannot suit 
 My actions to my will, nor yet refute 
 That tyrant will, for it has gone too far 
 To stomach disappointment. Can I mar 
 So much of innocence, and break a heart 
 That obviously is mine, whose every part 
 Is strong in trustfulness in me ? Oh, God ! 
 It must not, cannot be ! Yet still the road 
 Backwards from vice is harder far to trace' 
 Than that to greater sin, for every pace
 
 38 MARY. 
 
 Is fraught with memories of deeds which rise 
 
 Afresh in our repentance. All my daring dies, 
 
 Killed by her innocence, and in its fall 
 
 Shatters my fondest wishes, plans and all ; 
 
 Henceforth I shall avoid her, and endeavour 
 
 To banish from my mind her form for ever. 
 
 This seems to be the only open course 
 
 To rescue her, and save me from remorse, 
 
 The sting of which would kill. For well I know 
 
 Her sight would set my passions all aglow, 
 
 And overcome my reason. Yet in this 
 
 I break my vow, and scatter all the bliss 
 
 My lies created. No ! whate'er betide, 
 
 I must appear devoted, and abide 
 
 My opportunity. I hear the voice 
 
 Of conscience still amid the clanging noise 
 
 Of all my passions. And methinks I feel 
 
 An unknown strangeness o'er my senses steal, 
 
 Wak'ning my soul to pity. Can it be 
 
 That I have fallen into Love's snare, and she 
 
 Unwitting is the fowler ? But my mind 
 
 Refuses counsel, and I cannot find 
 
 A path in this inextricable maze 
 
 To lead me out again, for all the ways
 
 MARY. 39 
 
 Run foul of one another, and return 
 
 To their detested source. How I do mourn 
 
 That e'er I took one step into a place 
 
 I cannot keep, or quit without disgrace !" 
 
 Musing thus on he went, while up on high 
 The Moon withdrew her light, and o'er the sky 
 Night reigned supremely darksome all around, 
 Save his own soul, was wrapt in peace profound. 
 
 As when the sea o'er which some direful blast, 
 Driving the crested waves, has newly past, 
 Rests in unbroken calm, so Mary's mind 
 Reposed, 'mid sweet tranquillity reclined. 
 And slumbering on in love, dreaming of naught 
 But coming days with Hope's fair fancies fraught ; 
 Thus peacefully she passed her tune away, 
 Cheerful and happy, while from day to day 
 Her faith was fed with promises renewed, 
 And faith made bright the future which imbued 
 The present with sweet hopes. 
 
 Jacob, the while, 
 Works on as usual at his daily toil
 
 40 MARY. 
 
 Willingly, and all for Mary all that she 
 
 May never know the pangs of poverty. 
 
 But hard enough it is, for tho' the day 
 
 Be passed from morn till eve in work, the pay 
 
 Of sweat is insignificant, compared 
 
 With all the hoards which Indolence hath shared. 
 
 Yet, uncomplaining, working aye the same, 
 
 Day after day he furthers on his aim. 
 
 Like to the stag, reclining where the feu 
 
 Seems thick and safe, and far from mortal ken, 
 
 That, happy in the deemed security, 
 
 Rests his proud antlered head, bethinking he 
 
 Is safely hid, while even then the eyes 
 
 Of some keen ghillie, peering where he lies, 
 
 Select him for the chase, this happy home 
 
 Lived all unconscious of the grief to come.
 
 MARY 41 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The year is wearing on. The withered leaves 
 Fall gently from the baring trees o'erhead, 
 With rustling melody, and on the ground, 
 In waste profusion, with'ring fast away, 
 Lie Summer's loveliest ornaments. Upon the hills 
 The corn no longer waves in rippling gold 
 Beneath a burnished sun ; the reapers' song ; 
 No longer floats along the harvest field, 
 And stimulates the labourer ; the dreary woods 
 Invite no more the traveller from his way ; 
 For now the nightingale has ceased to weave 
 His daily music, and the shrill east winds 
 Now pipe discordantly where gentle zephyrs 
 Were wont to breathe their harmony. And now 
 The sickly sun, tired with the cheerless prospect, 
 Seeks earlier towards the west, denying us 
 The heavenly twilight, and its hallowed peace ; 
 And envious Night, from out her eastern caves, 
 When the red sun has sunk in hasty state, 
 Claims Earth her own, nor waits that decent time 
 For Day's interment. Over Nature's face
 
 42 MARY. 
 
 There rests a tinge of sadness, that reflects 
 Its shadow on the onlooker, and thrills 
 The soul with thoughtfulness. The chilly winds 
 Sweep o'er the dismal plain in fitful gusts, 
 And whistle 'mong the woodlands, heralding 
 The keener blasts of Winter, fast approaching. 
 Adown the dell the dreary scene extends, 
 For the damp path is strewn with rotting leaves 
 And dying wild flowers, and the trees above 
 Are dark and shivering dismally ; the stream, 
 Dirty with mud, and swollen by the rains, 
 Has lost its silver melody, and whirls 
 Its eddying waters onward. All the birds, 
 No longer seeking shelter from the sun, 
 Have left the shade, and silence and decay 
 Rest there together. Over all the scene 
 Autumn is growing old, and wearing done ! 
 
 The village, sheltered by the neighbouring hill 
 From the bleak blast, lies snugly in the vale, 
 And proves itself a welcome resting-place 
 For the tired peasant trudging home from work 
 When evening falls in drear and chilling shadows 
 Over the wind-swept plain, inviting him
 
 MARY. 43 
 
 To cheery hearths and family repose 
 His almost sole reward. The village green 
 Is nearly now forsaken, and the dance 
 And outdoor fun are over, while the inn, 
 A homely hearty house, is patronised 
 Night after night by cheerful companies 
 Of merry -hearted fellows, who, with tales 
 Of dread and mirth, beguile the lonely time . 
 In harmless occupation. Cynics sneer, 
 And talk of this as wrong ; but let such live 
 An isolated peasant life, and learn 
 Whether they would not spend a few odd pence 
 To purchase company. The village wives 
 Are seen no longer at the even's fall, 
 Knitting their homely work or gossiping 
 Beside their cottage doors, but, social too, 
 Betake them to some neighbour's gathering 
 To drink the fragrant cup, and have their fill 
 Of news and scandal, which no mortal woman 
 I ever met with really disliked. 
 
 One year has winged its flight into the past 
 And dropped into eternity, since last we left 
 Jacob and Mary in their happiness,
 
 44 MARY 
 
 All unmolested. Since then thing's have changed, 
 And sadly so. The sun of joy hath set, 
 And night is coming on ; the horizon 
 Is banking up with storm-clouds thick and black, 
 Darkening the sky, and warning that ere long 
 The angry storm will rage with fiercesome fury I 
 But Mary still believes, in innocence, 
 That there is hope, and trusts the promises 
 Made to ensnare her ; and thus, strong in faith, 
 She bears her weary secret hopefully. 
 Poor gentle Mary, what a sorrow thine ! 
 How thy poor, wounded, trustful heart must ache- 
 Beneath so great a burden ! Oh ! so young, 
 So good, so innocent, to be destroyed ! 
 
 The evening shades are darkening into night. 
 And chill the night-wind whirls around the cot 
 Where live our little family. Within 
 A cheerful fire is burning in the grate, 
 And lighting up the room. A frugal meal 
 Is spread upon a table neat and clean, 
 In homely luxury Upon the hearth 
 A pair of shoes are basking in the blaze, 
 Cosy and warm, and in a corner snug
 
 MAKY. 
 
 From every draught, the arm-chair has been placed 
 Ready for Jacob. 
 
 Mary flits about, 
 
 Anxious to add more comfort all around, 
 Now listening to some footstep passing by 
 To recognise her Father's, now engaged 
 In some small loving labour. Yet the while 
 Her busy hands are tending to their work, 
 A deep sad sigh would augur that her thoughts 
 Were wand'ring wearily, and far away 
 From present happiness. And now she sits 
 Down by the fire to wait till Jacob's step 
 Shall sound upon the threshold, and reward 
 Her loving preparations for his coming. 
 The lamp is still unlit, and on the walls 
 And floor and roof fantastic shadows dance 
 Among the quivering firelight, and beget 
 Strange, fanciful designs. In reverie deep, 
 Mary thinks on, now gazing in the fire 
 With wistful look, now watching eagerly 
 The changing shadows. On that pensive face 
 Sadness is regnant where, not long ago, 
 Beamed perfect happiness. The tender roses 
 Have vanished from her cheeks, and lilies pale
 
 46 MARY. 
 
 Usurp their places now. The deep blue eyes, 
 
 That once were wont to sparkle with delight 
 
 And overflow with gladness, now express 
 
 In their sad loveliness the gnawing grief 
 
 That dwells within her soul. Oh, what a change ! 
 
 The budding freshness of the Spring has gone ! 
 
 The Summer's flowers have faded in decay ! 
 
 And Autumn's winds are chilling now ! How soon 
 
 The wintry blasts will howl and devastate ! 
 
 Jacob arrives, and, wakened from her thoughts, 
 Mary starts up to greet him, and receive 
 The usual salutation of a kiss. 
 And now the lamp is lit, and cheerily 
 The rosy fire burns up, no longer fraught 
 With weird fantastic shades, and laughingly 
 Leaps up the cheerful chimney ; and the ghosts 
 That revelled in the firelight disappear, 
 And all is bright again. 
 
 Though tired and hungry, 
 His meal is not partaken of before 
 He renders humble thanks for it and all 
 The comforts of his life. Thus he enjoys 
 It all the better for his having done
 
 MARY. 47 
 
 His easy duty first. A welcome meal, 
 
 And honestly discussed ! for labour lends 
 
 A keener edge unto the appetite 
 
 Than any artificial stimulant. 
 
 Hence the poor labourer with his musty crust, 
 
 His hunk of cheese and pot of home-brewed ale, 
 
 Is satisfied, while epicures with tastes 
 
 Unnatural, and self -created, wade 
 
 'Mong rarities heaped up, in vain to find 
 
 A dish to please their palates. 
 
 Being done, 
 
 And all things cleared away and rendered neat 
 By Mary's carefulness, old Jacob sits 
 In the accustomed arm-chair, resting- him 
 After his day's fatigue. How lovingly 
 He talks to her of all the day's events, 
 And of to-morrow's projects, while she hears. 
 And listens sadly silent ! Now and then 
 Her glances, brightening at some word of love, 
 Would rest upon his face, and then withdrawn, 
 Become again enshadowed. Till at length 
 He bids her to come nearer, so that he 
 May fondle and caress as was his wont
 
 48 MARY. 
 
 When seated in the evening 1 . But each touch 
 
 Of his dear hand thrills her racked mind with thoughts 
 
 Sad and soul-piercing, and she even dares 
 
 To think of telling her fond father all, 
 
 And plead her innocence. But, ah ! she knows 
 
 That in the knowledge of her misery 
 
 His loving heart would break ; so she refrains, 
 
 And keeps her weary secret to herself. 
 
 Thus, talking of the dear one long since lost, 
 And happy days gone by, and times to come, 
 When from the savings of his well-earned means 
 He should be able to give over toil, 
 And be nigh Mary always, night wore on. 
 
 And now the day's last duty is performed, 
 For Mary, taking down the Family Bible, 
 Reads a small portion of the heavenly word, 
 While Jacob listens eagerly. For now 
 His sight is not so good as it has been, 
 And somehow, too, he loves to hear her read 
 The Holy Book ; for all her tender nature 
 Shows in her reverential air, and minds him 
 Of his first Mary, gone to where she seemed
 
 MARY. 49 
 
 To have been sent him from. Then, kneeling down, 
 
 Jacob repeats a little prayer, and then 
 
 They part them for the night Jacob to rest 
 
 In welcome slumber, Mary to revolve 
 
 Her restless thoughts within her harassed mind. 
 
 And now when all the world is at peace, 
 And bathed in slumber, and the feeble light 
 Is flickering in the draught, while from without 
 The sighing of the night wind lone is heard 
 Among the leafless trees, and everything 
 That lent a passing brightness to her life 
 Has gone, the dreary shadows creep again 
 Across her anguished soul, and for a time 
 Even Hope, life's latest light ener, is obscured. 
 
 But the morning came again, and shed its brightness 
 Over the joyous Earth, and Hope, revived, 
 Strengthened its fluttering rays within her soul, 
 And gave her peace. 
 
 Thus with each dawning day 
 New prospects cheered her but to pass away, 
 And leave her soul still darker than before.
 
 50 MARY. 
 
 Looking- as happy as she can when fears, 
 
 Unformed and dark, are cankering- in her heart, 
 
 And putting- on faint smiles which all reflect 
 
 Her sorrow in their loveliness, she meets 
 
 Her father early risen from his rest, 
 
 And tends with carefulness to all the wants 
 
 Of morning- time. The breakfast has been set 
 
 In spotless cleanliness, and in his wallet 
 
 Some wholesome fare is placed, and everything 
 
 Within the little cot is neat and nice, 
 
 And fresh as morning-'s self. 
 
 As was her wont 
 
 In past and happier days, when every thought 
 Was all of joy and wonder, Mary still, 
 When seasons will permit, accompanies 
 Her father in the morning- to his work. 
 And great the disappointment of them both, 
 If Nature, jealous, with untimely shower, 
 Prevent this little joy. 
 
 So, having breakfasted, 
 
 And rendered thanks, they leave their little home 
 Together, arm in arm, as long ago ; 
 Only that now the arm that needs support 
 Is Jacob's, and the gaysome little child
 
 MAHY. 51 
 
 Is there no more to chase the butterfly, 
 
 And pluck the rival roses, and the song 
 
 No longer wakes the echoes as they go ; 
 
 For, with a face still fair and beautiful, 
 
 But now by care o'ershadowed, Mary walks 
 
 With sad and sobered steps. Her deep blue eyes 
 
 Seem gazing far away upon events 
 
 Unseen to all save her. With many a word 
 
 Of anxious love does Jacob try to win 
 
 The smile that in the mornings long since past 
 
 Brightened the way, back to her face again. 
 
 The Autumn morning, bright and brown and chill, 
 
 Reigns o'er the prospect, and the early sun, 
 
 Newly arisen, and undimmed by day, 
 
 Sheds o'er the landscape now his clearest ray. 
 
 The road is thickly strewn with fallen leaves 
 
 Huddled in batches, thickest at the side, 
 
 O'er which, as o'er the moss-grass in the woods, 
 
 A crispy rime has fallen, clothing all 
 
 In glittering whiteness. O'er the arching sky 
 
 Not one dark cloud careers, but, deep and pure, 
 
 It compasseth the landscape. Summer's breath 
 
 Seems for a time to mingle with the winds
 
 52 MARY. 
 
 Of aged Autumn, and the morning- sheds 
 A transient life into the dying scene. 
 
 The pathway passes through the little churchyard, 
 
 And leads them by the little grassy mound 
 
 Where Mary's mother sleeps a resting-place 
 
 One well might envy. O'er the well-trimmed grass 
 
 Upon the grave a silvery covering 
 
 Of hoar-frost pure has fall'n, reminding them, 
 
 Not of the dead, but of the spotless robe 
 
 Of heavenly immortality that clothes 
 
 The ransomed soul, unsullied by the flesh, 
 
 Which onward soars to God. A soothing sight, 
 
 And breathing hope and peace. But Mary, wretched, 
 
 Sees also there a type of that pure state 
 
 Which now is hers no more, and shame and fear 
 
 Gnaw at her poor heart, broken and betrayed. 
 
 This morning somehow Mary does not go 
 So far as usual. Stopping at the stile, 
 A mile beyond the churchyard, she receives 
 The parting kiss, and turns her back again. 
 
 The morning now is merging into day,
 
 MARY. 5$ 
 
 And banking- clouds are gathering in the sky, 
 Dimming Aurora's brightness ; chill the breeze 
 Is rising up, and whistling thro' the branches, 
 Mourning the sun's lost rays ; and suddenly 
 The day that opened with so bright a morn 
 Is overcast and dreary. 
 
 Mary sits, 
 
 Long after leaving Jacob, near the stile, 
 Watching the change, and listening to the wind, 
 And fancying in its dreary lonesome sighing 
 A sorrow corresponding with her own. 
 Thus pensive here she stayed, till drops of rain, 
 Blown chilly on her cheek, awakened her 
 From out her reverie. Then wearily, 
 And with a deep-drawn sigh, she rose and walked 
 Towards her home. But scarcely had she risen 
 And brushed a trembling tear-drop from her eye, 
 When in the distance, walking hurriedly, 
 She saw her lover drawing near to her. 
 Once more a lustre brightens in her eyes ! 
 Again her heart beats quick with eager hope ! 
 A crimson hue is mantling o'er her face, 
 And her expectant bosom heaves and throbs. I
 
 54 MARY. 
 
 Now sorrow flies away and fears depart, 
 And only joy is regnant in her heart ! 
 For the long- interval of doubt and dread 
 Since last she saw him has now all gone by, 
 And happiness returns. Oh ! what a wild 
 And thrilling joy is coursing thro' her mind ! 
 
 Dressed in a hunting suit, which well set off 
 
 His shapely figure, he, in face and limb, 
 
 Is very handsome, as he takes her hand, 
 
 And prints a kiss upon her glowing cheek. 
 
 But somehow he averts his face from hers, 
 
 When she is telling him how glad she is 
 
 To see him once again, and in his eyes 
 
 There is a look of shame and sadness hid ; 
 
 But soon 'twas gone, and o'er his handsome features 
 
 Passed a fixed look of firm determination. 
 
 Not long the gladness is unmixed with fear 
 Within poor Mary's heart. The fervent tones 
 Of burning love strike on her ear no more ! 
 The tender looks are gone ! The gentle touch 
 No more encircles her ! Oh what a change ! 
 Oh what a disappointment to her soul !
 
 MARY. 55 
 
 And now a silence ensues as they walk 
 
 Apart and thoughtful ; while poor Mary's heart 
 
 Sinks in the deep dark waters of despair, 
 
 And he is struggling hard within himself 
 
 For bravery enough to overcome 
 
 His conscience, which destroys and enervates 
 
 Each resolution formed. 
 
 At last he speaks 
 
 u Mary, when last we met, I gave to you 
 A promise, that ere many months had gone 
 You would become my wife ; and still I swear 
 I now would implement it ; but my will 
 No longer rules my actions." 
 
 Here he paused, 
 
 And nothing broke the silence save the sobs 
 That burst convulsively from Mary's breast, 
 Plunged in the direst agony of grief, 
 As on they walked apart. 
 
 " My love for you 
 
 Is as it was at first, and nothing changed, 
 And never will be otherwise but still 
 I dare not keep that promise. Everything
 
 56 MAKY. 
 
 Prevents me ! For my very means of life 
 Would be denied to me did I refuse 
 To do my father's pleasure. But although 
 You may not be my own, if you should want 
 The slightest comfort, only let me know, 
 And I will grant it you." 
 
 An angry flush 
 
 Burned in her face at this, but quickly died, 
 And all was calm again. The scalding tears 
 Fell thick, and dimmed the vision of her eyes, 
 Till all around seemed like some misty dream, 
 In which there dwelt no hope. No angry word 
 Escaped her quivering lips ; no vile reproach 
 Was hurled at her deceiver, but one look 
 One longing, tearful, broken-hearted look 
 Was all. Yet what a thunderbolt 
 It seemed to him piercing his very soul, 
 Burning remorse into his. tortured heart, 
 And casting him to earth. Transfixed he stood, 
 And viewed the wreck of loveliness and worth 
 His cruel words had made, and for a time 
 He knew not how to act ; while Mary still 
 Was weeping bitterly her untold sorrow.
 
 MARY. 57 
 
 Slowly he made towards her, and imprinted 
 A farewell kiss upon her passive cheek, 
 And then in silence left her there alone 
 Alone and broken-hearted ! 
 
 Chill the wind 
 
 Blew up again, and fanned her fevered face, 
 And rain-drops mingled with her hot salt tears, 
 Unheeded all by her. And now she came, 
 With half-unconscious step, and weeping still, 
 Into the little churchyard. Th^re the frost 
 Had vanished from the grass, and left the grave 
 Dreary and damp beneath the sombre shadow 
 Thrown by the Church's tower. Here, hid from all, 
 She cast her on her mother's resting-place, 
 And told her sorrow to the silent dead. 
 Poor, trustful, loving Mary ! There she lay, 
 In all the anguish of a breaking heart, 
 While high above the wind made melody, 
 Lonesome and fitful round the watchful tower, 
 And all around the rain-drops pattered fast. 
 Long thus she lay, and not until the shadows 
 Began to darken did she rise and wend 
 Her weary way towards a hopeless home.
 
 58 MARY. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The snow lies deep on the hidden ground, 
 And the trees are thin and bare, 
 
 The air is cold, and the peace profound 
 Of Winter is everywhere. 
 
 A leaden hue is o'er all the sky, 
 And the frost is hard and keen, 
 
 And the sun has hid in a shroud on high, 
 As if sick of the dreary scene. 
 
 The birds that sang in the leafy shade, 
 Are far, far away o'er the seas ; 
 
 And the only sound is the moaning made 
 By the wind among the trees. 
 
 The song of the stream we no longer hear 
 Blending with notes o'erhead ; 
 
 For the lonely dell is now dismally drear, 
 And its waters are frozen dead.
 
 MARY. 59 
 
 Some snowflakes float in the chilly air, 
 
 Left of the storm just o'er ; 
 But it does not seem that the calm will last, 
 
 For the sky is threatening sore. 
 
 Jacob has left some tune ago, 
 
 And Mary is sitting alone, 
 Gazing through tears on the waste of snow 
 
 And wrapt in thoughts all her own. 
 
 For there's no one to whom she may tell her grief, 
 
 And ease her aching heart ; 
 Nowhere to look to to gain relief 
 
 From her heart- wound's ruthless smart. 
 
 So she looks out to-day on the dreariness 
 
 Of a waste of untrodden snows, 
 While within her heart is the weariness 
 
 Of a grief that no respite knows. 
 
 How often she longs for her mother's breast, 
 
 Whereon to lay her head ; 
 And sighs as she thinks of the peaceful rest 
 
 Among the churchyard's dead !
 
 60 MARY. 
 
 The face is pale that was once so bright, 
 
 And care sits on that brow ; 
 The deep blue eyes have lost their light 
 
 And are wells of sorrow now. 
 
 The thought that burns within her brain, 
 
 Is that Jacob must shortly share 
 Her deepening shame, and her grief and pain, 
 
 And it drives her to despair. 
 
 For she knows full well when her secret is known 
 
 That his heart must surely break ; 
 For all his hope is in her alone, 
 
 And he lives but for her sake. 
 
 Oh ! what can she do ? To her troubled mind, 
 
 One only course seems right 
 To leave her father and home behind, 
 
 And hide all her shame in flight. 
 
 Poor Mary ! It is but an idle thought, 
 
 Oh ! where will you wander to ? 
 For the drifts are deep, and the roads are fraught 
 
 With dangers all new to you !
 
 MARY. 61 
 
 But the constant thoughts of her shame and care 
 
 Have done their diref ul part ; 
 And a mind endarkened by black despair 
 
 Is allied to a broken heart. 
 
 And she never once thought of the wintry day, 
 
 Or where she would find a place 
 To rest her at night, but of flying away 
 
 And hiding her deep disgrace. 
 
 Oh ! the restless throbs of a troubled breast ! 
 
 Oh ! the pain of a broken heart ! 
 Oh ! the grief -stricken mind that knows no rest 
 
 From despair that will not depart ! 
 
 The bleak wintry wind was rising high, 
 
 And 'twas dark, though not yet late, 
 As with tearful eye, and a deep-drawn sigh, 
 
 She passed through the wicket gate. 
 
 But before she turned to hurry away, 
 
 She stood for a moment and gazed 
 At the dear little hcme she was leaving that day, 
 
 And her eyes grew dim and dazed.
 
 62 MARY. 
 
 What visions wild ran through her brain, 
 Confused, and weird, and dread ; 
 
 While excitement was coursing- thro' every vein 
 And heating her aching head ! 
 
 Trembling with fear and the piercing blast, 
 She passed through the village unseen ; 
 
 For all were inside, and the doors shut fast 
 The wind was so bitterly keen. 
 
 And hurrying on, she left behind 
 
 The village all still and white, 
 Immerging itself as the day declined 
 
 In the gathering mists of night. 
 
 Yet further on, and a little hill 
 Raised up its dark brow between 
 
 Herself and the home that she looked for still, 
 And closed up the dreary scene. 
 
 Then her heart sank low in the ebon tide 
 
 Of a dismal and deep despair, 
 As she looked all around her on every side, 
 
 And saw nothing but bleakness there.
 
 MARY. 
 
 And alas ! what hope has she further on, 
 
 That she hurries so on her way ? 
 Oh none, oh none, for all hope is gone 
 
 With the one she has left for aye. 
 
 As she hurried along now the lowering sky 
 
 Grew darker and darker amain, 
 And the snowflakes began to go whirling by, 
 
 And crowd in the air again. 
 
 And now and then some peasants passed 
 
 Hieing them home for the night ; 
 And many a curious look they cast 
 
 At the strange unusual sight. 
 
 For they wondered how Jacob's much-loved child 
 Should be out in such terrible weather ; 
 
 And many a guess and conjecture wild 
 They made as they trudged together. 
 
 But they went on their way, and soon forgot 
 
 Poor Mary with all her woes ; 
 And each in his turn sought his own little cot, 
 
 And the sweetness of sound repose.
 
 64 MARY. 
 
 The sky above is one fell black cloud, 
 And the flaked snow, swift eddying falls ; 
 
 And the cold north-wind is shrieking loud 
 In fierce and fitful squalls. 
 
 Bitter the wind as it blusters by, 
 
 Whirling the falling snow, 
 Shaking the trees so gaunt and high, 
 
 And chasing the drifts below ! 
 
 Yet she bravely strives with the Winter's night 
 And the drift and the piercing blast ; 
 
 But the strongest nerve in such a fight 
 Must fail in its strength at last. 
 
 Her body is thoroughly tired and worn, 
 And her footsteps are wearing slow ; 
 
 While her poor bleeding heart is rent and torn 
 By the poisoned wedge of woe. 
 
 So, weary in body, and wretched in mind, 
 
 Keckless to live or to die, 
 With Despair wrapping all, before and behind, 
 
 In a dreadful obscurity :
 
 MARY. 65 
 
 Staggering with faintness, she seeks the side 
 
 Of the road, and lying down there, 
 Where the hedge and the tall trees somewhat hide 
 
 Her form from the frosty air : 
 
 She falls to sleep. For a little tune 
 
 Her bosom is free from pain, 
 And in dreamland's mystic shadowy clime 
 
 She is happy at home again. 
 
 Thus she slumbers in peace on that cold, cold bed, 
 
 And her poor pretty face the while, 
 White as the face of the newly dead, 
 
 Is wreathed in a faint sad smile. 
 
 Meantime the blustering storm has passed, 
 
 And hushed is the howling wind, 
 And a stillness over the scene is cast, 
 
 Like the rest of an anxious mind. 
 
 And the calm, cold Moon sheds her quivering light 
 
 O'er the glittering snow-covered lea ; 
 Till the robes of the changeful wintry night 
 
 Are of beauteous purity.
 
 66 MAHY. 
 
 Suddenly from her snow-covered couch 
 
 Like a startled deer she sprang, 
 With a wild fixed eye, and a loud weird cry 
 
 On the midnight air there rang. 
 
 Then she laughed outright a blood-curdling laugh, 
 
 In a terrible joyless glee ; 
 And her eyes shone bright with unearthly light 
 
 She had sunk in insanity ! 
 
 " How brightly the moonbeams are dancing to-night I 
 And how lovely the world seems to be ! 
 
 Surely heaven's blessed portals must soon be in sight, 
 For I've sought long and anxiously ! 
 
 "Oh, let me be on ! I hear voices behind, 
 That would call me from heaven's very gate ; 
 
 Sing on, ye bright angels, and lead me to find 
 My way, or 'twill soon be too late. 
 
 " Oh ! the music I hear ! How it thrills all my heart, 
 
 How it causes my eyes to o'erflow ! 
 How it brightens my mind, and sheds balm on the smart 
 
 That my soul sustained long, long ago !
 
 MARY. 6T 
 
 " My anguish is gone. Yet I shudder to cast 
 
 One thought on the life that is o'er, 
 Or the terrible valley thro' which I have passed, 
 
 Even when they can frighten no more. 
 
 "Yes, Sorrow and Shame, ye have harassed me sore,. 
 
 And traced those deep lines on my brow ; 
 But, tyrants, your long reign of agony's o'er 
 
 I am free from your tyranny now ! 
 
 " Poor father! 'twas selfish to leave you, I know, 
 In a world where there's nothing but sadness ; 
 
 But, oh ! had I lingered much longer below, 
 'Twould have driven me surely to madness." 
 
 Thus she spoke, while the scalding tears coursed down 
 her cheek, 
 
 Pale as the Moon's pallid ray ; 
 And then all in eagerness turned her to seek 
 
 The path of her heavenly way. 
 
 Poor Mary ! Oh, God ! can this possibly be 
 
 The fair child that was seen one Spring morning, 
 
 Not yet long ago, in the midst of her glee, 
 With wild flowers her gay dress adorning ?
 
 68 MAKY. 
 
 What a change ! Yet still, one can easily trace 
 
 The features so tender and fair, 
 And the sweet smile that lit up the heavenly face 
 
 'Mid a glory of golden- waved hair. 
 
 How lovely she looks in the Moon's placid beam, 
 With her hair spreading loose o'er her breast ; 
 
 While her deep azure eyes turned to heaven brightly 
 
 gleam 
 With a happiness fully expressed ! 
 
 Oh ! the heavenly joy of a sorrow past ! 
 
 Oh ! the balm for a broken heart ! 
 Oh ! the blissful rest which is gained at last, 
 
 And shall never again depart ! 
 
 Joyously happy, she wanders along, 
 Convinced she will view heaven soon ; 
 
 Singing the while a strange wild song, 
 To a weird unearthly tune. 
 
 Alone at the dead of a Winter's night, 
 
 With no sign of the living near, 
 Her mind is filled with a full delight, 
 
 And never one thought of fear.
 
 MARY. 69 
 
 Though the ghost-like trees shake their shivering 
 boughs, 
 
 And the Moon casts their shades o'er the way, 
 Though the winds wail weird, yet they cannot arouse 
 
 A mind which is shrouded for aye. 
 
 At length she came where the roadway led 
 
 O'er a river, whose waters wide, 
 Hurrying 'mong shadow and moonlight, sped 
 
 In a free unfrozen tide. 
 
 And from where she stood on the bridge above 
 
 She could hear its silver song ; 
 For the wanton waves wove enchanting staves, 
 
 As lightly they danced along. 
 
 And, listening intent, she stood gazing below, 
 
 Where the river ran merrily by, 
 While her face was lit with a fervent glow, 
 
 As of eager expectancy. 
 
 The moon was high, and the heavens were clear r 
 And the fields were covered with snow ; 
 
 And no mortal sound struck on the straining ear,. 
 Save the song of the river's flow.
 
 MARY. 
 
 But Mary still looked on the glistening- waves, 
 
 With an ever-brightening- glance ; 
 Still listened intent to the syren staves, 
 
 In the dream of her terrible trance : 
 
 Till she started like one when a happy thought 
 
 Has shot through the searching mind, 
 And ran down the bank to the fairy spot 
 
 Where the rays on the river reclined. 
 
 By the margin she stood with her eyes enrapt 
 By the brightness the moonbeams made ; 
 
 But she quailed as she glanced where the waters crept 
 In the gloomy arches' shade. 
 
 But all fear soon fled, for her spell-bound eye 
 
 Was fixed by that part of the stream 
 Where the ripples were 'Hummed so beauteously 
 
 By the Moon's ethereal beam. 
 
 Oh ! God of heaven, is there no one near ? 
 
 Is there not one hand to save, 
 Ere this joy-lit face find a resting-place 
 
 Beneath the ensnaring wave ?
 
 MARY. 7-1 
 
 " At last, oh, God, I have found," she cried, 
 
 " The door of my heavenly home !" 
 And with one shrill scream, she sprang into the stream, 
 
 And sank 'mid its snow-white foam. 
 
 The cry died away, and then all was o'er, 
 
 And the river flowed calmly past ; 
 And the crystal waves rippled as bright as before, 
 
 Over one at rest at last. 
 
 Oh ! the heavenly joy of a sorrow past ! _ 
 
 Oh ! the balm for a broken heart ! 
 Oh ! the blissful rest which Is gamed at last, 
 
 And shall never again depart ! 
 
 All that unhappy day on which poor Mary, 
 Broken in heart and hopeless, left her home, 
 Jacob felt ill at ease at work, and thought 
 Only of her, trying to find some reason 
 For her sad manner, and, when coming home, 
 Resolved to question her, and share her sorrow 
 'Twas a dismal night, and glad in sooth was he
 
 72 MARY. 
 
 To view the village and his well-loved cottage. 
 
 Affecting all his wonted cheerfulness, 
 
 Lest Mary should be startled, in he went, 
 
 And found, as usual, everything in place, 
 
 And neat and tidy. But his eyes, surprised, 
 
 Wandered at once unconsciously o'er all 
 
 For something missing, something that had ne'er 
 
 Before been wanting Mary was not there ! 
 
 At first he deemed her gone on some small errand, 
 
 And seated him to wait for her return. 
 
 The wind moaned loud, the shutters creaked and 
 
 shuddered ; 
 
 And ever and anon the cloudy smoke 
 Came whirling down the chimney. Round about 
 And over all there seemed to hang a dreadness, 
 Making the body shiver with an inward chill, 
 And silence brooding strained the listening ear. 
 All of a sudden thro' his anxious mind 
 Darted a fearful thought, unformed and vague, 
 And loud he called his daughter by her name. 
 No answer came. . . . The silence grew intense. 
 And made him frantic. Forth into the night 
 He rushed unheeding, battling with the storm,
 
 MARY. 73 
 
 On through the village ; and from shop to shop, 
 And house to house, ran like to one deranged, 
 Crying- for Mary. But the astonished folks, 
 Ensconced by their firesides, could only stare, 
 And pity him. And from each cosy cottage 
 He braved the blast the deeper in despair. 
 At length, and after many a fruitless question, 
 He found a labourer who had passed his Mary, 
 When coming home from work. From him he knew 
 The road she'd taken, and, with difficulty 
 Procuring aid, set out in search of her. 
 
 For hours they fought against the wind and drifts, 
 And, searching every lane and ditch and hedge, 
 And wakening every house, that long night passed. 
 
 When the grey leaden light of early morning 
 Began to mingle with the waning moonbeams, 
 And over all the wakening world to cast 
 A dull, cold, lifeless hue, the wearied searchers 
 Found her they looked for. In a little bay, 
 Formed by a turning of the river's course, 
 Upon the wave-washed pebbles lay the body 
 The weary, worn-out body of poor Mary.
 
 74 MARY. 
 
 Her flaxen hair was floating- round her form 
 Like golden seaweed ; on her marble features 
 Beauty and sadness, peace and happiness 
 Rested tog-ether, with the same faint smile 
 That played upon them sleeping on the highway. 
 Her wearied soul had soared serene to heaven ! 
 No words can tell the feelings that o'er whelmed 
 Poor doting Jacob's half -bewildered mind 
 When he knew all. 
 
 The quiet little place 
 Was stirred as it had never been before, 
 And wrapt in sorrow at the dread event. 
 
 One lovely morning, when the bright cold sun 
 Shone clear above the peaceful snow-clad landscape 
 Mary was carried to the little churchyard, 
 And gently laid to rest beside her mother. 
 Many a tear was shed beside her grave, 
 And many a word of sorrowing solace said 
 To poor old Jacob, but in vain, in vain ! * 
 No balm but death can heal a broken heart ! 
 
 The" Spring had scarcely thawed the frost-bound earth 
 When Jacob, changed in form and feature, sickened :
 
 MARY. 75 
 
 He could not live without her, so he died. 
 And now the three lie sleeping- side by side. 
 
 And what," you ask, " befell the vile betrayer 
 The ruin of a household ?" Why, he lived 
 Just as before, giving himself no blame, 
 Perhaps not thinking any merited ; 
 As many, many scoundrels like him daily do !
 
 76 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh ! Muses nine (I think that that's the number) , 
 That dwell somewhere about Parnassus' hill 
 
 A place where I should not incline to slumber, 
 For fear of catching a rheumatic chill 
 
 Pardon the faults which may my lines encumber, 
 And let your courted inspiration fill 
 
 Each word and verse of this my lengthy lay, 
 
 And save it from a premature decay. 
 
 II. 
 But yet I cannot well be disappointed 
 
 Though your refusal seals its dismal fate, 
 For the amount of verse lame and disjointed 
 
 That hath been sent and forced on you of late, 
 Would wear the patience of a saint anointed, 
 
 And put him in a far from courteous state. 
 It may, however, come beneath your glance : 
 If not, I must just leave its fate to chance.
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 7 , 
 
 III. 
 
 Now that I have invoked (like every bard 
 
 Without a patron) all the Muses' aid, 
 The next thing is, of course, to have regard 
 
 How all my powers can be best displayed 
 A course which bards and Laureates aye discard 
 
 When cash and Birthday Odes are to be made 
 The first forsaking taste to win the Crowd, 
 The other pride to puff the puny Proud. 
 
 IV. 
 However weak or wandering be my strain, 
 
 Let independence dwell in every note ! 
 From affectation let my voice refrain, 
 
 However harsh its melodies may float 
 Upon some ears ; nor let me slyly drain 
 The dews that gem some other's favoured flowers, 
 If on mine own coy Genius shed no showers.* 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh ! let me choose some half-unhackneyed theme, 
 One not worn threadbare quite by such as I ! 
 
 But where am I to find such ? It would seem, 
 On looking round, a hopeless task to try ; 
 
 * There is one line awanting in this Stanza, but as it sufficiently expresses my 
 meaning, I did not think it worth while altering it;
 
 78 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 For round each flower that yields a sweet there teem 
 
 A billion bee-bards, barren all and dry, 
 Eager to get the honey anyway, 
 Sting-ing and stealing, striving as they may ! 
 
 VI. 
 Avaunt ! oh, Plagiarism, and shut thy gate on 
 
 Me for God's sake, for there are those within 
 Thy guileful porch for ease that did thee wait on,. 
 
 Whom I do grieve e'er fell into such sin ; 
 For did not Tennyson prig from Michael Drayton 
 
 The very song that did his war-fame win ? 
 And there are more by luring Fame disarmed, 
 Whom, passing by unguarded, thou hast charmed. 
 
 VII. 
 But I do sing nor for reward nor fame, 
 
 Because I'm keen enough in sight to see 
 That now-a-days, though strong may be one's claim,. 
 
 'Tis oft ignored, oft never known to be ; 
 On Publishers I here put half the blame, 
 
 And half on Critics' haste and bigotry. 
 So, save this style of verse which I am using, 
 I'll see that nothing's borrowed in my musing.
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 VIII 
 
 Oh ! fair Edina, my adopted town, 
 
 Queen of ten hundred (more or less) church spires ! 
 When of thy matchless beauty and renown 
 
 Singing, even my poor modern muse ne'er tires. 
 Me it would ill befit to run thee down, 
 
 Though thy funds' state some new town-tax requires ; 
 For thou art noble, though a bit in debt, 
 Like most of thine aristocratic set. 
 
 IX. 
 Where is the landscape lovelier than thine own ? 
 
 Where is the hill more grand than Arthur's Seat ? 
 For lofty piles thou stand'st, indeed, alone, 
 
 For men most learned, and for female feet, 
 Which (and to me the cause is quite unknown) 
 
 Are flat as flaps, and anything but neat ; 
 Thy Sons and Daughters God repent that you 
 Should have to harbour such an icy crew ! 
 
 x. 
 
 Thy Sons are all professional or sage, 
 Brimful of bunkum, fashion, and conceit 
 
 (At least I give that as my humble gauge, 
 Which please accept as you do think it meet) ;
 
 80 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 Their names appear on Charity's public page, 
 
 Yet are their desks with unpaid bills replete ; 
 They dress, and snub, and make it life's whole labour 
 To have high friends and be 'bove every neighbour. 
 
 XI. 
 Thy Daughters well, as I have said above, 
 
 Are beautiful, reserving certain parts, 
 But far too proud and Arctic for sweet Love 
 
 To show himself in out beyond their hearts. 
 Thus Cupid hath but barely room to move, 
 
 Far less good scope to throw his random darts ; 
 Whatever real their " shut up souls" contain, 
 Their present code of manners must restrain. 
 
 XII. 
 Oh ! place of Scotland's greatest, brightest, best ! 
 
 Haven of wit and wisdom in the past ! 
 Seeing the stuff of which you're now possessed, 
 
 God knows what will become of thee at last ! 
 I doubt not you must scornfully detest 
 
 The pigmies who have gradually amassed 
 About thy feet since that now distant time, 
 When breathed thy Giants, glorious and sublime !
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 81 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Thou hast thyself improved in size, I ween, 
 But modern taste oft mars thy form, alack ! 
 
 By placing 1 things as they ought never been, 
 All jumbled in a most promiscuous pack ; 
 
 As will by minds unprejudiced be seen 
 
 In such a group as Wilson, Scott, and Black. 
 
 If men must monuments to Provosts raise, 
 
 Let them be placed where Provosts win their bays ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And apropos of monuments, I may 
 
 Remark that those to Genius consecrate 
 
 Are not, alas ! all worthy. Just survey 
 
 The thing the greatest of great Scotland's great 
 
 Hath reared to him, then turn in shame away, 
 And sorrow that the town which sealed his fate 
 
 Hath not been kindlier to him. But, however, 
 
 He's spared one sight that would have made him shiver. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh ! fair Edina (as I've said before), 
 
 Still, still of thee must be my strengthening strain!
 
 82 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 Of thee and thine the more I sing 1 , the more 
 I long to launch forth into song again. 
 
 Yet though my effusions flow right from the core,. 
 I fear extremely they'll be all in vain, 
 
 For, having been 'mid petty pomp so long, 
 
 I hardly hope you'll like my simple song. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And yet there's hope, for Poets now-a-days 
 But seldom think of making you their theme, 
 
 Or such as you, but fill their laboured lays 
 
 With twaddling subjects, such as they do deem 
 
 Are nearest to the style or tone which pays, 
 Thus, wanton, wasting many a goodly ream. 
 
 If thou wouldst only patronise poor me, 
 
 I'd be most glad to write an Ode to thee. 
 
 XVII. 
 Thrice noble Town ! (Now, that's a fairish start 
 
 To this new stanza, which I wish to be' 
 Faultless in form, in substance quite as smart 
 
 As any that I've written previously ; 
 That my deep sentiment I may impart 
 
 In Mo on a theme so loved by me)
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 83- 
 
 Thrice no , but no, I'll make it far more terse 
 
 (The phrase I mean), by heading a new verse. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Thrice noble Town ! Within thy precincts are 
 Learning profound, and Beauty at her best ; 
 
 In church-going children thou excellest far 
 The most of mothers whom I have addressed. 
 
 Thy godly women love a Church Bazaar, 
 
 At which they buy or beg with Christian zest 
 
 Although, I've heard, Bazaars are used as handles 
 
 To help the motion of the newest scandals. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But this I do not credit, as to me 
 
 They have an air of saintliness about them ; 
 
 For there no lotteries are allowed to be 
 
 The ladies think 'tis more correct without them . 
 
 The ministers, 'tis said, would like to see 
 
 Them in again, though they are forced to scout thenu 
 
 The reason, I am told, is that a raffle 
 
 Makes off with things which sellers' wits would baffle.
 
 84 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Thy people's cultivated taste is shown 
 Once every week upon the Saturdays, 
 
 When they in carriages now and then their own- 
 Visit the Hall where Halle's Band displays, 
 
 Or where Miss H in some piece unknown, 
 
 Lands the majority in a music-maze, 
 
 Which (Monday's Scotsman having been perused) 
 
 Is much admired, or critically abused. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Now, do not think I mean to be abusing 
 For Romans must by Roman law abide 
 
 Only I sometimes think it quite amusing 
 How some are carried on by Fashion's tide. 
 
 If most of these but went by their own choosing, 
 The Classic spate would very soon subside ; 
 
 But it is strange how prevalent is the passion 
 
 In drawing-rooms for music most in fashion. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Yet don't mistake me, or pronounce me low 
 In taste and training, or " a howling cad ;"
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MIXSTREL. 85- 
 
 To " symphonies" and fugues I am no foe, 
 
 But rather otherwise, yet I must add, 
 Enquiries into the general taste would show 
 
 That it inclines just somewhat to be " bad ;" 
 I.e. it loves a song like " Scots wha hae," 
 As well as any of the present day. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Of course, they show a praiseworthy docility 
 
 In thus fulfilling th' exacting rules 
 Which sacrifice nigh all to save gentility 
 
 A thing that's taught in all our " proper" schools j. 
 Though some do say 'tis far from true nobility, 
 
 And that it makes its owners narrow fools. 
 But as / ne'er possessed one single tittle, 
 Of course my views must go for very little. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Edina ! Foster-mother of the Play ! 
 
 Long could'st thou boast a stage by all revered,. 
 The best trained, highest cultured of the day, 
 
 And more than all by trembling players feared ; 
 For o'er it then true Critics wielded sway, 
 
 And damned at once all worthless who appeared^
 
 THE LAY OP THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 The times are changed, now everything depends, 
 On that which London out of season sends. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Of course thou yet hast actors of thine own 
 Thy histrionic fame is not dead quite 
 
 While J. B. Howard plays, as the Shaughraun, 
 Three months per year, and on his benefit night ; 
 
 For, while he leaves Shakesperian parts alone 
 (Such as Othello) he gets on all right, 
 
 Or while his wife, as Rob Roy's spicy spouse, 
 
 Shrieks herself hoarse, amusing all the house. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 i 
 
 But even with these thy glory's fast decaying, , 
 In this respect, from what it one time was ; 
 
 To Begg's quotations and unceasing praying 
 Against all .things against Religion's laws, 
 
 A portion of the blame I would be laying ; 
 Yet that could scarcely be sufficient cause. 
 
 'Tis this the profit's not from cultured classes 
 
 But off, the things that satisfy the masses.
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 87 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And so it is that now the good old plays 
 
 The works of writers which the world once moved 
 
 The noble action that in Garrick's days 
 A less advanced generation loved, 
 
 "Win but a meagre mite of scanty praise, 
 
 While shallow stuff is by the crowd approved. 
 
 Alas ! that men of wit should stoop to write 
 
 Plays that but scarce survive the opening night ! 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Why is the Drama thus allowed to fade, 
 While men of genius everywhere abound ? 
 
 Has Literature become a common trade, 
 Whose articles are sold so much a pound ? 
 
 Alas ! our plays are all by contract made, 
 Direct for them by whom the fee is found. 
 
 Drama is done, and in its place are writ 
 
 The low burlesque and witty worded skit. 
 
 j 
 XXIX. 
 
 Who will come forth from out the selfish throng, 
 And write to save great England's honoured name ?
 
 88 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 To such a noble one there shall belong, 
 
 Not wealth perhaps, but lasting future fame. 
 
 His works shall live, while others perish long 
 
 Before the grovelling minds from whence they came.. 
 
 Ye who possess the valour to essay, 
 
 Arise, arrest the Drama's dire decay ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Tune-honoured Town, where Genius once did reign, 
 In varied splendour, on a lofty throne ; 
 
 Where gentle Eamsay wove his homely strain, 
 
 Whom Walter Scott so proudly called " Mine own ;'" 
 
 And Burns, sore tempted, sadly wooed in vain 
 Why art thou now in letters nigh unknown ? 
 
 Thy gifted sons are few and far between, 
 
 And ciphers to the mighty that have been. 
 
 XXXI. 
 Thy prose writers behold a motley crew 
 
 Of hard-up pulpit spouters, all intent 
 On making up a sort of decent screw, 
 
 By sermons to the monthly papers sent ; 
 Containing doubtful doctrines not a few, 
 
 To which in Church they could not well give vent ;
 
 THE LAY OP THE LATEST MINSTREL. 89 
 
 And scores upon the guineas who depend, 
 
 To whom, of course, the Muse may not descend. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Ah ! it is sad to look around and see 
 
 A garden that was one time green and gay 
 
 Barren, but for the weeds that needs must be, 
 And all its beauties blighted by decay ; 
 
 Or the once noble, whiter-blasted tree, 
 
 From which the winds have reft the leaves away. 
 
 Oh ! shades of Wilson, Scott, and Jeffrey, pity 
 
 The sorry state in which you've left your City. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Gone are the greatest Scotland e'er shall know ! 
 
 Her days of lettered glory long have past ! 
 The tide that came in such a mighty flow 
 
 Hath turned again, and now is ebbing fast ; 
 And threatens to become so very low, 
 
 That we'll be left but slimy mud at last. 
 God grant some Light like Luna may appear 
 In this dark night, and draw the waters near I
 
 <)0 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Of Poets there are plenty, it is true, 
 
 At least of those who get that appellation- 
 Those who can write a pleasing verse or two, 
 
 After long hours of steady application 
 Though God alone is cognisant how few 
 
 Deserve such dignity of designation. 
 Most men may rhyme ; but Thought and Sound, refined 
 By Inspiration, form the Poet's mind. 
 
 XXXV. 
 Of all contemporaries my humble song 
 
 Will not attempt to tell, for I would fail 
 Even to enumerate such a mighty throng 
 
 In any moderate space ; forby the tale, 
 Although told faultlessly, would prove too long 
 
 For modern readers, and seem sadly stale. 
 I'll only mention here the more sublime, 
 And leave the others till another time. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 There dwelleth in this City one that's great 
 
 In mental power, and learned one by force 
 Of intellect who rose from low estate 
 
 To be admired by all ; the welling source
 
 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 91 
 
 Of whose pure verse is Nature. Him had Fate 
 Not favoured Genius was his sole resource ! 
 Hard was the fight ere all thou hast was won 
 Self -cultured, gifted, noble Anderson ! , 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Long didst thou sing unheeded, long obscure 
 And nameless 'midst thy daily honest toil, 
 
 Cheering the homely hearts of fellow poor, 
 Yet laying stores of knowledge by the while ; 
 
 Until at length thy standing was secure, 
 
 And high and low both praised thy sterling style. 
 
 Since then, thy wit hath eased the heavy woe, 
 
 And thy sweet pathos caused the tear to flow. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And then there's Smith, the ministerial Bard, 
 Ambitious for a fame beyond his pews ; 
 
 Whom pastoral cares nor Session rows retard 
 From paying his attentions to the Muse. 
 
 To him is justly due the rich reward 
 
 Which he hath gained by publishing profuse ; 
 
 For Free Church folk are generally ascetic, 
 
 And very seldom rise to the poetic.
 
 92 THE LAY OF THE LATEST MINSTREL. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 His works are numerous, but throughout them all 
 We plainly see 'tis a divine who writes ; 
 
 The sombre broad-cloth, like a darksome pall, 
 Shadows each dainty morsel that invites, 
 
 And robs it of its light. The Poet's call 
 Is not unto the pulpit ; he indites 
 
 Lays of all things, brimful of melody, 
 
 And tuned to more than one particular key. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Not that by any means I would convey 
 His musings make up one religious wail ; 
 
 For, promptly after each catastrophe, 
 
 Or when a Bank's ambitious graspings fail, 
 
 He poureth forth the sympathetic lay 
 In daily papers and assists their sale. 
 
 " He's proved himself a Poet long ago," 
 
 So says one Critic, and he ought to know. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Oh, Blackie ! left to us of other days, 
 
 When souls and minds like thine were not so few-
 
 THE LAY OP THE LATEST MINSTREL. 93 
 
 My pen the dictates of my heart obeys, 
 
 In doing humble homage unto you 
 Not only out of reverence for thy ' LaysY 
 
 But admiration of thee through and through ; 
 Vigorous in mind and body, wholly free 
 From taint of false conventionality ! 
 
 XLII. 
 
 And there are signs of great things yet to be 
 
 In the sweet verse from Eobertson's young heart ; 
 
 Which floats as fresh as Spring winds o'er a lea, 
 Uncurbed by Affectation's useless art, 
 
 That soils so much of our day's poetry, 
 Yet gains its ready entrance to the mart. 
 
 If he but scorn contemporary fame, 
 
 His future efforts will embalm his name ! 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 These, oh ! Edina, are thy sons of song 
 At least all those of any high pretension ; 
 
 Not taking into count the rhyming throng, 
 
 Of whom at least some dozens I could mention. 
 
 Thy tastes, alas ! to Art do not belong, 
 But all to argument and Church dissension.
 
 94 THE LAY OP THE LATEST MIXSTBEL. 
 
 Worse luck ! your present foremost feelings' bent 
 Is not to verse, but Disestablishment ! 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 But though it well might suit thy present state, 
 I'll not give vent unto my humble views 
 
 Upon this matter, much discussed of late, 
 And thereby risk the fortunes of my muse 
 
 On her first venture ; but will rather wait 
 
 Till some critique my waning strength renews ; 
 
 And as, no doubt, I'll have to wait some time, 
 
 There'll be a chance of polishing up my rhyme. 
 
 i 
 
 XLV. 
 
 But everything must terminate, and so 
 Edina, I must end this lengthy lay ; 
 
 For time and space are precious things, although 
 I've plenty more that I would like to say. 
 
 And now, if thou, benignant, but bestow 
 One gentle smile, it will me quite repay ; 
 
 And when of thee my work is worthy reckoned, 
 
 I'll hurry up, and publish Canto Second.
 
 TO INSPIRATION 95 
 
 TO INSPIRATION. 
 
 v 
 Hail Inspiration ! coyest of dames, 
 
 Whose favours countless suitors seek in vain, 
 
 With lavished wealth, alluring to obtain ! 
 
 'Tis not the hand profuse alone that claims 
 
 Thy cherished smiles. For " many a time and oft,'* 
 
 Passing- the eager palace with disdain, 
 
 Dost thou refuse 'midst luxury to remain, 
 
 And, with shy Genius, in the wretched loft 
 
 Cheer'st the poor Poet's life, whose only pain 
 
 When thou art with him, is that he again 
 
 May sigh for thee departed ! Oh ! if thou 
 
 Would'st but reflect thy fire into my strain, 
 
 And lend me light, I'd struggle on amain 
 
 To win the wreath that decks the favoured brow.
 
 96 THOUGHT. 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 Beloved Thought ! Thou variegating flower, 
 Now pure and bright with Hope's ethereal hue, 
 Now dimmed with Disappointment's chilly dew 
 Thou art my best companion ! Many an hour 
 I've passed along with thee, soothing this life 
 
 c 
 
 With thy sweet perfume. Oh ! had I the art 
 
 To plant thy wild seeds surely in my heart, 
 
 I'd reap a harvest of them rare and rife, 
 
 By studious cultivation ! But the soil 
 
 Must first be rich and fruitful, and the streams 
 
 Of Learning's waters and the genial beams 
 
 Of Knowledge must, with much of care and toil, 
 
 Expand the germs, which, after all, but yield 
 
 Their rich autumnal fruits to grace a field 
 
 O'er which the sun is sinking.
 
 GOD. 97 
 
 GOD. 
 
 Almighty God ! Jehovah ! Endless space 
 
 And uncreate infinity are full of Thee, 
 
 Throughout the timeless ages of Eternity ! 
 
 What power can limit Thee ? What mind can trace, 
 
 Even hi imagination's loftiest flight, 
 
 The confines of Thy presence ? Infinite, 
 
 Eternal, and Supreme ! Thou reign'st alone 
 
 In wondrous majesty, unseen, unknown, 
 
 Amid an awful mystery. Behold ! 
 
 At Thine Almighty Word Creation rose 
 
 From the dark bowels of Chaos, to unfold 
 
 A token of the greatness that o'erflows 
 
 The endless Universe ! Yet, even above 
 
 Thy mightiness, prevails Thy boundless love !
 
 98 BEFORE THE BRIDGE. 
 
 BEFORE THE BRIDGE. 
 
 Beside a fastly running stream I lay, 
 Watching- the fleeting wavelets as they passed, 
 Now gloaming in the sun, and now o'ercast 
 By some tree's shade. Not very far away 
 It rose, a little spring, all bright and pure, 
 In rippling crystal, where white lilies grew 
 And breathed their sweetness, but, as on it drew r 
 The waters, widening, seemed to grow obscure 
 And noisier, until it reached the spot 
 Where I reclined, breaking o'er stony ground 
 With quick'ning pace ; then with a sudden bound 
 It plunged beneath the bridge. And then I thought 
 " How like to life ! The starting-place all bright, 
 The end enshadowed by Death's dreary night!"
 
 BEYOND THE BRIDGE. 99 
 
 BEYOND THE BRIDGE. 
 
 A sad, sad thought, and one I did not care 
 
 To harbour long 1 ; so up I rose and went 
 
 Towards the bridge with pondering step, and bent 
 
 To trace the stream still further. Oh ! the sight 
 
 That met my eyes ! It thrilled me with delight 
 
 Ecstatic ; and the thoughts of dull despair 
 
 Were changed to those of Hope. 'Mong meadows sweet 
 
 With wildflowers' perfume, rippling melody, 
 
 Calmly it wimpled on towards a sea 
 
 Shining afar, that joined the arching sky 
 
 In blended loveliness. " This is," thought I, 
 
 " The type of life beyond the grave, replete 
 
 With rest and joyful peace." Let me not grudge 
 
 To sorrow here, to live " beyond the Bridge !"
 
 100 THE PRIDE OF MAN. 
 
 THE PEIDE OF MAN. 
 
 Man's life on Earth is but one varied trouble, 
 
 Made up of vain aspirings, disappointments, 
 
 Joys that but whet the keen sharp edge of sorrow, 
 
 Fears which make dark the present, hopes which cheat 
 
 The future of its doubtfulness. And all 
 
 Is of Man's making. Pride, vain, hollow pride, 
 
 Worketh Man's misery. Oh ! that all but knew it ! 
 
 Then would the light of Heaven enhance Earth's darkness, 
 
 For Earth would be the stepping-stone to Heaven. 
 
 But men seem blind to true advantages, 
 
 And weave their own misfortunes. Why should one 
 
 Despise and trample on his neighbour, both 
 
 Being of one loving Father ? Man's real bliss 
 
 Is found in yielding others happiness !
 
 MANS VANITY. 101 
 
 MAN'S VANITY. 
 
 When one but contemplates Man's littleness, 
 How ludicrous seems all his self importance ! 
 The Earth is wondrous in its magnitude 
 To Man, containing- an infinitude 
 Of mysteries, far beyond his understanding 1 ; 
 Yet of the planets Earth is of the smallest 
 A gram of sand 'mong pebbles on the sea-shore ; 
 And the most mighty spheres we know revolve 
 Around the glorious centre of the Sun, 
 Which, in a mighty fellowship, will yield 
 Its homage to some vast unknown creation, 
 Beyond our pigmy powers to imagine ; 
 Yet feeble Man, strong in his own conceit, 
 Deems the wide Universe prostrate at his feet !
 
 102 EAETHLY HAPPINESS. 
 
 EARTHLY HAPPINESS. 
 
 One thing is graciously denied to Man : 
 The knowledge of the future. Hope is half 
 The happiness of Life, time that has gone 
 Yielding the other half. Griefs that have passed 
 Leave oftentimes the sweetness of a joy, 
 And pleasures that have left us long ago 
 We taste again, refined in recollection j 
 And the unmeasurable blank before us 
 We fill up with our fond imaginings, 
 Brightened and beautified by the touch of Hope. 
 Thus with the dim reflections of the past, 
 And the vague dreamings of a time to come, 
 We modify the sorrows of the present 
 Poor Man, whose happiness is but a shadow 1
 
 THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 103 
 
 THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 
 
 Many there be who wend their way through life, 
 
 Engrossed supremely in the world's affairs, 
 
 And vainly purposing to make Life yield 
 
 Its own reward. Nigh every selfish thought 
 
 Their minds possess, excepting only one 
 
 The thought that every mortal hath to die. 
 
 This by some means they manage to evade 
 
 In its intensity. Such men are as 
 
 The traveller, who in the darksome night 
 
 Heeds not the warning that a horrid chasm 
 
 Yawns in the roadway further on, and dashes 
 
 Keckless along, to meet his desperate fate. 
 
 'Tis well we should be mindful of our end : 
 
 Death is but feared by those who on themselves depend !
 
 104 DEATH. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 What can there be about the simple thought 
 
 That we must die, which causes us to shun 
 
 Its dreaded recognition more than aught 
 
 That haunts us here on earth ? Let everyone 
 
 But weigh the matter well, and there is naught 
 
 To fear within the tomb. 'Tis but the door, 
 
 Though dark and drear maybe, and grimly fraught,. 
 
 That leads us from the world when life is o'er, 
 
 To never-ending peace. When Jesus died, 
 
 And tenanted the tomb, He left the ray 
 
 Of Heaven's celestial light, and purified 
 
 The blackness of the grave. So, let us pray 
 
 Tht when the sombre portals do appear, 
 
 Through faith with welcome we may hold them dear, 
 
 As guiding us to God !
 
 TO A BANK NOTE. 105 
 
 TO A- BANK NOTE. 
 
 The Fates decree, and I must say farewell 
 
 To thee, my cherished one, whom I would fain 
 
 Within the precincts of my purse retain 
 
 A little longer. Fancy dare not dwell 
 
 Upon the blank that thy departure makes 
 
 In my poor pocket, which, when thou art left, 
 
 Of everything- like money is bereft. 
 
 And even Hope my fainting- heart forsakes, 
 
 And vanishes with thee, for where to turn 
 
 To find another such " I am to learn." 
 
 Yet, after all, it really is a wonder 
 
 That thou hast been so long- my constant mate 
 
 When all thy friends have fled. Oh ! cruel fate, 
 
 That drives us two so very far asunder !
 
 106 SPRING. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The reign of Winter's over now, for lo ! 
 
 The rills dance merrily down the steep hillsides, 
 And through the plains the river swiftly glides, 
 
 With all remaining of the vanished snow. 
 
 Upon the trees the sprouts begin to shew ; 
 The birds- are busy, pluming the tattered wing 
 And so can find but little time to sing ; 
 The lark now mounts to meet th' uprising day, 
 And dew-drops nestle where the hoar-frost lay 
 
 For Spring's sweet breath is felt where'er we go. 
 Here is a snowdrop, bending its fragile head, 
 As if against a storm it seems to dread ; 
 The primrose blooms in every mossy glen, 
 And Nature, waking, robes herself again.
 
 AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. 107 
 
 AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 The clouds are passing 1 o'er the brightening 1 plain, 
 
 And Sol, emerging, reassumes his reign ; 
 
 The rain-drops glisten on each leaf and blade, 
 
 Purer than rarest jewels. From the glade 
 
 Floats the rich music of the blackbird's song 1 
 
 Upon the odorous west wind. All along 
 
 The dark green hedges chirping sparrows fly, 
 
 And the glad larks are caroling in the sky ; 
 
 The summer shower has swoll'n each little rill 
 
 That rhythmically tinkles from the hill ; 
 
 The woodlands ring that were erstwhile forlorn, 
 
 And the strong sunbeams raise the fallen corn ; 
 
 In all its glory, varied and serene, 
 
 God's arch of promise spans the beauteous scene.
 
 108 AN AUTUMN NIGHT. 
 
 AN AUTUMN NIGHT. 
 
 It is an Autumn night, and in the air 
 There is a frosty keenness, for the year 
 Is wearing- old : the heaven's broad vault is clear 
 
 And cloudless, and the Moon reigns everywhere. 
 
 The trees are outlined dark against the blue ; 
 Down in the hollow lies the peaceful lake, 
 Slumbering in shade, save where the moonbeams break 
 Silvery upon its bosom through the leaves ; 
 And on the slopes the corn in golden sheaves 
 
 Is brightly spangled with the falling dew. 
 
 Oh ! what a scene of loveliness combined 
 
 With peacefulness ! But as my way I tread, 
 
 The fallen leaves and chilly air remind 
 
 How soon the Winter's snows will shroud fair Nature dead.
 
 OCTOBER. 109 
 
 OCTOBER, 
 
 The Summer's gone : now Autumn wields her sway 
 Over the fading scene. The withering leaves 
 Fall gently rustling ; and around the eaves 
 Each rose is blown, and blighted by decay, 
 And chill winds tear the petals fast away. 
 The corn is cut : each field is bleak and bare, 
 No notes of birds float through the misty air, 
 Save when the lapwings raise their piteous cry, 
 Or seagulls, fearful of the frowning sky, 
 Forsake the troubled ocean's heaving breast, 
 And shriek along the plain. Round every tree 
 The restless east winds moan incessantly : 
 The heavens are clouded from the East to West, 
 And Sorrow's seal seems everywhere impressed.
 
 HO IN WINTER. 
 
 IN WINTER. 
 
 The crisp white snow lies deep on moor and hill 
 
 A striking contrast to the dark thin trees, 
 
 That shiver sadly in the biting breeze 
 And all the melody of Nature's still ; 
 For frozen fast is every mountain rill, 
 
 And fled to shelter all the Summer's choir. 
 A lonely redbreast on the window-sill 
 
 Seems envious of the genial kitchen fire, 
 Where snug we sit, after a day's work done, 
 Watching the setting of the cold red sun. 
 
 Now to the East thick threatening clouds arise,. 
 
 Leaden of hue, and fill the bursting skies ; 
 
 And as I make the shuddering shutters tight, 
 I grieve to think where some may sleep to-night.
 
 TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS, DURING 
 A PAINFUL ILLNESS. 
 
 Oh ! may this Christmas bring unto thy heart- 
 Joy for the present, hope for future days ; 
 
 And may the faith in Jesus' love impart 
 The patient peace which every grief allays. 
 
 The year that's swiftly wearing- to its close 
 Has been to thee a time of weary pain ; 
 
 But as the mild Spring melts the Winter's snows, 
 Bright, beauteous Health will comfort thee again. 
 
 The tear-dimmed eye that hath not closed in sleep 
 Looks longingly to greet the lingering morn, 
 
 For in the heart, at every morning's peep, 
 
 Dead aims revive, and sanguine hopes are born. 
 
 And when Aurora breaks the Eastern sky 
 With rosy smiles, and Day brings up the rear 
 
 In glorious state, the Soul wings up on high, 
 And for a time seems safe from every fear.
 
 112 TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Thus is it now. The New Year anyway 
 Had brought, indeed, some happiness to you ; 
 
 But brighter now will be that festive day, 
 For buds of health are flowering into view. 
 
 So, glad and thankful, hopeful for the best, 
 Striving for strength and doing all we can, 
 
 We'll wait and trust, and God will do the rest, 
 And thus the year will end happy as it began.
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 113 
 
 I. 
 
 My darling Sister, 
 I long have purposed writing you in rhyme 
 
 My thoughts on you, and various other matter 
 Concerning things occurring daily that are 
 Of interest, but have never yet found tune ; 
 
 In fact, oft missed a 
 
 Goodly chance of doing something lasting, 
 I have no doubt, 
 Through being out, 
 
 When properly I ought to have been paying 
 My humble dues 
 Unto the Muse, 
 
 Whom no amount of prayers, or feasts, or fasting 
 Will ere move to 
 Give up to you 
 The precious favours lost by your delaying ; 
 
 For you must know, 
 It is not always one can make to flow 
 The liquid line, and cause each word to glow
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 With force and fire, 
 But only when the centred mind 
 Feels a strange power undefined, 
 And an innate desire combined, 
 
 To tune the lyre. 
 
 But I shall try, now that I have begun, 
 To make amends 
 With pen and ink ; 
 And now, I think, 
 The only thing to fear is when I'll stay 
 
 This little lay, 
 
 For certain pieces which I've lately done 
 Are without ends. 
 
 II 
 
 I do not know 
 
 Whether 'tis well or worse for me, my soul 
 Is nearly always under the control 
 
 Of love of things below 
 Not sins, but things which wit or beauty show. 
 
 Thus, I adore 
 
 The company of her or him who gives 
 The mental food on which my pleasure lives,
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 115 
 
 And, even more, 
 Fair Nature's loveliness, lavished the whole world o'er. 
 
 But far above 
 
 These changeful likings rests the changeless love, 
 Which Earth's perfection could not one jot move 
 
 From its position 
 
 Within my heart the love that prompts each feat, 
 And glows with light, and joy, and hope replete, 
 Even in my worst condition. 
 
 But, of course, 
 
 You easily anticipate its source : 
 It is for her than whom but God alone 
 
 Can claim a greater share of my affection, 
 And you and those who, 'neath her kind protection, 
 And by her weary toil, have nought but ease e'er known. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis to her who now is stricken low 
 That all our joys, our very life we owe ; 
 For did she not, when lonely with us left, 
 And unprovided for, of friends bereft, 
 Who in her affluence had friendship vowed 
 Did she not then, when Poverty's black cloud 
 Hovered all horrid o'er our helpless heads,
 
 116 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 With all its fearful train of wants and dreads, 
 
 Exert her fainting strength, by Love renewed, 
 
 And shield us from its bursting fierce and rude ? 
 
 Yes, by her toil and care unceasing we 
 
 Have never known what misery may be ! 
 
 Not only this : but, scorning to descend 
 
 In her proud spirit, and on friends depend, 
 
 With not one hand to help her save her own 
 
 And that of God, which never hath been known 
 
 Yet to forsake the pleading one, she strained 
 
 Her every nerve for love of us, and gained 
 
 Not only food and clothing, but a share 
 
 Of education such as would compare 
 
 With that of those whose aid, thank God, though offered, 
 
 Was aye refused as coldly as 'twas proffered 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! we can never fully recognise 
 The debt by us due to our darling mother. 
 It is a debt of love which can be paid 
 By love alone. It is by gratitude, 
 Affection, and obedience that we ought 
 Show our appreciation, heart and soul felt ; 
 Letting escape our lips no bitter word,
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 117 
 
 Or rude or wilful, watching- every act. 
 And ruling- our behaviour so that noug-ht 
 May be therein to cause the slightest chord 
 Of grief or shame to vibrate in the heart, 
 World-tried and torn full many a time for us. 
 This is our duty f Let love make it light, 
 And chang-e it with his wondrous alchemy 
 Into a heavenly pleasure for our souls 
 To revel in delig-hted, and on Earth 
 A greater one we shall not wish possess. 
 
 V. 
 
 But let me end 
 A theme so hig-h, 
 One which my weak Muse never would pretend 
 
 To satisfy; 
 And turn my lay 
 
 To sing- the song- intended while I may, 
 For, as is usual, I've a lot to say. 
 
 The first thing I'll discuss 
 Is pretty t well beknown to both of us. 
 
 'Tis that which lies 
 
 Sometimes beneath a very thick disguise, 
 Sometimes quite bare,
 
 118 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 In places where 
 Fair Nature pines for her diminished share 
 
 Of patronage. 
 
 It is the wedge 
 
 Placed 'neath the form of Beauty, with a view 
 Of perfecting the figure deemed askew, 
 And adding greater loveliness thereto ; 
 
 Which always must deface 
 
 Where there is perfect grace. 
 
 Tis that but no, 
 Why should I further with description go ? 
 
 Here's the summation 
 The bitter bane of breathing here below 
 
 Is Affectation. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How sad to see 
 So many fools beneath its slavery, 
 
 Taking such painful heed 
 Of every word and deed, 
 Lest Nature fair 
 Shew unaware, 
 And, truthful, lay the whole deception bare.
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Some of these seek its false enticing- aid 
 
 To make them what they never could be made 
 
 By any art, 
 
 And play a part 
 In which even what they have is left all undisplayed. 
 
 Some, from vain pride, 
 Wishing to rank hi all things side by side 
 
 With those far higher, 
 Don Affectation's thin disguise to hide 
 
 All they require. 
 While others, deep of mind, 
 Or beautiful, perhaps, but yet inclined 
 
 To love attention, 
 
 By picking words, and studying all their acts 
 Oft mar the very lustre which attracts. 
 
 And I could mention 
 Full many another species of this blight 
 
 In man all ages ; 
 But only it would take too long to write 
 
 So many pages ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 It is to me 
 (Because so rare) a joyous sight to see
 
 120 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 A man, and more a woman, wholly free 
 
 From this foul taint ; 
 For at the present Fashion seems to be 
 Nature's restraint ! 
 And even though 
 The person, true to feeling-, be below, 
 
 Or hig-h above, 
 I would for her or him contract, I know, 
 
 A sort of love 
 At least a combination 
 Of that and admiration. 
 
 And this is why, 
 
 For now of years a goodly number, I 
 Have tightly kept my hold of that stout tie 
 Of Love which holds 
 Within its folds 
 
 Our allied hearts, all eager and unalteredly. 
 For it is wound 
 All round and round 
 Each smallest corner of my heart, and bound, 
 
 Full sure and sound, 
 By bonds of admiration and attraction 
 Of that sound sense and honesty of action 
 So seldom found.
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 121 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Here let me say, 
 
 I trust that you, by any things I've said 
 As to my doctrines, will not be misled 
 
 In any way ; 
 
 For next to Affectation, false and vain, 
 Vulgarity in girls I most disdain. 
 However pretty, 
 Or sharp, or witty 
 The girl may be, 
 
 If Rudeness be where Modesty should dwell, 
 Her forward talk and manner but repel, 
 And Love's incipient feelings quickly quell 
 At least with me. 
 A gentle grace 
 
 Oft wins more lovers than a pretty face. 
 And this is rightly so, 
 For Beauty's brightest glow 
 Lasts but few days, even in its loftiest place 
 While worth and sweetness stay, 
 
 To ease the weary road, 
 And guide us to the Way 
 
 That leads at last to God ! 
 H
 
 122 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There is a class 
 Of giddy girls for whom I do not care, 
 
 But who, alas ! 
 Are anything but rare. 
 
 This kind of girl 
 
 Loves constantly to live amid the whirl 
 Of some excitement frivoling in the dance, 
 Or acting heroine in some sham romance 
 
 Of her own scheming ; 
 
 And such like idle dreaming. 
 
 Her shallow mind 
 
 Delights to count the numbers who pretend 
 For her a love, of very doubtful end, 
 And, pettedly, to favour or offend 
 
 When she's inclined ; 
 
 But, you will find, 
 That such an one is oftenest left to wend 
 
 All in the lurch, 
 
 Alone to church, 
 Through the cold years which single she must spend. 
 
 This, you will see, 
 
 Is meet to be 
 The only termination of the life
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 123 
 
 Of such a chit, 
 Which ne'er could fit 
 The woman for a good and faithful wife. 
 
 X. 
 
 Full many a life 
 
 Has been embittered by one haughty glance, 
 That might have been spent happily perchance, 
 And robbed of all the blessings that enhance 
 
 The endless strife. 
 
 Oh ! melancholy surely is the lot of him 
 Whose dreary days are darkened by the whim 
 Of one false woman ! How his hopeless heart 
 Must ache and bleed beneath the wilful smart ! 
 His nights go sleepless and his days dawn dark, 
 And on his brow pale Sorrow sets her mark ; 
 Life seems a useless series of pains, 
 And not one undimmed hope of Heaven or Earth remains. 
 
 This could not be 
 The state of things with anyone like me ; 
 
 For, I am sure, 
 My love could never possibly endure 
 
 Without return. 
 But yet there is a love, like smouldering coke,
 
 124 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Which, damped, sheds round itself a clammy smoke, 
 Yet its strong- flames the waters fail to choke 
 Which deep down burn. 
 Oh ! then beware 
 
 Of cutting 1 words, or cold or scornful air, 
 Lest aug-ht be in thine answer 
 To breed the horrid cancer 
 That eats into the soul, and sheds gloom everywhere 
 
 XL 
 
 Next let me say, 
 
 One weighty fault of ladies of to-day 
 Is want of depth of mind, 
 With wit and grace combined. 
 
 Thus when we find, 
 
 Once in a way, a woman of high thought, 
 And in the Arts and Sciences well taught, 
 She generally lacks that tenderness 
 Without which Woman must be all amiss, 
 However clever ; 
 And hardly ever 
 Have I found one not more or less like this. 
 
 And, on the other hand, 
 The most of modern maidens seem to've planned,
 
 ODE TO MY SISTER. 125 
 
 When in men's company, 
 To talk but foolery, 
 
 Deeming, no doubt, that it's most in demand 
 Now, though most healthy men 
 Like nonsense now and then 
 When they get nothing more, 
 Even from them they adore, 
 It soon proves tiresome and becomes a bore. 
 How this should be 
 I hardly see. 
 Is it too far 
 
 To stretch one's fancy safely, to assume 
 That in the far-off future there shall bloom 
 A race of girls, without or gaud or gloom 
 
 To spoil or mar 
 Fair Beauty's grace, or Learning's lightened face ? 
 
 XII. 
 
 But of this scrawl you must ere this have tired, 
 And if that's so, I'm near the end desired. 
 
 Try every way, 
 With ardent love and gratitude, to pay 
 
 The debt that's due 
 To one who never grudged to work for you.
 
 126 ODE TO MY SISTER. 
 
 Still let thy heart 
 Contemn the trammellings of useless art, 
 
 And let the flow 
 Of honest feelings from the soul ne'er know 
 
 Undue restraint, 
 
 Like to those hypocrites who, before they shew 
 The world their feelings, make them undergo 
 
 A careful paint. 
 
 And yet be free 
 
 In word and action from vulgarity, 
 Letting thine accents fall soft and refined, 
 Bearing the burden of a balanced mind ; 
 Careful of scandal let thine utterings be, 
 Yet all untouched by sly hypocrisy ; 
 Let Patience keep thy temper in its place, 
 And teach thy heart to yield with seemly grace ; 
 Let a clear Conscience keep thy mind serene, 
 And watchful Virtue guard thy name from spleen 
 Let Resignation soothe thy soul in grief, 
 And in good time will come the wished relief ; 
 But chiefly, see thy breast be free from sin, 
 And fit for thy dear Saviour dwelling in ; 
 Live good and godly, so that you may die 
 In perfect peace, and live again eternally !
 
 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. B. 127 
 
 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. R., 
 ON His BIRTHDAY. 
 
 The Muses on Parnassus' hill 
 Could scarce into my mind instil 
 Enough to form a worthy lay 
 To greet thee on thy natal day. 
 For how with words could I impart 
 The speechless throbbings of my heart ? 
 Had inspiration been my dower, 
 Had I possessed the Poet's power, 
 The sweetest lilt, the loftiest strain, 
 Had been alike but vile and vain 
 To ease my soul, and thus convey 
 The endless things I fain would say 
 
 If, curious, one should ask me why 
 The strength of song I thus deny ; 
 The answer brief and bold would be 
 " 'T would take well-nigh Eternity 
 To tell, e'en in the swiftest line, 
 And twice Eternity in mine,
 
 128 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. B. 
 
 The blessings, wishes, hopes, and fears 
 My heart hath for his future years." 
 
 Then, as the bitter Fates decide 
 Oblivion must my wishes hide, 
 Since of the power my mind is scanted, 
 Just take what I'd have said for granted. 
 
 But though expression may not be 
 
 To those dear thoughts I have for thee, 
 
 Yet " Memory's aid" I do not lack, 
 
 So, with her leave, I'll hie me back 
 
 To sweeter scenes of other days, 
 
 And wander 'midst the golden haze 
 
 Which spreads around, and makes them seem 
 
 The joy-lit phantoms of a dream ; 
 
 And find the spot where we two met, 
 
 And trace the path we're treading yet : 
 
 So that the way we've yet to wend 
 
 May be lit up by Hope serene ; 
 
 For why should future days, my friend, 
 
 Not be as bright as those we've seen ? 
 
 Where did we meet ? The wearied sun 
 Had sunk upon the horizon,
 
 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. R. 129 
 
 And peaceful Evening's gentle light 
 
 "Was ushering in a Summer's night : 
 
 'Twas that sweet time when labours cease, 
 
 And softening shades engender peace 
 
 Within the soul, and harmony 
 
 Dwells all around, that you and I 
 
 First made that friendship, which nor spite 
 
 Nor envy hath been fit to blight, 
 
 Though both have tried with all their subtle might ! 
 
 When Memory, sullen, doth refuse 
 
 To grant the charm that life renews, 
 
 And I no more may see us stand 
 
 When first we grasped the mutual hand, 
 
 Deep may oblivion shroud my head 
 
 Amid the chaos of the dead ! 
 
 My home was far, and there was none 
 Sufficient of my heart had won 
 For me to love, as Friend to own, 
 And I was really all alone 
 Alone with Hope, alone with Fear, 
 With every joy, and every tear 
 Until I found more than I sought, 
 When us two Fate together brought.
 
 130 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. R. 
 
 To thee my boyish heart was bared 
 With thee my inmost secret shared. 
 Scarce did my mind one thought contain 
 But what thou shared'st its joy or pain. 
 This was the channel where the woe 
 Of my young- heart found room to flow, 
 When many a time the pent-up grief 
 Had overflowed without relief. 
 
 Day after day our friendship grew, 
 
 Day after day it proved more true, 
 
 Chequered full oft by tiff and huff 
 
 Which made the roadway rather rough. 
 
 But though I ofttimes lagged awhile, 
 
 You waited at the next road-stile 
 
 Till I came up, and having met, 
 
 We journeyed e'en the closer yet. 
 
 For when apart we always prized 
 
 The tie the more, and recognised 
 
 The folly of a hasty temper 
 
 Keeping two friends thus separate semper. 
 
 Oh ! bitter, bitter was the strain 
 
 Of jarring thoughts, and sharp the pain 
 
 Of deep remorse whene'er the cloud
 
 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. R. 131 
 
 Of friendship parted was allowed 
 
 To gather round, and all our pleasures shroud ! 
 
 When love first caused my boyish heart 
 With all its fancied pains to smart, 
 When but one theme my lips would own, 
 And oped to speak one name alone, 
 How tiresome it must all have been, 
 And yet no want of patience seen 
 In thee, but, listening- to the end, 
 You proved a sympathetic friend. 
 
 Then when my schoolboy errors drew 
 Down on my wayward head their due, 
 Or for some other had my name 
 Blackened to all in public shame ; 
 When boon companions shrank from me, 
 As one bleached with vile leprosy 
 While the disgrace should have attached 
 To those who would in sins have matched 
 Satan himself, oft have I seen 
 Thine advocacy intervene 
 To plead my cause, and thus defend 
 A grateful, though an erring friend.
 
 132 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. R. 
 
 How oft, when Summer's scented breath 
 
 Scarce stirred the leaves in Tyrell's Heath, 
 
 And softly through the sultry air 
 
 The birds made mellow music there, 
 
 When, 'midst the grass of richest green, 
 
 Blue violets were scarcely seen, 
 
 As sweet they hid their matchless eyes, 
 
 Like bashful maidens, when the skies 
 
 Hung cloudless, arched, and Nature smiled 
 
 In sunbeams on her beauteous child 
 
 How oft have we together strayed, 
 
 And viewed th' enchanting scene displayed ! 
 
 There we have told our stories o'er 
 
 Of other friends, and days before 
 
 We came together ; there advised 
 
 Each other's doubts, and plans devised, 
 
 Which, not possessing what we willed, 
 
 Were very seldom e'er fulfilled. 
 
 Oh ! how I long to roam again 
 
 The woods through which we wandered then : 
 
 In fancy only can I trace 
 
 Each beauteous walk, each favourite place, 
 
 Which seem, on looking back, to me 
 
 Some blissful paradise to be.
 
 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. B. 133 
 
 Oh ! days that were, oh ! distant days ! 
 "Tis when with tear -dimmed eyes I gaze 
 Upon ye, now receding- fast, 
 I feel my happiest days are past ! 
 
 As I once said, some time ago, 
 My dear old friend, I do not know 
 What drew us two together so. 
 Our natures hi most things are quite 
 As different as the day from night ; 
 And many a squabble sharp and keen, 
 And heated argument I've seen 
 Betwixt us, yet there seems to be 
 A magnet placed 'tween you and me, 
 Which must at first have made us meet, 
 And guideth now our hasty feet ; 
 So that, however much we try, 
 We cannot sever you and I. 
 
 But why all this ? You know full well, 
 
 And better far than I could tell, 
 
 How things transpired. Suffice to say, 
 
 Our love on this auspicious day 
 
 Still lasts, and stronger e'en than when
 
 134 ODE TO MY DEAR FRIEND, H. M. M. R. 
 
 I dwelt with thee. But here my pen 
 
 Grows soft and scratchy, warning me 
 
 I weary with prolixity ; 
 
 So, to the gentle hint attending, 
 
 I'll bring this missive to an ending. 
 
 With only this May peace, content, and health 
 
 Be thine, till called upon to lay them by ; 
 
 And may you gain by Life the noblest wealth 
 
 In Heaven and Mind an immortality !
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 135 
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M., 
 
 ON THE OCCASION OF HIS BlRTHDAY, 14lH MAY 1881. 
 I. 
 
 Dear M , 
 
 'Twould be unfair if I were to let go 
 This day without remitting you some token 
 To prove to you 
 That friendship true 
 
 Which, since its birth, has never once been broken 
 By word or act, 
 Tho' oft, in fact, 
 
 By heated converse very much exposed. 
 And, therefore, I hasten 
 To legibly place hi 
 
 The records of History, so far's hi my power, 
 The date of your birth, 
 And your wisdom and worth, 
 By the few verses afterwards disclosed ; 
 Which, you will see, 
 Are meant to be 
 Nor elegant nor classic, but a shower
 
 136 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 
 
 Of lines promiscuous, and of words that rhyme, 
 In no set time, 
 
 Which, to prevent mistaking, you must know, 
 Is an address 
 To thee, J M . 
 
 II. 
 
 What can I say 
 
 In feeble words t' immortalise this day, 
 The future reddest-lettered of the month of May- 
 Time's best division ? 
 
 Shall I, in glowing terms and faultless verse, 
 Your every merit and your worth rehearse, 
 
 Without the least excision ? 
 No ! for the Muse's wings are far too slight 
 And inexperienced to attempt an height 
 
 Beyond her vision. 
 
 All she can do (and that she does with zest) 
 Is to acquaint all those as yet unblest 
 In ignorance of the fact, 
 
 That thou wert born 
 Most probably in the very early morn- 
 
 'Mong hopes and fears, 
 And your own infant tears,
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 137 
 
 Just one and twenty years 
 
 Ago exact. 
 
 That fact alone, more than all I could say, 
 Must surely mark its memory to endure alway. 
 
 III. 
 
 Springtime has gone, 
 And not a few of Summer's suns have shone 
 
 Over the ripening scene. 
 
 The snowdrop has drooped in the southern air, 
 And the freshness has gone in the gaudy glare 
 
 Of a sultry Summer's sun. 
 The little green shoots of the corn have grown 
 Into waving stalks, and the buds have blown, 
 And mantled the woods in green. 
 The heather smells sweet on the purple hill, 
 And the birds with sweet music the woodlands fill, 
 
 Singing till Day is done. 
 
 Thus the Springtime of life with you now is past, 
 And the Summer is come, but, ah ! not to last ; 
 For Autumn, so solemn and sere, 
 With its withering leaves, will be here, 
 Chilling the zephyr's warm breath, 
 Then into the past it will also melt,
 
 138 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 
 
 And the piercing 1 cold frosts will be keenly felt, 
 
 Changing 1 all life into death. 
 For, twenty-one years you have acted your part 
 
 Upon the rough boards of life's stage. . . 
 But, however, believe me, it is from the heart, 
 
 I rejoice in your coming of age. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Twenty-one ! 
 A fortunate day in the lives of the few, 
 
 When the wealthy heir 
 
 Claims his coveted share ; 
 But nothing to me or to you ! 
 Bringing us neither gift nor gold, 
 
 Nor right to great estate ; 
 But showing us that we are growing old, 
 
 With nothing to cheer or elate. 
 And as this is so we must harder strive, 
 
 If we want to rise to fame ; 
 And with plenty of pluck we may yet contrive 
 
 To leave well, some kind of a name. 
 
 Twenty-one ! 
 What a distance it seemed not so long ago, 
 
 When childhood's eyes looked o'er the way,
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 139 
 
 And gazed thro' the vista of years all aglow 
 With hopes to be reached ere that day ! 
 Yet how soon was it gained, and our hopes unattained, 
 
 Though shining before us the same ; 
 For the colour of distant hopes always remained, 
 Tho' it glided away as we came. 
 
 Twenty-one ! 
 
 A turning-point hi many or for good or ill, 
 A trying tune, when all the passions fill 
 The harassed mind, 
 And every kind 
 Of wanton wiles 
 And tempting guiles 
 
 Are laid, and lead astray, oft even against the will. 
 Then take thou heed 
 Of word and deed, 
 
 Working with zeal, and having hope in front, 
 Yet putting not excessive trusting on't. 
 For, that our future may be bright, 
 We must work now with all our might. 
 And as thou hast been (greatly to thy praise), 
 Still be opposed to all of wicked ways.
 
 140 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 
 
 V. 
 
 'Tis only when one leaves the family circle, 
 
 And all the friends of youth, for some place distant, 
 
 And strange companions, that their real value 
 
 Is rightly known. Ah ! what a gracious boon 
 
 A mother's presence is ! Oh ! how it soothes 
 
 The grieved soul, and cools the harassed mind 
 
 With loving tenderness ! How it reproves 
 
 Our wayward acts, tho' ne'er an angry word 
 
 Fall from the gentle lips ! It is an element 
 
 In Nature to restrain, to guide, and bless, 
 
 And teach us to adore the God who gives 
 
 Such guardian angels to us here on earth. 
 
 Here, dwelling lonely, distant from that spot, 
 
 Where are the ones far dearest to our hearts, 
 
 How often do the thoughts, spontaneously, 
 
 Dwell on them all, and in our mental body 
 
 Are we among the group ! How carefully 
 
 We should conduct ourselves and rule our actions, 
 
 When that same dear one whom we love to think of 
 
 Is constantly beside us in our thoughts, 
 
 And trustful, only sees us do correctly !
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 141 
 
 VI. 
 
 For you I see, 
 Forth in the future but prosperity, 
 
 If in the years that lie 
 'Tween this and then you constantly apply 
 Yourself to train yourself, even as you've done 
 In years through which you have already run. 
 
 For obviously, 
 Your tastes are after business naturally. 
 
 And with determination, 
 
 And steady occupation, 
 
 When ratiocinations 
 
 Have dispelled hallucinations, 
 
 And all your solid senses 
 
 Are free from all offences 
 
 Of arbitrary prejudice, 
 
 Neuralgias and biliousness, 
 
 Eccentric views and notions, 
 
 Which cause so many commotions, 
 
 Whenever they come in contact 
 
 With anything that proves a fact 
 You doubtlessly will rise above the common crowd, 
 And cause the one who calls thee " friend" be proud.
 
 142 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 
 
 VII. 
 
 How many an aim 
 We cherish now with hope to future fame, 
 
 Or ultimate success ; 
 Not thinking of all those who did the same, 
 
 And ended in distress ! 
 For somehow, we can hardly preconceive 
 That all the dreams in which we now believe 
 
 Will fade away; 
 
 For now we judge of dangers by those which we've passed, 
 And, eager, deem the next as easy as the last 
 
 To our essay. 
 
 But soon we know, 
 After a little, that this is not so, 
 
 And early find 
 
 Obstacles numberless before our footsteps laid, 
 Which to elude, at the dire toil dismayed, 
 So many men had from the right path strayed, 
 
 And fallen behind. 
 And then we understand 
 How hard it is to do what we have planned. 
 
 For tho' we try 
 
 To clear some ditch with all our utmost force, 
 We often land halfway, and then, of course,
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 
 
 We take some time to dry ! 
 Thus even altho' 
 We strive and strain, 
 With might and main, 
 And never quail, 
 We often fail 
 
 To make the point proposed, and stop a good way down 
 below ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And in what, my friend, 
 Will all our plans and future struggles end, 
 
 And when ? 
 
 Only in death, and when our bodies blend 
 With the same earth on which we now contend, 
 And not till then. 
 For tho' we gain, 
 
 By weary work and long, a goodly store, 
 It only stimulates us to attain 
 The more. 
 And so 
 
 The term of life allowed us here below 
 Must needs be fraught with much of every woe ; 
 All consequent 
 On discontent,
 
 144 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 
 
 And a desire 
 
 To rise still higher 
 
 Than what we are, 
 And rest some place, which ever keeps afar 
 
 But do not think 
 That I would have you from your labours turn, 
 
 Or plans repent. 
 No ! work as you will, but only try to learn 
 
 To be content, 
 
 Then you will get thro' life with ease, and happy be 
 With your reward, and, looking back, will see 
 
 A life well spent ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ah me, alas ! 
 How quickly do the years of boyhood pass, 
 
 Leaving us men, 
 
 And a good way off from that tranquil bay 
 Where the waters were sparkling and bright as we lay, 
 
 Moored safe by parental care ! 
 For soon did Ambition come and steer 
 Our frail eager barks from the coast so clear, 
 
 Out to life's stormy sea, 
 
 Where now, even when
 
 ODE TO MY FRIEND, J. M. 145 
 
 We've a sort of foreknowledge of what is before, 
 How the waves will surge, and the winds will roar 
 
 In fearsome hostility, 
 
 We ever keep on through the battling waves, 
 On, ever on, till we find our graves, 
 
 And sink in Eternity ! 
 
 But is this, then, all 
 All that we gain by the voyage of Life ? 
 Is there no reward for the hopeful strife, 
 
 At length to sweeten the gall ? 
 Oh, yes ! there is one, but 'tis far, far away, 
 
 Far through the waves and the wind ; 
 And not to be reached till we've toiled o'er the sea, 
 Guided by Faith, that by Grace we may be 
 
 Worthy the rest we shall find !
 
 146 LINES ON POETRY. 
 
 LINES ON POETRY, 
 WRITTEN FOR A LADY IN AN ALBUM* 
 
 My dear C , 'tis, you know, 
 
 Impossible to cause to flow, 
 
 In crystal waves and mighty force, 
 
 A streamlet, muddy from its source. 
 
 True Poetry is like the bow 
 That in the heavens its form doth show, 
 When showers of rain have over past, 
 And sunbeams through the clouds are cast. 
 It cometh not with frost or snow, 
 Nor when the bitter East winds blow ; 
 But when sweet April vernal Queen 
 With varied mood enchants the scene, 
 In perfect form, and purest hue, 
 It compasseth the glistening view ; 
 It strikes the eye as nought can do, 
 And sets the mind a-wondering too, 
 That such foresights of Heaven should be 
 Vouchsafed to beings such as we.
 
 LINES ON POETRY. 147 
 
 Yes, Poetry is nigh divine 
 The loftiest of the lofty Nine 
 Who on Parnassus' hill preside, 
 And loveliest, gentlest, best beside ! 
 
 When Genius' light burns bright and clear, 
 The clogs of Fancy disappear ; 
 From showers of doubtful thoughts revolved, 
 A glorious form is fast evolved. 
 
 To speak hi line that's fit to scan 
 
 Is possible to every man, 
 
 And even woman ; but to sing 
 
 With powerful depth or clear sweet ring 
 
 Of God and Man, is only given 
 
 To those great minds inspired from heaven. 
 
 Some seek to find (who never can) 
 
 The hidden, wondrous talisman, 
 
 That changes barren human words 
 
 To sound like harmonising chords. 
 
 If it lie not within the breast, 
 
 Then, though we seek from east to west, 
 
 The magic power will be as far 
 
 As souls in Hell from Heaven are.
 
 148 LINES ON POETRY. 
 
 Some may by perseverance gain 
 The art to form a pleasing strain, 
 Like this, perhaps, but there they stay, 
 And things they write with them decay. 
 But there are words will never die, 
 Lips that shall speak eternally, 
 Minds that will ever foster mind, 
 Men to be loved by all mankind ! 
 Immortal fame, immortal praise, 
 Are theirs who sing immortal lays ! 
 Such is the meed of but the few 
 Those who received the work to do, 
 And did it well ; those who, with pen 
 And brain, toiled on for fellow-men : 
 Who sang, without a false control, 
 The deep, true feelings of the soul 
 Lending the World a light to see 
 The secrets of humanity ! 
 
 Poetry is the purest wave 
 Wherein the soul of man may lave 
 To soothe his sorrow, and allay 
 The pain inflicted on the way 
 Through worldly life.
 
 LINES ON POETRY. 149 
 
 He loses life 
 
 Who giveth to the earthly strife 
 His heart and soul, and never knows 
 The joy of rest, save Death's repose. 
 Oh ! soar above the common end 
 Of man, and thus prove man's best friend ! 
 If every mind had love of gold 
 And friends alone, how cold, how cold 
 The world would wax. Pale struggling Thought 
 Would die, or soon be brought to naught, 
 Till Mind, disgusted at the sight, 
 Would leave the Earth in sorry plight. 
 
 But, thanks to God ! there yet are found 
 Men of great sense and love profound, 
 Who lift us up, and let us see 
 Things far beyond the common range that be.
 
 150 A SUMMER RAMBLE. 
 
 A SUMMER RAMBLE. 
 
 Listen how the birds are singing-, 
 And the echoing woodlands ringing ! 
 Hark, the music of the stream, 
 Dancing in the sun's bright beam, 
 Kissing wild flowers as it passes, 
 Peeping pretty through the grasses, 
 Growing on each emerald side 
 Of its golden crystal tide ! 
 Look, o'er every meadow gay, 
 Where the tender lambkins play, 
 Golden cups and daisies white, 
 Beauteously their charms unite, 
 And through all the humming air 
 Send a perfume fresh and rare ! 
 Through the shady woods and valleys, 
 Glittering plains or high-hedged alleys 
 As my wondering way I take, 
 Little birds their music make, 
 As they chirp on every tree 
 In a faultless harmony.
 
 A SUMMER RAMBLE. 151 
 
 O'er the welkin, bathed in blue, 
 Not a rain-cloud meets my view, 
 But from Morning's natal place, 
 To where Sol hides his glowing face, 
 Noontide's golden rays are sending 
 Brightness with all beauties blending. 
 
 See in yonder verdant meadow, 
 Underneath that tall tree's shadow, 
 Oxen languidly reposing 
 Sometimes chewing, sometimes dozing; 
 While around their blinking eyes 
 Countless myriads of flies 
 Float, and of their blood partaking, 
 Keep the drowsy loungers waking. 
 
 Here's a farmer bent on knowing 
 How his youthful crops are growing, 
 Walking with each horny hand 
 Stuck athwart his breeches' band. 
 Inwardly he's making notes 
 Of his barley, wheat, or oats 
 Whether this is strong or slight, 
 Pure or blackened by the blight :
 
 152 A SUMMER RAMBLE. 
 
 Or, as his eyes all anxious gaze 
 Where his sheep and cattle graze, 
 Trusting they may only thrive, 
 That for once he may contrive, 
 With all his store, in any way 
 To make the game of farming pay. 
 But, however much his need, 
 I doubt if he will e'er succeed. 
 
 As my all -enraptured eyes 
 View this earthly Paradise, 
 And my thirsting, listening ear 
 Drinks unsated all I hear, 
 Sinks my mind in mild repose, 
 And my soul with joy o'erflows. 
 
 Evening shades have now begun 
 To mar the splendour of the sun, 
 As with slow and stately march 
 He traverses the western arch ; 
 While the brightness of his rays 
 Is softened by a golden haze 
 Spreading, like a fairy gauze, 
 O'er his face as he withdraws.
 
 A SUMMER RAMBLE. 153 
 
 Here, down by the river side, 
 Near the gently flowing- tide 
 Breaking- silvery where I stand, 
 On the pebbly glittering- sand, 
 From my feet to where the sun 
 Rests upon the horizon, 
 One bright path of gold extends, 
 Gleaming, glancing, till it ends, 
 And with heaven's own glory blends ! 
 
 In the East the coming night, 
 Softly stealing o'er the sky, 
 Lends another, calmer sight, 
 In a shady harmony. 
 Where the river meets the sea, 
 Darkening clouds are rising fast, 
 And their shadows gradually 
 O'er the rosy heavens are cast. 
 Pine woods growing on the side, 
 Lean their dark boughs o'er the river, 
 "While the dying zephyrs glide 
 'Mong the foliage all a-quiver : 
 As the waters further flow 
 On towards the spreading sea,
 
 154 A SUMMER RAMBLE. 
 
 Fainter still the outlines shew, 
 Till they're shrouded totally. 
 
 Over all the prospect wide, 
 Heaven or Earth, or east or west, 
 Harmony and Peace preside, 
 And a sense of coming- rest !
 
 A RHAPSODY. 155 
 
 A RHAPSODY. 
 
 Oh ! let me away to yon brook to-day, 
 
 And there recline, 
 
 Where the air smells sweet near the new-mown hay, 
 And the waters are clear as they dance away, 
 Singing the while with the birds a lay 
 
 All divine ; 
 And the Summer sky, 
 
 In a harmony 
 
 Of golden haze and Italian blue, 
 Hangs cloudless o'er the enchanting view, 
 
 Changing ever, 
 And reflecting a lovely and varied hue 
 
 Unto the river, 
 
 Kippling bright 
 
 In the joyous light 
 
 Of the sun above ; 
 
 While the woods on the hill with a rapture ring, 
 And the zephyr shakes peace from its languid wing, 
 And the voice of the Universe seems to sing 
 
 Only of love ! 
 
 There shall I gaze
 
 156 A RHAPSODY. 
 
 On the numberless beauties the landscape displays 
 
 With enraptured eye, 
 And longingly list to the love-laden lays 
 
 That float me by. 
 
 And my soul shall lave 
 
 In the crystal wave 
 Of a pleasure which none may partake of save 
 
 The unfettered mind, 
 
 Which has left behind 
 The baser thoughts which fair Fancy bind. 
 
 And there I'll stay 
 Till the gathering shades of the dying day 
 
 Begin to creep, 
 And the glowing sun, wending his western way, 
 
 Sinks into the deep. 
 
 Then I'll hie me back 
 
 To this world, alack ! 
 
 And perhaps will weep, 
 
 That the Fates should forbid such a joy should be lasting, 
 And that sin, lust, and greed should for ever be blasting 
 
 All purity here ; 
 
 Where, instead of a clear 
 
 Crystal fountain of happiness wherefrom to drink, 
 There's a foul stagnant pool into which we all sink,
 
 A RHAPSODY. 157 
 
 'Twould appear. 
 
 Oil ! when will the soul 
 
 Wield its blessed control 
 
 O'er the mind, 
 In place of the lust 
 Which makes but vile dust 
 
 Of mankind 1
 
 158 TO SUMMER LATE IN COMING. 
 
 TO SUMMER LATE IN COMING. 
 
 Are these the signs of thee, oh ! summertime, 
 I see and feel now through the lengthening day ? 
 Or dost thou still thy flowery feet delay 
 
 In some far distant or more favoured clime ? 
 
 Fain would I find thy presence everywhere, 
 And feel thee breathing in the western gale ; 
 Yet while I search, the east wind's dismal wail 
 
 May spread again the bleakness of despair. 
 
 But o'er this landscape which mine eyes survey, 
 Beauty and universal brightness dwell, 
 And to my sanguine soul delighted tell 
 
 That thou art still true to thy first love, May. 
 
 
 And, hark ! oh, joy ! I hear the cuckoo's call, 
 
 Which in the Spring just passed we sought in vain, 
 Sounding in monotone along the plain, 
 
 And mellowing the music murmuring over all.
 
 TO SUMMER LATE IN COMING. 159 
 
 The nightingale trills forth his melody 
 
 Jast as the lingering shades of evening fall ; 
 And in the woods the feathered songsters all 
 
 Chorus to him in blithesome harmony. 
 
 And far above, unseen, the skylarks sing, 
 Lost in a beauteous maze of blue and gold ; 
 While at my feet, around me there unfold 
 
 Beauties on beauties, past my numbering. 
 
 Over the fields that darksome-like had been, 
 While yet the seeds were only newly sown, 
 The little shoots to larger stalks have grown, 
 
 Covering the ground with waves of tender green. 
 
 The grass, luxuriant in its emerald shade, 
 
 Spotted with wildflowers, various in their hue, 
 Serves as a beauteous foreground to the view, 
 
 And lends a freshness to each hill and glade. 
 
 The yellow primrose on the mossy ground, 
 Born in the shade, and of a modest mien, 
 And violets, clustering in the grass half seen, 
 
 Sprinkled with dew, in myriads abound.
 
 160 TO SUMMER LATE IN COMING. 
 
 And all the buds have blown upon the trees, 
 And wild-roses and golden-blossomed broom 
 Bedeck the roadside, whilst the sweet perfume 
 
 Of snowy hawthorn loads the languid breeze. 
 
 Hark ! how the atmospheric music swells ! 
 
 Filling the soul with heavenly delight ! 
 
 While o'er each scene that glides upon the sight 
 Beauty, reposing in her glory, dwells ! 
 
 Yes ! Summer, thou art here ! And joys attend 
 Thy welcome advent to this longing earth ; 
 For every heart tastes of thy joyous mirth, 
 
 And earth with heaven seems for a time to blend I
 
 HARMONY. 161 
 
 HARMONY. 
 
 When the twilight's shades are falling 
 
 Over rosy Summer skies, 
 And the glowing Sun is shining, 
 On the horizon reclining, 
 
 Ere he dies : 
 How I love to wake the spirit 
 
 Of my organ as I play 
 Seated pensively alone, 
 By my window open thrown 
 In a calm and holy tone, 
 
 Some old lay ! 
 
 For the music and the shadows 
 
 Blend in perfect harmony, 
 Which, through soul and spirit stealing, 
 Changes every mortal feeling 
 
 Utterly ; 
 And the happy soul, o'erflowing 
 
 With a joyous ecstasy, 
 Seems on melody to soar 
 Unto Heaven's serener shore, 
 Where, restrained by Earth no more, 
 
 It is free !
 
 162 ONES. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 What will this life avail if Death doth end 
 
 The mind's existence ? What if Man's true aim 
 
 Be to procure six feet of burial ground 
 
 For his tired bones to rot in ? Then great Man 
 
 Toiling, suffering, miserable Man 
 
 Fares far worse than the lowest thing that crawls. 
 
 Mind yields to him a nobler, keener joy ; 
 
 But ah ! 'tis dearly paid for. Mental wounds 
 
 Heal scarcely with the potent balm of Time, 
 
 And leave deep tender scars. The human mind 
 
 Is the reflection of a heavenly light : 
 
 It is not life, but Life's ennoblement : 
 
 Mortality but curbs its liberty, 
 
 And limits its great range to worldliness. 
 
 But when the links that bind it are undone 
 
 By kindly Death dreaded and much abused 
 
 The cage shall crumble into vilest dust, 
 
 Mind like the joyous lark, a captive freed, 
 
 Will heavenwards soar, and mount eternally !
 
 LINES. 163 
 
 Then, if Man's value lie but in his mind, 
 
 And life be given but for mind's troubled birth 
 
 And cultivation, why should we endure 
 
 The utmost hardship and severest pains, 
 
 To be enriched with things that pass away, 
 
 And leave us barren at the latter end. 
 
 Wise men and fools, young- hearts and well -experienced, 
 
 All seem to have one end the gathering up 
 
 Of wealth ! Oh ! what a sorry sight to see 
 
 A man, born in the midst of rustic bliss, 
 
 Who, from the days of earliest boyhood, 
 
 Urged by the restlessness of proud ambition, 
 
 Hath toiled through many weary days to gain 
 
 What he can ne'er enjoy, struck grey by age 
 
 And verging on the grave ! How vain, how vain 
 
 Hath all the struggle been ! A lifetime spent 
 
 Seeking the rainbow's base ! A fight well fought, 
 
 But only finished when the hands relax 
 
 In death, and cannot grasp the longed-for prize. 
 
 The brutes seek not the glories of the world, 
 
 Though wholly earthly. Yet we mightier beings 
 
 The God-like owners of immortal souls 
 
 Pollute and prematurely slay our bodies, 
 
 And mix our spirits with the foulest dirt,
 
 164 LINES. 
 
 And squander life to win some worldly wealth. 
 
 Oh ! vanity, which Death at last dispels, 
 
 When wilt thou flee from Man's deluded mind ? 
 
 God save us ! What can wealth or rank avail 
 
 When the wide grave is yawning- for us ? Then 
 
 How hollow Earth seems ! Kings are but mere pigmies 
 
 Contrasted with the darksome mightiness 
 
 Of Death. The sighed-for, sinned-for name 
 
 Serves but to deck a headstone somewhat larger 
 
 Than a poor neighbour's. Pride and Poverty 
 
 Fall, and are buried on one battlefield ! 
 
 Life is misspent if, when the end is nigh, 
 
 We cannot welcome Death. We could not taste 
 
 The sweetness of a joy not having sipped 
 
 The gall of sorrow. Death at first sight looks drear 
 
 And cold and pitiless, but, near at hand, 
 
 To those who face him trustingly, there lies 
 
 A tender look of deep benevolence 
 
 Half hid beneath his eyebrows, for he knoweth 
 
 From what an empty, profitless existence 
 
 To what a pure and perfect state he guides us. 
 
 The first touch of his hand is chill and clammy, 
 
 But soon the river's ferried, and the shore 
 
 On which he lands us reached. The more we strive
 
 LINES. 165 
 
 To turn our faces from him, and evade 
 His call, the more appalling he becomes. 
 His hour is fixed, he will not wait for us, 
 However much we wail and beg on him. 
 And, as he surely at the time prescribed, 
 Will come to call us from our earthly homes, 
 Most doubtlessly we should contrive to meet him, 
 Not as a foe, but as the friend he is. 
 
 This we can never do if in the world 
 
 We live but for the world. Our thoughts must soar 
 
 Above the things around us, and consider 
 
 How we can get a little heavenwards. 
 
 Wealth is no gain, but goodness is a jewel, 
 
 Which, found on Earth, will light the way to Heaven !
 
 166 ECONOMY OF TIMfi. 
 
 ECONOMY OF TIME. 
 
 Swiftly the years pass o'er our heedless heads, 
 With all their opportunities and hopes and dreads, 
 Leaving- us oft times void, unmarked, and profitless. 
 
 Till we, with fear struck at their rapid flight, 
 
 All suddenly behold the dismal plight 
 
 Our acts delayed and parts unplayed have placed us in. 
 
 Then at dear Life and Fate all-wise we rail, 
 Raising- our voice despairing in the wail 
 Of dire distress, misfortune unavoidable. 
 
 On Earth our days are of but brief duration, 
 But while they last we have an occupation 
 High in its aim and end, by God assigned to us. 
 
 Therefore, take heed lest Time roll useless by, 
 That Life may lend you peace in which to die, 
 And a reward in Heaven be thine eternally.
 
 REALITY. 167 
 
 REALITY. 
 
 When the soul is bowed down by the load of affliction, 
 Which wraps it in darkness and wearies it sore ; 
 When the crushed heart's despair breeds the dreary 
 
 conviction 
 That Hope's faintest glimmer has gone evermore : 
 
 When the world is repulsive, in all its bright beauty, 
 When Nature's smile sickens, and Art seems hi vain, 
 And the tired mind compels us, forgetful of duty, 
 To long for the grave's sure release from our pain : 
 
 When Fear crawls behind, and deep gloom reigns 
 
 around us, 
 
 When even our purpose in Life is delayed, 
 When dismal forebodings and grim doubts confound us r 
 And urge us to ask why this world was made : 
 
 Oh ! 'tis then, only then, that we know the real value, 
 Of lemons, or rhubarb, or camomile pills ; 
 For the usual thing wrong, I may just as well tell you, 
 Is bile in the stomach the worst of all ills !
 
 168 VAIX LOVE. 
 
 VAIN LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The evening sky 
 
 Hung in a harmony of hazy blue, 
 With golden streams of sunshine shooting through, 
 Far in the West, where sinks the tired Day -king, 
 When we along the lanes went wandering 
 
 My Flo' and I. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Oh Love," I said, 
 
 " Nature is sweet around us. Hill and vale 
 Are wrapt in peace, save for the nightingale 
 Trilling his song of love, all troublous stirs 
 Are hushed save in my soul," and then on hers 
 My hand I laid. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Stupid !" cried she, 
 And into quite a flood of laughter broke, 
 That all the echoes of the woodlands woke>
 
 VAIN LOVE. 169 
 
 And scared the brooding silence of the scene ; 
 Then frisked away, light as a fairy queen, 
 From me, ah me ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Moan winds, oh moan ! 
 For the rich harvest of my hopes entombed ; 
 Moan for the bright buds blasted ere they bloomed ; 
 Sing to my soul sweet strains of soothing woe, 
 And let the theme be but my darling Flo' 
 
 Lost, yet mine own !
 
 170 TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY. 
 
 I loved thee, fairest of the Nine, 
 And deemed my love returned, 
 
 When listening to thy strains divine 
 My soul enraptured burned. 
 
 I thought to worship at thy shrine, 
 
 And make an offering meet ; 
 To bask beneath thy smile benign, 
 
 Contented at thy feet : 
 
 To linger near and fondly hear 
 
 The music of thy lyre, 
 As soft it floats in measured notes, 
 
 And taste its heavenly fire. 
 
 But though my heart with longing smart, 
 
 And all my soul is thine, 
 My sole return is that you spurn 
 
 My unpoetic line !
 
 TO MARY DISTANT. 171 
 
 TO MARY DISTANT. 
 
 Could thy mind know the feelings that flow through 
 my heart, 
 
 As I look on Life's beauties all dimmed by despair ; 
 Could'st thou know what it is to be banished apart 
 
 From the object adored, and yet still to love there : 
 
 Could my weak words but barely pourtray the condition 
 That Love unrequited envelopes me in 
 
 Your kind ear would list to my humble petition, 
 And either my Heaven or my Hell would begin !
 
 172 TO MARY. 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 Dear Mary, to thank you with words for the token 
 That tells me your kind heart is mindful of me, 
 
 I needs must employ all the best ever spoken, 
 
 And that, I am sure, would prove tiresome to thee. 
 
 My heart overflows, but my language has left me, 
 My brain teems with fancies no tongue could express ; 
 
 Of my poor power of speech my deep joy has bereft me, 
 And thus 'mid my pleasure I'm plunged in distress. 
 
 The lily is lovely ; each modest flower hiding 
 Beneath its pure petals its sweet bashful eyes, 
 
 Like a gentle young maid in the world confiding, 
 Ere long she has seen through its hollow disguise. 
 
 I shall gaze on it oft, I shall keep it beside me, 
 
 It may be a little, it may be for years ; 
 And shall think on the giver whatever betide me, 
 
 But one day, ah ! me, I shall view it through tears !
 
 TO MARY. 173 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 When thy words of love are spoken, 
 
 I'll be chary ; 
 Tis by such that hearts are broken, 
 
 Oh, my Mary ! 
 
 Sweet the potion Love distils, 
 How it soothes and how it thrills 1 
 Seeming balm for all the ills 
 
 We endure ! 
 
 But, when portioned out by sips, 
 Tempting just the longing lips, 
 
 Then it kills. 
 
 For the fierce and wasting fire 
 Of unsatisfied desire, 
 
 Deep and pure, 
 
 Breaking soon thro' all control, 
 Devastates the harassed soul, 
 And Death's clammy grey mists roll.
 
 TO KATIE. 
 
 TO KATIE. 
 
 Maiden with those laughing- eyes, 
 Welling o'er with girlish glee, 
 
 Did'st thou ever recognise 
 
 What a charm thy form could be ? 
 
 Did'st thou ever in thy play 
 
 Deem that thou could'st conquer one 
 Skilled in love, and wield a sway 
 
 O'er this heart as thou hast done ? 
 
 No ! ah, no, thy mind serene, 
 
 Knows nought else but love of fun, 
 
 Though thou reign'st a very queen, 
 Served and loved by every one. 
 
 The rose might woo the butterfly, 
 Or the grass the fleeting dew, 
 
 With as much of hope as I 
 Tell the love I have for you !
 
 TO E. L. 175 
 
 TO E. L. 
 
 . Enchanting Lady ! Mistress of thine art ! 
 Fain would I bring an offering unto thee 
 From one enamoured of the gentleness, 
 Inspiring love insensibly within 
 Each heart that hears the music of thy voice. 
 
 Lovely in form, in feature all refined, 
 Instinct with grace and modesty combined ; 
 Sweet is thy manner, but far sweeter still 
 The trembling accents, cadenced at thy will. 
 Oh Lady ! worthless each poor halting line, 
 No human strains can sing of things divine !
 
 176 
 
 TO ISOBELLE. 
 
 TO ISOBELLE. 
 
 Isobelle, Isobelle, 
 What can thy charms excel ? 
 Who can withstand the spell 
 
 Cast by thy beauty ? 
 Surpassingly pretty, 
 Sarcastic and witty, 
 
 Looking- so lovely, to love and adore thee 
 Seems but my duty. 
 
 II. 
 
 Isobelle, Isobelle, 
 Nought can my love dispel, 
 Nothing but Death can quell 
 
 Love's wild emotion ! 
 Wilt thou not hear my plea ? 
 Wilt thou not pity me ? 
 
 Give but a hope to me, and I shall strive to be 
 Worth thy devotion !
 
 TO THE SAME. 177 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 i. 
 
 My hope has gone, my joy is o'er, 
 'Twas but a dream, and nothing more ; 
 A sweet delusion of the mind, 
 Which round my heart its folds entwined, 
 And held it captive, tightly bound 
 With chains and bars of love profound. 
 But now 'tis past Farewell, farewell, 
 My only hope, my Isobelle ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Why did we meet if but to part ? 
 Why did I love to break my heart ? 
 Why did I ever soar so high ? 
 Why did I live, if but to die ? 
 For hope was life, and hope has fled, 
 And I but live as I were dead ; 
 For evermore farewell, farewell, 
 My loved, my lost, my Isobelle !
 
 178 TO THE OLD LOVE. 
 
 TO THE OLD LOVE ! 
 
 Though the words were cruel and cold 
 That my dismal fate foretold, 
 In the blank of years unrolled, 
 
 Yet I wonder 
 
 If thy one love-glowing heart 
 Feels in memory one smart 
 For the ties Death was to part, 
 
 Rent asunder ; 
 
 If thine eyes, so blue and bright, 
 Lit once with Love's lambent light 
 Ever through the lonely night 
 
 Shed one tear 
 For the exile from thy sight, 
 
 Once so dear. 
 For you loved me once, you said, 
 
 And I know, 
 True love never can grow dead, 
 
 Here below ; 
 For if real it abides 
 In the heart, whate'er betides, 
 E'en although its object chides,
 
 TO THE OLD LOVE. 179 
 
 Wounding sore. 
 Thus, if you spoke faithfully, 
 Thoughts must sometimes sadden thee, 
 Sighing for a time, ah, me ! 
 
 Now no more ! 
 Do not, then, increase my pain, 
 
 Hard to bear, 
 By affecting to disdain 
 Him who did thy love obtain, 
 When thou of his grief, 'tis plain, 
 
 Hast a share !
 
 180 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 i. 
 
 I left you, dear, because I knew 
 
 Your love was growing cold ; 
 I saw you tried to bear me true, 
 
 But could not as of old 
 Another face had won the heart, 
 
 So fond of me before ; 
 My words and smiles could now impart 
 
 Their wonted charm no more. 
 
 II. 
 
 My soul was sick and sad, and yet 
 
 I hoped from day to day 
 Your love, re-lightened by regret, 
 
 Would chase the change away ; 
 But from your lips the fire had fled, 
 
 The welcome from your eye ; 
 The rootless rose had withered dead, 
 
 And so I said Good-bye !
 
 MY STAR. 181 
 
 MY STAR. 
 
 The night was calm, and the sky -was clear, 
 
 As I sat by my window thinking 
 On her whom my inmost heart held dear, 
 
 And watching the stars a-twinkling. 
 
 And as I gazed on the heavenly scene, 
 
 A little star caught my eye, 
 Shining so sweetly, and all alone, 
 
 And I loved it I know not why. 
 
 Dreaming of her, and of love returned, 
 I centred my thoughts on that star ; 
 
 For it shed a new brightness o'er my mind, 
 And sent me a hope from afar. 
 
 But alas ! as I gazed on its loveliness, 
 
 It fell from its heavenly height, 
 And broke the sweet spell that had held my heart, 
 
 And left me alone with the night. 
 
 The spell was broken, the dream was o'er, 
 And the sky became overcast ;
 
 182 
 
 Mi r STAR. 
 
 And the waters of sorrow o'erwhelmed my soul, 
 And I wept for the hope that was past. 
 
 Ah ! the sign was too true, for my love hath gone 
 With my hopes to her home on high ; 
 
 And empty and sad will life seem to me, 
 Till I meet her again by and by !
 
 THE LOVER. 183 
 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 AFTER KJRKE-WHITE. 
 
 The hour is late, and from the distant skies 
 The twinkling stars shed forth their quivering 1 light ; 
 And weird the lonesome night wind softly sighs, 
 Breathing a sadness through the still midnight. 
 
 Here by my casement at this dreary hour, 
 When other eyes are closed in peaceful sleep, 
 I watch, regardless of Sleep's potent power, 
 And, wakeful, Love's devoted vigils keep. 
 
 Oh ! can it be that my poor longing heart, 
 Still led by Hope, eludes the consciousness 
 Of early death which bids such dreams depart 
 And sanguine sees afar some future bliss ? 
 
 Ah, no ! those pitying stars will sadly shine 
 Over the place where I shall shortly lie ; 
 And when at rest no longer I repine, 
 The winds regretful o'er my grave shall sigh !
 
 J84 VAIN REGRETS. 
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 
 
 'Tis over now. The anxious hours are past, 
 
 The hours of thoughts conflicting, fears unformed, 
 
 And hopes unrealised hopes that made sweet 
 
 Life's bitterness, and brightened up my way. 
 
 And yet not once I recognised the light 
 
 Till reft away. Ah, me ! the day is dark 
 
 And night is dismal when the soul is sad ! 
 
 My love, my love, oh ! thou wert dear to me ! 
 
 And yet I knew it not. When thou wert still 
 
 Within my call I heeded not, but deemed 
 
 The vanished joy would last. But while I dreamt, 
 
 And wavered in my purposes, alas ! 
 
 All suddenly another stole away 
 
 Thy presence from me, and the paradise 
 
 That I had dwelt in so unconsciously 
 
 Was changed so sadly changed ! All happiness 
 
 Was gone, and in one awful moment 
 
 Dissolved the beauteous bowers of blissful thought, 
 
 Leaving the landscape barren. Oh ! my love, 
 
 Gone, gone for evermore ! Why did my heart 
 
 Not earlier know itself ? Then had these tears
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 185 
 
 Ne'er burned my aching eyes. Indeed, I dreamt 
 
 The while thou wert so nigh me, and I knew not 
 
 Thou wert so much to me ; or 'twas perhaps 
 
 Thy presence in itself that gave to me 
 
 Sufficient bliss, and kept my thoughts serene 
 
 From dwelling on the future. Oh ! but thou, 
 
 My lost for ever, wert the only one 
 
 My mind and soul had cherished constantly ! 
 
 Through all the changes of a varied life 
 
 Thy face was present to me. When amidst 
 
 The 'witching glances of far haughtier maids 
 
 The memory of thy constant tenderness 
 
 Made others dwindle in comparison 
 
 With thee, my darling. Now, ah ! now, farewell, 
 
 Farewell for ever, for it must be so. 
 
 My hopeful fears sink in fell certainty, 
 
 My fearful hopes are tumbled in the dust, 
 
 The happiness of hopes and fears is dead, 
 
 And life seems useless, for my love is wed !
 
 186 THE NEWSBOY. 
 
 THE NEWSBOY. 
 
 Fastly and thickly and coldly, 
 The snowflakes came hurrying down, 
 
 In an eddying 1 crowd, 
 
 And spreading a shroud 
 Of pureness and peace o'er the town. 
 
 II. 
 
 Empty and dreary and lonely, 
 Every street, alley, and square, 
 
 For the wind, I ween, 
 
 Was cold and keen, 
 And the snow was deep everywhere. 
 
 in. 
 
 Barefoot and ragged and wretched 
 Shivering and blue with the cold, 
 
 Crouched a poor little form 
 
 From the heedless storm, 
 With a bundle of papers unsold.
 
 THE NEWSBOY. 187 
 
 IV. 
 
 Weary and drooping- and hungry, 
 Hoarse with the unheeded cry 
 
 A home he has none 
 
 Till he's sold every one, 
 And so he must onwards and try. 
 
 V. 
 
 So, hopeless and homeless and heart-sore 
 Still he went wandering- on, 
 
 With the same sad cry, 
 
 And no one to buy, 
 Till the last flow of strength had gone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then weary, so weary, and dying, 
 He laid his poor head down to rest 
 
 On the cruel hard stone, 
 
 But ere morning shone 
 He had lain on his Saviour's breast.
 
 188 THE NEWSBOY. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Rig-id and lifeless, but peaceful, 
 Cold in a doorway he lay 
 
 But his face was bright 
 
 In the morning light, 
 For its sorrow had vanished away !
 
 SONG TWILIGHT FANCIES. 18% 
 
 SONG. 
 TWILIGHT FANCIES. 
 
 When the folded flowers are sprinkled 
 
 With a Summer evening's dew, 
 And the stealing shadows softly 
 
 Veil the fastly fading- view : 
 
 When the Sun hath died in glory, 
 
 Far beyond the purple hill, 
 And sweet melodies are tinkled 
 
 By each rippling mountain rill : 
 
 When a harmony surrounds us, 
 
 And our minds are wrapt in rest, 
 It is then with painful pleasure 
 
 Love-thoughts throb within the breast. 
 
 But when Morning breaketh brightly, 
 
 All the dreaming dies away, 
 And the fancies of the Twilight 
 
 Vanish in the busy day !
 
 190 THE MILLER'S SONG. 
 
 THE MILLER'S SONG. 
 
 Oh ! the wealthy man may look with scorn 
 
 On the lot of a man like me, 
 And the Proud may pity the lowly born 
 
 And deem it a charity ; 
 But I heed not the sneer of the puffed-up Peer, 
 
 Nor the pity of Pride desire, 
 For my heart is light, though my fortune's slight, 
 
 And what more can a man require ? 
 
 Chorus 
 
 While the wheel goes round, 
 
 And the corn is ground, 
 And the sparkling stream flows by, 
 
 No care need I share, 
 
 And no frown shall I wear, 
 For there's no one so happy as I, 
 As I, 
 
 There's no one so happy as I !
 
 THE MILLER'S SONG. 191 
 
 II. 
 
 When the harvest field is full and fair, 
 
 The merrier life to me ; 
 And when Fortune is fickle I do not despair, 
 
 But trust she may kindlier be. 
 And I think it too bad to say life be sad, 
 
 While it yields us a joy or a friend ; 
 For if conscience be clear we shall ne'er want good 
 cheer, 
 
 And a bright hope on which to depend ! 
 
 While the wheel goes round, &c.
 
 192 " THE AULD HOOSE." 
 
 "THE AULD HOOS E." 
 
 The auld Loose stuid by a burnie's side, 
 
 That wimpled sae bonnie an' bricht, 
 
 As we weanies wid wide in its glistenin' tide, 
 
 Frae the lang summer morn till nicht ; 
 
 Aye runnin' aboot, noo in an' noo oot, 
 
 Happy as birds, an' as free, 
 
 We scampered an' played 'neath the auld hoose's shade, 
 
 For 'twas a' the big- warld tae me. 
 
 The dear auld hoose, the queer auld hoose, 
 
 Whatever my fortunes be, 
 Wi' its g-abled en', an' its but an' ben, 
 
 It'll aye be dear tae me ! 
 
 And there in the e'en I hae aften seen, 
 
 Aifter their wark wis done, 
 
 My faither and mither a' sittin' thegither, 
 
 Watchin' their wee bit son. 
 
 An' oh ! I can mind a' the glances kind, 
 
 An' the anxious looks they'd gie, 
 
 As I sported sae crouse roun' the dear auld hoose 
 
 Far the happiest hame tae me. 
 
 The dear auld hoose, &c.
 
 "THE AULD HOOSE." 193 
 
 It's thae looks sae kind that will ever bind 
 
 My thoughts tae thae days o' yore, 
 
 For I love to gaze, e'en through memory's haze, 
 
 On the faces that are no more. 
 
 For as mony's I meet on the daily street, 
 
 There's nane half sae welcome tae me, 
 
 An' when memory strays to thae bygone days, 
 
 It's the lang-lost smiles tae see. 
 
 The dear auld hoose, &c. 
 
 An' as I look back on the cosy thack, 
 
 An' the cheery wee bittie o' grun', 
 
 Whaur ma mither wad sit wi' her wark an' knit, 
 
 An' join in my innocent fun 
 
 I dicht my weet face, an' picture the place 
 
 A' lonely an' thick wi' decay, 
 
 An* wearily sigh for the boon but to lie 
 
 Near the auld hoose fading away. 
 
 The dear auld hoose, the queer auld hoose 
 
 Whatever my fortunes be, 
 Wi' its gabled en', an' its but an' ben, 
 
 It'll aye be dear tae me.
 
 194: WILLIE AND 
 
 WILLIE AND I. 
 
 'Twas Springtime, and Nature had newly arisen 
 From her slumbers within Winter's bleak frosty prison, 
 The snowdrop and primrose were decking the vale, 
 And the odours of budding flowers perfumed the gale ; 
 We were children, and life was but newly begun, 
 And we knew nothing else save our innocent fun, 
 When my Willie and I roamed the hillside together, 
 And sported in glee 'mong the fresh mountain heather. 
 
 II. 
 
 The shadows were falling, an' evening serene 
 Had followed the heat of a bright Summer's day, 
 And the gloamin's calm peace brooded over the scene, 
 And chased every thought of the world away ; 
 We were wand'ring together whilst, warbling above, 
 The blackbird was trilling in amorous tone, 
 When my Willie confessed to his pure lasting love, 
 And I knew that the true heart I loved was my own.
 
 WILLIE AND I. 195 
 
 III. 
 
 The ripe corn was waving beneath a hot sun, 
 And the work of the harvest-time newly begun, 
 And the rich scent of roses was borne on the breeze, 
 As it languidly moved through the leaf -laden trees, 
 The year was matured, and all Nature was bright, 
 And every heart throbbed with a joyous delight, 
 When Willie and I were made one by Love's tether, 
 And our loving hearts bonded still closer together. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The snows of the Whiter are lying deep now, 
 Every leaf has forsaken each bare blackened bough, 
 And the wind whistles shrill as it sweep o'er the lea, 
 And sighs a sad dirge round each dead withered tree j 
 But although we are old, and our hah- is as white 
 As the snows that are falling so thickly to-night, 
 We are happy as ever, and only await 
 For the Sun that will shine on our heavenly state 1
 
 196 GOD, FROM A WORLD, &C. 
 
 GOD, FROM A WORLD, &c. 
 
 God, from a world of weariness 
 
 I lift my saddened cry ; 
 Oh ! shew me how to seek Thy peace, 
 
 And teach my heart to try ! 
 
 Let the soft lustre of the light 
 
 Of Thine almighty Word 
 Chase from my soul the clouds of night, 
 
 And lead me to my Lord. 
 
 Teach me to know that Jesus died 
 
 Upon the accursed tree 
 
 i 
 To save my soul, and crucified 
 
 The sin that holdeth me. 
 
 Thus, guided o'er the doubtful way, 
 And safe through darkness past, 
 
 The morn of Heaven's eternal day 
 Will dawn for me at last !
 
 " GOD SHALL WIPE AWAY THE TEARS FROM THEIR EYES." 197 
 
 GOD SHALL WIPE AWAY THE TEARS FROM 
 THEIR EYES." 
 
 Whate'er we do, where'er we go 
 
 In search of 'peace of mind, 
 To make us happy here below, 
 
 We only sorrow find. 
 
 For every hope, and every love 
 
 Whose centre is not God, 
 At length must fail, and, shattered, prove 
 
 Additions to our load. 
 
 Thus is our fleeting worldly life 
 
 A dreary winter night 
 Of stumbling faith, and grievous strife 
 
 To gain a little light. 
 
 But night will yield unto the day 
 
 That waits us up on high ; 
 And God at last will wipe away 
 
 The tears from every eye !
 
 198 " BEHOLD I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK." 
 
 "BEHOLD I STAND AT THE DOOR AND 
 KNOCK." 
 
 Far had I wandered from the fold, 
 
 Where Jesus' flock are fed, 
 And thoughtless strayed at will where'er 
 
 My lust for pleasure led. 
 
 But all throughout that dreary night, 
 
 And 'midst th' exciting din 
 Of worldly ways, I thought I heard 
 
 A pleading voice within. 
 
 And, taken with the gentle tones, 
 
 I listened, and I heard, 
 " Oh ! wilt thou longer shut thy heart 
 
 Upon a loving Lord ?" 
 
 Then bowed in shame I oped the door, 
 And cried, " Oh, Lord, forgive !" 
 
 And Jesu straightway entered in, 
 And now my soul shall live !
 
 JESUS, TAKE MY SOUL TO THEE. 199 
 
 JESUS, TAKE MY SOUL TO THEE. 
 
 Saviour, unto Thee I call, 
 
 From a world of misery ; 
 Free me from its guilt and gall 
 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee ! 
 
 Black and bleak the dreary way, 
 
 Far as mortal eyes may see ; 
 Guide me, then, or I shall stray 
 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee ! 
 
 Oh ! the burden of my sin ! 
 
 How it wears and wearies me ! 
 Oh, that I were pure within 
 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee ! 
 
 Look upon my failings, Lord, 
 Not in wrath but graciously ; 
 
 Make my will with Thine accord 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee !
 
 200 JE8U8 TAKE MY SOUL TO THEE. 
 
 Wash me in Thy precious blood, 
 Spilt on Earth at Calvary ; 
 
 In that soul-reviving flood 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee ! 
 
 Weary, weary is the road, 
 
 Girt by sin and death's dark sea ; 
 
 Oh ! relieve me from my load 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee ! 
 
 Lord, how long- can all this last ? 
 
 When at length shall I be free ? 
 Oh, that Life and Death were past 
 
 Jesus, take my soul to Thee ! 
 
 [Eest, impatient soul, oh, rest ! 
 
 Sinful even thy longings be ; 
 At that hour Thy Lord deems best, 
 
 He will surely ransom Thee !]
 
 DATE DUE
 
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