THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 "N

 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD CAPER N, 
 
 lural ilostmiw of ^iDrfovb, 33eucw. 
 
 " A liumble Poet, 
 
 "Whose songs gushed from his heart 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 Or.tears from the eyelids start. 
 
 " Who through long days of labour, 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 '■' Such songs have power to quiet 
 The restless pulse of care, 
 And come like a benediction 
 That follows after prayer." 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 ilrconb (tbition, faith .^.bititious. 
 
 LONDON : 
 DAVID BOGUE, 86, FLEET STEEET. 
 
 MDCCCLVI.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 REED AND PARDON, PRINTERS, 
 
 TATEUNOSTER ROW.
 
 -11 
 
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 
 
 TO THE SUBSCKIBEKS. 
 
 Mt Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, 
 
 I am entrusted with the delightful privilege of 
 introducing a man of genius to the world, — Edward 
 Capern, a Poet. 
 
 On taking possession of the necessary papers I 
 consulted some literary friends, and it was of 
 course soon decided that no alterations should be 
 made except by Mr. Capern ; nor, indeed, were 
 many needed ; for, except a few slips of the pen — 
 mere verbal inaccuracies scarcely worth alluding 
 to — the whole of these beautiful poems appear as 
 they were first produced by him. 
 
 I reserved to myself, however, the absolute right 
 of rejection, and this was frequently a rather pain- 
 ful duty. In a walk together of tbirteen miles, 
 
 775448
 
 during which some of my decisions were communi- 
 cated, the poet would sometimes contend in the 
 very accents of despair, — " What ! exclude my 
 ' Morning, ' and the ' Apostrophe to the Sun ! ' 
 Why, Sir, I wrote those pieces when I had but four 
 shillings a-week to live upon, which gave hut 
 frugal meals." Firmness was, however, necessary ; 
 and "Morning" still stands excluded as "beautiful, 
 but too diffuse for this publication." 
 
 It is not my intention even to touch upon the 
 trying incidents of Mr. Capern's early life. He is a 
 rural letter-carrier from Bideford to Buckland 
 Brewer and its neighbourhood, distributing the Mail 
 through a discursive walk of thirteen miles daily, 
 including Sundays ; for which his salary is ten shil- 
 lings and sixpence per week. He has a real Poet's 
 Wife ; his Jane, a charming brunette, is intelligent, 
 prudent, and good. He has two children, Charles, 
 a boy of seven,* and Milly, a girl just three years 
 
 * What a delightful opportunity for some really chari- 
 table Governor of Christ's Hospital, who has a "presenta- 
 tion" at his disposal !
 
 PREFACE. Til 
 
 of age; and he tells me that he is happy — happy 
 where thousands would be discontented ; rich, where 
 many would be in want ; blessing Providence for its 
 bounties, instead of repining for that which has 
 been denied. 
 
 Mr. Capern's features have a striking resem- 
 blance to those of Oliver Goldsmith ; he has also 
 the Doctor's sturdy build, though not his personal 
 height. Nor is this the only point of resemblance 
 to our dear Goldy, — Mr. Capern has an ear for 
 music, he plays touchingly on the flute, and sings 
 his own songs to his own tunes with striking 
 energy or tenderness. 
 
 Mr. Capern has, however, a defect in his vision 
 which seems to increase with age ; and he has, under 
 the advice of his friends, consented to this mode 
 of raising a little sum to assist in the education of 
 his rising family, and to commence a provision for 
 the future. Is it too much to hope that these 
 charming emanations of his mind may induce the 
 wealthy and well disposed to assist in this lovely 
 work ? A man who has written these beautiful
 
 lyrics amid trials and privations, without neglect- 
 ing one social duty, has, it is respectfully suggested, 
 some claim on public approbation, and will, it is 
 hoped, secure sufficient notice, to prevent the latter 
 part of his life from bringing anything less pleasing 
 than competence and ease. 
 
 W. F. Eock. 
 
 P.S. I have the pleasure to announce that the first 
 edition, of one thousand copies, was sold within three 
 months of publication; and is expected to leave a 
 profit to Mr. Capeen of £150; which he has con- 
 sented shall be applied to the purchase of an Annuity 
 on the joint lives of himself and Mrs. Capeen. In 
 addition to this success, the Post Office authorities 
 have increased his salary to thirteen shillings per week, 
 and (what is even more appreciated by Mr. Capeen), 
 relieved him from his Sunday duties.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 In bringing out a Second Edition of this book, I 
 beg to thank the public most sincerely for the kind 
 encouragement which they have given me. It does 
 not become me to speak of my own merits ; my poems, 
 such as they are, speak for themselves ; and of the 
 value of them, others can judge better than the author. 
 I have only to say, that I have found more favour 
 than I anticipated. 
 
 EDWARD CAPERN. 
 
 Bideford, Aug. lGth, 1856.
 
 Contents. 
 
 t\gk 
 
 ART THOU A POET ?........ 1 
 
 TO HILLY 4 
 
 ON SEEING CHAKLIE AT PLAY 8 
 
 affection's ARGUMENT ........ 10 
 
 CHRISTMAS TEARS . . 14 
 
 HOPE • ... 17 
 
 the rural postman's sabbath 18 
 
 our devonshire worthies 20 
 
 gentle annie .... . ... 24 
 
 our life's a joy ....... ... 26 
 
 true greatness 28 
 
 live in love ; 'tis pleasant living . . .... 30 
 
 UP AND DO ! . . • • • • ■ • • .32 
 
 THE PRIMROSE VOICE .37 
 
 TO THE WILD CONVOLVULUS ... .40 
 
 THE WHITE VIOLET .... .... 42 
 
 THE CELANDINE 43 
 
 THE DAISY 47 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE . . 48 
 
 THE NEGLECTED HYACINTH ........ 50 
 
 BUTTERFLIES AND FLOWERS 53 
 
 WHERE HAST THOU BEEN, MY BEAUTIFUL SPRING? . . .07 
 
 AN APRIL MEMORY 60 
 
 MAY . 63 
 
 JUNE 69 
 
 SEPTEMBER MUSINGS .... .... 72 
 
 OCTOBER 75 
 
 NOVEMBER 79 
 
 WINTER, 1855 .... 81 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS 83 
 
 COME TO THE GREENWOOD, COME ! 85 
 
 A SPRING-TIDE WELCOME 87 
 
 THE SEAGULL ..... .... 90 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO .......... 92 
 
 THE OLD GRAY THRUSH. (WRITTEN TO MUSIC) . . .97 
 
 MY BARTON HOME ! (WRITTEN TO MUSIC) 99 
 
 GOD BLESS YE, MERRY HARVESTERS 102
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ROSA BRIGHT. (WRITTEN TO MUSIC ) 105 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF ENERGY 107 
 
 A MAN I KNOW 109 
 
 THE REVERIE Ill 
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEW. (WRITTEN IN WESTLEIGH 
 
 CHURCHYARD, NEAR BIDEFORD, DEVON) .... 114 
 
 ON SEEING AN INFANT SMILE 118 
 
 THE GOOD OLD TIMES ARE COME AGAIN 119 
 
 REMEMBER ME 121 
 
 MY THOUGHTS 123 
 
 FRIENDS : A SIMILE 123 
 
 FOSTER GENIUS 124 
 
 LIFE 127 
 
 ON A SNOW-STOEM 127 
 
 THE POET'S GRAVE 128 
 
 NATURE'S ADDRESS TO THE POET 134 
 
 AN APRIL MELODY. (TO MUSIC ) 136 
 
 I'LL WEAR THY RINGS, SWEET JEWEL 138 
 
 ANGELS OF MERCY 140 
 
 THE TWO SUNSETS 141 
 
 BLANCHE. ADDRESSED TO HER BEREAVED PARENT . . . 146 
 
 BEAUTY 147 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK 150 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD'S DAYS ......... 152 
 
 THE TWO MEETINGS 155 
 
 THE CHANT OF LIFE 156 
 
 THE RURAL POSTMAN 158 
 
 THE LION-FLAG OF ENGLAND 165 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE GREAT REDAN . . . . . .171 
 
 LOUD LET THE TRIUMPH RING. (WRITTEN FOR MUSIC) . . 177 
 
 THE FALL OF THE BRAVE. ADDRESSED TO HIS BEREAVED PARENT 180 
 
 WOODLANDS 186 
 
 SONG OF THE LITTLEHAM HOP-PICKERS 192 
 
 STREW THE ROSES. — A MARRIAGE SONG . . . . .194 
 
 A THOUGHT AMONG THE FLOWERS ...... 194 
 
 THE LASS OF WATERTOWN 195 
 
 TAKE THY HARP, CHORISTER ....... 198 
 
 THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIS FRIENDS 200 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS 202 
 
 oCa^)X(*.Oo
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ART THOU A POET? 
 
 No classic tutor watched my lips, 
 Nor speech, "with heauty fraught, 
 
 Refined my uncouth mother-tongue, 
 Or woo'd my virgin thought. 
 
 I never cursed in college cell 
 
 The thought I could not brook, 
 
 Nor pored amid the antique page 
 For lore from musty hook. 
 
 I never in the schools was made 
 
 A fool against my will, 
 Nor danced with dames in rich brocade 
 
 My studious hours to kill.
 
 But I have loved, as all should love, 
 The whole of human kind, 
 
 And there are men of worth who know 
 How much I honour Mind. 
 
 And I have heard the wild-bird sing 
 
 ■K 
 
 High up the vault of heaven, 
 Till there, on Inspiration's wing, 
 I felt my spirit driven. 
 
 And I have heard old Ocean roar, 
 Whilst wonder seized my soul, 
 
 And bound me to the rocky shore, 
 To watch his billows roll. 
 
 And I have learnt to look on earth 
 
 As if she lay in bliss, 
 And bless each flow'ret of her birth 
 
 "With an admiring kiss ; 
 
 Till zephyrs seemed as angels' breath, 
 And stars as cherubs' eyes, 
 
 And Beauty as no child of death, 
 But goddess of the skies.
 
 ART THOU A POET 
 
 At length I learut to look above, 
 
 t 
 
 And found life's pilgrim-road 
 "Was but a path of heavenly love, 
 That led right up to God. 
 
 I took my lyre and dash'd its strings, 
 And music, wild and free, 
 
 Sent forth the tuneful eehoiugs 
 Of Nature's minstrelsy. 
 
 — — ==&£S£8&'Vs
 
 POEMS. 
 
 TO MILLY. 
 
 Like summer, soft and breezy, 
 "When swallows skim the sea, 
 
 Comes my song in numbers easy 
 And refreshiug unto me. 
 
 So I'll pipe a lay to Milly, 
 The merry-making thing — 
 
 My pretty cottage lily, 
 
 And picture of the spring. 
 
 Oh, a beauty bright and brisky, 
 
 And musical as May, 
 Is my lassy. fair and frisky, 
 
 My little dancing fay. 
 
 [n Nature's own adorning 
 This cherub thing appears, 
 
 And welcome as the morning 
 Is this pledge of loving years.
 
 TO MILLY. 5 
 
 Like a starry glory dancing 
 In the cloudless ebon sky, 
 
 Is the wild romantic glancing 
 Of her laughter-lighted eye. 
 
 Or like the silver gleaming 
 Ou an Ethiopic queen, 
 
 Is the life so brightly beaming 
 From her crystal orb, I ween. 
 
 There's a rich and pearly beauty 
 On that joy-illumined brow, 
 
 And, as love's delightful duty, 
 I'll paint that beauty now. 
 
 Her cheeks are twin-blown roses, 
 Fresh pencilled by the sun, 
 
 Which Time each morn exposes, 
 Bat hides as eve comes on. 
 
 Her lips are two sweet cherries. 
 The luscious fruit of love, 
 
 And rich as holly-berries 
 
 "When winter paints the grove.
 
 Would you see this pretty creature 
 In her wild and merry joy, 
 
 With a smile on every feature ? 
 You must see her with my hoy. 
 
 Tou must hear her accents choral, 
 Like the tones of silver rills, 
 
 As they gush from hedgerows floral, 
 To tinkle down the hills. 
 
 Tou have seen the lamb revealing 
 All its happy life could show, 
 
 While, with true maternal feeling, 
 Its dam would gambol too. 
 
 Not half so sweet and winning 
 Is that pretty scene to me, 
 
 As my little-one's beginning 
 Her romp upon my knee. 
 
 Farewell to woodlands mossy, 
 And violets of the glade, 
 
 To daisies white and glossy, 
 And warblers of the shade.
 
 Nor tell rae of the lily, 
 Te poets of the flowers, 
 
 Nor rose, while I have Milly 
 To beautify my hours.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ON SEEING CHARLIE AT PLAY. 
 
 Eee thy locks of golden light 
 Change to winter's snowy white, 
 And old Care has passed his plough 
 O'er the sunshine of thy brow; 
 Ere a troop of sorrows march 
 O'er thy pretty eyebrows' arch, 
 And each brow reversed wears 
 Footprints of the woes of years ; 
 Whilst thine eyes, like sable sloes, 
 Each with lustrous beauty glows, 
 Whilst they sparkle forth their glee, 
 At the shout of revelry ; 
 Ere those orbs that, wondering, stand 
 Looking out on fairy land, 
 To cavernous shades retire, 
 Sullen with their wasted fire, 
 Shrinking from each ray of hope, 
 Like a peevish misanthrope ; 
 Ere the rose has fled thy cheek, 
 Whilst thy coral lips are sleek,
 
 ON SEEING CHARLIE AT PLAT. 9 
 
 And sweet smiles around tlieui play, 
 Sportive as a dancing fay, 
 Whilst thine ears to bend are slow, 
 To the tenderest tale of woe ; 
 Whilst thy parent's fondest strain 
 Lures thee to the daisied plain ; 
 Whilst sweet music tunes thy breath, 
 And thy thoughts are free from death ; 
 Like the lark, go dance and sing, 
 Making all the welkin ring ; 
 As the butterfly and bee, 
 Let thy wanderings be free, 
 And throughout thy May time hours 
 Live upon the sweetest flowers ; 
 Happy, happy days for thee, 
 Days of love and poesy.
 
 10 POEMS. 
 
 AFFECTION'S ARGUMENT. 
 
 The aspen quivers in the breeze, 
 
 The cuckoo singeth mellow ; 
 The perfume drops from hawthorn trees — 
 
 Let's roam where the kingcup 's yellow. 
 We '11 cradle up our infant child, 
 
 And take our evening's ramble, 
 Adown the paths of woodland wild, 
 
 Through briar, thorn, and bramble. 
 I know in thy maternal breast 
 
 There dwells a sense of duty, 
 More lovely than the crimson west, 
 
 That robes the sun in beauty ; 
 But still I know there is a charm 
 
 Reigns o'er each scene enchanting, 
 When we together, arm in arm, 
 
 Its beauties are descanting. 
 So toil not, gentle labourer, 
 I pray thee toil not so ; 
 Let's wander where the fragrant air 
 Doth health and joy bestow :
 
 Or else I fear thy rosy cheek 
 Soon pale in death will be ; 
 
 And then, alas ! where could I seek 
 The bliss I find with thee ? 
 
 What boots it if we win this earth, 
 
 By striving and by toiling, 
 If we to dire disease give birth, 
 
 And cherish health's despoiling ? 
 So leave, my love, this pent-up spot, 
 
 Thy every fear detaching ; 
 Angels will hover o'er its cot, 
 
 The babe benignly watching ; 
 And let us up some shady lane, 
 
 All torrent-wash' d and wearing, 
 To watch the pale moon's silver wane, 
 
 And take a gentle airing. 
 The antler'd oak, the fretted thorn, 
 
 Thee to their nooks are wooing ; 
 Whilst songs are on the breezes borne, 
 
 And turtle-doves are cooing. 
 So toil not, gentle labourer, 
 I pray thee toil not so ; 
 Let's wander where the fragrant air 
 Doth health and joy bestow;
 
 12 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Or else I fear thy rosy cheek 
 Soon pale in death will be ; 
 
 And then, alas ! where could I seek 
 The bliss I find with thee ? 
 
 I often think upon those times 
 
 When, blithesome, young, and smiliug. 
 We listened to the bells' sweet chimes, 
 
 Our every care beguiling. 
 Then underneath some tree's broad shade 
 
 We sat and made us merry ; 
 And never dreamt those joys would fade, 
 
 As melts the damask cherry. 
 But I have had since then to roam 
 
 Alone to take my pleasure ; 
 And leave thee, dearest love, at home — 
 
 My sweetest, fondest treasure. 
 Come, let us to those fields a^ain, 
 
 Each habit wrong subduing : 
 Such pleasures must be felt by twain, 
 
 And they are worth renewing. 
 So toil not, gentle labourer, 
 I pray thee toil not so ; 
 Let 's wander where the fragrant air 
 Doth health and joy bestow :
 
 affection's argument. 13 
 
 Or else I fear thy rosy cheek 
 
 Soon pale in death will be ; 
 And then, alas ! where could I seek 
 
 The bliss I find with thee ?
 
 14 POEMS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS TEAKS. 
 
 I hear the loud and merry ring 
 Of mirth upon the breeze, 
 
 The Christmas " waits " are carolling 
 Beneath the linden trees. 
 
 "lis strange I cannot welcome them 
 
 As I was wont to do : 
 I hear a dirge in every hymn, 
 
 In every note a woe. 
 
 What is the reason ? — neighbours say 
 'Tis more than passing strange. 
 
 Come, gentle muse, and give them, pray, 
 A reason for the change. 
 
 The yule log burns as brightly now 
 
 To warm the chilly air, 
 As when beneath the laurel bough 
 
 My mother graced her chair.
 
 CHRISTMAS TEARS. 15 
 
 The bells ring out as merrily, 
 
 As sweetly sings the choir, 
 As when with Christinas minstrelsy 
 
 They carolled round her fire. 
 
 But she has left her wonted place, 
 
 And dull is every sound, 
 The joy, the light of every face, 
 
 Sleeps far beneath the ground. 
 
 Now, when I take my much-loved flute, 
 
 To pipe a joyous strain, 
 To every accent it is mute, 
 
 Save that which doth complain. 
 
 The seasons come and pass away : 
 
 The spring-time with its glee, 
 The summer with its warmer ray, 
 
 And autumn, dear to me. 
 
 I love to list the sweeping gale 
 
 That bares its yellow trees, 
 And hear its melancholy wail 
 
 In each complaining breeze.
 
 1G POEMS. 
 
 I tread upon each crumpled leaf, 
 And mourn with every breath, 
 
 That life, at best so frail and brief, 
 Should yield so soon to death. 
 
 "When winter comes, I seek some nook, 
 
 To weep my mother gone, 
 Whilst fancy tracks each path she took, 
 
 Where I must walk alone. 
 
 The lane, the hill, the murmuring rill, 
 The stile she called her own, 
 
 Are sacred to my memory still, 
 And crowd it one by one. 
 
 The flow'rets she was wont to cull 
 I seek when spring is near, 
 
 The primrose and the purple bell, 
 And bathe them with a tear. 
 
 Join, ye who can, the festive scene, 
 And each sad feeling spurn ; 
 
 I'll hang my walls with cypress green, 
 And sit alone and mourn.
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Throwing rny crumbs upon the snow, 
 
 I'll little Eobins tend, 
 And bid their plaintive accents flow 
 
 To mourn a common friend. 
 
 17 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope is like a lovely star, 
 
 "When only one is seen ; 
 And like that light afar, 
 
 Which gleams the hills between, 
 When not a silver streak 
 
 From the morning can be won, 
 Save the fringe upon the peak 
 
 Of the cloud before the sun.
 
 18 POEMS. 
 
 THE RURAL POSTMAN'S SABBATH. 
 
 The mellowed sounds of Sabbath bells 
 
 Fall gently on my ear, 
 And as they break in murmuring swells, 
 
 My heart is tuned to prayer. 
 
 In Sunday garb, all neatly clad, 
 
 With joy upon each face, 
 The dame and sire, and lass and lad, 
 
 Approach the holy place. 
 
 'Tis true, in yonder sacred fane 
 
 I cannot praise my Kiug ; 
 Yet in the meadow and the lane 
 
 I will be worshiping. 
 
 And, while I pray, a sweet response 
 Shall rise from every stream, 
 
 And all the little birds at once 
 Shall chant the morning hymn.
 
 THE RURAL POSTMAN'S SABBATH. 19 
 
 Oh, what a charm reigns o'er the scene, 
 
 Beneath those dappled skies ! 
 The cattle wear a pious mien, 
 
 And earth is paradise. 
 
 I ask no priest 'neath fretted dome 
 
 Their holy prayers to read, 
 No pew beside the marble tomb, 
 
 "When Grod is over-head. 
 
 So here, beneath His loving eye, 
 
 I'll worship and adore, 
 The vaulted heaven my canopy, 
 
 The earth my temple floor. 
 
 -O-O^&^OO-
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 OUR DEVONSHIRE WORTHIES. 
 
 The grand old men of Devonshire, 
 
 How mighty is their name ! 
 The glory of their deeds shall burn, 
 
 An everlasting flame. 
 Sight sturdy, stalwart sons were they, 
 
 And won a brave renown — 
 The brightest, purest gems of fame, 
 
 In England's matchless crown. 
 
 Our day the epithet of " great " 
 
 May justly, proudly claim ; 
 For Knowledge hath with Wisdom wed, 
 
 And Truth is more than name : 
 But let us stand upon the verge 
 
 Of this our age sublime, 
 And call the spirits from the past — 
 
 The prison-grave of Time, 
 
 And mark the grandeur of the soul, 
 The stateliness of mien,
 
 Of those who were the crown and pride 
 Of England's Maiden Queen ; 
 
 And let us ask what favoured shire 
 Grave England's brightest stars— 
 
 The noblest men who made her state, 
 And conquered in her wars ? 
 
 Who, in their majesty of heart 
 
 And mightiness of hand, 
 First conquered self, then won a world, 
 
 A new-discovered land ? 
 The Past is speaking ! give her ear— 
 
 The Present ! list her strain : 
 Impatient Future thunders — " Hear ! 
 
 " 'T was Devon gave the Men." 
 
 The brave old men of Devonshire ! 
 
 'Tis worth a world to stand 
 As Devon's sons, on Devon's soil, 
 
 Though infants of the band ; 
 And tell old England to her face, 
 
 If she is great in fame, 
 'T was good old heart of Devon oak 
 
 That made her glorious name.
 
 Speak out, old sea-dog Drake — speak out ! 
 
 And Raleigh of renown ; 
 Gilbert, and Grenyille, lion-hearts, 
 
 And valiant Champernowne ; 
 And Monk, the Duke of Albemarle, 
 
 Brave Keats, and bold Carew, 
 And, bravest of the brave in war, 
 
 Stout Hockin and Pellew ; 
 
 And shame some craven ones, who strut 
 
 As " worthies " on our stage, 
 And tell them where you bled, and left 
 
 Your soul-stamp on your age ! 
 Whene'er I pace old By-the-eord, 
 
 And conjure up this thought — 
 " 'T was here, and here, that Grenville trod, 
 
 And there a Baleigh wrought" — 
 
 My blood leaps up into my brain, 
 And gallops through my heart ; 
 
 My soul throbs with the proud desire 
 To play a patriot's part. 
 
 Thank Heaven, ye men of Devonshire, 
 We 've Raleighs with us still,
 
 OUR DEVONSHIRE WORTHIES. 23 
 
 To wield the patriot's burning pen, 
 Or sword on battle hill. 
 
 A Cleveland falls at Inkermann ; 
 
 At Alma, "Woolocombe ; 
 Where Morris won his glory-scars, 
 
 A Newman fills a tomb. 
 And noble names, of humbler birth, 
 
 Emblazon Honour's scroll— 
 Our Cornets and our Courtices, 
 
 Who won Sebastopol ! 
 
 God bless the men of Devonshire, 
 
 Who to the battle fly ; 
 And if more heroes England needs, 
 
 We ready are to die !
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 GENTLE ANNIE. 
 
 Soft as the fall of autumn's leaf, 
 
 Or words of tender love, 
 A gentle maiden paced unseen 
 
 Along a silent grove. 
 
 Scarce fifteen rosy years Lad left 
 Their tintings on her cheek ; 
 
 And all the lily's lovely grace 
 Adorned her spirit meek. 
 
 Her heart was like the drifted snow, 
 
 Untarnished by a stain ; 
 Her thoughts were innocent as babes, 
 
 Her song a loving strain. 
 
 No selfish or unsacred wish 
 E'er warped her gentle life ; 
 
 The sunshine of benevolence 
 Destroyed the weeds of strife.
 
 GENTLE ANNIE. 25 
 
 An orphan lamb she fed each morn, 
 Which taught her how to love ; 
 
 And the sweet sentiment she shared 
 Between it and a dove. 
 
 She nursed her sire of silver years, 
 She soothed her mother's care ; 
 
 And conversed with, and kissed, and blessed 
 The patriarchal pair. 
 
 And thus, like lilies in the shade, 
 
 Or daisies in the sun, 
 So ev'ry blossom of her heart 
 
 "Was opened one by one.
 
 26 POEMS. 
 
 OUR LIFE ? S A JOY. 
 
 Our life 's a joy, and 'tis not just 
 
 To brand it as a bitter cup ; 
 Our trials are but balance-dust, 
 
 When weighed against our joys. Cheer up ! 
 
 No life hath been a cheerless way, 
 
 With u ought but briers thickly sown, 
 
 Where pois'nous reptiles held the sway, 
 And every hope was left unblown ; 
 
 A day of clouds, without a gleam 
 
 Of sunlight dashed across its morn ; 
 
 A deep, dark, sadly-murmuring stream, 
 On which no real joy was born ; 
 
 A night without one starry eye ; 
 
 A winter without any flowers ; 
 A melancholy destiny, 
 
 Controlled by none but evil powers.
 
 I 
 
 Nay ! life's a path where virtues grow, 
 And sacred songsters warble lays ; 
 
 A fount whence purest pleasures flow ; 
 A night illumed by friendship's rays ; 
 
 A winter-time, whose cumbrous snows 
 Press rosy flow'rets from the earth ; 
 
 A day, whose sunny radiance throws 
 A halo over every birth ; 
 
 A destiny which angels guard, 
 
 And hedge about from morn till even; 
 
 And Life Eternal 's the reward 
 
 For all who live this life for heaven. 
 
 So, cheer up, hearts ! it is not just 
 
 To call our life a bitter cup ; 
 Our trials are but balance- dust, 
 
 "When weighed against our joys. Cheer up !
 
 28 POEMS. 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 
 
 "What is Greatness ? True Contrition 
 Mourning o'er a false ambition ; 
 Making full and frank confession 
 Of a life of past transgression ; 
 Better plans and acts revolving, 
 And in strength of soid resolving, 
 "Works shall follow on confessing — 
 Faith, and charity, and blessing, 
 
 "What is Greatness ? Ask the Poet 
 
 And the Patriot if they know it ; 
 
 Ask the men of high aspiring, 
 
 Those who know the true inspiring 
 
 Genius gives to generous givers, 
 
 To the greatest human livers ; 
 
 Ask them, honest-hearted neighbour, 
 
 They will tell you, " Faith and Labotjb." 
 
 What is Greatness ? 'Tis abiding 
 Firm in purpose, true, confiding,
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 29 
 
 Hoping, trusting, and believing, 
 Giving alms, no thanks receiving ; 
 Counting kindest deeds a pleasure, 
 And the joys they waken treasure ; 
 Aiming, striving, loving, doing; 
 This is Greatness, good pursuing ! 
 
 Greatness ! 'Tis a moral beauty, 
 Only found in paths of duty ; 
 Patient virtue, vice despoiling, 
 'Gainst an adverse fortune toiling ; 
 Gilding every triumph-story 
 "With a bright and golden glory ; 
 Energetic, manful, glorious, 
 Ever battling and victorious. 
 
 Greatness fights in face of evil, 
 Prejudice, and pride, and devil, 
 Looking to the rest in heaven, 
 Where the warrior's crown is given. 
 Onward then, ye sons of trial, 
 Heedless of the stern denial ; 
 Greatness true is moral glory — 
 On, and win the hero's story !
 
 30 POEMS. 
 
 LIVE IN LOVE; 'TIS PLEASANT LIVING. 
 
 Be not harsh and unforgiving, 
 Live in love ; 'tis pleasant living. 
 If an angry man should meet thee, 
 And assail tbee indiscreetly, 
 Turn not thou again and rend him, 
 Lest thou needlessly offend him ; 
 Show him love hath been thy teacher, 
 Kindness is a potent preacher : 
 Gentleness is e'er forgiving, — 
 Live in love ; 'tis pleasant living. 
 
 Why be angry -with each other ? 
 Man was made to love his brother : 
 Kindness is a human duty, 
 Meekness a celestial beauty. 
 "Words of kindness spoke in season, 
 Have a weight with men of reason ; 
 Don't be others' follies blaming, 
 And their little vices naming ;
 
 LIVE IN LOYE ; 'TIS PLEASANT LIVING. 31 
 
 Charity's a cure for railing, 
 Suffers much, is all-prevailing. 
 Courage then, and be forgiving,— 
 Live in love ; 'tis pleasant living. 
 
 Let thy loving be a passion, 
 Not a complimental fashion ; 
 Love is wisdom, ever proving 
 True philosophy is loving : 
 Hast thou known that bitter feeling, 
 '(rendered by our hate's concealing ? 
 Better love, though e'er so blindly, 
 E'en thy foes will call it kindly. 
 Words are wind : oh, let them never 
 Friendship's golden love-cords sever! 
 Nor be angry, though another 
 Scorn to call thee friend or brother. 
 " Brother," say, " let's be forgiving,— 
 Live in love; 'tis pleasant living."
 
 32 POEMS. 
 
 UP AND DO. 
 
 Up, my lads, up — with the lark get up ! 
 Health loves to drink from an early cup. 
 Do, my lads, do — with a purpose too : 
 Success seldom comes where the will moves slow. 
 
 Up with the merry bird, up and away, 
 
 And honour with effort the morn of your day ; 
 
 Do, ere the shadows come over your eve, 
 
 And the web of your fortune, lads, thriftily weave. 
 
 Up ! there 's a work for the world to be done — 
 A battle to fight, and a race to be won : 
 Up, my lads, up, if the laurels you 'd wear ; 
 Do, if the palm of the victor you 'd bear. 
 
 The timid " A lion ! a lion ! " may shout, 
 And then, like a fugleman, turn right about ; 
 But onward, lads, onward ! have courage to pass, 
 And soon you '11 discover 'tis only an ass.
 
 UP AND DO. 33 
 
 Up, my lads, up ! though your talents are small, 
 Te must all act your part, if ye 'd win, one and all : 
 The weakest, the strongest, the peasant, the peer, 
 The humblest and ablest, have work enough here. 
 
 There 's vice to be rooted, and virtues to sow, 
 And depths to be fathomed of error and woe ; 
 And ere ye can have the bright noontide of truth, 
 The sunlight of knowledge must dawn on your youth. 
 
 Whilst there's want in the land, or a pang in the heart, 
 There 's a need that you act the Samaritan's part ; 
 And though priestman and Levite both fail to bestow 
 Their oil, wine, and twopence, lads, up ye, and do ! 
 
 Then up, my lads, up ! and at once get up, 
 And the wine of good pour from a liberal cup : 
 Do, my lads, do, and you '11 very soon know 
 That the world's lever lies in that one word — Do. 
 
 D
 
 34 POEMS. 
 
 OUT OF THE LIGHT! 
 
 " Out of the light ! " — Hark ! Justice thunders 
 
 " Every foe to human right, 
 " Mental, moral, legal blunders, 
 
 " Stand not in the ways of light." 
 Every glorious thiug in nature, 
 
 Elowers, and stars, and diamond eyes, 
 Things of mean and giant stature, 
 
 Sunlit heavens and moonlit skies ; 
 Every blooming, smiling feature, 
 
 Rosy cheek, and radiant brow, 
 Human or angelic creature, 
 
 Ever sung, and sing it now : 
 Whilst the king of heaven's mansion, 
 
 Erom this world's primeval night, 
 Throughout nature's wide expansion, 
 
 Loudly cries, " Let there be light." 
 
 Out of the light, ye foes to knowledge, 
 Creeping forth from cloistered cell ;
 
 Keep your poison at your college, 
 
 That will suit us just as well. 
 Out of the light ! Tour false opinions 
 
 Feed not those who would be free ; 
 Preach them to your crouching minions, 
 
 Those who can't or will not see. 
 Out of the light, ye foes to reason, 
 
 Know ye not (ye are not blind) 
 That it is the worst of treason 
 
 Thus to war against the mind ? 
 Out of the light ! Tour learned cabals 
 
 May deceive an ignorant wight ; 
 But to us they 're old wives' fables, 
 
 Darkness 'mid a blaze of light. 
 
 Friends of truth, we '11 let their rostrums 
 
 Wear their things of white and blue, 
 "While we leave their much-quack' d nostrums 
 
 For the beautiful and true. 
 Friends of truth, be undivided, 
 
 "Wield the sword of common sense ; 
 Fight! and when the war's decided, 
 
 Then we '11 crown Intelligence.
 
 Friends, the hour is just eleven, 
 
 Morn hath seen our battle won ; 
 See you, then, your moral heaven 
 
 Wears a cloudless noontide sun. 
 Battle on, then ; battle bravely, 
 
 Scatter wide the rays of light ; 
 Soon your enemies shall gravely 
 
 Tell you, you were in the right. 
 " Out of the light ! " Hark, Justice thunders, 
 
 " Every foe to truth and right, 
 " Sacred, social, moral blunders, 
 
 " Get you from the ways of light." 
 
 --.x_9^,W— ^;. _
 
 THE PRIMROSE VOICE. 37 
 
 THE PRIMROSE VOICE. 
 
 " I 'm come again to greet thee, 
 
 With friendship's purest glow, 
 Where I was wont to meet thee 
 
 Full thirty years ago. 
 Thy mother here caressed me 
 
 With an admiring joy, 
 Then, turning, kiss'd and bless'd thee, 
 
 A ruddy infant boy. 
 I drew thee forth in childhood, 
 
 Where golden king-cups gleam, 
 Adown the rugged wild- wood, 
 
 Anear the brawling stream ; 
 And well I loved thy praises, 
 
 That revelled in the air 
 Of primroses and daisies — 
 
 'Twas melody most rare. 
 
 " Ob, many a happy greeting 
 
 Since then have we two seen ;
 
 88 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 
 Yes, many a merry meeting 
 
 
 Ere buds were tipped with green ; 
 
 
 And many a flood of feeling 
 
 
 Hath gushed from thy dear heart, 
 
 
 As seasons came, revealiug 
 
 
 The sign for us to part. 
 
 Yet men have proved falsehearted, 
 Embittering thine hours ; 
 
 And death from thee hath parted 
 Some sweet domestic flowers. 
 
 ' I told thee by yon hill-side, 
 
 "When last we mingled tears, 
 I 'd come again at spring-tide 
 
 Through all thy future years : 
 1 vowed I 'd leave a token, 
 
 A tiny tuft of green : 
 My vow I 've kept unbroken, 
 
 The token thou hast seen : 
 For where the ivy mantling 
 
 Eepelled the snowy flake, 
 I saw thee watch my bantling 
 
 Upon the sterile brake.
 
 THE PEIMBOSE VOICE. 39 
 
 A love so pure, I '11 cherish, 
 
 Through all thy pain and prime ; 
 
 And when thy best friends perish, 
 I'll cheer thy latest time."
 
 40 POE3IS. 
 
 TO THE WILD CONVOLVULUS. 
 
 Upon the lap of Nature wild 
 I love to view thee, Beauty's child ; 
 And mark the rose and lily white 
 Their charms in thy fair form unite ; 
 I love to see thy trailing flowers 
 Quaffing the nectareous showers ; 
 I love to scent thy fragrance too, 
 "When all thy cups are full of dew. 
 When shadows cross the solar beam, 
 Like sadness o'er a poet's dream, 
 Oh, how I joy to see the ray 
 Again upon thy bosom play ! 
 I know not whether others feel 
 A pleasure by thy side to kneel, 
 And bless the Maker of the skies, 
 For kindling up such ecstasies ; 
 But when the old green lane I pace, 
 And gaze upon thy smiling face,
 
 TO THE WILD CONVOLVULUS. 41 
 
 Such feelings thrill my inmost soul, 
 As Reason's self cannot control. 
 There is a beauty in thine eye 
 Which only poets can descry ; 
 There is a halo round thy head 
 Which only God himself can shed : 
 Ay, there's a glory circling thee 
 Which borders much on mystery, 
 A type to favoured mortals given 
 Of Beauty's antitype in Heaven.
 
 42 POEMS. 
 
 THE WHITE VIOLET. 
 
 Pale Beauty went out 'neatli a wintry sky, 
 From a nook where the gorse and the holly grew by. 
 And silently traversed the snow-covered earth 
 In search of a sign of floriferous birth. 
 
 It chanced, as she tearfully paced through a grove, 
 She shed a round symbol of sorrowful love, 
 When Flora decreed there should spring from the tear 
 A floret with fragrance of many a year. 
 
 It fell to the earth where a blue violet grew, 
 And clung to its root like a globule of dew ; 
 And ere rough and burly March ushered in spring, 
 It sprang up a fragrant and beautiful thing. 
 
 With purple and gold on an emerald stem 
 'Tis mounted — this jewel, this lily-white gem, 
 And worn by a world as the rich and the rare, 
 The Queen of the Spring-time, the pride of the fair.
 
 THE CELANDINE. 43 
 
 THE CELANDINE. 
 
 Deab, Celandine, fresh from the green bank springing, 
 
 I hail thy visit to our world again ; 
 I heard the skylark in the bright cloud singing, 
 
 I heard the thrush a-piping up the lane, 
 And saw the sun with lion vigour flinging 
 
 The murky vapours from his golden mane. 
 Across my cheek the warm south wind came stealing, 
 
 With pressure soft as gentle mother's hand ; 
 And Zephyr whispered, " Celandine's revealing 
 
 Her glory somewhere in this lovely land." 
 And then I wandered where, all joyously, 
 
 The stream rusheddownwardto the clamouring mill, 
 And watched it foam and labour boisterously 
 
 To pour its force upon the water-wheel. 
 And now I 've found thee, bright as star-fire glowing, 
 
 A little golden glory in the sun, 
 And feel new joy through all my being flowing, 
 
 As when I first beheld my only son.
 
 'Tis passing strange, thou little thing enchanting, 
 
 That thou o'er me shouldst hold such sweet control, 
 As thus to make me wander, lone and panting, 
 
 To seek this rapt enthralment of the soul : 
 Yet so it is ; I can't resist the pleasure ; 
 
 I'd give a kingdom, had I one to give, 
 To dwell with thee, my pretty golden treasure, 
 
 And ever feel as I this moment live. 
 
 "Where is thy little modest Primrose sister, 
 
 And pensive Snowdrop ? Daisy, where is she ? 
 It seems an age since I last saw and kissed her, 
 
 All rain-bewashed, upon the bleak, bare lea. 
 Tou say, " Where golden Daffodils are creeping 
 
 Thro' brambles tangled, there the Snowdrop's seen ; 
 That Primrose from the mossy bank is peeping, 
 
 And from the hill-top little ' Daisy Queen.' " 
 A thank, my dear ; I 'm happier for this meeting ; 
 
 I seem to feel I 'm younger for it, too ; 
 I 'U hie to them, and give them each a greeting, 
 
 And tell them all the joy I' ve had with you. 
 Ye souls ambitious, tossed on every billow, 
 
 Or floundering on the sands of discontent,
 
 TIIE CELANDINE. 
 
 45 
 
 Peace would ye have, let Nature make your pillow, 
 
 "With flowers, and moss, and dewy gems besprent. 
 Go climb the hills where celandines and daisies, 
 
 And snowdrops with their primrose sisters rest ; 
 Go list the birds, all jubilant of praises, 
 
 And calm the passions of your troubled breast. 
 And you, whose lives are fettered by restriction, 
 
 Whom fate has pent from this delightful sight, 
 And labour grim, and wearying affliction, 
 
 Have doomed to witness one perpetual night, 
 If ye should feel a joy within your bosom, 
 
 Whilst humming o'er my wild, untutored lay, 
 I '11 tell you why I plucked this fancy-blossom- — 
 
 To make the face of grief look glad and gay. 
 
 -jo'^Oo-
 
 46 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE DAISY. 
 
 A daisy fair, with modest air, 
 
 A wintry scene adorning, 
 Withstood the blast that wildly passed, 
 
 And chilled the night and morning. 
 
 She came to cheer the scene so drear, 
 And bared her pretty bosom, 
 
 Ere hawthorn trees perfumed the breeze 
 With beautifying blossom. 
 
 Her love I hailed, her fate bewailed, 
 She seemed a thing so tender, 
 
 And thus I tried, by yon hill-side, 
 From tempests to defend her. 
 
 My staff I dropped, the flow'ret propped, 
 When, lo ! this aid was given — 
 
 A pillow white, and soft as light, 
 And snow-robe wove in heaven.
 
 THE DAISY. 47 
 
 I mused awhile, with placid smile, 
 And thus began to reason : — 
 
 Each wintry hour must have its flower, 
 And every flower its season. 
 
 It taught my heart to bear its part 
 Henceforth without complaining : 
 
 This lesson take — a snowy flake, 
 Though cold, can be sustaining.
 
 48 POEMS. 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 Pretty flowret, sweet and fair, 
 Pensive, weeping, withering there ; 
 Storms are raging, winds are high, 
 I fear thy beauty soon will die. 
 Of all the tints in Flora's train 
 Which paint the valley, hill, and plain. 
 None greets me with a lovelier grace 
 Than the pale yellow of thy face ; 
 Nothing repulsive lingers there, 
 Thy breath is rich, ambrosial air ; 
 And though the rose in fame doth shine, 
 Chief favonrite thou art of mine. 
 Yes ! when a child I wanton strayed 
 Along the dew-enamell'd mead, 
 My playmates I would oft forego, 
 And seek thee where thy clusters grow. 
 Ah, lovely and impatient flower, 
 "Why bloom in inauspicious hour ;
 
 TO AN EABLY. PR1MK0SE. 49 
 
 Thy leaves are scattered to the wind, 
 Scarcely thy stem remains behind. 
 
 I'll get some mould, provide a pot, 
 And in my little humble cot 
 A shelter thou shalt find, and bed, 
 To rear again thy scented head. 
 Thus mused I o'er the stricken flower, 
 And grieved I lack tbe helping power 
 To pierce each poor man's hovel, too, 
 And rear a joy for every woe.
 
 50 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE NEGLECTED HYACINTH. 
 
 I hailed thee in the spring of life, 
 And sang thy merit's praise, 
 
 Ere thou hadst battled with the strife 
 And storm of wintry days. 
 
 I dearly love thee now as when 
 
 Within the fragrant dell, 
 Or by the roadside of the glen, 
 
 I sought thy purple bell. 
 
 Then underneath some branching tree, 
 I quaff d thy odours sweet ; 
 
 And humm'd my notes of minstrelsy, 
 With brooklet at my feet. 
 
 In that loved nook I thought of ills 
 Which press'd my hapless race ; 
 
 And dipped my crust in crystal rills, 
 And prized thy dwelling-place.
 
 THE NEGLECTED HYACINTH. 
 
 51 
 
 But thou art changed, for time has worn 
 Thy matchless charms away ; 
 
 And thou, alas ! art left forlorn, 
 In thy declining day. 
 
 Once damsels' lily fingers played 
 
 Around thy stems at noon ; 
 "Where groups of rosy children strayed, 
 
 To gather age a boon. 
 
 Now, those who burned with pious wrath 
 To see thy clusters strewed 
 
 So wanton on the beaten path, 
 Pass by in haughty mood. 
 
 And heedless of thy hapless plight, 
 They look on thee with scorn ; 
 
 For flowers more gaudy meet their sight, 
 And fringe the summer's morn. 
 
 But take it not to heart, sweet flower, 
 
 Nor pine in solitude, 
 If thou art doomed to feel the power 
 
 Of base ingratitude, —
 
 f>9 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Since men inspired with art and song, 
 "Who loved both man and plant, 
 
 Have lived a life by far too long, 
 
 And starved through pinching want. 
 
 List Dryden's plaint— hear poor Burns mourn, 
 
 See Wilson, pale and wan ; 
 Till Hay don follows in his turn, 
 
 And dies, a ruined man. 
 
 had I but the well-filled purse, 
 
 And Heaven vouchsafed the power ; 
 
 I'd free my fellow from his curse, 
 And save thee, too, sweet flower. 
 
 -^^b^-ss^
 
 BUTTERFLIES AjS'D FLOWEBS. 53 
 
 BUTTERFLIES AND FLOWERS. 
 
 (to a friend.) 
 
 As Sol was journeying through, the year, 
 He paid his court to honnie May ; 
 
 Who took him to a choice parterre, 
 To see her butterflies at play. 
 
 Through many a pathway fringed with green, 
 O'er many a rude-built rural stile, 
 
 The radiant Day-king tracked his Queen, 
 And paid her kindness with a smile. 
 
 Where wild-flowers in profusion scent 
 With sweet perfumes the ambient air ; 
 
 And trees in deep devotion bent, 
 
 And spread their hands to bless the pair. 
 
 Up rugged and primaeval woods, 
 And down in far untrodden ways, 
 
 Where roll the everlasting floods, 
 
 The dazzling monarch shot his rays.
 
 54 POEMS. 
 
 Where'er he went, the lovers smiled, 
 And music trilled o'er moor and mead ; 
 
 The golden gorse-bush sparkled wild, 
 
 And Heaven with azure was o'erspread. 
 
 The trailing brainble threw its shade, 
 In shapes fantastic o'er the earth ; 
 
 The hawthorns' odour filled the glade, 
 And souls poetic glowed with mirth. 
 
 At length they reach a moss-lined nook, 
 Where silence waits the Cuckoo's note, 
 
 To waft her echoes o'er the brook, 
 
 And bid them on the south wind float. 
 
 Adown the daisy-dappled slope, 
 
 By rich laburnum -shaded bowers, 
 
 They bade each flower no longer mope, 
 But shake away the chilling showers. 
 
 The bleeding daisy op'd her eye 
 To look upon her glorious Lord ; 
 
 The modest primrose, weeping by, 
 
 Looked up, and saw, and then adored.
 
 BUTTEKFLIES AND FLOWERS. 55 
 
 The pensive bluebell dried her tears, 
 And flung away the clinging dew ; 
 
 The violets, too, those blue-eyed dears, 
 Grew brighter and looked happier too. 
 
 And now they reached a garden gate, 
 
 Where bloomed the stateliest flowers that blow, 
 
 The tulip in her robes of state, 
 
 And roses red and white as snow. 
 
 The balmy-breathing jonquil stood 
 
 Erect in all his yellow pride ; 
 And bright japonicas were woo'd 
 
 By ruby wall-flowers near their side. 
 
 A thousand other beauties shone, 
 
 Eich as the stars in sable skies ; 
 And laughed in joy till Sol was gone, 
 
 When dewy sorrows dimmed their eyes. 
 
 List, Mortal, listen. Such is life, 
 
 All golden, 'neath a prosperous sun ; 
 
 But few have strength to brave the strife, 
 That follows when their wealth is gone.
 
 56 POEMS. 
 
 And such are friends ! For in his ray, 
 Borne on the wings of gossamer, 
 
 A thousand insects with their play 
 
 Filled all the air with constant whirr. 
 
 Bright Butterflies on ruby wings, 
 
 White, green, gold, azure, orange, red, 
 
 Came forth and kissed the glorious things : 
 But where were they when Sol had fled ? 
 
 Flown, flown ! And in adversity, 
 
 Say, who would enter once thy door, 
 
 Of all those friends who visit thee, 
 
 If Humour whispered thou wert poor ?
 
 WHERE HAST THOU BEEN, MY BEAUTIFUL 
 
 SPRING? 
 
 Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? 
 To the sultry south, on the swallow's wing ; 
 Kissing the little kidnapped slave, 
 Ere bore away on the deep blue wave ; 
 Brushing the tear from the mother's cheek, 
 As she wept for her child at Mozambique ? 
 Else whence comest thou with this potent charm, 
 
 Chaining the winds to the frigid zone, 
 Making the breast of Nature warm, 
 
 And stilling old "Winter's undertone ? 
 
 Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? 
 Away with the honey-bee wandering, 
 Sipping the nectar of famed Cashmere, 
 Sporting amid the Turk's parterre, 
 Quaffing warm Araby's balmy breeze, 
 And spicy scents of the Ceylonese ? 
 Else whence comest thou with thy odorous breath, 
 Chafing the cheek to a rosy bloom,
 
 58 POEMS. 
 
 And scattering the poisonous air of death, 
 By flinging abroad a rich perfume ? 
 
 "Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? 
 
 Up, 'mid Heaven's music revelling ? 
 
 For the tones of thy song from the greenwood bush, 
 
 The lark in the sky, and the mountain thrush, 
 
 Speak as if it were given to thee 
 
 To list to seraphic minstrelsy. 
 
 Ay, there thou hast been. Not sunny France, 
 
 Or old Italia's land of song, 
 Can furnish such notes for the Poet's dance, 
 
 As the melody poured from thy musical tongue. 
 
 Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? 
 Plucking rich plumes from the paroquet's wing, 
 Robbing the clouds of their rainbow crest, 
 Bathing thyself in the glorious west, 
 Robing thy form in the peacock's hues, 
 And gathering pearls from the orient dews ? 
 Else whence comest thou, with this proud array 
 
 Of beauties to sprinkle the russet wood, 
 These Lent-lilies bending as if to pray, 
 
 And hyacinths fringing the marge of the flood ?
 
 MT BEAUTIFUL SPRING. 59 
 
 And tell me whence cometh, my beautiful Spring, 
 Each star of the earth, each odorous thing, 
 These white-ruffled daisies with golden-dipped eyes, 
 These buttercups gleaming like summer-lit skies, 
 These violets adorned with rich purple and blue, 
 These primroses fragrant and innocent too ; 
 And lastly, the sweetest and richest, I ween, 
 
 Of all thy fair daughters, my beautiful Spring, 
 The buddings that stud all thy pathways with green 
 
 Say, where were they gathered to shake from 
 thy wing ?
 
 GO POEMS. 
 
 AN APRIL MEMORY. 
 
 'Twas a lovely time ! an image of bliss 
 
 Was pictured upon the earth ; 
 Away on the hills young Spring was seen, 
 Tipping the buds with virgin green, 
 While Music tripped down the slopes between, 
 
 In fellowship with Mirth. 
 
 Far up on high the great Sun walked, 
 
 In stately grandeur proud ; 
 While the Moon from the bright blue April sky 
 Peeped from her noonday throne on high, 
 Like a softened beam in a maiden's eye, 
 
 Or a shred of pearly cloud. 
 
 And where but late the lightnings flashed, 
 And thunder drove his car, 
 - Higher than might-winged eagles stray, 
 A lark poured forth a melodious lay, 
 As he trembling hung by a golden ray — 
 A musical noonday star.
 
 AN APRIL MEMORY. 61 
 
 Down where the fairy-winged zephyrs sport 
 
 With butterfly, flower, and bee, 
 A brooklet, in search of her ocean love, 
 Sang the same notes as the lark above, 
 As she danced along through the chequered grove, 
 
 Seeking her native sea. 
 
 The sea gulls had left their rock-built home, 
 
 And billow -beaten strand, 
 And, trooping away from the rocking sea, 
 "Went circling up most joyously, 
 Laughing aloud in their boisterous glee, 
 
 A merry-making band. 
 
 Away in the forest, birds tallied of love, 
 
 And insects whispered bliss ; 
 For the robin, the finch, and the tiny wren, 
 Had chosen their little ladies then, 
 And the honey-bee stole through the fragrant glen, 
 
 In search of a violet's kiss. 
 
 And yet 't was a time when the young year weeps — 
 
 For gay things weep, you know ; 
 When from their cloud-lids in the skies,
 
 62 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Big drops roll out from their azure eyes, 
 Tinging the heavens with rainbow dyes, 
 And pearling the earth below. 
 
 And there were other eyes that wept, 
 
 And owned deep feeling's power : 
 Eyes that had gazed upon that scene, 
 Its gorse-crowned banks with burnished sheen, 
 Its blue-bells bright, as they peeped between, 
 
 Rich as the golden hour. 
 
 'T was an emigrant leaving his island home, 
 
 For far Columbia's shore, 
 Who halted awhile where he used to play, 
 And knelt by a primrose group to pray, 
 Then tearfully turned his head away, 
 
 From scenes he should see no more. 
 
 I learnt there is no bright thing of joy, 
 
 But hath its time of woe ; 
 The smiling babe its tears will shed, 
 The bride with her orange-bloom round her head, 
 Tea, every joy a grief must wed, 
 Like the cloud the radiant bow.
 
 MAY. 63 
 
 M A Y. 
 
 Here she comes, the bonnie May, 
 Sportive as a lamb at play, 
 Beauteous as in days of yore, 
 "Welcome to the rich and poor ; 
 Nought is gloomy, sad, or drear, 
 All is gladness everywhere, 
 Church's porch and castle-way 
 Boast their sprigs of living May : 
 Village lads are up betimes, 
 "Waiting not for morning chimes, 
 Leaving each his smoking home 
 Through the fresh green woods to roam ; 
 See them one by one return, 
 Raptures in their bright eyes burn, 
 As the branch is borne along 
 To the time of ancient song, 
 This the burthen of their lay, 
 " Here she comes, the First of May," 
 Now their little hands begin, 
 'Mid the shouts and merry din,
 
 64< POEMS. 
 
 Pretty wreaths and floral rings, 
 For their May- day offerings ; 
 Not a tulip, or a rose, 
 To the simplest flower that blows, 
 Lilac or cardamine, 
 Heartsease or anemone, 
 Woodbine trailing in the lane, 
 Gorse and hawthown, come again, 
 Sweet laburnums, breaking buds, 
 Wildlings in the underwoods, 
 Wallflowers 'neath the window-sills, 
 Hyacinths and daffodils, 
 Not a flowret, great or small, 
 But is welcome, one and all. 
 
 Here she comes, the romping May ! 
 Come to keep her holiday, 
 Coming at the cuckoo's call 
 To the year's high festival ; 
 See the little urchins red 
 Bounding o'er the shining mead, 
 Skipping in their childish glee 
 With their sisters lovingly ;
 
 MAY. 
 
 65 
 
 See her now with laughing eyes, 
 Where the tow'ring maypoles rise, 
 Dancing to her own sweet tune, 
 Never known to sunny June ; 
 Every heart is lightsome now, 
 Clustered 'neath the green elm bough ; 
 Round the maypole, round and round, 
 Men, and maids, and children bound ; 
 Showering, as they halt between, 
 Honours on their May-day Queen ; 
 E'en the hamlet's oldest men 
 Laugh, and feel they 're young again, 
 Shouting as each chaplet swings, 
 Till the very welkin rings. 
 Sadness hath no song for her, 
 May 's the merriest of the year. 
 
 Here she comes, the queenly May, 
 Showering daisies on her way, 
 Bits of ermine widely thrown 
 O'er the carpet of her lawn ; 
 See, she comes in budding green, 
 Peering through a golden screen,
 
 66 POEMS. 
 
 Wearing clouds for diadems, 
 Starry flowers for sparkling gems ; 
 Round her brow, see, balos shine 
 More than lovely, half divine ; 
 Now in budding robes of state 
 See her enter beauty's gate, 
 Wbere the white and carmine bloom 
 Of the apple sheds perfume ; 
 See her, in her courtly dress, 
 All her smiling train caress, 
 Honeybees and butterflies, 
 Living flow'rets of the skies ; 
 See her string her dewy pearls 
 On the woodbine's tender curls, 
 Till upon her breast she wears 
 Necklaces of April tears. 
 
 Would ye see this queenly maid 
 In her russet garb arrayed, 
 Like a queen in private life, 
 Acting as the young year's wife ? 
 See her after April's showers, 
 Dressing all her little flowers,
 
 Wiping drops that April dash'd 
 Off the beauties lately wash'd ? 
 Would ye see her artist hand 
 Flinging glories o'er the land, 
 Pencilling with radiant beam 
 Sunfire on each running stream ; 
 Tinting every opening flower 
 With a beautifying shower ; 
 Tossing blossoms on the trees, 
 Tuning every wandering breeze ? 
 Would ye hear her dulcet voice 
 Bid the forest tribes rejoice? 
 Hear each bird on vocal bough 
 Shout " Here comes the maiden now"? 
 Gro, where yonder daisy's head 
 Marks the foot-prints she has made ; 
 Track her where the zephyr's foot 
 Scarcely bends the tender shoot ; 
 Wander o'er the babbling bi'ook, 
 Linger by each shady nook ; 
 Bound across the fragrant lawn 
 Where the buttercups are sown ; 
 Halt beside each flowing stream, 
 Till the breaking wavelets gleam :
 
 68 POEMS. 
 
 When you see her smiling face 
 Mirror' d in that hallowed place, 
 Tell her, whilst her dazzling eyes 
 Rob the azure of the skies, 
 Whilst her pretty rosebud mouth 
 Breathes the fragrance of the south, 
 Whilst the sun is on her brow, 
 Thou wilt be her lover ! — Thou !
 
 JXTPTE. 69 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Haek ! she is here — 'tis the rosy-faced June, 
 
 Striking her harp to her merriest tune ; 
 
 Yes ! she is come, for her presence is told 
 
 In her azure-capped mountains and meadows of gold. 
 
 Yes ! she is here: ye may hear her glad tongue 
 In the note of the blackbird and nightingale's song ; 
 In the love-tones of throstles tbac talk at the even, 
 And the lark as she sings at the portals of heaven. 
 
 Yes ! she is here, with her fugitive hours, 
 Painting her name on the leaves and the flowers ; 
 Sporting about with her butterfly mien, 
 Kivalling in beauty the humming-bird's sheen. 
 
 Yes ! she is come, on her blossom-plumed wings, 
 Strewing the land with all-beautiful things ; 
 Gilding the moments that merrily pass, 
 Breathing sweet aroma over the grass.
 
 70 POEMS. 
 
 Yes ! she is come, in celestial attire, 
 "With mantle of brightness, and vestments of fire, 
 To walk the green earth as an elf of the grove, 
 And reign as the spirit of music and love. 
 
 Yes ! she is come, and the prodigal May, 
 Grown sick of her glory, hath passed away, 
 Bequeathing to June all her garlands and posies, 
 Of hawthorn, and clover, and crimson-tipped roses. 
 
 Yes! she is come, with her network of leaves, 
 And homes for the bird and the Poet she weaves ; 
 And welcomes them out to the forest and glade, 
 To sport in her sunshine and dance in her shade. 
 
 Yes ! she is come, and her cherry-lips bear 
 Pledges of plenty and prosperous cheer ; 
 There is corn in the fields, there is fruit on the trees, 
 And happiness, wander wherever you please. 
 
 Yes ! she is here, for the little ones shout, 
 As the musical stroke of the mower rings out ; 
 And the blossoms that May in profusion had thrown, 
 By the scythe of the peasant "lie withered andstrown."
 
 JUNE. 7L 
 
 Yes ! she is come, for the lads are away, 
 Where lasses are laughing aud tossing the hay ; 
 And the odorous breezes that sweep o'er the ground, 
 Bear their songs to the hills and the valleys around. 
 
 Yes ! she is come : yet how sad is the truth, 
 
 That her glory must fade like the blossoms of youth, 
 
 And the hedge-rows that now are begarnished with 
 
 green, 
 May shed the sear leaf o'er our dearest of kin. 
 
 Yes, it is true, but we hope yet again 
 To see her once more o'er the hill-peak and plain, 
 And give us a pledge that the dead ones we love 
 Shall blossom again in the garden above.
 
 72 POEMS. 
 
 SEPTEMBER MUSINGS. 
 
 How beautiful ! A tranquillisiug hush 
 Is breathing silence o'er the listening earth. 
 It is the Sabbath month, the resting time, 
 When Nature pauseth 'mid her busy toil; 
 When chattering brooks and little singing birds 
 Soften their music in the grand old woods ; 
 When Quiet walks abroad with cushioned feet, 
 To bid the skylark o'er the arrish roam, 
 Lest he disturb the musings of the year, 
 By singing out his melodies to heaven. 
 
 'Tis passing sweet, at such a time as this, 
 Upon the summit of the green-capped hill, 
 Besprinkled o'er with pretty pimpernels 
 And clover-bloom, to pause and meditate ; 
 And then, along some solitary way, 
 To mark the purple scabious shake her plume, 
 Or watch pretentious foxgloves nod farewells 
 To shame-faced daisies. Pleasant, too, to walk 
 Where lesser hawkweeds dangle to and fro, 
 And buttercups droop, sighing for the sun ;
 
 SEPTEMBER MUSINGS. 73 
 
 Or, where sweet Echo mocks the nutter's strain, 
 To breast courageously the prickly tribes, 
 Look lovingly upon the dragon's gold, 
 Sip luscious sweets from honeysuckle lips, 
 Cull elder-berries for December wine, 
 And tell the hare-bell, ere she pass away, 
 She is the fairest of all earth-born stars. 
 
 Hark ! on the air no mirthful notes are borne 
 Prom "merry harvesters " in corn-crowned fields ; 
 Tranquillity hath, with her softest hand, 
 Laid Nature, slumbering, on the lap of Peace ; 
 The harvest wains have left the narrow lanes, 
 No more to rattle down the rocky steep ; 
 No more the horse, that dozed with harness on, 
 Sweats as he lab'ring drags the golden load ; 
 Or sickles, whetted well, to measured time, 
 Flash in the sunbeam from the reaper's hand. 
 Ton hovering clouds refuse to break the peace, 
 And wait fresh orders ere they take their flight. 
 The venerable trees have ceased their wild 
 And once fantastic dance. In deep suspense, 
 They drop their broad and leafy-fingered hands, 
 As if they doubted which 'twere best to do, 
 To doff their mantles or to keep them on.
 
 74 POEMS. 
 
 Those furious winds, that erst in legions came 
 Howling and roaring from the storm-torn north, 
 Like maddened wolves, or those whose piteous moan 
 Begged for admission through each gaping chink, 
 E'en they breathe music soft as dulcet notes, 
 And whisper pleasure unto listening souls. 
 
 See, Earth, enveloped in her soberest garb, 
 Looks like a matron of maturer years : 
 Her gilded hours and gorgeous hues are gone, 
 And, save her coral beads, but lately strung, 
 In clusters red on honeysuckle shrubs, 
 Some pearly globes in wild profusion flung 
 Upon the network of a spider's web, 
 And here and there a diamond shining bright, 
 In beauty dangling from some bramble twig, 
 You'd ne'er have known she 'd ever been a Queen. 
 But ah ! old age is on her, and its grey 
 Is hastening to a whiter tone. 
 
 Just then 
 A cruel sportsman brought a partridge down, 
 A minstrel robin fluttered from the eaves, 
 A fly flew buzzing by me, then some geese 
 Cackled, as Bob, the ploughboy, trudged along, 
 And turned the current of my quiet song.
 
 OCTOBER. 75 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 The gloomy days are come again, 
 
 Telling their doleful tale, 
 And singing the dirge of Autumn's months 
 
 With melancholy wail. 
 
 The trees are bare, and every stream 
 
 Is laden with a sigh, 
 And the year is pouring a flood of tears 
 
 Along the murky sky. 
 
 They called October sad and drear, 
 As she passed o'er the fading scene, 
 
 Spreading decay in each forest way, 
 Where the young year's life was green. 
 
 But still, October was not so sad 
 
 As men would have her be, 
 For when baring the wood, she covered the sod 
 
 'Mid the shouts of revelry.
 
 Mirth danced where the wine-press yet was sweet, 
 And Sport blew the huntsman's horn, 
 
 While linnet-choirs cheerily sang in the bush, 
 And the lark now and then to the morn. 
 
 Now the songs that we hear are the jay's wild screech, 
 Or the croak of some raven or crow, 
 
 Or the rustling of leaves from the blast-beaten beech 
 To the mire-covered ground below. 
 
 Then a song for October, the ruby-faced month, 
 
 That showered the acorns down ; 
 The beauty that came with the blush on her cheek, 
 
 And a mantle of russet and brown. 
 
 O, I loved her ! and sought her in serpentine paths, 
 
 O'er many a rock-paven way, 
 When her glories were falling like withering hopes, 
 
 To give room for the buddings of May. 
 
 And, wending my way where the feather-clad fern 
 Bent down with its yellow plumes low, 
 
 I track' d her where hawthorn and roseberries burn 
 To vie with the holly's rich glow.
 
 OCTOBER. 77 
 
 Through the wood and the wild, as I scrambled along, 
 
 Full many a song-bird would stir, 
 And wake into life a new thought for a song 
 
 With the sound of their fluttering whirr. 
 
 But, 0, I shall never forget the bright smoke 
 That curled from the cot in the dale, 
 
 As it stole 'mid the back-ground of chestnut and oak, 
 Like a stream of rich blue through the vale. 
 
 At length I arrived at a torrent-washed glen, 
 
 And, leaping the leaf-mottled flood, 
 I soon found her out by the acorn-boy's shout 
 
 That rang through the echoing wood. 
 
 O yes, she was there, a fair goddess arrayed 
 
 With a chaplet of beautiful hues, 
 Like a wreath of rich rainbows encircling her head, 
 
 And a tiara mounted with dews. 
 
 Yes, there 'mid the bright and the blue marbled skies, 
 Prom her hand she threw out on the breeze 
 
 All her richly-gilt leaves, more than gold in my eyes, 
 Which looked like rich bloom on the trees.
 
 78 POEMS. 
 
 But, alas for October, her beauty is flown, 
 And nought but her skeleton's seen ; 
 
 Still we know, tho' it fled on the wings of the storm, 
 'Twill be here when next summer hath been. 
 
 So know, mortals, know, when the loved ones of life 
 
 Shall wither like Autumn away, 
 Ye have only in Nature to turn o'er a page 
 
 To learn bow life springs from decay.
 
 NOVEMBER. 79 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 I know thou art here by thy blood-chilling breath, 
 And the snow-fall that drifts bv the door, 
 
 By the gloom of thy presence, the shadow of death, 
 And the wail of the blast on the moor. 
 
 No golden-streaked cloudlets illumine thy morn, 
 
 No rainbow o'er-arches thy path, 
 Thy features begrimed mark a tyrant forlorn, 
 
 And thy portion's a cup full of wrath. 
 
 No smile of the Spring time or Summer remains, 
 No Autumn bird pipes from the tree ; 
 
 The moorland-born child hears thy pat on the panes, 
 And his creeping flesh quivers at thee. 
 
 October wept rains at the eve of thy birth, 
 And shed her brown leaves with her tears ; 
 
 And cries of despair swept the surface of earth, 
 As she fled from the monster of years.
 
 80 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 0, cruel November, thy presence is drear, 
 Thou art Death on his Pale Horse to me ; 
 
 And swift-winged Destruction flies fast in thy rear, 
 And points to her parent in thee. 
 
 =?jOl£ —
 
 WINTER, 1855. 8 
 
 Q1 
 
 WINTER, 1855. 
 
 Earth is crispy 'neatli the tread, 
 Hills are capped with dazzling snow, 
 Boys throw water-balls below, 
 
 Clouds are freezing overhead. 
 
 Streams which ran the hill-side down, 
 Leaping on the water-wheel, 
 Now enlock the greedy mill, 
 
 Silent 'neath its Alpine crown. 
 
 Rivers now are sheeted glass, 
 Where the lads their revels hold, 
 Heedless of the biting cold, 
 
 Or the skaters as they pass. 
 
 Yonder barge and creaking oar 
 Cease the listening sense to jar ; 
 Stem, and stern, and chain, and spar 
 
 Seem like things of use no more.
 
 82 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Night by night, and day by day, 
 Birds which merry made the spring, 
 Puffed and famished, droop the wing, 
 
 Dying on the broad highway. 
 
 And the poor— God help the poor ! 
 See them how they sit and freeze, 
 Gnashing teeth, and knocking knees !- 
 
 Eich man, seek the poor man's door ! 
 
 - o^3ag^c_>^ -
 
 CHEISTMAS BELLS. 83 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 Ring out, ye rnerry bells ! "Welcome bright icicles ! 
 
 Welcome old holly-crowned Christmas again ! 
 Blithe as a child at play, keeping his holiday, 
 
 Welcome him in from the snow-peak and plain. 
 
 Up with the holly-bough, green from the winter's brow ; 
 
 Lock up your ledgers aud cares for a day ; 
 Out to the forest go, gather the mistletoe, 
 
 Old and young, rich and poor, up and away. 
 
 Up with the holly-bough, ay, and the laurel now ; 
 
 In with the yule-log, and brighten the hearth ; 
 Quick ! he is here again, come with his joyous train, 
 
 Laughter, and Music, and Friendship, and Mirth. 
 
 Up with your holly-boughs, high in each manor-house 
 Garnish the antlers that hang in the hall ; 
 
 Yes, and the " neck " of corn with a gay wreath adorn 
 Rich as the bloom on the cottager's wall.
 
 84 POEMS. 
 
 Wealth has its duties now, Christians, you will allow ; 
 
 Think, then, ye rich, whilst your tables are spread, 
 Think of those wretched ones, Poverty's stricken sons, 
 
 Weeping, whilst children are asking for bread. 
 Ring out, ye merry bells ! ring till your music swells 
 
 Out o'er the mountain and far on the main ; 
 Ring till those cheerless ones catch up your merry tones, 
 
 Singing, " Come, Christmas, again and again."
 
 COME TO THE GREENWOOD, COME. S5 
 
 COME TO THE GREENWOOD, COME ! 
 
 Come, come to the greenwood, come ! 
 Come, ere the cuckoo's note dies on the lea ; 
 Come, whilst the hawthorn blows 
 Beautiful summer snows, 
 And honey-bees sing in the sycamore tree. 
 
 Come, come to the greenwood, come ! 
 Come, and I'll crown thee with leaves from the bough ; 
 
 Come, whilst the sooty bird* 
 
 Soft as a lute is heard, 
 Waking the hill from its base to the brow. 
 
 Come, come to the greenwood, come ! 
 Come, whilst the turtles are talking above ; 
 Come, and I'll weave for thee, 
 Down by the willow-tree, 
 Songs full of flowers in the loom of my love. 
 
 * The blackbird.
 
 86 POEMS. 
 
 Come, come to the greeenwood, come ! 
 Come where the violet-wing "butterflies play ; 
 
 Come whilst the heather-hell 
 
 Kings in the hollow dell, 
 Come, my sweet Lily-love, come, come away. 
 
 t-£^*^ef<fcsu*>
 
 A SPRINGTIDE WELCOME. S7 
 
 A SPRINGTIDE AVELCOME. 
 
 Hail to thee, nymph of sunny face, 
 
 With thy emerald robes of flowing grace ! 
 
 To the woodland come with thy rich-toned lyre, 
 
 And the forest tribe with thy music fire. 
 
 We have looked for the woodbine and leafy bower, 
 
 The moss-covered couch and vernal shower, 
 
 The primroses' peep, and rich blue-bell, 
 
 And the purple violet of the dell. 
 
 We have looked for her white scented sister too, 
 And the bright golden kingcup, quaffing dew, 
 With the daisy, star of the floral train, 
 And her laughing eye ; but looked in vain, 
 Till thy mild, soft glance, and genial smile, 
 Chased the north's chill blasts from our favourite isle ; 
 Like the passions that swell in the angry breast, 
 Are lulled by the mild, soft look to rest. 
 
 We have listened to hear the cuckoo's note, 
 Tunefully on the breezes float,
 
 88 POEMS. 
 
 Whilst the lithe-built lark, from the wide-stretched 
 
 plain, 
 With his fresh-plumed wings would soar again ; 
 And, mounting, warble his varied lay, 
 In the radiant face of the orb of day ; 
 Winging his upward, onward flight, 
 Till he vanished in effulgent light. 
 
 When dark-visaged Night had relinquished her reign, 
 
 And the skies by the sun were illumined again, 
 
 Or when in the west the bright Day- God would die, 
 
 And burnish the clouds with a glance from his eye ; 
 
 Inhaling the balmy, ambrosial air, 
 
 We have listened to hear some melody rare ; 
 
 But mute was the valley, and silent the grove, 
 
 No chorister echoed the music of love ; 
 
 For Albion's chief songsters had fled from the hill, 
 
 And nature was sullen, and cheerless, and still. 
 
 sweet child of grace and beauty divine, 
 We yield to thy sceptre, and bow at thy shrine ; 
 Invoking thy presence with innocent mirth, 
 To hover awhile o'er our beautiful earth.
 
 For hark ! o'er the valley from yon verdant hill, 
 The speckled thrush pipes forth his notes wild and 
 
 shrill, 
 Soft winds kiss the streams, as they murmur along, 
 And invite them to join in the rapturous song. 
 Then hail to thee, Nymph of beauty and bloom, 
 xlnd breezes impregn'd with the sweetest perfume ; 
 Of halcyon moments, and happiest hours, 
 Of down-buttoned willows and beautiful flowers. 
 
 -oo^S^o^-
 
 90 POEMS. 
 
 THE SEAGULL. 
 
 Bird of the Ocean, 
 
 Graceful in motion, 
 Swift in thy passage from inland to sea ; 
 
 Oft I in fancy pace 
 
 Over thy dwelling place, 
 Dear to thy nestlings and precious to me. 
 
 Bright in eccentric flight, 
 
 Gleaming with purest white, 
 Floating through ether, all buoyant and free ; 
 
 Baptured, I've seen thee swerve 
 
 From thy fantastic curve, 
 Dropping with call-note to sport on the lea. 
 
 Oft when the billows foam, 
 
 Far from thy native home, 
 Sheltered by woodland, near meadow and brook, 
 
 Over a rugged stile, 
 
 Thoughtful, I've leaned awhile, 
 Watching thee play with some blackamoor rook.
 
 THE SEAGULL. 
 
 91 
 
 And an the shore I've stood, 
 
 Marking thy snowy brood, 
 Dive 'neath the silver wave, searching for prey ; 
 
 Then to the surface rise, 
 
 Soar to the fleecy skies, 
 Coo to thy comrades, and hasten away. 
 
 Bird of the ocean, 
 
 Graceful in motion, 
 Had I the pinions of Genius to soar, 
 
 Wild as thy airy flight, 
 
 I'd on her wings of light 
 All the fair regions of Fancy explore.
 
 92 POEMS. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, singing mellow, 
 Ever when the fields are yellow ; 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, wandering ever, 
 Like a wavelet on a river ; 
 Breathing on the gentle wind, 
 Tones as soft as mothers kind ; 
 Rivalling with thy simplest rote 
 Birds of richer, rarer note ; 
 Something more than fantasy, 
 Scarcely a reality ; 
 Now an echo, who knows where, 
 Now a flying song in air ; 
 Singing now in solemn dell 
 Nature's holy temple bell. 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, singing mellow, 
 Ever when the fields are yellow ; 
 When the summer threads her woof, 
 G-olden through the forest roof,
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 93 
 
 Spreading a celestial sheen 
 O'er the grand cathedral scene, 
 Then I wander at thy call, 
 Pensive and devotional, 
 In a calm and thoughtful mood, 
 To thy sacred solitude, 
 Pious homage there to pay, 
 In the mellowed light of day : 
 Low, 'neath branchy sycamore, 
 Hung with honey-blossoms o'er 
 Where the labour-loving bee 
 Chants his softest psalmody : 
 Kneeling on the mossy floor, 
 Oft I worship and adore. 
 Cuckoo, sweet it is to be 
 Thus alone with God and thee. 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, singing mellow, 
 Ever when the fields are yellow : 
 When our morns with crimson blush, 
 Velvet woods wear silken plush, 
 Dams watch giddy lambkins play, 
 Maidens blossom like the May,
 
 94 POEMS. 
 
 Zephyrs flit from tree to tree, 
 Singing Nature's symphony ; 
 When our old lanes, smiling, wear 
 Eainhow beauties everywhere ; 
 Happy as the day is long, 
 Then I live a life of song, 
 Singing, cuckoo, sweet as thee, 
 Welcome sunny days to me. 
 
 Cuckoo, Cuckoo (often sighing, 
 Like a love-lorn maiden, flying 
 All the joys that crown a wife, 
 Wasting with her song, her life), 
 With thy sweet monotony, 
 Days of yore come back to me ; 
 Days of gladness, when a boy, 
 Days when life was love and joy ; 
 Sadder memories, too, are stirred, 
 With thy plaintive note, sweet bird ; 
 Thoughts of days for ever gone, 
 When like thee, I wandered lone, 
 Singing only one sad song, 
 Sorrow, sorrow, low and long.
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 95 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, siuging mellow, 
 
 Ever when the fields are yellow ; 
 
 Filling every hollow vale 
 
 "With the music of thy tale, 
 
 Child of April, sing away ; 
 
 Memories of a brighter day 
 
 Steal upon me like a dream, 
 
 When beside some dimpled stream, 
 
 Leaning on my trusty arm, 
 
 Mother sought her cuckoo's charm : 
 
 "Where the snow-capped hawthorns blow, 
 
 Lo, I see her, pacing slow ; 
 
 Halting in her walk along, 
 
 Listening to thy quiet song, 
 
 Saying, as she turned to me, 
 
 "How I love his melody!" 
 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, singing mellow, 
 When the buttercups are yellow 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, wandering ever, 
 Like a wavelet on a river ; 
 Tear by year as seasons roll, 
 Come, sweet solace of my soul ;
 
 96 POEMS. 
 
 Come where youthful lovers rove, 
 To the May-green bowery grove ; 
 Come, — and this I crave of thee, 
 Sing thy same old song to me.
 
 THE OLD GRAY THRUSH. 
 
 (written to music.) 
 
 Or all the birds of tuneful note 
 
 That warble o'er field and flood, 
 give me the thrush with the speckled throat, 
 
 The king of the ringing wood : 
 For he sits upon the topmost twig 
 
 To carol forth his glee, 
 And none can dance a merrier jig 
 Or laugh more loud than he. 
 
 So the thrush, the thrush, the old gray thrush, 
 
 A merry, blithe old boy is he ; 
 You may hear him on the roadside bush, 
 Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree. 
 
 Ere Spring arrayed in robes of green 
 
 Bids beautiful flow'rets start, 
 He cheereth up dull December's scene 
 
 "With a song from his gushing heart. 
 But sweeter far are his notes to me, 
 
 When piping to the morn, 
 
 u
 
 He wooes the bright sun o'er the lea 
 "With a nourish of his horn. 
 
 So the thrush, the thrush, the old gray thrush, 
 
 A merry, blithe old boy is he ; 
 Tou may hear him on the roadside bush, 
 Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree. 
 
 To come with the balmy breath of Spring, 
 
 And chant to the orient beam, 
 To hop on his favourite bough, and sing, 
 
 "When rich ruby sunsets gleam ; 
 To feed his love in her moss-built nest, 
 
 To rear us a singing brood, 
 And fire with song the poet's breast, 
 He haunteth the green-roofed wood. 
 
 O! the thrush, the thrush, the old gray thrush, 
 
 A merry, blithe old boy is he ; 
 Tou may hear him on the roadside bush, 
 Or the topmost twig of the mountain tree.
 
 MY BARTON HOME. 99 
 
 MY BARTON HOME. 
 
 (written to music.) 
 
 sing to me that pretty lay, 
 
 "Whose notes, like marriage bells, 
 Attune my heart to minstrelsy, 
 And break the saddest spells ; 
 
 1 mean that song, " My Barton Home," 
 
 Whose myrtles o'er the door, 
 And blushing roses climb and throw 
 
 Their shadows on the floor : 
 'Tis there my father's blossoms grow, 
 
 My mother's sweetest flowers, 
 And there with bees and butterflies 
 I pass my happy hours. 
 
 Happy hours ! happy hours ! 
 Spent with bees and blooming flowers : 
 Happy hours ! happy hours ! 
 Are not Lucy's happy hours ? 
 
 My Barton Home, my Barton Home, 
 Wbat mem'ries round it cling
 
 Of emerald studs and rosy buds 
 
 At each, returning spring : 
 Of bird notes, dropped from summer skies, 
 
 Of autumn's boisterous mirth, 
 "When sturdy reapers gathered there, 
 
 Around its spacious hearth ; 
 And then, at Christmas-tide, what joy 
 
 Eang through its ample hall, 
 As friends and neighbours crowded in, 
 To spend the festival ! 
 
 Happy hours ! happy hours ! 
 Dancing round the Christmas flowers ; 
 Happy hours ! happy hours ! 
 Are not Lucy's happy hours ? 
 
 My Barton Home ! my Barton Home ! 
 
 Ah, many a change must come 
 Ere I shall lose from off my soul 
 
 The image of my home. 
 Eor things more fair are painted there 
 
 Than bees or budding flowers ; 
 My father in his antique chair 
 
 To make us happy hours ;
 
 MY BARTON HOME. 101 
 
 The morning kiss, the evening prayer ; 
 
 My brothers, ruddy boys ! 
 My sisters too, gay laughing sprites, 
 Three bright and blue-eyed joys ; 
 And then there is my mother dear, 
 
 With locks of silvery gray, 
 Teaching her young domestic choir 
 To make all seasons gay. 
 
 Happy hours ! happy hours ! 
 Loves and kisses come in showers ; 
 Happy hours ! happy hours ! 
 Happy, happy, happy hours !
 
 GOD BLESS YE, MERRY HARVESTERS. 
 
 God bless ye, merry harvesters ! down with the golden 
 
 grain ; 
 I love to hear your sickle strokes enlivening the plain, 
 And joy to see those happy smiles which brighten up 
 
 your face, 
 Gleam through those briny drops of sweat, and give 
 
 your cheeks a grace. 
 
 I love to see your waving fields like undulating seas, 
 And green blades flutter in the wind like pennants in 
 
 the breeze ; 
 But more I love your monuments, reared by the hand 
 
 of toil, 
 Those yellow sheaves and golden stacks which crown 
 
 the gen'rous soil. 
 
 Te sing of other harvesters who mow down fields of 
 
 men, 
 Who widows make, and orphans too, then deify the 
 
 slain ;
 
 But, tell me, are those crimson piles, heaped high in 
 
 bloody strife, 
 Deserving more the song of praise than bread, the 
 
 staif of life r 
 
 Long may ye live, and healthfully, to quaff the cup of 
 
 peace, 
 And may your flocks, and little ones, and lowing 
 
 herds, increase ; 
 And oh! may He who giveth bread send plenty to 
 
 your door, 
 Enough to spread the rich man's board, and satisfy 
 
 the poor. 
 
 "God bless ye, merry harvesters!" let every Briton 
 
 sing, 
 Till with the song the hills awake and lowly valleys 
 
 ring; 
 'Neath cottage, hall, and temple roof, prolong the 
 
 joyous strain, — 
 God bless ye, merry harvesters ! again, again, again. 
 
 God bless ye, merry harvesters, who plough the fallow 
 sod,
 
 lot 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Who sow the seed and harrow it, then leave the rest 
 
 to God ; 
 To Him who sendeth sun and rain, and seed and 
 
 harvest time, 
 God speed ye all, ye sturdy sons of England's happy 
 
 clime. 
 
 And ye who own the fruitful soil, as Boaz did of old, 
 Pray don't forget the helping hands that store your 
 
 purse with gold ; 
 But when young Ruth, the gleaner, comes, go, hid 
 
 your honest men 
 Drop, here and there and liberally, an ear of precious 
 
 grain. 
 
 God help ye all, ye harvesters; and when that day 
 
 shall come, 
 When those who sow and reap in tears shall shout 
 
 the harvest home ; 
 May ye among those ripened shocks be found of 
 
 which we read, 
 And find yourselves safe lodged in heaven as precious 
 
 garnered seed.
 
 ROSA BRIGHT. 105 
 
 ROSA BRIGHT. 
 
 (written to music.) 
 
 Up at rosy morning, 
 
 Carolling away ; 
 Trilling through the noontide 
 
 Like a bird o' May ; 
 Storing at the even 
 
 Visions for the night, 
 Who is happier than she, 
 
 Pretty Rosa Bright ? 
 
 Tell me, lovely maiden, 
 
 Living in the vale — 
 Listen, brawny laddie, 
 
 Hearken to my tale — 
 Have you seen my darling, 
 
 Clad in kirtle white, 
 Asking if her Colin seeks 
 
 Dimpled Rosa Bright ?
 
 106 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Down upon the thyme-bank 
 
 Pretty Eosa lies, 
 Singing merry love-notes, 
 
 Glancing at the skies. 
 There she was this inornin°\ 
 
 There she is to-night, 
 Asking if her Colin seeks 
 
 Pretty Eosa Bright. 
 
 "Meet me by the thyme-bank," 
 
 Pretty Eosa said ; 
 " Meet me when the Night Queen 
 
 AValketh overhead." 
 Love delights to whisper 
 
 Secrets in the night : 
 I am off a-wooing now, 
 
 Pretty Eosa Bright. 

 
 THE TKIUMPH OF ENERGY. 
 
 107 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF ENERGY. 
 
 " Up !" cried the great Napoleon, 
 
 " O'er yonder bills I go ; 
 I know no word ' Impossible ;' 
 
 Up, Frenchmen, up and do!" 
 And how they climbed the Alpine heights, 
 
 And cut their passage through, 
 Is writ in characters sublime 
 
 On tbe eternal snow. 
 
 " Up !" shouted conquering Wellington, 
 
 At famous Waterloo ; 
 " Up, up, my Guards ! my Britons, up ! 
 
 And lay the foemen low." 
 Away, away, o'er beaps of slain, 
 
 His mighty warriors sped, 
 And, ere another morning dawned, 
 
 The " Invincibles" lay dead. 
 
 Up, up ! ye men of nobler soul, 
 Who cope with moral ill ;
 
 108 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Te men of head, ye men of heart, 
 
 Te men of iron will. 
 Up ! penetrate each den of woe ; 
 
 Explore the shades of night ; 
 Nor cease until you leave behind 
 
 A track of brighter light.
 
 A MAX I KNOW. 
 
 He owns neither houses nor lands, 
 His wealth is a character good ; 
 
 \ pair of industrious hands, 
 A drop of poetical blood. 
 
 He never of fortune complains, 
 
 Of parentage, learning, or birth ; 
 
 The sweat of his brow, and his brains, 
 Field more than he asketh on earth. 
 
 A bark in a tempest-tossed sea, 
 
 Exposed to each treacherous whirl ; 
 \ dew-drop lit up on the lea ; 
 
 A rude shell concealing a pearl. 
 
 1'nkuown — far too modest to know ; 
 \ floret of little perfume ; 
 
 \ star, yet unseen, by his glow- 
 Content Ins own sphere to illume.
 
 110 POEMS. 
 
 His bliss are his eventide hours ; 
 
 His book, wife, and children his pride ; 
 In joy they're his sweetest of flowers, 
 
 And angels when sorrows betide. 
 
 His home is the mansion of God ; 
 
 His altar's where Beauty's enshrined ; 
 His path is where forest trees nod ; 
 
 His study's a cell in his mind. 
 
 Content in obscurity's nook, 
 
 His thoughts are prophetic and sage ; 
 And when Death has sealed up his book, 
 
 You'll wish you had scanned o'er a page.
 
 THE REVERIE. 
 
 No sound was heard, a gentle hush 
 Silenced the earth, the sea, and air ; 
 No lark rose from the moorland bare, 
 
 Or woodland rang with piping thrush, 
 
 The yellow leaf forsook the tree, 
 
 Leaving the trunk, that gave it birth, 
 To sleep upon the silent earth, 
 
 In nature's soft tranquillity. 
 
 The orange moon lit up the mere, 
 The sun went down in scarletry, 
 And Yenus, like a light at sea, 
 
 Shone on the idle windmill near. 
 
 The broad clouds wore their crimson bands, 
 All interspersed with rainbow dyes ; 
 And, 'neath the rich autumnal skies, 
 
 The wavelets sported on the sands.
 
 112 POEMS. 
 
 Alone upon the sea-girt shore, 
 
 Bathed in the glories of the scene, 
 With melting soul, and brow serene, 
 
 A Poet stood, and asked no more. 
 
 Two lovers in the evening air, 
 A brawny lad and gentle lass, 
 Paced o'er the unresounding grass, 
 
 Chanting their song in music rare. 
 
 Still there he stood, nor deigned to turn, 
 
 Caging his thoughts, new-flown from heaven, 
 And felt his soul to frenzy driven, 
 
 And fires of inspiration burn. 
 
 " God ! " he cried, "instruct a worm '. 
 
 Almighty, Good, and Uncreate, 
 
 Oh, teach me how to meditate 
 Upon thy wonders multiform." 
 
 He ceased : And as from yonder sphere 
 Strains came in tones of gentle love, 
 Which bade his ear instinctive move, 
 
 As 'twere an angel whispering near.
 
 THE ItEVERIE. 113 
 
 Was it an echo from above 
 
 Of anthem sung where seraphs fly, 
 Sweet music dropping from the sky, 
 
 And come to tune his soul to love ? 
 
 It ceased, the lovers stole away, 
 
 They knew that spirit, lingering there, 
 Sublimely sang the great and rare, 
 
 In notes of sweetest roundelay. 
 
 And when he mixed again with men, 
 He sang with such seraphic tongue, 
 That all who heard his burning song, 
 
 Proclaimed 'twas writ with cherub's pen.
 
 114 POEMS. 
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND THE YEW. 
 
 (written tn westleigh church-yard, near bideford, devon.) 
 
 ! tell me, tell me, venerable tree, 
 
 Thou with the rifted rind and gnarled trunk, 
 
 How cam'st thou in that solemn place to be, 
 Hooded and grave as a religious monk ? 
 
 What were the emotions of the tender soul 
 
 Who took thee, when a sapling, from thy bed, 
 
 And made thee by that little grassy knoll 
 A constant resident among the dead ? 
 
 Stand'st thou a monument of silent grief, 
 A sad memento of some mother's love, 
 
 Who mourned an " innocent," and found relief 
 By planting thee in this sepulchral grove ? 
 
 Art thou a token of some rustic maid, 
 
 Who bade thee all th' unuttered secret tell, 
 
 How that she lived to be by man betrayed, 
 And died, alas ! because she loved too well ?
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEW. 115 
 
 I ask again, O patriarchal yew, 
 
 Why wert thou stationed in those holy ways : 
 Was it to symbol forth affection true, 
 
 Or mourn the falsehood of departed days ? 
 
 v 
 
 Methinks strange accents rustling from thy boughs, 
 In hollow murmurs float upon the breeze ! — 
 
 " I'm here to chronicle death's holiest vows, 
 
 And reign, the monarch of all graveyard trees. 
 
 " If thou art curious to unveil the past, 
 And scan the actors on a former stage, 
 
 To sound that deep, sublimely grand and vast, 
 And learn the secrets of a bygone age : 
 
 " Ask not the maid that chanteth in the choir, 
 Ask not the lad that whistles o'er the lea ; 
 
 But ask the sage and centenarian sire, 
 
 What is the history of the old yew tree. 
 
 " In ancient garb, they'll tell you, whilst they brush 
 My side, when passing to yon sacred fane, 
 
 From boys they've heard the linnet and the thrush 
 Pipe from my boughs, and wake the silent lane.
 
 11G POEMS. 
 
 " They'll point to where whole generations lie, 
 Who revelled once beneath my friendly shade ; 
 
 And tell thee when those lofty elm trees by 
 
 "Were set there by the rude old sexton's spade. 
 
 " They'll tell, perhaps, when bloody fields were won, 
 They carved the date upon my shrivelled face ; 
 
 And how, when Grenville first beheld his son, 
 They scooped the record in the self-same place. 
 
 " Perhaps the tale of legendary lore, 
 
 How owls and ravens shrieked upon the wing ; 
 Stories as strange as e'er were heard of yore, 
 
 Told when the winter fires were flickering. 
 
 " Or they may whisper how, when passing bell 
 "Was tolled in silence, with the saddest tones, 
 
 Beneath my shade the earth would heave and swell, 
 And sounds were heard as if from hollow bones. 
 
 " But when they come to touch upon my date, 
 
 They'll shake their heads and say, ' That old yew-tree 
 Hath long been famous for its solemn state ; 
 As for its age, 'tis wrapped in mysterv.'
 
 THE TRAVELLER AND THE YEW. 117 
 
 " Come, stranger, come a little nearer now, 
 And look intently on iny twisted veins ; 
 
 This was the marble on a peasant's brow, 
 That was the tissue of a noble's brains. 
 
 " Those buds of beauty breaking every spring, 
 
 Atoms sublimed are of mortal dust, 
 And those strange sounds you now hear echoing, 
 
 Are they not spirit-voices of the just ? 
 
 " Come nearer still, and learn this lovely truth : 
 
 I'm here, upon this consecrated sod, 
 To preach my homilies to age and youth, 
 
 And bid them bend like me before their Grod. 
 
 " Mine office 'tis to watch o'er those that sleep, 
 
 To mourn in truth and shame the mocking knave ; 
 
 To weep o'er those who have no friends to weep, 
 And chant a requiem o'er each silent grave." 
 
 The voice now ceased, the traveller w r ent his way, 
 For evening shadows deepened in the sky ; 
 
 And now, when mingling with the grave and gay, 
 The tree and tomb are present to his eye.
 
 ON SEEING AN INFANT SMILE. 
 
 Would thine eyes were ever smiling, 
 All thy mother's cares beguiling ; 
 Then no grief her breast would know, 
 And thy little heart no woe. 
 To her bosom she would press thee, 
 And in fondness would caress thee ; 
 Bless' d in seeing every pleasure 
 Centred in her smiling treasure ; 
 Sweet would be the thought, my boy, 
 If thy mother drank such joy. 
 
 But, alas ! the cup she's quaffing 
 May give sighs as well as laughing. 
 Trees that boast the sweetest blossom 
 Bear their thorns to pierce the bosom ; 
 Yonder cloud, with all its lightness, 
 Is a weeping mass of brightness. 
 "With each day enriched with gladness, 
 Comes an evening shade of sadness. 
 Sad, oh sad ! the thought, my boy, 
 Such will be her cup of joy.
 
 THE GOOD OLD TIMES ARE COME AGAIN. 119 
 
 THE GOOD OLD TIMES ARE COME AGAIN. 
 
 The good old times are come again ; 
 
 The laughing days of yore, 
 When Mirth leaps forth to entertain 
 
 Old Christmas at the door ; 
 And Joy and Music welcome him 
 
 To each ancestral hall ; 
 Whilst holly boughs becrimson'd gleam 
 
 On every cotter's wall. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 So let our lads and lasses shout, 
 
 And merry pipers play, 
 Whilst bells ring Christmas in and out. 
 
 The poor man's holiday. 
 
 The sportive jest, the homely tale, 
 
 Their harmless mirth afford, 
 And pudding, beef, and nut-brown ale 
 
 Adorn the festive board ;
 
 120 POEMS. 
 
 Whilst round the logs that brightly burn 
 
 The happy circles meet, 
 And carol forth their songs in turn 
 
 To hail the welcome treat. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 So let our lads and lasses shout, 
 
 And merry pipers play, 
 Whilst bells ring Christmas in and out, 
 
 The poor man's holiday. 
 
 We'll join the dance and merry game, 
 
 And every care forego, 
 To kiss the lass and laughing dame 
 
 Beneath the mistletoe. 
 And whilst the bells ring merrily, 
 
 And grave old ganders spin, 
 We'll bless the notes right cheerily, 
 
 That usher Christmas in. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 Then let our lads and lasses shout, 
 
 And merry pipers play, 
 Whilst bells ring Christmas in and out, 
 
 The poor man's holiday.
 
 REMEMBER ME. 121 
 
 REMEMBER ME. 
 
 " Remember me!" That sentence, know, 
 To thee from heart sincere doth flow ; 
 From lips which falsehood never sung, 
 Prom one who knows no flattering tongue ; 
 From him who ne'er from thee would be, 
 This utterance comes—" Remember me." 
 
 Remember me ! Oh, sweetest sound, 
 It tells me I a friend have found ; 
 It speaks to me of pleasures past, 
 Like summer-flowers too sweet to last ; 
 It says, I present joy must flee 
 Whene'er I hear, " Remember me." 
 
 Remember me ! That falling tear 
 
 Responsive speaks a friend is near. 
 
 Ah ! pearly gem, why linger there 
 
 At the fount's brink, so bright and clear ? 
 
 Thy hidden spring from guile is free, 
 
 Then, falling tear, " Remember me."
 
 122 POEMS. 
 
 Eemember me ! Oh, tragic sound. 
 It rends my soul, I feel the wound ; 
 My pulse beats high, mine eyes flash fire, 
 And all my pores with drops perspire ; 
 My heart's rich blood it boils for thee, 
 When forced to say, "Eemember me." 
 
 Eemember me ! Suppress that sigh, 
 And lift you up that languid eye ; 
 Though trackless seas our persons part, 
 Yet still we shall be near in heart ; 
 And when away I'll think of thee, 
 And send my prayer — " Eemember me." 
 
 Eemember me ! When on thy bed 
 Visions are floating through thy head, 
 In dreams those scenes prospective view, 
 When, happy, I shall be with you, 
 To soothe thy cares, bid sadness flee, 
 And prove that I have thought of thee.
 
 MY THOUGHTS. — FRIENDS : A SIMILE. 123 
 
 MY THOUGHTS. 
 
 Rough stones from Nature's rudest bed, 
 Not shaped like those on beaches laid ; 
 Unwashed by any classic surf, 
 They still retain their native turf. 
 
 -o-oja&joo- 
 
 FRIENDS: A SIMILE. 
 
 Friends are like two lonely streams 
 Smiling in the summer beams, 
 Which from fountains far away 
 Down their parent mountains stray ; 
 Unambitious, lo ! they run 
 Unpolluted as the sun ; 
 Rippling tunefully along, 
 Chanting an harmonious song. 
 On they travel, each alone, 
 Till they meet and blend in one.
 
 124 POEMS. 
 
 FOSTER GENIUS. 
 
 Foster Genius ; ye who love it, 
 
 Train the shoot of native skill : 
 Ye can ne'er be genius makers, 
 
 Tet ye may direct the will. 
 Te can turn the stream which wanders 
 
 In an unfrequented way, 
 Till it through a country peopled 
 
 Rolls, a blessing every day. 
 Te can make the drooping spirit, 
 
 Cooped up, like a cloistered nun , 
 Stretch her pinions like an eagle, 
 
 Soar, and gaze upon the sun. 
 
 Foster Genius, e'en the humblest ; 
 
 'Tis a little jewel rare : 
 Purest gold, and gems most precious, 
 
 Oft the coarsest covering wear. 
 Kills, too small for swans to bathe in, 
 
 May refresh a tiny lark ;
 
 FOSTER, GENIUS. 
 
 125 
 
 And the light of smelliest taper 
 
 Can illuminate the dark. 
 See, that little spark ignohle 
 
 Sets a forest all on fire : 
 Emblem true of low-born genius. 
 
 Ever seeking to aspire. 
 
 Foster Genius, scatter blessing; 
 
 'Tis a high and noble deed ; 
 'Tis a privilege. Te shall gather 
 
 Crops from all its scattered seed. 
 Foster Genius, Heaven demands it. 
 
 Since it kindled first the flame. 
 Birds were never made for casing, 
 
 Souls are made for flight aud fame. 
 Watt may thank his steaming kettle, 
 
 Bunyan thank his prison hole, 
 Daisies nursed a Burns's fancy, 
 
 Apples taught a Newton's soul. 
 
 Foster Genius, and the acorn 
 
 Shall become a tree of strength : 
 
 Mighty things from small have risen ; 
 Corals stretch an island's length.
 
 126 POEMS. 
 
 Foster Genius, let collision 
 
 Bring the latent spark to view ; 
 And, as true men, ever render 
 
 Honour where reward is due. 
 Foster Genius, science asks it ; 
 
 Lightning words now travel free ; 
 But she points us to the future, 
 
 "When a thought shall span a sea. 
 
 Honour Genius, men of England, 
 
 And your country's name shall live 
 Know, ye are more blessed in giving 
 
 Than your brothers who receive. 
 Foster it, and you shall witness 
 
 In this age a w r onder. wrought ; 
 Moral force shall be the weapon, 
 
 Which shall battle do for thought. 
 Give the people education, 
 
 Train the shoot of native skill. 
 True ! ye can't be genius-makers, 
 
 But ye can direct the will.
 
 LIFE. — ON A SNOW STORM. 1-!/ 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Through our Infancy we glide 
 Calmly as the waveless tide. 
 Merry Childhood skips along, 
 Carolling a constant song. 
 Youth, romantic, loves to go 
 Dancing like the bounding roe. 
 Manhood's pace is slow and sure' 
 Sobered by the slips of yore. 
 Age is like a heavy load, 
 Tottering down a rocky road. 
 
 ON A SNOW STORM. 
 
 See ! cherubs drop their feathers from their wings, 
 And Hawthorn twigs resume their blossomings.
 
 12S POEMS. 
 
 THE POET'S GRAVE. 
 
 O ! bury me not in the desert's sand, 
 
 Where bones lie bleached on either hand ; 
 
 Where the jackal's tongue, and the vulture's bill, 
 
 Redden on what the lions kill : 
 
 Nor the matted sward of the jungle tear, 
 
 Where tigers that crouch in their hungry lair, 
 
 And leopards that sportive leap on high, 
 
 Would scent out the spot where my bones woidd 
 
 lie: 
 Nor in the lonely forest wild, 
 Like a savage warrior's stricken child. 
 Nor in the deep and fretful sea 
 Where voracious sharks would feed on me. 
 
 Nor under the temple's hallowed dome 
 AVhere sculptured statues guard the tomb ; 
 And verses vaunt a patron's praise 
 Iu wanton and untruthful lays :
 
 the poet's geave. 129 
 
 Where statesmen, patriots, poets sleep 
 
 Sages embalmed in memory deep ; 
 
 Where sculptor's hands that wrought so much 
 
 Lie robbed of their keen sense, the touch ; 
 
 And wondrous eyes to painters given, 
 
 That looked on earth as dipt in heaven, 
 
 Have lost their vision, and their light 
 
 Eclipsed in death's chaotic night ? 
 
 There, there my wishes fondly creep, 
 
 Where genius oft retires to weep ; 
 
 And loves to view with magic spell 
 
 Sweet beauty's line and graceful swell, 
 
 In great Angelo's chiselled head ; 
 
 And Raphael's charms in fresco laid. 
 
 But hush ! my poor ambitious soul ; 
 
 Nor let thy thoughts so vainly roll. 
 
 Thou canst not sleep where jealous care 
 
 Hath treasured up such dust — 
 
 Not there ! 
 
 Shall it be by thy mother's grave ? 
 Oh no ! that spot I ne'er shall crave : 
 For there, alas ! the breach is made 
 Too often by the sexton's spade ;
 
 130 POEMS. 
 
 And shows a fleshless, eyeless head 
 To the survivors of the dead. 
 "Whene'er I leave th' abode of men 
 A trophy which grim death bath slain, 
 Tben may the grave receive its trust, 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, 
 In sure and certain hope to rise, 
 Immortal to the ethereal skies ; 
 But in the churchyard's glutted ground, 
 Pierce me no vault, nor raise a mound. 
 
 Then where ? 
 
 Near a village church, and shady grove, 
 
 "Where I 've listened to Janie's tale of love ; 
 
 "Where the mournful yew, with its branches spread. 
 
 Shadows the mansions of the dead ; 
 
 "Where the death-toned bell, with its vibrous toll, 
 
 May strike on the prayerless, hopeless soul, 
 
 Till he thinks as he never thought before ; 
 
 Till he feels that his pride is light and poor ; 
 
 Poor when compared with the shortest breath, 
 
 And light in the balances of death : 
 
 "Where the swain may leave his humble cot, 
 
 To visit one who shall be not ;
 
 THE POET'S GKAVE. 131 
 
 And nymphs at eventide may stray, 
 Their tearful homage oft to pay, 
 And dress my grave with simple flowers, 
 To be refreshed by heavenly showers — ■ 
 
 Near there ! 
 
 On the lonely brow of yonder hill, 
 
 "Where the bright and tiny singing rill 
 
 Leaps o'er its washed and pebbled bed, 
 
 As it comes from its moss-lipped fountain-head, 
 
 Speeding into the river below, 
 
 "Where the clouds are reflected, white as snow ; 
 
 "Where the boatman, as he glides along, 
 
 May look upward and chaunt his plaintive song, 
 
 Singing my dirge ; with the waving tree 
 
 As Nature's sweetest symphony — 
 
 Just there ! 
 
 Beneath the hawthorn's perfumed bough 
 (Where loving hearts record their vow), 
 Whose fantastic stems make a knotty seat 
 For the wise and grave to meditate ;
 
 132 POEMS. 
 
 Where defensive thorns and blossomed sprays 
 
 Speak friendship firm and affection's praise ; 
 
 Friendship as reputation's guard, 
 
 And praise as virtue's pure reward ; 
 
 'Neath that tree which Scotland's poet sung, 
 
 When his Highland Mary yet was young ; 
 
 Where, when the toilsome day is done, 
 
 You may sit and see the setting sun, 
 
 And moralise o'er my little heap 
 
 Until you think on death and weep ; 
 
 Ko stone inscribed with fulsome lays 
 
 Shall tell the number of my days, 
 
 For kindred hearts shall friendship give 
 
 Enough to bid my memory live — 
 
 E'en there ! 
 
 Tes, when the pale moon sheds her light 
 
 0"er the grassy turf at the birth of night, 
 
 They shall wander near and gently tread 
 
 On the tufted knoll of my narrow bed, 
 
 And, sighing, say as they pensive look, 
 
 " The fields were his study and nature his book 
 
 He loved to pen in simple rhyme 
 
 His thoughts of the beautiful and sublime,
 
 the poet's grave. 133 
 
 And learnt to admire as well as read 
 
 The works of the great and mighty dead ; 
 
 Whilst at the fireside he 'd rehearse 
 
 The thoughts which he had writ in verse, 
 
 Some sentiments would grace his song, 
 
 And please as with an Angel's tongue ; 
 
 Some touched the tenderest sympathy, 
 
 And caused a painful harmony." 
 
 Then ne'er despise his humble strain, 
 
 Who writes to please ne'er wrote in vain. 
 
 Affection's tribute they shall pay, 
 
 Let fall a tear and go their way, 
 
 Saying, " he would have shed his blood 
 
 For his country's weal, as the cause of God." 
 
 Farewell ! I make my last request, 
 
 When death shall chill my Janie's breast, 
 
 Like two doves let us sleep in one hallowed nest, 
 
 And the question ask no more, then, where ? 
 
 'Neath the hawthorn tree, we'll be buried there ! 
 
 Yes, there — Yes, there !
 
 134 POEMS. 
 
 NATURE'S ADDRESS TO THE POET. 
 
 Whilst the thought thrills thy brain, 
 Child of the tender strain, 
 Take up the poet's pen ; 
 
 Write on the wave, 
 
 Silvered by Luna's rays, 
 Breaking in gentle sprays, 
 Spangling the briny ways, 
 
 Loved by the brave. 
 
 Whilst in her glory bright 
 Beauty, in robes of light, 
 Honours the Queen of Night, 
 
 Sing her, I say ! 
 
 Sing her with moonlit face, 
 Treading the vaulted space, 
 Silent in matchless grace ; 
 
 Sing, while you may.
 
 Poet, an hour beguile, 
 Wonder, adore, and smile, 
 Wrapt in a heaven the while, 
 
 Soft and serene. 
 
 Child of the tuneful nine, 
 Deck her with charms divine ; 
 Sing, for the work is thine, 
 
 Honour the scene. 
 
 Sing of her starry flowers, 
 Gleaming through sable hours, 
 Radiant as rainbow showers 
 
 In the sun's beam. 
 
 Sing, till a thousand eyes 
 Gaze with the same surprise, 
 Whilst adorations rise 
 
 To the Supreme,
 
 13G POEMS. 
 
 AN APRIL MELODY. 
 
 (to music.) 
 
 Our hearts are light, 
 The skies are bright, 
 
 The birds are singing praises : 
 Come let us walk, 
 And laugh, and talk, 
 
 'Mid golden-cups and daisies. 
 
 You know our health, 
 That best of wealth, 
 
 Improves by recreation : 
 Then come again 
 To yon green lane, 
 
 And pass the spring's vacation. 
 
 ! tell me why 
 The daisy's eye 
 
 Is beautiful with yellow ; 
 And why its fringe, 
 With crimson tinge, 
 
 Is thrown o'er mosses mellow.
 
 AN APEIL MELODY. 
 
 137 
 
 Oh, tell me, too, 
 Why bells o' blue, 
 
 And pretty primrose creatures, 
 Why king-cup head 
 "With gold inlaid, 
 
 And violets' purple features, 
 
 If not to woo 
 Us, where the sloe 
 
 Perfumes the air with blossoms ; 
 If not, my dear, 
 To chase the tear, 
 
 And heal our care-torn bosoms. 
 
 So come ; inhale 
 The fragrant gale, 
 
 Whilst larks are fluttering o'er us. 
 Hark ! yonder thrush 
 Pipes from his bush, — 
 
 Let's go and swell the chorus.
 
 138 POEMS. 
 
 I'LL WEAK THY RINGS, SWEET JEWEL! 
 
 I 'll wear thy rings, sweet jewel ! 
 
 They are treasures unto me ; 
 I '11 wear them, dearest jewel ! 
 
 For they talk loved things of thee. 
 When I saw them in my bosom, 
 
 I had budding thoughts of glee ; 
 Which as Fancy crowned with blossom, 
 
 Were all fragrant, dear, of thee. 
 
 Even now I see thee present, 
 
 If they bid my memory play ; 
 And my heart — it beats so pleasant, 
 
 Till I weep its joys away. 
 For the grave doth hide thee, jewel ! 
 
 And the lips that blessed me, 
 And the eyes that brightened, jewel ! 
 
 As my loving gaze met thee. 
 
 In thine ears I 've seen them dangling, 
 Rich and glorious was their sheen,
 
 I 'll wear thy rings, sweet jewel. 139 
 
 As the starry diamonds spangling 
 
 On midnight's sable screen. 
 'Neath raven circlets darkling, 
 
 I have watched their golden light 
 Break forth in lustrous sparkling, 
 
 Like fire-flies, glowing bright. 
 So I '11 wear thy rings, sweet jewel ! 
 
 They are treasures unto me ; 
 I '11 wear them, dearest jewel ! 
 
 For they talk loved things of thee. 
 
 But when, in pensive duty, 
 
 I stole beside thy bier, 
 To kiss thee last, my beauty ! 
 
 They sparkled through a tear ; 
 'Twas then I vowed such treasure 
 
 The grave should never hide, 
 Till death did me the pleasure 
 
 To place me by thy side. 
 So I '11 wear them, precious jewel ! 
 
 They are treasures unto me ; 
 I '11 wear them, sweetest jewel ! 
 
 Till I sleep in death with thee.
 
 140 POEMS. 
 
 ANGELS OF MERCY. 
 
 Shot, struck, and sabred, our poor soldiers lay 
 'Mid festering woe : and sickened there to lie. 
 
 The red field found them strangers to dismay, 
 
 But who, un-nursed, could uncomplaining die ? 
 
 "While veterans shuddered, and, heartstricken, stood, 
 
 To see long miles of agony and blood. 
 
 Yet there was one, a maid divinely bold, 
 
 Who braved and breathed the pestilential air — 
 
 A gentle creature, formed in tenderest mould, 
 But strong in love, and piety, and prayer, 
 
 Who soothed the sufferers, and hushed their wail. 
 
 Let babes unborn bless Florence Nightingale. 
 
 A man of feeling, too, one strong of head, 
 And good of heart as he of head was great, 
 
 Went out and sorrowed o'er the soldier's bed, 
 And fought with Death, or reconciled to fate. 
 
 And long as England hath a history, 
 
 Godolphin Osborne shall remembered be.
 
 THETWO SUNSETS. 
 
 Musing in a gorgeous sunset, 
 Bidding gentle fancies play ; 
 
 Gazing on the rower's paddles, 
 Silvering the water way ; 
 
 Sounds symphonious broke upon me, 
 
 Tender as a mother's call, 
 Melting into dying cadence, 
 
 Like a distant waterfall. 
 
 Music sweet and so melodious 
 
 I had never heard before, 
 And I turned my ear to listen, 
 
 Ravished to my spirit's core. 
 
 When my soul was thrilled with rapture, 
 Wakened by the music rare, 
 
 'Twas a little fairy harpist 
 Playing on the subtle air.
 
 All below the skies was lovely ; 
 
 Nature on a couch of bliss, 
 Sighing lay and silent languished 
 
 For the ruby evening's kiss. 
 
 Pearly cloudlets far above me, 
 
 "Wand'ring at their own sweet will, 
 
 Changed from snowy white to silver, 
 Then to golden, richer still. 
 
 Then the skies of softened azure, 
 Grandly marked with orange dots, 
 
 Slowly melting into amber, 
 
 Changed again to sooty spots. 
 
 Such, I said, is human beauty, 
 Smiling health and rosy bloom : 
 
 Ever like a sunset glory 
 
 Hastening to darkest gloom. 
 
 On that eve a gentle being 
 Died, as lovely as the day, 
 
 Listening to her favorite poet . 
 Chaunting a celestial lay.
 
 THE TWO SUNSETS. 143 
 
 In her dimly-lighted chamber, 
 
 By her side her maidens sate, 
 Reading Scripture words of comfort 
 
 Touching her immortal state ; 
 
 When a cautious footfall stealing 
 
 Gently o'er the landing-floor, 
 Told her blest and darling mother 
 
 Sought in love her chamber-door. 
 
 See, her dying hand is waving, 
 
 List, they ask the reason why : 
 'Tis that precious, loved-one's signal, 
 
 " Mother, do not see me die. 
 
 " Spare, oh, spare thy tender feelings, 
 
 For thy other loved ones' sake, 
 Sister, father, loving brothers, 
 
 Lest my heart-strings sooner break." 
 
 To that chamber when the sunset 
 
 Warmed agaiu the western sky. 
 Sorrowful, my steps I bended, 
 
 In her shroud to sec her lie.
 
 In her cerements enfolded 
 
 Pale and beautiful she slept, 
 While around her faithful maidens 
 
 And her sobbing father wept. 
 
 Precious things their memories cherished,. 
 
 Words and actions of the dead ; 
 And when talking of her virtues 
 
 How they turned and blessed the maid ! 
 
 All her innocent intentions, 
 
 Loving-kindness to the poor; 
 How she with her little dainties 
 
 Visited affliction's door. 
 
 Then a memory of her beauty, 
 
 Eye of brightness, blushing cheek, 
 
 Broke upon their mental vision, 
 Moral worth and spirit meek. 
 
 Like a rose in richness breaking, 
 So their lovely creature grew ; 
 
 Like a sunset ever changing 
 Into deeper beauty too ;
 
 THE TWO SUNSETS. 145 
 
 When an angel passed and saw her 
 
 In her purity and love, 
 And attracted by her graces, 
 
 Took ber to her home above. 
 
 She hath left thee, classic Hyefield, 
 Nursery of the tenderest loves ; 
 
 All thy shades of sylvan sweetness, 
 Loving hearts, and petted doves. 
 
 When on earth she loved its flowers, 
 Flowers were coffined with the dead ; 
 
 Now a group of English daisies 
 Watch and weep above her head.
 
 146 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BLANCHE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HER BEREAVED PARENT. 
 
 Her soul was made of love — dear lamb, sweet dove ; 
 Her prayer, her song, her faith, her life was love ; 
 Love was the flower that in her garden grew, 
 The golden thought which ran each action through ! 
 Whene'er she breathed, love whispered tenderness ; 
 
 Whene'er she spoke, her honeyed lips dropp'd love 
 And while she lived, she walk'd this wilderness 
 
 Almost a mirror of a saint above. 
 Her mother's joy, she loved her mother most ; 
 And how her parent prized the dear one lost, 
 Let tears bedropp'd in sorrow's lonely way, 
 The heavy burden of the mourner say. 
 Dost think her dead, fond weeper ? Look afar : 
 Behold ! She shines an everlasting star 
 That came to bid thine earth-bound heart be riven 
 Prom this poor world, and follow her to Heaven.
 
 BEAUTY. 1-47 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 I'm seen upon the verdant hill, 
 
 And in the winding vale ; 
 I revel in the rich parterre, 
 
 And in the odorous gale. 
 
 I light the dew-drop's sparkling gem, 
 
 I tint the vaulted skies ; 
 Recline upon the rosy cheek, 
 
 And dance in magic eyes. 
 
 I 'm linked to Hogarth's wavy line, 
 
 To colour, and to form ; 
 To man, to beast, to fish, and bird 
 
 That rides upon the storm. 
 
 Wheu mental worth with graceful form 
 
 Doth visit sorrow's den 
 To dry the tender orphan's tear, 
 
 You best can see me then.
 
 148 poems. 
 
 The poet worships at my shriue ; 
 
 The painter feels me near ; 
 The sculptor owns my charms divine ; 
 
 Taste is my son and heir. 
 
 I mould the rapt musician's ear, 
 
 Impel the author's pen ; 
 And give to orators the fire 
 
 That burns within their brain. 
 
 J 've slain the stoutest warrior's heart, 
 Inspired the wise and good ; 
 
 And when I reach their inmost soul, 
 I am best understood. 
 
 1 'm heard, too, in the circling strain 
 That issues from the horn ; 
 
 And in the warbliugs of the lark, 
 That sings at early morn. 
 
 I 'in felt upon the warm sleek breast 
 Of battle-prancing steed ; 
 
 And on the damask cushioned throne 
 Where mitred bishops read.
 
 BEAUTV. 1 i'.l 
 
 I dwell in air, I dwell on earth, 
 
 In forest and in flood ; 
 I fill the universe with mirth, 
 
 And own my parent, God. 
 
 But yet, alas ! oft inarr'd with pain, 
 And spoiled by vice's leaven, 
 
 You '11 ne'er my perfect glory see 
 Until we meet in Heaven.
 
 150 POEMS. 
 
 TO THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Bied of Heaven, I love that song, 
 Trilling from thy merry tongue, 
 Soft as 'twere a harping sprite 
 Playing on the rays of light. 
 How I love thy form to view, 
 Dotted on the summer's blue, 
 Trembling with a thrill of mirth, 
 Spurning in its pride the earth ! 
 Here upon the sward I lie 
 Drinking in thy ecstacy : 
 Till the bright excess of light 
 Eobs my eye-balls of their sight. 
 Bird of music-making throat, 
 Bird of rich and varied note, 
 Dropping from the pathway bright 
 Showers melodious in thy flight ; 
 From the gaze of vulgar men 
 Fain I 'd here with thee remain,
 
 TO THE SKYLARK. 151 
 
 And, in contemplation, rise 
 Upward to my native skies. 
 Since my wish, then, is denied, 
 Lovely songster, here abide, 
 And may no rnde steps intrude 
 On thy happy solitude.
 
 152 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD'S DAYS. 
 
 My childhood's days ! my childhood's days ! 
 
 What happy thoughts are clinging 
 Like ivy in your sunny ways, 
 
 What melodies are ringing. 
 What golden hours of by-gone mirth, 
 
 What cheeks of rosy beauty ; 
 What heavenly moments passed on earth 
 
 At home in love and duty! 
 then the days went merrily, 
 
 Without a shade of sorrow ; 
 And every heart rang cheerily, 
 
 And hoped a bright to-morrow. 
 
 O give me back the dreams of youth, 
 Those visions bright and glowing, 
 
 When all was innocence and truth. 
 And joy a cup o'erflowing ; 
 
 The swing upon the garden gate. 
 With curly-headed Silo,
 
 MY CHILDHOOD'S DATS. 153 
 
 My romp with Tom and rosy Kate, 
 
 And merry-making Philo. 
 O then the days went merrily, 
 
 "Without a shade of sorrow ; 
 And every heart rang cheerily, 
 
 And hoped a bright to-morrow. 
 
 Full many a brook and many a nook 
 
 And path through wood and valley, 
 Eemind me of the road we took 
 
 Upon a nutting sally : 
 And many a gap in hedge-rows tell 
 
 "Where we in Spring went creeping, 
 In quest of primrose, fern, and bell, 
 
 And where we practised leaping. 
 then the days went merrily, 
 
 "Without a shade of sorrow : 
 And every heart rang cheerily, 
 
 And hoped a bright to-morrow. 
 
 And now when winter fires are bright, 
 Though friends around are fading,
 
 154 POEMS. 
 
 "We sit and pass the chilly night, 
 The interest never jading ; 
 
 And tell how life is but a day- 
 Made up of shade and shining, 
 
 Till childhood's memories round us play 
 Like woodbines gently twining ; 
 
 And then our hearts beat merrily, 
 Without a shade of sorrow ; 
 
 And every one sings cheerily, 
 
 And hopes a bright to-morrow. 
 
 --Sstf^S^S^f*^---
 
 THE TWO MEETINGS. 155 
 
 THE TAVO MEETINGS. 
 
 We met, when her spirit was blithesome and young, 
 
 And the hope of her heart was romantic and strong, 
 
 "When a silvery tinkle rang out as she spoke, 
 
 And a new cherub joy with each moment awoke ; 
 
 "We met where the wild thyme empurpled the moor, 
 
 And the foxglove and heather-bloom tinted it o'er ; 
 
 And we played with the harebell that danced by our side 
 
 And lovingly looked while we silently sighed. 
 
 In her hand a rich posie of beauties she bore, 
 
 Composed of a score of sweet roses or more ; 
 
 The poppy was thei'e with its petals on fire, 
 
 And the white vestured lily, and woodbine, and briar ; 
 
 A ray of rich light was adorning her hair, 
 
 As if a fond sunbeam in love lingered there ; 
 
 And the radiance that gleamed from her azure dipt eyes, 
 
 Told an eloquent story of summer-lit skies. 
 
 "We met once again, but the beautiful maid 
 By the cold hand of death in her collin was laid. 
 Her spirit had gone, but she smiled in her shroud, — 
 So suns after setting oft brighten a cloud.
 
 156 POEMS. 
 
 THE CHAUNT OF LIFE. 
 
 Merrily, merrily goes the world, 
 Merrily, merrily ; 
 
 Merrily goes with a lightsome bound, 
 
 Giving a loud and joyous sound, 
 Cheerily, cheerily. 
 
 Hark ! how the teeming peoples sing ; 
 
 Come, let us make the blue skies ring ; 
 
 Earth is a golden treasure hoard, 
 
 And every day is a banquet board ; 
 
 Merrily goes the old world round, 
 Merrily, merrily. 
 
 Heavily, heavily moves the world, 
 
 Heavily, heavily : 
 Listen, O earth, thy mourners sing, 
 The Angel of Death is on the wing, 
 
 Gloomily, gloomily. 
 The pride of our homes is stricken low, 
 The rose that was red is white as snow ;
 
 THE CHAUNT OF LIFE. 157 
 
 Slowly the weepers come and go, 
 Singing, " The earth is a place of woe ! ' 
 "Woefully, woefully. 
 
 Mournfully, mournfully glooms the sky, 
 Mournfully, mournfully ; 
 Mournfully troop the black clouds by, 
 Mournfully, mournfully. 
 Listen, 0, list to the weeper's wail, 
 ' ; When shall the Angel of Life prevail ? 
 Earth thou art naught but a charnel hole, 
 A deep, dark prison-house of the soul." 
 Mournfully, mournfully glooms the sky, 
 Mournfully, mouivufully. 
 
 Merrily let the old world ring, 
 
 Merrily, merrily ; 
 The dead ones are buried, the living sing, 
 
 Merrily, merrily ; 
 " 'Tis well to be sad when death is here, 
 But sadness should go with the dead one's bier ; 
 Is not the earth a treasure hoard, 
 And every day a banquet board ? " 
 Merrily let the old world ring, 
 
 Merrily, merrily.
 
 158 POEMS. 
 
 THE RURAL POSTMAN. 
 
 0, the postman's is as pleasant a life 
 
 As any one's, I trow ; 
 For day by day he wendeth his way, 
 "Where a thousand wildlings grow. 
 He marketk the date of the snowdrop's birth, 
 
 And knows when the time is near 
 For white scented violets to gladden the earth, 
 
 And sweet primrose groups t' appear. 
 He can show you the spot where the hyacinth wild 
 
 Hangs out her bell blossoms o' blue ; 
 And tell where the celandine's bright-eyed child 
 
 Fills her chalice with honey dew. 
 The purple-dyed violet, the hawthorn, and sloe, 
 
 The creepers that trail in the lane, 
 The dragon, the daisy, and clover-rose, too, 
 
 And buttercups gilding the plain ; 
 The foxglove, the robert, the gorse, and the thyme, 
 
 The heather and broom on the moor, 
 And the sweet honey-suckle that loveth to climb 
 
 The arch of the cottager's door.
 
 THE RTTBA.L POSTMAN. 159 
 
 He knowetk them all, and he loveth them well, 
 
 And others not honour' d with fame, 
 For they hang round his life like a beautiful spell, 
 
 And light up his path with their flame. 
 0, a pleasant life is the postman's life 
 
 And a fine cheerful soul is he, 
 For he '11 shout and sing like a forest king, 
 
 On the crown of an ancient tree. 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 
 Where the Lent lily, speedwell, and dog-rose blow, 
 Heigho ! and merry, ! 
 
 Where hawkweeds, and trefoils, and wild peas grow. 
 Heigho ! Heigho ! 
 As pleasant as May-time, and light as a roe. 
 
 O, the postman's is as happy a life 
 
 As any one's, I trow ; 
 Wand'ring away where dragon-flies play, 
 
 And brooks sing soft and slow ; 
 And watching the lark as he soars on high. 
 
 To carol in yonder cloud, 
 " He sings in his labour, and why not I ? " 
 
 The postman sings aloud.
 
 1G0 POEMS. 
 
 And many a brace of bumble rhymes 
 
 His pleasant soul bath made, 
 Of birds, and flowers, and happy times, 
 In sunshine and in shade. 
 The harvester, smiling, sees him pass, 
 
 " How goes the war ? " quoth he ; 
 And he stayeth his scythe in the corn or grass, 
 
 To learn what the news may be. 
 He honours the good, both rich and poor, 
 
 And jokes with each rosy-faced maid ; 
 He nods at the aged dame at the door, 
 
 And patteth each urchin's head. 
 And little he thinks as he whistling goes, 
 
 To the march of some popular tune, 
 That beauty grows pale at the tramp of his shoes, 
 
 And sometimes as rosy as June. 
 0, a happy lad is the rural post, 
 
 And a right loyal servant, I ween ; 
 For let a proud loe but threaten a blow, 
 
 He shouteth " Hurrah for the Queen ! " 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 Where the mountain ash and the alder grow. 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 With a smile on my cheeks and a ruddy glow.
 
 THE RTTKAL POSTMAN. 101 
 
 0, the postman's is as merry a life 
 
 As any one's, I trow ; 
 "Waking the hill with his musical trill, 
 From its crown to the base below. 
 For he windeth his horn where the blushing morn 
 
 First kissetk the green earth wide, 
 And snuffeth the breeze where the nodding trees 
 
 Stand strong in their forest pride. 
 He heareth the bee in the broad oak tree, 
 
 In quest of its honey-clad leaves, 
 And marks with delight when swallows alight 
 
 To build 'neath the cottager's eaves. 
 When forest tribes sing till green valleys ring 
 
 With the soul-stirring music they make, 
 His spirit as free as the fetterless sea, 
 
 Chaunts out o'er the meadow and brake. 
 When making his call at a nobleman's hall, 
 
 In garments bespattered and rude, 
 He thinks that sound health is the best of all wealth, 
 
 With a spirit in love with the good. 
 Full many a heart with a paper-wing'd dart, 
 
 Hath he wounded in Cupid's employ ; 
 
 M
 
 162 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 And trumpet-tongued Fame says that Hymen's bright 
 flame 
 
 Is fed by the honest old boy. 
 I 'm welcome, he singe th, whenever I go, 
 
 When buds or bright blossoms appear, 
 At autumn-tide too, when golden tints glow, 
 
 And most when old Christmas is near. 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 
 "With the black seal of Death, and young Love's bow ; 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. 
 
 0, the postman's is as blessed a life 
 
 As any one's, I trow, 
 
 If leaping the stile, o'er many a mile, 
 
 Can blessedness bestow. 
 
 If tearing your way through a tangled wood, 
 
 Or dragging your limbs through a lawn — 
 
 If wading knee-deep through an angry flood, 
 
 Or a plough'd field newly sown, — 
 If sweating big drops 'neath a burning sun, 
 
 And shiv'ring 'mid sleet and snow ; 
 If drench'd to the skin with rain, be fun, 
 And can a joy bestow !
 
 THE RURAL POSTMAX. 163 
 
 If toiling away through a weary week 
 
 (No six-day week, but seven), 
 "Without one holy hour to seek 
 
 A resting place in heaven, — 
 If hearing the bells ring Sabbath chimes, 
 
 To bid us all repair 
 To church (as in the olden times) , 
 
 And bend the knee in prayer, — 
 If in those bells he hears a voice, 
 
 " To thy delivery, 
 " God says to every soul, ' Bejoice,' 
 
 "But, postman, not to thee." 
 O, the postman's is a blessed life, 
 
 And, sighing heavily, 
 " Ha, Ha ! " he '11 say, " alack-a-day, 
 
 " "Where's Britain's piety ? " 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 Through the muck and miry slough ; 
 Heigho ! I come and go, 
 Heavy at heart, and weary O. 
 Heigho ! Heigho ! 
 
 Does any one pray for the postman ? — No. 
 No ! no ! no ! no ! 
 Or he would not be robb'd of his Sabbath so.
 
 164 POEMS. 
 
 THE LION-FLAG OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The lion-flag of England ! 
 
 Say, Britons, shall it wave, 
 The scorn of every base-born serf, 
 
 And jest of every slave ; 
 A sign to tell them how they beat 
 
 The bravest of the earth, 
 And teach them by our England's fate 
 
 To magnify their worth ? 
 " Forbid it, Heav'n," the nations cry, 
 
 In council gravely met ; 
 " We '11 send her aid across the seas, 
 
 And she shall conquer yet." 
 
 Have faith in dear Old England ! 
 
 A voice comes from her slain ; 
 " We found her sound enough at heart, 
 
 But erring in the brain." 
 Have patience, and Old Time shall prove 
 
 Her power is like her oak,
 
 THE LION-FLAG OE ENGLAND. 165 
 
 Which rises in the scale of worth 
 
 Beneath the deadly stroke. 
 For, though she staggers at the blow 
 
 Her hero-bands have met — 
 Her ancient prowess gives the pledge 
 
 That she shall conquer yet. 
 
 Have faith in dear Old England ! 
 
 Her lion-hearts lie dead ; 
 But tens of thousands ready wait 
 
 To battle in their stead. 
 They know from histoxy's reddest page, 
 
 That nations, when opprest, 
 Must point their swords for arguments 
 
 Against the tyrant's breast. 
 While voices from the grand old past 
 
 Come pleading — " Pay your debt : 
 For you we fought — defend our fame, 
 
 And you shall conquer yet." 
 
 Who would not fight for England, 
 
 A-field or on the main, 
 And try to win (if she has lost) 
 
 Her honour back again ?
 
 166 POEMS. 
 
 The creature who would dare refuse 
 
 To take his country's part 
 Is coward — slave — an iugrate vile, 
 
 A traitor at the heart ! 
 And little thinks, what he enjoys 
 
 Was bought with blood and sweat, 
 Or such who sheath their swords to rust 
 
 May see Siberia yet. 
 
 O England ! dear Old England ! 
 
 "What land is like to thee, — 
 So rich in patriotic gems, 
 
 And free as thou art free ? 
 Who quenched the bigot's faggot-fire? 
 
 Who stanched the patriot's blood ? 
 Who ? England, at the battle-cry 
 
 Of "Liberty and God!" 
 Her Past ! why 'tis a deathless fame, 
 
 A sun that cannot set ; — 
 A power majestic — and her name 
 
 Shall nerve to conquer yet ! 
 
 " Grod bless our dear Old England," 
 I heard my father pray :
 
 THE LION-FLAG OF ENGLAND. 167 
 
 "The brightest gem in Christendom," 
 
 I heard my mother say. 
 And then they took me on their knee, 
 
 And pressed my little hand, 
 And told me of the Northmen's fate, 
 
 And Alfred's sturdy hand ; 
 And how on Northam's sea-girt plain 
 
 The Dane and Saxon met, 
 And prophesied that bloody times 
 
 Would come for England yet. 
 
 In daisy-quilted England 
 
 I 've made the twain a bed ; 
 And 'mong the words I 've treasured up, 
 
 The sweetest which they said 
 Were, " England, dear Old England ! 
 
 Who dare her honour mar ? " 
 She 'd rather bind a broken heart 
 
 Than break a heart in war. 
 They said she never fought for sport, 
 
 Nor burned to prove her might ; — 
 Was much in love with harvest swords, 
 
 And only fought for Eight ;
 
 168 POEMS. 
 
 And how this island in the sea 
 
 Is like a beacon set, 
 To light the world to liberty, 
 
 And make her glorious yet. 
 
 " Hurrah ! for dear Old England! " 
 
 Our gallant fellows cry ; 
 They shout it in the deadly breach, 
 
 And where they wounded lie. 
 They wear the charm about their necks, 
 
 As maidens wear their curls ; 
 They treasure up its memories 
 
 As princes treasure pearls ; 
 And while they breathe the last fond thoughts 
 
 For those they can't forget, 
 The accents die upon their lips — 
 
 " Ay — we — shall — conquer yet ! " 
 
 Hurrah ! for dear Old England ! 
 
 Come, Britons, one and all, 
 Strike on, strike hard, strike home, strike sure, 
 
 Till War himself shaU fall ; 
 Till Time, on pointing finger wears 
 
 The precious pearl of Peace,
 
 THE LION-FLAG- OF ENGLAND. 169 
 
 And Earth sends up her anthem-shout 
 
 That loving hearts increase : 
 Eight on, keep heart, look up, be firm ; 
 
 And never once forget 
 That Heaven proclaims this God-stamped truth , 
 
 " The Eight shall conquer yet."
 
 170 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE GREAT REDAN. 
 
 Give ear to the most terrible, the reddest, roughest 
 
 fray, 
 That ever paved with human boues, for peace, a triumph 
 
 way; 
 And to him who there contended hard, our country's 
 
 friend or foe, 
 Let justice, from her righteous throne, the meed of 
 
 praise bestow. 
 AVhere Tauric Chersonesus rears its high and rocky 
 
 coast, 
 A band went out to battle, a stout and sturdy host ; 
 And the guerdon of their fighting was the praises of 
 
 the free, 
 A smile from dear old England, and France, and 
 
 Liberty. 
 Through the wild Crimean winter, — 'neath a burning 
 
 summer's sun, 
 They faced and fought the Cossack-hordes, and fearful 
 
 battles won ;
 
 THE BATTLE OE THE GREAT REDAN. 171 
 
 Till they overthrew the armies of Russia's proudest 
 
 Czar, 
 And crushed the haughty tyrant with the mighty 
 
 shock of war. 
 Our messengers came bringing their chronicles of death, 
 Till deeds of might outringing, made Europe hold her 
 
 breath, 
 And look in silent terror on the scene of blood and 
 
 flame, 
 And own the bold besieging host are worthy of their 
 
 name. 
 Fierce, and fiercer grew the battle, as each parallel 
 
 they drew, 
 Near, and nearer to the city, and the stubborn foeman 
 
 too, 
 And the thunder of their cannon, and their deadly 
 
 clash of steel, 
 
 Told of one continued triumph on the distant battle hill. 
 
 Of the fair and queenly city, the glory of the East, 
 
 They made for black destruction a red and royal feast ; 
 
 And the Euries held their banquets in the choicest of 
 
 her halls, 
 And wrote, in crimson characters, her fate upon her 
 
 walls :
 
 172 POEMS. 
 
 Then came the time when victory, high-seated in her 
 car, 
 
 Proclaimed the day of escalade, — the great day of the 
 
 war ; 
 And our heroes heard the order in the silence of the 
 
 night, 
 And thought of home and kindred, and harness'd for 
 
 the fight. — 
 woe betide Sebastopol — the stronghold of the foe ; 
 For wrath hath made her vengeance burn to red-hot 
 
 lava glow, 
 And the tumult of a thousand guns commence the 
 
 horrid fray, 
 Till in the fury of the strife her bulwarks melt away. 
 Like lusty bulls contending in their madden' d rage to 
 
 kill, 
 Is the charging of the warriors, in moving walls of steel ; 
 And the yelling, and the hacking, and the heaping of 
 
 the slain, 
 Is a page too black with horrors to meet the gaze of 
 
 men. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! ! hurrah for France ! the British 
 
 legions cry, 
 As they see the Gallic eagle and the tricolour on high,
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE GEE AT BEDAX. 173 
 
 And " nowforDeath or Victory , "from every Briton rings, 
 And soon the deadly fort is stormed amid its thun- 
 
 derings. 
 Like the crash of ships majestic, when they strike 
 
 upon the seas, 
 Is the conflict of the combatants, and clamour on the 
 
 breeze ; 
 Like the lull of murmuring waters, when the wreck 
 
 has settled down, 
 Is the after-battle stillness on the ramparts of the town. 
 All honour to those mighty men, the valiant sons 
 
 of Gaul, 
 "Who reared the floating standard first upon the 
 
 fortress wall ; 
 But shame, eternal shame, to those vile slanderers, 
 
 who dare 
 To rob our heroes of the crown the French would 
 
 have them wear. 
 Who made grim, thundering Malakoff a weak and 
 
 shot-torn thing ? 
 And opened for the Gallic braves a breach to enter in ? 
 Who, when the stealthy Zouaves had "won a march" 
 
 upon the foe, 
 Byspringing up like tigers fierce to strike the final blow ?
 
 174 POEMS. 
 
 Who, when the garrison was roused, and fired with 
 
 deadly hate, 
 Ploughed through two hundred yards of death, to 
 
 turn the Frenchman's fate ? 
 "Who flung their lives unto the winds, and full of 
 
 heart and hope, 
 Plunged headlong in the purple tide, and scaled the 
 
 bloody slope ? 
 Who lifted high the flood-gates of the battle dread, 
 
 and stood 
 Unmoved amid the deluge-sweep of mingled fire and 
 
 blood ? 
 Who entered one by one the breach, to face a countless 
 
 host, 
 And stood through two long murderous hours the 
 
 masters of the post ? 
 Who took and kept the Great Eedan, by loss of blood 
 
 and breath, 
 And bought the fortress with their lives, and held it 
 
 in their death ? 
 Who, who were they, those valiant souls, those gener- 
 ous noble ones ? 
 Hear it, earth! give ear, heavens! 'twas England's 
 
 matchless sons !
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE GREAT REDAN. 175 
 
 And who was that bold-hearted man, who wore a 
 
 battle charm, 
 Whom danger never dared to touch, and death forbore 
 
 to harm ? 
 AVho turned destruction's reeking scythe, and proudly 
 
 rode the war, 
 And 'scaped unscath'd ? 'Twas Windham brave, our 
 
 brightest battle star ! 
 List! — a deep foreboding silence o'er each army 
 
 seems to reign, 
 Save the slow and heavy breathing of the dying in 
 
 their pain: 
 And the tramp of neighing chargers beating sullenly 
 
 the air, 
 Or where the earth upheaving, speaks the Muscovite's 
 
 despair ; 
 Like the voice of mighty thunders, or the rumbling 
 
 of the main, 
 Or the rushing of an avalanche upon a distant 
 
 plain, — 
 Or the bursting of an iEtna, when it wears its fury 
 
 frown, 
 Is the roar of mines upspringing, 'neath the war- 
 towers of the town.
 
 176 POEMS. 
 
 Do you hear the martial clamour of the drummers heat- 
 ing there ? 
 
 Hark ! the hugle sounds " retreat." — By the burning 
 city's glare 
 
 They are crossing, they are crossing, to the sound of 
 trumpet shrill, 
 
 O'er a sheet of lurid waters to the Star Port on the hill. 
 
 While the war-horse and his rider o'er the narrow 
 passage go, 
 
 And the wounded in their litters are hurried to and fro, 
 
 The flames are flashing fiercely from the burning 
 shrine of Mars, 
 
 And the war-fiend shrieks and belches out Ids fury to 
 
 the stars. 
 
 They are over, they are over, and the hosts on either 
 
 shore 
 Look on and sigh, — Sebastopol the famous — is no more. 
 
 All honour to our England then, and glory to old 
 Gaul ! 
 
 For as ONE band of conquerors WE won SEBAS- 
 TOPOL !
 
 LOUD LET THE TRIUMPH RING. 
 
 Loud let the triumph ring 
 
 Out o'er the main, 
 England, Old England 
 
 Has conquered again ! 
 Eing, for she triumphs 
 
 By sea and by shore ! 
 Eing, for Sebastopol 
 
 Thunders no more. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Loud let the triumph ring 
 
 Out o'er the main, 
 England, Old England 
 
 Has triumphed again. 
 
 Loud let our island bells 
 
 Eing o'er the wave, 
 Eing out the nation's joy, 
 
 Eing for the brave,
 
 Bing, for the Lion 
 
 And Eagle afar 
 Press on Sebastopol ! 
 
 Bing for the war. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 Loud let the triumph ring 
 Out o'er the main, 
 
 England, Old England 
 Has triumphed again. 
 
 Mourn not our hero-sons 
 
 Deep in their grave ; 
 Mourn for the savage born, 
 
 Mourn for the slave ; 
 Eight till a brighter day 
 
 Breaks on their night, 
 Liberty ! Liberty ! 
 
 Forward and fight. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Loud let the triumph ring 
 Out o'er the main, 
 
 England, Old England 
 Has triumphed again.
 
 LOUD LET THE TEIUMPH KING. 179 
 
 War ! till the Muscovite 
 
 Crouches for peace, 
 Tyrants succumb to right, 
 
 Freemen increase : 
 War ! from the battle-hill 
 
 Victory cries, 
 On to St. Petersburg, 
 
 Strike for the prize ! 
 
 chorus. 
 Loud let the triumph ring 
 
 Out o'er the mam, 
 Eugland, Old England 
 
 Shall triumph again.
 
 THE FALL OF THE BRAVE. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HIS BEREAVED TARENT. 
 
 Deep in the foeman's mould he lies, 
 The youthful and the brave ; 
 
 Without a stone to speak his worth, 
 Or mark the soldier's grave. 
 
 A cry for help came o'er the seas, 
 
 The Osmanli to shield ; 
 He heard it, and with maiden sword 
 
 He sought the battle-field. 
 
 We blessed him as he left his home, 
 
 His noble soul to prove ; 
 We loved him for our England's sake, 
 
 And he return'd our love. 
 
 We never doubted once his heart 
 
 Was daring to a sin ; 
 We knew his patriotic fire, 
 
 And mettle of his kin.
 
 And knowing him, our watchful love 
 
 Pursued the path he trod ; 
 And, when his footprints mock'd our search., 
 
 We left him to his God. 
 
 Grim Death, with scythe of pestilence, 
 Britannia's flower mowed down ; 
 
 We saw him mourn those hero-sons 
 Of England's old renown. 
 
 And, bending with a wistful gaze, 
 
 To see his comrades die, 
 He heard those dying Britons say— 
 
 " Our country's loss supply." 
 
 With eye upturn' d to Heaven, he asked, 
 
 That he in peril's hour, 
 llemembering how the brave could die, 
 
 Might have their share of power. 
 
 His prayer was heard, his wish was seal'd. 
 
 The hour immortal came, 
 And Balaklava wrote in blood 
 
 The Lancer's deathless name !
 
 1 82 POEMS. 
 
 The order came, "Advance!" — Enough, 
 And veterans held their breath, 
 
 To see our troopers plough through fire 
 A pathway to their death. 
 
 To doubt if it were wisely given, 
 
 Was not a hero's part ; 
 But " Onward," like a lightning stream, 
 
 And scorch the foeman's heart. 
 
 One deed of daring such as that, 
 
 It takes an age to give ; 
 Such thought we had, and pray'd that Fate 
 
 Would let the victor live. 
 
 We dwelt upon that matchless charge, 
 And hoped your darling pride 
 
 Would oft beguile with martial tales 
 Your hours at eventide. 
 
 But Freedom claim' d him for her own, 
 
 And Glory begged his name 
 Might be enroll'd among the great — 
 
 A favourite of Fame.
 
 So came the fight at Inkerinann, 
 
 "Unparalleled in wars ; 
 When England drove the savage foe 
 
 As thick as midnight stars. 
 
 And there he fell, as falls the brave, 
 Her right true gallant son ; 
 
 One of those chosen souls who make 
 The base of Freedom's throne. 
 
 The thunders of that famous fray 
 Broke loud upon our shore, 
 
 And eagerly we sought the list 
 Of those to fight no more. 
 
 It came too soon — our grief gush'd out 
 
 In torrents unsubdued : 
 For first of all those glorious ones 
 
 The name of " Clevland " stood ! 
 
 (A Weeper once, in ancient days, 
 Mourned where a Hebrew slept ; 
 
 The noblest soul on earth was He, 
 But history says, " He wept."
 
 J 84 POEMS. 
 
 We wept : Humanity must weep, 
 
 So nature dropped a tear ; 
 Then pictured we his shroudless corse, 
 
 Stretched on his grassy bier. 
 
 We saw a gentle comrade's hand 
 
 Press lightly on his head ; 
 Then with his fellow-soldiers make 
 
 The warrior's narrow bed. 
 
 No manufactured pomp of death 
 
 Bedecked his coffin rude ; 
 His mourners were those bleeding hearts 
 
 Which heaped the field of blood. 
 
 A carriage borrow'd from the war 
 
 The bearer's office did ; 
 His cap upon the coffin rode, 
 
 His sword across the lid. 
 
 No muffled drum, no funeral pall, 
 
 Salute, nor solemn knell 
 Told how they sorrowed o'er their loss 
 
 But tears, and one Farewell.
 
 THE FALL OF THE BEATE. 185 
 
 A little mound we saw them raise, 
 
 Upon that broken slope ; 
 Then weeping go to bind and soothe 
 
 Our country's pride and hope. 
 
 Full many a kindred deed that day 
 
 All piously was done ; 
 Whilst war roar'd out a requiem, 
 
 As gun replied to gun. 
 
 No flow'ret there may crown their graves, 
 
 As our sweet daisies do ; 
 But this our Fatherland hatli sworn 
 
 To wrest them from the foe. 
 
 Peace, lady, — thou hast done thy part — 
 
 A son thou hadst to give : 
 Now England writes his epitaph — 
 
 " He died that I might live."
 
 186 POEMS. 
 
 « WOODLANDS." 
 
 I know a cottage perch'd upon a hill ; 
 
 A sylvan home, a nest among the trees, 
 Where oft the clatter of a neighbouring mill 
 
 Goes murmuring up upon the friendly breeze ; 
 In sooth so rural is that lovely cot, 
 
 The wind, the mill, and ringing anvil's clink, 
 And fisher's song beside the river's brink, 
 
 And ploughboy's whistle, and the lime-team's trot, 
 And milkmaid's carol o'er her luscious drink 
 
 Are all the sounds that reach that blissful spot : 
 
 Save when the linnets' chorus streameth down, 
 
 And bleating flocks and cattle wake the lea, 
 When thrushes warble in the elm tree's crown, 
 
 And skylarks, through dense showers of harmony, 
 Mount up, and soar above the happy throngs, 
 
 To sport awhile among the cloudlets white ; — 
 What joy ! to hear them in their circling flight, 
 
 Trilling their love-notes with their merry tongues, 
 Paving their pathways with their own sweet songs ; 
 
 Birds spurning earth, air-birds, and wing'd with light.
 
 WOODLANDS. 
 
 187 
 
 It sits so high, that ere the Yeo, a stream 
 
 That stealeth by it, creeping to the sea, 
 Is lighted with the virgin morning's beam, 
 
 Its windows sparkle bright and silverly ; 
 Not only does it win the earliest kiss 
 
 Of sunny morning's sweet and rosy mouth, 
 But all the balmy odours of the south 
 
 Conspire to make it one dear scene of bliss , 
 No accent there is heard of speech uncouth, 
 
 Nor do its inmates one pure pleasure miss. 
 
 There is a pathway winding up the steep, 
 
 O'erhung with chestnut-bloom and sycamore, 
 The woodbines there in forms fantastic creep, 
 
 And primrose tufts and mosses strew the floor ; 
 The thorn blows there, and holly over-grown 
 
 "With ivy, bearing many-shapen leaves, 
 Which some sweet wood-nymph in the noontide 
 weaves, 
 
 Or when the Night her mantle dark has thrown 
 Over the gold and purple of the eves, 
 
 Or at the twilight of the infant dawn. 
 
 The clematis, the sorrel, and wild brier, 
 "Wood-briony, and brambles, flourish there ;
 
 188 POEMS. 
 
 There summer zephyrs fan the poppy's fire, 
 
 And heath, and gorse, and dog-rose scent the air. 
 A shelter from the cold North's biting wind, 
 
 The partridge seeks its broad and sunny glade, 
 The pheasant lodges in its ample shade ; 
 
 And pies, the robbers of the feathery kind, 
 Th' aerial homes of squirrels oft invade, 
 
 And there the bees their sweetest blossoms find. 
 
 blest retreat, green haunt of poesy, 
 There I could dwell a studious solitaire, 
 
 And, nestled in thy bower of melody, 
 
 Forego the pleasures which the world deems rare. 
 
 1 only ask to see the spreading dale 
 
 That sleeps below thy bristling, pine-girt base, 
 To hear the horn and view the lively chase, 
 
 And watch the seagull ride upon the gale; 
 Or mark the leaping of the silver bace 
 
 In Tor's bright waters dancing down the vale. 
 
 There I would meditate on days gone by, 
 
 When Monk for Stuart played his famous part, 
 
 With peaceful Landcross present to my eye, 
 The birth-place of that brave old warrior-heart.
 
 But let me sing some softer, sweeter theme, 
 Bright home of beauty, and the fondest loves ! 
 
 Young Edward often in his midnight dream 
 Bevisits thee beneath the May moon's beam, 
 
 To list the cooing of thy native doves, 
 
 For Bessie then most beautiful doth seem. 
 
 I will not dwell on Anne and charming Kate. 
 
 The first a rose, the last a lily fair, 
 Or wish the angels had an earthly mate, 
 
 Their virtues are so heavenly and so rare ! 
 It were almost a sin to wish it so ; 
 
 But Bessie, lovelier than an angel, she 
 Hath clothed herself in our humanity, 
 
 To walk the earth a spirit robed in snow, 
 And give her Edward her society, 
 
 And teach us sinners purity below. 
 
 I heard her once, 'twas when the bright-eyed June 
 Was shooting down her arrows through the trees 
 
 And ever since, like some sweet, soothing tune, 
 Her voice I hear in every flitting breeze.
 
 190 POEMS. 
 
 It was so mellow, like the fall of dew ; 
 
 And then her cheeks, made fresher hy the sun, 
 Blushed out with such a warm and roseate tone ; 
 
 I thought 'twas Eve to Eden come anew, 
 As down the checker'd path she trip'd alone, 
 
 And almost worshipping, I sigh'd adieu ! 
 
 Thrice happy cot, if there the hard should stray 
 
 By some kind chance, and rap tap at its door, 
 In hleak December or in blooming May, 
 
 He always finds it open to the poor ; 
 Come in ! come in ! the hearty sire exclaims, 
 
 And then the matron, smiling, meets her guest, 
 With modest Ellen, blushing to the breast, 
 
 And stately Carrie, with her queen of names, 
 And gentle Agnes, lovely as the rest ; 
 
 Each one a grace and sharing equal claims. 
 
 Heavens bless thee, "Woodlands," joy be with the girls ! 
 
 And summers ever smiling in their eyes, 
 And their luxuriant drops of flowing curls, 
 
 The only clouds that shadow o'er their skies !
 
 WOODLANDS. 191 
 
 And oft may Edward, with bis form erect, 
 And raven eyes and locks of glossy jet, 
 
 His Mother's promise and the maiden's pride, 
 In thy blest pathways, smiling, be descried, 
 
 Culling for Bessie, bell and violet, 
 
 And praying Fate may make her soon his bride. 
 
 '-* SCtfca !
 
 192 POEMS. 
 
 SONG OF THE LITTLEHAM HOP-PICKERS. 
 
 When the leaf is turning brown, 
 
 And the year is nine moons old, 
 A merry group we gambol down 
 
 To our bowers of green and gold ; 
 And there, like the birds that sing 
 
 In the broad and branchy tree, 
 "We make the moss-floor'd woodlands ring, 
 
 To " Merry hop-pickers are we." 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then come where the hop-vines blow, 
 And trout-streams wander free, 
 
 Where orchards wear their golden glow, 
 And join in the hop-girls' glee. 
 
 As the morning sunlight gleams, 
 
 We hie to our garden dell, 
 And we coax our lads from their sleek-back'd teams 
 
 To toy with the bright hop bell ; 
 And wreathing our brows with the flowers, 
 
 And taxing our lips for their fee,
 
 Our days dance by like summer hours, 
 To " Merry hop-pickers are we." 
 
 Then come where the hop-vines blow. 
 
 And trout-streams wander free, 
 Where orchards wear their golden glow, 
 
 And join in the hop-girls' glee. 
 
 o
 
 194 POEMS. 
 
 STREW THE ROSES. 
 
 A MARRIAGE SONG. 
 
 Stbew the roses, quaff the wine, 
 Fill the golden cup of joy, 
 
 Bring the orange and the vine, 
 Let the lily find employ ; 
 
 Love is come to Hymen's shrine, 
 
 Strew the roses, quaff the wine. 
 
 A THOUGHT AMONG THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Living on the sunlight, drinking in the rain, 
 Dying in the winter time, springing up again, 
 Bringing in your honey-bud, nectar for the bee ; 
 ( ) my little floweret, thou art a mystery. 
 Living on the sunlight, drinking in the rain, 
 Dying in the winter time, springing up again, 
 Springing in our little ones, floweret like you ; 
 O my little violet, we are a mystery too.
 
 THE LASS OF WATERTOWN. 195 
 
 THE LASS OF WATERTOWN. 
 
 O ! the bonnie, bonnie Teo : 
 O, the silver-crested Teo, 
 With dafibdil and primrose banks, 
 And meadows prankt with snow 
 There the mavis sits at noon, 
 To hear its native tune, 
 And learn the mellow' d music 
 Of its wavelets, as they flow. 
 
 There 's a rustic, rose-bound cot, 
 On a sweetly rural spot, 
 Like a lovely milk-white lily, 
 On its ripples looking down, 
 And the rarest treasure there, 
 Is niv pretty Polly fair; 
 My laughing, blue-eyed Polly : 
 The Lass of Watertown. 
 
 When the Eve, in purple drest, 
 With her one star on her brea
 
 196 
 
 P01. ' 
 
 Leads up the young and modest Moon, 
 To see her sire lie down ; 
 Or when the jewell'd Night 
 Gives out her smiles of light, 
 I love to pace its margin, 
 
 "With the Lass of Watertown. 
 
 Whilst the mills upon its bank, 
 "With their busy din and clank, 
 And roar of rushing torrents, 
 All other clamours drown, 
 
 "With the bird upon the bough, 
 I breathe my twilight vow, 
 And mark the sweet confusion 
 Of the Lass of "Watertown. 
 
 ! the bonnie, bonnie Teo ; 
 Where the hawthorns hanging low, 
 Spread a fragrant sun-screen, woven, 
 And overlaid with down. 
 
 Where the sleek and dappled kine 
 Breathe an odour like the vine ; 
 There for ever I would wander, 
 With the Lass of Watertown.
 
 THE LASS OP WATEKTOWN. 197 
 
 Flow gently, softly flow, 
 Let thy waters murmur low, 
 For my loved one is departed, 
 My beauty and my crown ! 
 And nightly by thy side 
 I will watch thy loving tide : 
 Leap up to kiss my darling, 
 The Lass of "Watertown. 
 
 Flow faster, faster flow, 
 My bright and bonnie Teo, 
 And help to swell the chorus, 
 As thy waters gambol down ; 
 Until the song is heard 
 From maiden, man, and bird ; 
 O ! come again, sweet Polly, 
 Fair Lass of Watertown.
 
 198 POEMS. 
 
 TAKE THY HARP, CHORISTER! 
 
 Take thy harp, Chorister! 
 
 Passion is glowing ; 
 Strike while my song 
 
 In its fervour is flowing ; 
 Strike for the peoples 
 
 Their freedom desiring ; 
 Strike, for hold music 
 
 Is ever inspiring. 
 
 Hark to the patriot, 
 
 In his cell praying, 
 " Sheathe thy sword, Warrior ! 
 
 Purpled with slaying, 
 Faith in all human right 
 
 Fails at its fountain ; 
 Strike thy harp, Chorister, 
 
 Bard of the mountain ! "
 
 TAKE THY HAEP, CHORISTEB ! 199 
 
 Take thy harp, Chorister ! 
 
 Nations are crying ; 
 Strike for the prison-bound, 
 
 Bleeding and dying; 
 Strike it for Liberty, 
 
 Now and hereafter ; 
 Strike, till the world changes 
 
 Weeping for laughter.
 
 THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 One farewell word he fain would say, * 
 Ere he pursues his prosy way : 
 If he of flowers has sung to you, 
 Or spider-wehs impearled with dew, 
 Or tears that from the eyelids roll, 
 Pray charge it to his tender soul : 
 The heather-bell, the furze, the broom, 
 The rose's tints, the lily's bloom, 
 The wildest flowers that scent the air, 
 Or those that blow in choice parterre, 
 He loved them all — the meanest thing 
 That grew, or flew, or crept, he 'd sing ; 
 The umbrageous walk, the odorous bower, 
 The nigh third's song at silent hour, 
 Were dear to him, yet nought so dear 
 As that which human form did wear —
 
 THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY TO HIS FRIENDS. 201 
 
 The maiden in her blushing pride ; 
 An infant gambolling by her side ; 
 A wife by her domestic fire, 
 Her husband all her heart's desire ; 
 An infant group to cheer the place ; 
 A sire and dame with wrinkled face ; 
 A youth, just starting out in life, 
 Unused to poverty and strife ; — 
 Such sights he loved, and joy he felt 
 Where innocence and pleasure dwelt ; 
 Bnt he could spare a falling tear 
 For the young bride o'er yonder bier ; 
 And when in death a parent slept, 
 Oh ! how with orphans hath he wept ! 
 Try not his song with those who stand 
 The scholars of his native land ; 
 For fortune treated him so rude, 
 "When nine years old he toil'd for food. 
 Nature, not Art, hath stored his mind, 
 And Nature hath been wondrous kind. 
 Now, if one sentence you approve, 
 A mother's smile, a wife's sweet love, 
 Moved him to tie his thoughts in rhyme ; 
 TLeirs be the praise, and God's the time.
 
 202 POEMS. 
 
 His simple aim is far beneath 
 A poet's fame or poet's wreath : 
 Enough if he through life has trod 
 And served his neighbour and his Grod.
 
 3List of Sufcscrifars. 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Argyle 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Sutherland 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Wellington 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Fortescue 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Derby . 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Shaftesbury 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Portsmouth 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl of Cork and Orrery 
 
 The Right Honourable the Earl Granville, President of 
 
 the Council .....•• 
 The Right Honourable Lord Brougham 
 The Right Honourable Lord Clinton 
 The Right Honourable Lord Viscount Palmerston, 
 
 Prime Minister ...... 
 
 The Right I [onourable Lord Viscount Ebrington . 
 
 The Lady Ebrington 
 
 The Right Honourable Lord Viscount Hardinge 
 Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, Bart., M.P. 
 
 Sir William Frascr, Bart 
 
 Sir Trevor "Wheeler, Bart., Cross House 
 
 Sir Peregrine Acland, Bart. .... 
 
 Sir M. Peto, Bart., M.P 
 
 The Honourable and Reverend S. G. Osborne 
 
 The Honourable T. H. Haveland .... 
 
 Lewis William Buck, Esq., M.P. 
 
 George Stukeley Buck, Esq . M.P. 
 
 William Mackworth Praed, Esq., Recorder of Barn 
 
 staple, Bideford, and South Molton 
 
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 204 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Professor Newman, 7, Park Villa, Pays-water 
 
 Alfred Tennyson, Esq., Poet Laureate, Isle of Wight . 
 
 Walter Savage Landor, Esq. 
 
 Archdeacon Bartholomew, Morchard-Bishop, Devon . 
 
 Charles Dickens, Esq., London 
 
 Reverend C. Kingsley, M.A., Rector of Eversley . 
 
 J. A. Froude, Esq., Bideford. . 
 
 Mrs. Froude, Bideford. 
 
 Miss Eliza Cook, London 
 
 The Reverend Dr. Croly, Walhrook, London 
 
 Reverend Charles Driscoll, London . . . . 
 
 Professor Fraser, New College, Edinburgh . 
 
 Leitch Ritchie, Esq., Editor of Chambers' Journal 
 
 Professor Kellend, Professor of Mathematics and Astro- 
 nomy, Royal University, Edinburgh 
 
 Professor Simson, of the Royal Infirmary, Edinburgh 
 
 Alexander Smith, Esq., Librarian to the Royal Univer- 
 sity, Edinburgh ..... 
 
 William and Robert Chambers, Proprietors of Cham- 
 bers' Journal ..... 
 
 H. W. Acland, M.D., F.R.S., Radcliffe Librarian, 
 Oxford 
 
 T. L. Pridham, Esq., Hyefield. Bideford . 
 
 M. Le Mesurier, Esq., Advocate General, Bombay 
 
 J. Sharland, Esq., London .... 
 
 Mrs. Arthur Mills, Hyde Park Gardens, London 
 
 Trevethen Spicer, LL.D., MA . Bayswater . 
 
 Thomas Mortimer, Esq., Braunton 
 
 Mr. William F. Rock, 11, Walbrook, London 
 
 Mr. Henry Rock, 11, AValbrook, London 
 
 Mr. Richard Rock, 1 1 , Walbrook, London . 
 
 Mr. John Payne, 11, Walbrook, London 
 
 W. Tite, Esq., M.P. . 
 
 Rowland Hill, Esq., Post Office, London 
 
 Royal University College, Edinburgh . 
 
 Doctor Irvin, LL.D., Librarian to the Lord Advocate, 
 Edinburgh 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 20.3 
 
 and 
 
 ange 
 
 Blackwood and Sons, Edinbuvgli 
 
 S. Haveland, Esq., Queen's Foreign Messenger 
 
 Colonel Chapman, Chapman's Battery, Sebastopol 
 
 Gatzel Lodge, Taunton 
 Captain Drew, 23rd Regiment Welsh Fusiliers, Gi 
 
 near Honiton .... 
 
 I. Miles, Esq., Dixes Fields, Exeter 
 Latimer West, Esq., Queen's Road, London 
 J. Barrow, Esq., Onslow Square, London 
 I. Page, Esq., Tower Cressey, Bayswater 
 Major Addison, Horse Guards, London 
 J. Myrie Holl, Esq., Clapham Road, London 
 Mrs. J. Holl, ditto .... 
 
 B. Bailey, Esq., 9, Arundel Terrace, Holloway 
 — Coulthard, Esq., 1, Child's Place, Temple 
 Rev. F. P. Pocock, Church House, Bow 
 I. D. Dickeson, Esq, 6, Harley Place, Bow . 
 H. F. Dickeson, Esq., ditto .... 
 Mr. Lewis Pinkham, 30, Woodstock Road, Poplar 
 Miss Clevland, Tapley Park, North Devon 
 Major-General Nicholls, Zion House, Clifton 
 Charles Prideaux Prune. Esq., Prideaux Place, Cornwall 
 Mrs. Prideaux Brune, Charles Street, Berkeley Square 
 Miss Caroline Prideaux Brune, ditto 
 Miss Beatrice Prideaux Brune, ditto 
 John Sillifant, Esq., Combe House, near Crediton 
 Richard Bligh, Esq., Ilfracombe . 
 Miss Neal, Penu House, Yeovil 
 T. C. Hayward, Esq., Highbury Park, London 
 Tracy Turnerelli, Esq. .... 
 
 W. H. Marley, Esq 
 
 Mr. W. J. Jones, Olive House, Rowley 
 
 Robert Harvey, Esq., Walton Priory, Liverpool 
 
 Mrs. Harvey, ditto 
 
 Rev. F. I,. Bazeley, Rector of Bideford 
 
 T. Goldie Harding, Esq., Mayor of Bideford 
 
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 206 LIST OP SUBSCEIBERS. 
 
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 Rev. A. K. Thompson, D.D., Head Master of the 
 
 Bideford Grammar School . 
 
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 Colonel Bayly, Orleigh Court 
 
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 Miss Thorold Clevelands, Bideford 
 
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 Major Glynn, Bideford 
 
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 Colonel Crowe, Fairlee, Bideford . 
 
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 D. H. Harris, Esq., London 
 
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 Mrs. Harris, London . 
 
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 J. Heathcote, Esq., M.P., Tiverton 
 
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 J. G. Maxwell, Esq., Bideford . 
 
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 Capt. Thomas, ditto .... 
 
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 Miss A. M. Cole, ditto 
 
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 J. Clapp, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 
 
 Mr. John Milroy, Barnstaple 
 
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 Thomas Evans, Esq., Bideford 
 
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 Miss Ellison, Walton Priory, Liverpool 
 
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 James C. Pickett, Esq., Liverpool 
 
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 James Tyrer, Esq., Bootle, Liverpool . 
 
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 J. Ivearsley, Esq., Liverpool 
 
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 Morvin Coats, Esq., Great Malvern 
 
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 Capt. Windham, R.N. 
 
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 Major Macartney, Torrington 
 
 . 
 
 
 William Collins, Esq., Drew's Teignton, Devon . 
 
 
 Rev. Mr. Kemp, Rector, Merton, North Devon . 
 
 
 G. W. Clark, Esq., London 
 
 
 T. A. Caddy, Esq., Bowden, North Devon . 
 
 
 Miss M. E. Wills, York Buildings, London . 
 
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 Mr. R. Hooper, Bideford 
 
 
 Mrs. Whitehead, Bahbicombe, South Devon . 
 
 
 Rev. W. Tarr, Wesleyan Minister, Launceston 
 
 
 Sydney Cartright, Esq., the Leasows 
 
 
 Miss Mitchell, Bideford 
 
 
 Major Campbell, Woodville, near Bideford . 
 
 
 John Dunsford, Esq., Applcdore .... 
 
 
 F. II. Maberly, Esq., Stoke, Devonport 
 
 
 Miss Poole, Bideford 
 
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 Rev. W. J. Du Sautoroy, Exton Rectory, Hants . 
 
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 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 207 
 
 copip:s 
 
 Rev. W. A. O. Du Sautoroy, Royal Military Asylum, 
 Chelsea 
 
 — Langton, Esq., 28, Cumberland Terrace, Regent's 
 Park, London 
 
 George Doe, Esq., Torrington, Devon . 
 
 Mr. Stevenson, Bideford .... 
 
 George Bragington, Esq., Torrington . 
 
 E. U. Vidal, Esq., Cornborough, near Bideford 
 
 Charles Carter, Esq., Bideford 
 
 C. Hole, Esq., Ebberley House . 
 
 James P. Ley, Esq., Bideford 
 
 W. Neale, Esq., C.E., Crediton . 
 
 Rev. C. Heath, Henworth, Norwich . 
 
 Rev. E. A. Telfer, Bideford. 
 
 James Rooker, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 A. N. Jones, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 John Thompson, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 Charles Pridham, Esq., Edinburgh 
 
 Charles Turner, Esq., Bideford 
 
 S. C. Willcock, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 A. Ley, Esq., ditto ..... 
 
 Thomas M'Kenzie Smith, Esq., ditto . 
 
 Charles Smalc, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 Thomas Ley, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 The Rev. Limebear Harding, Rectory, Littleham 
 
 T. B. Chanter, Esq., Glenburnic, Bideford 
 
 T. Kirkwood, Esq., Yco Vale, North Devon 
 
 J. B. Torr, Esq., Westleigh 
 
 W. H. Ackland, Esq., Bideford 
 
 Richard Buse, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 Rev. H. Alford, ditto 
 
 Henry Jones, Esq., Wear Gifibrd 
 
 W. Wickham, Esq., Bideford 
 
 W. How, Esq., ditto 
 
 Alfred Cutler, Esq , London 
 
 Wm Partridge, Esq . Landcross, near Bideford 
 
 Samuel Ford, Esq., ditto .... 
 
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 208 
 
 LIST OP SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 Trafalgar Lawn 
 
 G. Paty, Esq., Bideford 
 
 F. Lang, Esq., Retreat, ditto 
 
 H. B. Adams, Esq., Forest Hill, ditto 
 
 J. W. Sfcringfield, Esq., East Hele 
 
 W. S. Booker, Esq., Bideford 
 
 Mr. E. M. White, Bideford . 
 
 Mr. B. Dannell, ditto . 
 
 Mr. Thomas Sanguin, ditto . 
 
 John Harris, Esq., Mayor of BarnstapL 
 
 Richard Brem ridge, Esq., Barnstaple 
 
 William Thorne, Esq 
 
 I. Bencraft, Esq., Barnstaple 
 
 H. Bencraft, Esq., ditto 
 
 Mr. William Lilly, ditto 
 
 Michael Cook, Esq., ditto 
 
 — Kingson, Esq., Union Terrace, Barnstapl 
 
 Mrs. Kingson, Barnstaple . 
 
 Mrs. Exter, Newport, Barnstaple 
 
 Mr. J. I. Knill, Barnstaple . 
 
 Mr. T. Hillman, ditto . 
 
 W. F. Tatham, Esq., ditto. . 
 
 Mr. Robert Arnold, Barnstaple 
 
 J. R. Chanter, Esq., ditto . 
 
 Mr. T. Hcarson, ditto . 
 
 Mr. R. E. Flemming, ditto 
 
 Mr. J. G. Geachsias, ditto 
 
 John B. Mayne, Esq., Bideford 
 
 Elijah Waring, Esq., Bristol 
 
 Mr. Alfred Greening, ditto . 
 
 Mr. William Hammett, Bideford 
 
 Mr. William Porter, Barnstaple 
 
 Mr. P. Widlake, ditto . 
 
 Mr. John Bowden, ditto 
 
 Mr. G. K. Cotton, ditto 
 
 Mr. Charles R. Morgan, ditto 
 
 Miss S. Marshall, ditto 
 
 Alderman Maunder, ditto 
 
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 Barnstaple
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 209 
 
 COPIES 
 
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 Mr. Thomas May, Barnstaple 
 
 Henry Deane, Esq., ditto . 
 
 C. E. Nortlicote, Esq., ditto 
 
 T. H. Law, Esq., ditto 
 
 J. M. Fisher, Esq., ditto 
 
 T. B. Torr, Esq., ditto 
 
 George Reynolds, Esq., Northara 
 
 G. G. Downes, Esq., Instow 
 
 Mr. J. Risdon, Bideford 
 
 Mr. Henry Forester, Barnstaple 
 
 G. H. Haydon, Esq., London 
 
 Mr. Henry Gorvin, Swansea 
 
 James Terrell, Esq., Exeter . 
 
 Mr. R. G. Giddy, Bideford . 
 
 F. Parsons, Esq., ditto 
 
 L. S. Hole, Esq., Buckland Brewer 
 
 Mr. Charles Piller, Torquay 
 
 Miss Janet Rodich, Gateacre, near Li 
 
 H. C. Beasley, Esq., Liverpool 
 
 R. E. Yelland, Esq., Bideford 
 
 Mr. Geo. Heard, ditto 
 
 Mr. Geo. Whitaker, ditto 
 
 Mr. Edw. Dingle, ditto 
 
 Mr. Geo. Braund, ditto 
 
 Mr. Wm. Vinson, ditto 
 
 R. Bartlett, Esq., Strand, ditto 
 
 Mr. Christopher Pedler, ditto 
 
 Mr. W. L. Vellacott, ditto . 
 
 Messrs. Lee and Son, ditto . 
 
 Mr. Jonathan Rendle, ditto . 
 
 Mr. John Rendle, ditto 
 
 Mrs. Morrison, Yeo Yale House, North 
 
 Miss Wollocombe 
 
 Miss F. Wollaconibe . 
 
 Miss Pollock, Bideford . 
 
 Miss Dunn, Glentor, Bideford 
 
 rpool 
 
 Devon
 
 210 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 
 copies 
 
 Mrs. Walker, Instow, Bidcford .... 
 
 
 Miss McDonald 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Col. Hatherley, Kenwith Lodge, North Devo 
 
 n 
 
 
 Mrs. C. Smith, Woodville, ditto 
 
 
 
 Miss Roberts, Eastleigh House 
 
 
 
 Miss Abbott, Landcross, near Bideford 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Balsdon, (Southcott), ditto .... 
 
 
 
 Miss Chapman, ditto ...... 
 
 
 
 Miss Down, ditto ...... 
 
 
 
 Miss Hutchings, Rock Cottage, ditto . 
 
 
 
 Mr. Barrow, North Hele, ditto . 
 
 
 
 Mr. James Mills, ditto ...... 
 
 
 
 Mr. W, Britton, Barnstaple .... 
 
 
 
 Mr. Charles Veysey, Neath 
 
 
 
 Captain M. Jones, Bristol ..... 
 
 
 
 Mr. W. H Fry, ditto 
 
 
 
 Mr. Babb, London 
 
 
 
 Mr. Woodman, 146, High Street, Southampton 
 
 
 
 Mr. Davis, Reading ..... 
 
 
 
 Mr. Henry Fry, Webbery .... 
 
 
 
 Mr. John Westacott, Barnstaple . 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Langdon, Braunton .... 
 
 
 
 Mrs. Hibbert, Tunbridge Wells 
 
 
 
 John Bowman, Esq., Strand ford, Essex 
 
 
 
 Miss Rosetta Marks, High Street, Windsor . 
 
 
 
 Mr. Robert Whittaker ditto ditto . 
 
 
 
 Rev. Mr. Austin, Bideford 
 
 
 
 Mr. Thomas Isaac, ditto .... 
 
 
 
 Mr. R. Squire, Buckland Brewer . 
 
 
 
 Mr. Titus Fulford, ditto .... 
 
 
 
 Mr. H. W. Lambe, Malvern 
 
 
 
 Rev. R. Leigh, Belper, North Derby . 
 
 
 
 Richard J. Clark, Esq., Bridwell, near Collumptoi 
 
 l 
 
 
 Mr. Webber, Tiverton 
 
 
 
 Rev. J. Edwards, Northam Vicarage, North Devc 
 
 m 
 
 . 2 
 
 R. Blake, Esq 
 
 
 . 2
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 211 
 
 Mr. Arnold, Bideford .... 
 
 E. Pregee, Esq., Oxford Terrace, London 
 
 Miss Alexander, Clifton 
 
 Rev. B. Whitelock, Groombridge, Kent 
 
 Mrs. Whitelock, ditto, ditto . 
 
 Jeffries Withyham, Esq., Kent 
 
 Mrs. .Tolly, York Terrace, London. 
 
 Miss Churchill, Morchard, North Devon 
 
 Robert Whittaker, Esq., London, Inspector of 
 
 Customs, London Docks 
 W. H. Williams, Esq., Bideford . 
 Mrs. Fyfield, Barnstaple 
 Mr. John Gould King, ditto 
 George Harris, Esq. 
 R. E. Simpson, Esq., London 
 R. Barclay, Esq., ditto 
 Mr. William Gould, Barnstaple . 
 Mr. John Selden, ditto 
 Mr. John Gould, ditto . 
 Rev. J. Russell, Swimbridge Rectory 
 Mr. T. Seldon, Jun., Barnstaple . 
 Mr. John Barry, ditto . 
 Mr. James Partridge, Southampton 
 .Mr. Thomas Cornish, Barnstaple . 
 Mr. llcrmon Capcrn, London 
 Devon and Exeter Institution 
 Rev. H. O. Cox, M.A., Bodleian Library, Oxford 
 Wm. Howell, Esq., London . 
 Kobert Heath, Esq., ditto 
 Archibald Campbell, Esq., ditto . 
 Frederick Francis, Esq., ditto 
 — Dempster, Esq., Barnstaple 
 Mrs. Hamilton, Edinburgh . 
 E. P. Pridham, Esq., Exeter 
 Frederick Clark, Esq., Wolverhampton 
 Mr. Furze, Pilton .... 
 
 copip:s 
 
 ILM.
 
 212 
 
 LIST UJF SUBSCUIBERS. 
 
 C01MU.S 
 
 Mrs. Darbishire, Peudyl'ryn, North Wales 
 
 Mr. Gayton, Saddler, Barnstaple . 
 
 E. Ackworth, M.D., Cheltenham . 
 
 James Berry, Esq., Manchester 
 
 W. H. Caleander, Esq., ditto 
 
 Henry H. Thomas, Esq., 4, Lansdown Crescent, Bath 
 
 George C. Holroyd, Esq., Exeter (Pennsylvania) 
 
 Mr. Cleave, Newcombes, near Crediton 
 
 B. W. Cleave, Jun., Esq., ditto 
 
 Exeter Literary Society 
 
 W. Curtis, Esq., Greenbank, Greenock 
 
 Rev. Erederick Webber 
 
 Mrs. Blagrove .... 
 
 John Hewett, Esq. 
 
 Edgar Williams, Esq., Artist, London 
 
 J. Haycroft, Esq., London 
 
 Miss Yeo, Bideford 
 
 Mr. P. Martin, ditto 
 
 Mr. W. Davis, Bristol . 
 
 Mr. James Kiel, Appledore . 
 
 Mr. Reuben, Grigg 
 
 Mr. Oliver, Bideford 
 
 Mr. Doidge. ditto 
 
 Mr. Short, ditto 
 
 Mr. Wills, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. Henry Tardrew, ditto . 
 
 Mr. Bailey, ditto 
 
 George Turner, Esq., ditto . 
 
 Mr. Joce, ditto .... 
 
 Rev. J. Whiting, ditto 
 
 Mr. Narraway, ditto . 
 
 Mr. W. Narraway, ditto 
 
 Mr. Seldon, ditto 
 
 J. Pyke, Esq., Ford, ditto . 
 
 Capt. B. R. Pyke, ditto 
 
 Rev. H. Dalton, Clovelly .
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 218 
 
 I ..I'll s 
 
 Miss Wildman, Barnstaple . 
 
 Mr. J. Saunders, Buckland Brewer 
 
 Mr. J. Pickard, Bidef'ord 
 
 Mr. Thomas Honey, ditto 
 
 Mr. Forrester, ditto . 
 
 Mr. Squire, ditto ..... 
 
 Mr. J. Williams, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. Hodges, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. Thomas Hogg, ditto 
 
 Mr. W. H. Major 
 
 Major Wren, Lenwood House, North Devon 
 
 Rev. Dashwood Lang, Westleigh Vicarage 
 
 Rev. W. Lee, Alverdiscott Rectory, Devon 
 
 Mr. Caplc, AVear Gilford 
 
 Thomas Arter, Esq., Barnstaple . 
 
 Miss Gregory, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. Searles, ditto .... 
 
 Rev. H. Luxmore, Vicarage, ditto 
 
 Dr. Budd, M.D., ditto 
 
 Alderman Avery, ditto 
 
 J. P. Gilbert, ditto .... 
 
 Cadwallader E. Palmer, Esq., ditto 
 
 Mi>s May, ditto 
 
 Alderman Cotton, ditto 
 
 W. H. Griffin, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. Hodge, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. Hunt, ditto ..... 
 
 Lionel Bencraft, Esq., Town Clerk, ditto 
 
 Henry I. Gribble, Esq., ditto 
 
 Mr. J. Marsh, " Golden Lion," ditto . 
 
 Mr. W. Rafferell, ditto 
 
 John Tvrrel Shapland, Esq., Southmoltmi 
 
 AVm. Avery, Esq., Bristol 
 
 Mr. J. D. Lovcring, Tavistock 
 
 Mr. H. Pigeon, Torrington . 
 
 Mr. J. Weeks, Barnstaple . 
 
 p2
 
 214 
 
 LIST OF SUBSCEIBERS. 
 
 Rev. S. Newnham, Barnstaple 
 
 Mr. J. Thornby, ditto .... 
 
 Mr. C. Jones, Hanley, Staffordshire 
 
 Mr. W. Jones, ditto .... 
 
 Mrs. Bligh, Ilfracombe 
 
 Capt. P. Davis. . . ' . 
 
 John Edwards, Esq., 77, Quay, Bristol 
 
 Mr. C. Clifford, Exeter . . . 
 
 Thomas Bruges Flowers, Esq., Bath 
 
 Charles Empson, Esq., ditto . 
 
 Mrs. West, Ruthven Castle, Derbyshire 
 
 James Gould, Esq., Knapp, Northam . 
 
 Mr. Joseph Thomas, Bristol 
 
 Mr. E. Thomas, Newport . 
 
 W. D. Braginton, Esq., Northam . 
 
 Rev. W. Joseph Jones, Oliver House, Rowley 
 
 James Kenway, Esq., Neath 
 
 W. H. Tucker, Esq., Swansea 
 
 Mr. Lamping, Braunton 
 
 Llewellyn Llewellyn, Esq., Buckland Filleigh, Devon 
 
 Arthur Willoughby Owen, Esq., Black Torrington, ditto 
 
 John Marsh Kingdon, Esq., ditto 
 
 The Misses Meyrick, Holsworthy, ditto. 
 
 Thomas Pearce, Esq., ditto 
 
 John P. Smith, Esq., Herdwicke House, ditto . 
 Frederick Kingdon, Esq., Holsworthy, ditto 
 
 Mr. John Jolliffe, ditto 
 
 Mr. Richard Chowen, ditto ..... 
 
 Mr. John AVard, ditto 
 
 Mr. Francis T. Honey, ditto .... 
 
 Edward Fox, Esq., 2nd Somerset Militia . 
 
 Rev. G. Grogan, The Close, Norwich 
 
 John Giffard, Esq., Leind, near Melksham, Wiltshire 
 
 Probert Williams, Esq., ditto .... 
 
 Rev. C. Driscoll, Sloane St., London . 
 
 Barlow Slade, Esq., North House, Frome 
 
 i ii i ■ 1 1 s 
 
 20 
 1
 
 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. 
 
 215 
 
 Rev. W. M. W. Call, Millard's Hill House, Frome 
 
 Mrs. Call, Bridgeland Street, Bideford 
 
 Hon. Miss Caroline Boyle ..... 
 
 The Misses Calvert, Landy-sikcs, Cumberland 
 S. Calvert, Esq,, Walton Cottage, Cumberland 
 Mrs. Warwick, Cheltenham . 
 
 T. V. Wollaston, Esq., Park Lane, London 
 Mrs. Langdon Christie, Preston Deanery, Northamp 
 tonshire ....... 
 
 Mrs. Fitzgerald, Shalstone House, Buckingham . 
 
 B. Aberdeen, Esq., Honiton .... 
 
 Capt. E. Glynn, Wales 
 
 Mrs. James Torr, Westleigh House 
 
 Mr. Samuel Wills, York Buildings, London 
 J. F. Wills, Esq., Haverstock Hill, London 
 Mr. John Dawes Apps, Bideford .... 
 Mr. D. W. Barker 
 
 C. F. Hutchinson, Esq., Wear Gifford Hall, Bideford 
 Mrs. T. Goldie Harding, Hallsannery . 
 
 Thomas Harding, Esq., Upcott .... 
 W. Goodall, Esq., Grove Cottage, Regent's Park . 
 Rev. John L. Prior, Lyhly Rectory, Nottingham 
 Rev. Wtntworth Webster, Cloford, Frome 
 Rev. J. L. Carrick, Witham Friary 
 Mrs. Cleveland, Taplcy .... 
 Captain Archdall, Orleigh Court, Devon 
 Charles Parrot, Esq., London 
 Henry Ingall, Esq., Lee Road, Kent 
 Charles Petter, Esq., London. 
 John W. Parker and Son, West Strand, London 
 Mr. William Calcott, Wells, Somerset . 
 
 COPIES 
 
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 LONDON: 
 BKK1) AND PA1.DON. PRINTERS, 
 
 PATK.RNOSTEH KOW.
 
 Mans nt t\}t frm aw % farmer difatta. 
 
 i!/«/r/< L6th, 1856. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I have been reading Capern's 'Poems,' with equal 
 attention and delight ; few poets have written two such noble \< 
 as those two in page 20 and page 168, to the end of the poems, is 
 equal to the best of Burns ; the last stanza in page 186, is equal to 
 this. The stanza, also, in 180, is grand in conception and expression. 
 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 '"Walteb Savage Landoe. 
 
 ''To T. L. Pridham, Esq., Hyefield, Bideford." 
 
 " These honest, fresh, lusty verses, are written by the Postman 
 of Bideford ; a man who, happy in the possession of the faculty of 
 rhyme, works hard, lives hard, and sleeps hard, without a murmur; 
 though beset with trials, and much knocked about the head by 
 fortune". Such unkind blows ripen some men's brains, and so they 
 seem to have don.- Mr. Capern's. It is a fine lesson to the millionaire, 
 who thinks u ie can exist without daily chatnpi and hebdom- 
 adal turtle, to reflect how happy a small poet may be if he have only 
 a shelf of hooks, a table, a. chair, a bed, and a roof to keep them all 
 from the weather, lie may have music and poetry; the heavens are 
 for him and all honest human pleasures. \\ hat cares he for pineries, 
 thirty cheating servants, plate that makes one shake for fear at night, 
 and turtle fat, that will not digest! Air Capern loves flowers, and 
 they grow ill the hedge without forcing; he sink's of birds, and 
 the\ sing to him and require no feeding; he loves children, and they 
 are luxuries not yet reserved lor the rich; he loves friends, and lie 
 has them, as fond of him as if he had thirty thousand pounds — and 
 fonder. Mr Capern has a heart, though he is only a postman; and 
 he is a brave spirited man who should remain a postman, lint \. I be 
 kept, independent, free from all fear of poverty, lie is the clover- 
 lark and must not pine for the golden cage The following pas 
 shows our poet's warm sensibility for nature, and the pur i Bewick 
 like manner in which he studies as he runs about toe country lane-, 
 for Ills. (id. a w ■ 
 
 "' 1 (ear I elan, line, fresh from the green hank springing, 
 I hail thv \isit to this world again;' &C." — Alliciuruiii.
 
 " Mr. Capern is a real poet; a man whose writings will be like a 
 gleam of summer sunshine in every household which they enter." — 
 Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 "A man of genius of a very high order, if not of the highest: a 
 poet immeasurably superior to the Bloomfields and the other self- 
 educated versifiers presented to the reading public during the last 
 half century. The volume must soon be in every hand." — Standaril. 
 
 " His verse is as delicious in sentiment as it is melodious in utter- 
 ance. It is what poetry was in the sweet days of Burns and Gold- 
 smith, ere the base laws of quackery began . . . beautiful thoughts, 
 sweetly and elegantly versified." — Morning Post. 
 
 " A striking example of the pursuit of poetry under difficulties." — 
 Spectator. 
 
 "The poems are such as would do credit to a writer of higher 
 culture, and possessing greater literary advantages. Many of the 
 pieces have the soul of genuine poetry in them, and a genial, healthy 
 tone pervades the book." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 " Very genuine and very touching. A noble store of those warm 
 thoughts, those thoughts of a strong home-affection, yearnings for 
 human fellowship, and strains of homely patriotism, in which lies the 
 power of the English people." — Examiner. 
 
 " Mr. Capern has the true feeling of the poet in him, and stands 
 gracefully out from the mob of scribblers who fancy they can set the 
 world on fire with a few sheets of spoiled paper." — Sun. 
 
 " There are many gradations from the Homers, the Virgils, and the 
 Miltons to the humbler minstrels, who have more delighted if they 
 have not so awed mankind ; yet they all belong to that chosen choir 
 whose voices nature alone has tuned to join in the great chorus. — To 
 that great society Edward Capern belongs." — North Devon Journal. 
 
 " Happy has been the spirit in which we have perused this small 
 and unpretending volume of poems. How cheerily rings the author's 
 lark-like note of poetry among the various voices of the age and song ! 
 But best of all is that warm humanity which beats in all his versifica- 
 tion." — Hampshire Advertiser. 
 
 " A volume of poems fresh from the fountain-wells of nature and 
 feeling, and kindling our sympathies in no ordinary degree in favour 
 of their author." — ]l'oolmcr's Gazette. 
 
 " Here is an untutored rustic, with ear so exquisitely attuned to 
 melody, that he produces rhymes equal in harmony to Metastasio, 
 who wrote in the most musical language upon earth. He strikes off 
 choice couplets with the same ease that a jeweller would string together 
 priceless pearls, to set off the matchless beauty of some royal 
 bride." — North Devon Journal. 
 
 " Edward Capern is essentially a lyrist. There are men with 
 whom poetry is an art, with him it is rather a function ; something 
 horn with him ; the very essence of his nature, and without which 
 he could not be. To sing is with him as natural as to walk or to
 
 sleep. He has no occasion to invoke his ' muse ' she is with him 
 unceasingly : the whole nature of the man seems musical. * 
 Sworn minstrel is he of every flower in the valley and every warbler 
 in the woods ; and had we space to quote it, his poem on the " Cuckoo " 
 would prove him to possess the most exquisite delicacy of perception, 
 and wonderful power of simple but most musical expression." —Bucks 
 Advertiser. 
 
 "Mr. Capern sings of those (Devon) old heroes and their. com- 
 rades; and as he sings the blood rushes swiftly and joyously through his 
 veins at the thought that he too first drew breath in such a land. He 
 will account it the highest praise that an earnest critic can give him, 
 when we say that his little book is worthy of Devon, and that he him- 
 self is a Devonshire worthy." — Bucks Advertiser and Aylesbury News. 
 
 " This neat little volume should grace every drawing-room table. 
 Its contents would ennoble the noblest of the land." — North Devon 
 Excursion Gazette and Torquay Guide. 
 
 " There is the rich glow of the sunny fields and the open smell of 
 the green and flowery hedges, in such poems as the 'White Violet' 
 the 'Daisy,' 'Jocund May' and ' Bonnie June ; ' and the liquid air 
 seems filled with the echoes of the olden time, as we read, 
 
 ' Cuckoo, Cuckoo, singing mellow, 
 Ever when the fields are yellow.' 
 
 The ' Lion Flag of England,' is an ode of great merit; nothing more 
 spirit-stirring has been written on the war." — ( 'ivil Service Gazette. 
 
 " Mr. Capern is one of those few men whom God has endowed 
 with that rare gift, genius. Being a true poet, and ' dowered with the 
 love of love ' his soul has found even in his dreary round of poorly re- 
 warded toil, the truth of the great Wordsworth, 
 ' That nature never did betray, 
 The heart that loved her.' 
 
 And bird, and tree, and flower, and the great ocean have all been 
 sweet to him; sweet monitors, and lie has understood and well inter- 
 preted their language. His songs are of the genuine stamp, and 
 have the right authentic ring about them. We hope and believe 
 that we shall hear of Edward Capern again." — Birmingham Daily 
 Press. 
 
 " The general style of Edward Capern's poetry seems the result of 
 a close association with nature, and a keen enjoyment of incidents 
 and scenes in connection with the beautiful valleys he day by-day 
 passes through, and with the river-parted town of Devon, within 
 whose historical precincts he resides. There is, however, an artistic and 
 meditative — one may say also a classical spirit in some of his pieces, 
 which might lead one to suppose that they were the works of a highly 
 educated man. This tendency may be particularly noticed in the 
 ' Reverie,' which seems to us one the most beautiful poems that our 
 day has produced." — Somerset County Gazette. 
 
 " His lyrics overflow with an healthy joy. If, as we believe, our 
 age has real love for poetry, England will confirm the verdict of 
 Devonshire; and hail in Edward Capern no unworthy addition to the 
 long and glorious list of her sweet singers." — Ladies' Companion.
 
 OPINIONS OP 'HIE PRESS. 
 
 "To the melody of Scottisli burns, were set the outpourings of 
 the Ettrick Shepherd ; honest or buxom rustics, and the functions of 
 the seasons were the favourite themes of Bloomfield the farm-hoy. 
 The crushing and enslaving system of the manufactory chafed into 
 revolutionary fervour the brain of Gerald Massey ; and the gentle 
 influence of pastoral avocation imparted refinement and beauty to the 
 songs of Nichols. These men and others give their lives in their 
 poems, and they will live with us : another poet, Edward Capern, has 
 done the same : he too is worthy to take a place among the poets of 
 labour; and to appreciate his poetry we must not lose sight of his life. 
 The iron hand of adversity has been laid heavily upon him, but he 
 has borne it manfully ; and his genius has found a way to lighten its 
 burden. His occupation leads him into the midst of some of the 
 fairest scenery in the picturesque county, and amongst a rural and 
 toil-worn population, by whom the 'postman 'is welcomed, and. we ma; 
 say, beloved. This communing with Nature stamps on him vivid 
 impressions, and his ' poet's pen turns them to shape ; ' in ready and 
 harmonious verse, while the springs of philanthropy in his soul are 
 freely opened by his intercourse with the simple-minded cottagers 
 with whose lives he is familiar. But there is another source of in- 
 spiration which the poet of North Devon dwells on with peculiar 
 tenderness — it is his home. He invests it with a spiritual character 
 that hides its material poverty, and gives an elevation to all bis sur- 
 roundings. Under such influences did Edward Capern write the collec- 
 tion of delightful poems now before us. There is no pretension in 
 any one of them to any great effort of composition : his productions 
 appear to be the effusions of moments when the heart's fulness seeks 
 utterance in the charm of well-balanced verse. He tells us ' Nature, 
 not art, hath stored his mind,' and renders homage to the source of 
 inspiration. Son of toil though he be, he is a true votary to his instruc- 
 tress, and gazes with an intelligent love on all within her great tem- 
 ple. ' The pomp of groves and garniture of fields,' are the ever ready 
 subjects of his muse ; and few of the tuneful train have done them 
 greater justice. He may justly be comforted with 1 turns in the thought, 
 that it is more worthy to reflect honour on his profession, than for 
 his profession to reflect honour on him. The great merits of our 
 poet are spontaneity of feeling, pleasing sentiment, unaffected style, 
 and smooth versification ; and these should earn for him an ad- 
 mission to 'Fame's proud temple.' " — Western Times. 
 
 "A little work that will repay perusal." — Chambers' Journal,
 
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