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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 *~ 
 
 
 
 

 
 LAULINE, 
 
 A TALE IN VERSE, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE REV. GEORGE BEDDOW, 
 
 CURATE OF 3T. MARY'S, BIRMINGHAM. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, BROWN, AND CO., PATERNOSTER ROW ; 
 T. RAGG, HIGH STREET, BIRMINGHAM. 
 
 1851.
 
 
 •10 CHK 
 
 REVEREND I. CASEBOW BARRETT, M.A., 
 Incumbent of the District Parish of St. Mary, Birmingham ; 
 
 AND TO 
 
 THE CONGREGATION OF ST. MARY'S CHURCH, 
 This Little Volume, 
 
 Though scarcely worthy their notice, 
 
 Is respectfully inscribed, 
 
 In grateful acknowledgment of their unmerited and continued 
 
 kindness, 
 By their faithful friend and obedient servant, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Birmingham, March, I 
 
 85283
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some years ago I published a small volume of verse — 
 I am told it was not poetry — and perhaps it was not, as 
 the whole Edition was speedily sold. It has now long 
 been out of print, and many have been the applications to 
 me personally for copies. Many of »/y public urged me to 
 issue a Second Edition, but this I thought unadvisable. 
 Solicited then to prepare something else, I once more 
 returned to a pursuit which I thought I had for ever laid 
 aside, and the result is a tale and some fragments — put 
 together so as to form a book, which my good friends will 
 probably value rather as a personal memorial of one who 
 is deeply indebted to them, than for any merit there may 
 possibly be in the volume itself. 
 
 One word I must say on some of the pieces. " Lauline" 
 is a tale of I know not what origin,— it is in part a 
 memory that has been with me from my school-boy days. 
 I think I read something like it in French — and I dare say 
 I have sadly mangled this part of it by fettering it with 
 English rhyme — certainly for any inconsistencies in the 
 story I am alone to blame. Among the Miscellanies is a 
 Piece called " Cabal." This was originally written at 
 Cambridge, in competition for the Chancellor's medal. 
 I was forewarned that even were its poetry good, its 
 politics were so had that it could not stand the slightest 
 chance of success, and I grant that, in the usual sense this 
 is <)iiite true. Many copies of it having been obtained by
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 various friends, and it therefore being no longer exactly in 
 my own keeping, (though not a member of the Peace 
 Congress), I print it as my protest against any and all war 
 that is not absolutely forced upon us. I may view the 
 individual case in a false light, and I do not defend my 
 view of that one case — but I hold that, as a Christian 
 nation, our duty is, as that of Christian individuals, rather 
 to suffer wrong than to inflict injury. The other piece 
 I refer to is only two verses, "The Sabbath Bell;" this 
 was set to music by our late esteemed townsman, George 
 Hollins, the words being attributed to Wm. Ball, Esq., 
 from whom I received due apologies for the, I presume> 
 inadvertent appropriation. 
 
 I know that my entire production needs much apology — 
 let it be enough to say that it was in great part written 
 during a period of much physical and mental depression — 
 and so conscious was I of its defects, that I often wished 
 I had not promised its appearance. I knew, however, that 
 so many would rather have it, with all its imperfections, than 
 not posses it at all, that I could not dare to disappoint 
 them. I only have now to cast myself and my volume 
 upon the kindness of friendship. ^* 
 
 1851. G. B.
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Lacli.ne — Cauto I. 
 
 13 
 
 ,, Canto II. 
 
 26 
 
 ,, Canto III. 
 
 41 
 
 „ Canto IV. 
 
 57 
 
 „ Canto V. . 
 
 71 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems— 
 
 
 Ezekiel's Vision 
 
 95 
 
 The Indian'ti Death Song 
 
 97 
 
 I love to roam when Zephyrs sweep 
 
 99 
 
 Where is the fleeting thought 
 
 . 102 
 
 Deceptive Pleasures 
 
 103 
 
 Cabul .... 
 
 . 104 
 
 Spring .... 
 
 112 
 
 Song .... 
 
 . 114 
 
 Pity ^ *. 
 
 ib. 
 
 The Wanderer .... 
 
 . 115 
 
 There are feelings we may not reveal 
 
 US 
 
 Oh '. there is a region where sadness and gloom 
 
 . 119 
 
 Daphne . . • 
 
 121 
 
 Horace, Book 1, Ode 5. 
 
 . 123 
 
 11 -nice, Book 2, Ode2o. 
 
 124 
 
 Sunday School Children's Hymn 
 
 . 125 
 
 God Everywhere 
 
 126 
 
 The Home Prayer 
 
 . 127 
 
 Mitinrnou . . 
 
 129 
 
 Angels .... 
 
 . ISO 
 
 The Sabbath Bell 
 
 131 
 
 Children's Hymn 
 
 id. 
 
 Freedom 
 
 132 
 
 Regrett .... 
 
 . 133 
 
 The Bereaved 
 
 135
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Psalm 127 
 
 Psalm 137 
 
 Psalm 97 
 
 Oh ! this is not our rest 
 
 To a Mourner . 
 
 Sonnet 1. 
 
 Sonnet 2. 
 
 Sonnet 3. 
 
 Stanza 
 
 Recollection 
 
 Third Sunday in Advent 
 
 The Epiphany 
 
 The Present 
 
 A Summer Noon-day Sketch 
 
 The Circumcision of Christ . 
 
 The Lonely Death-bed 
 
 The Dying Child to its Mother 
 
 The Reply 
 
 The Nativity of our Lord 
 
 The Unpitied 
 
 Ode to Albion . 
 
 How sadly lone afar to dwell 
 
 The Spell 
 
 Suspicion 
 
 The Prayer of the Infidel 
 
 Welcome to the Penitent Restored . 
 
 For St. Andrew's Day 
 
 For St. Thomas' Day . 
 Job viii. 8—22 . 
 
 Childhood's Scenes. — 1. My Brother 
 ., „ 2. My Sister 
 
 Affection 
 
 St. John the Evangelist's Day 
 
 The Innocents' Day , 
 
 Is it Hypocrisy? 
 
 Trifles 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 Farewell, thou dream of bliss 
 
 The Voyage 
 
 Youth and Maturity . 
 
 Song 
 
 Sonnet . 
 
 Now is the Day of Salvation .
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XI 
 
 Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity 
 
 202 
 
 The Stormy Sea 
 
 . 203 
 
 Where is the place for Sonc ? 
 
 205 
 
 Before Rain 
 
 . 207 
 
 Appearances 
 
 208 
 
 Altered from " Thorn" 
 
 . 209 
 
 Autumn 
 
 210 
 
 The Butterfly . 
 
 . 212 
 
 Pastoral Serenade 
 
 213 
 
 Pride and Modesty 
 
 . 215 
 
 On a Fragment of Tesselated Pavement 
 
 217 
 
 The Snow-flake 
 
 . 222 
 
 Hallowed Love . 
 
 224 
 
 True Glory 
 
 . 231 
 
 St. Stephen's Day 
 
 233 
 
 Sea View from the Cliffi 
 
 234
 
 L A U LINE. 
 
 CANTO I.
 
 CANTO I 
 
 "Where is the home of Love?" — Where dwells she not? 
 
 Is she not present in the scented glade, 
 Spreads not her rule through all the varied lot 
 
 Of titled lady or of rustic maid ? — 
 Does she not live alike in tower and grot, 
 
 In pleasure's sunshine, and in sorrow's shade ? — 
 Wherever hearts are found, in hall or cot, 
 
 There Love will be, and there her home is made. 
 
 Hut 'tis not always bliss she brings ; 
 Ber buds of promise, it is true, are sweet, 
 
 And Siren-like the song she sings, 
 \nd round her brow may meel 
 
 A thousand bright imaginings, 
 Which only serve to mask the guilt 
 rii.it mingles in hei sweetest smile. 
 
 15
 
 1 1 LAULINE. 
 
 Too oft she wins, and then betravs ! — 
 The loved and loving ones forget too oft, 
 
 While they can bask beneath her rays, 
 
 That long- ere Beauty's self decays, 
 Or quite withdraws her perfumed breathings soft, 
 
 That blighting - want, and heart-corroding care, 
 
 May wither what was hope to anguish of despair 
 
 Tt is a tale not seldom told, 
 How Love herself has led to woe, 
 
 And yet the lesson, though so old, 
 Is what but few appear to know ; 
 At least they do not pause to think, 
 When standing on the dangerous brink, 
 Which overlooks the faithless sea, 
 Of Love's own wild immensity. 
 
 'Twas thus with Lauline. She had led 
 A happy life 'mid Alpine hills, 
 
 Though she had wept a mother dead. 
 Youth may recover from those ills 
 
 Which grave upon the aged brow 
 
 The furrows of more lasting woe. 
 
 She was the eldest ; — and her Sire 
 Regarded with an eye of pride 
 
 Her lofty glance and eye of fire, 
 Too noble for the mountain's side;
 
 LAULIK \~> 
 
 And dreams of future grandeur nursed, 
 Fanned by Ambition's breath accursed. 
 
 Tis evening, and the wind is high, 
 Where does that mountain maiden hie ? 
 The stream is full, the melting snow 
 Rolls down the steep with rapid flow, 
 No leaf is on the winter bough, — 
 Why will the maiden wander now ? 
 
 She goes to seek in yonder glade, 
 Amid the snow her pet lamb strayed ; 
 The daughter of a rugged clime, 
 She does not fear the winter time. 
 Over the swelling brook she leaps, 
 Through lichened vales her pathway keeps, 
 Till safe in all his lambkin charms, 
 She folds her truant in her arms. 
 
 But there is one, for Lauline's sake, 
 Whose anxious eye has marked the track, 
 
 Which those two wayward ones must take, 
 To bring their wandering footsteps back, 
 
 lie knows the danger, for the stream 
 With sudden flood is rising high, 
 
 And boding is the fitful gleam 
 i'Lit peeps from out the Lowering sky ; 
 
 With beating heart, bul manly stride. 
 
 He hastens Lauline's steps to guide,
 
 1G LAULINE. 
 
 And safe the dangerous ford o'erpast, 
 She gains her father's home at last. 
 
 They meet again. She knows not why 
 A tear at parting dims her eye. — 
 Sometimes a softly-whispered tone 
 Of hope's enchanted music, thrown 
 Over her pillowed slumher, seems 
 To add new brightness to her dreams, 
 And darker grows the mountain air, 
 Unless the goodly youth be there. 
 
 They often meet. He breathes his vow, 
 Can she refuse to listen now ? 
 She may not, does not, quite confess, 
 But in her silence blushes " Yes." 
 
 Her Father hears a whispered tale 
 
 Of stolen meetings in the vale. — 
 Are all his cherished dreams in vain ? 
 
 Could she, so formed to grace a court, 
 Cling to a youth unknown and poor ? — 
 
 — Whilst listening to the vague report 
 He treats it with a cold disdain, 
 Yet has the tattler scarcely left his door 
 
 Ere harshly chiding words are spoken, — 
 No pause for calm paternal thought, 
 
 No pity for a heart half broken, 
 But angry rage to sudden fury wrought.
 
 Oh, were she erring, how would she deplore 
 That gentlest whispers of Affection's tone 
 Seemed from a Father's lip to breathe no more ! 
 Still fear was most in passion's tempest roar, 
 Terror enough to scare that lonely one, 
 Whom loving looks to filial love had won. 
 
 Oh ! Father, half thy wrath suppress, 
 
 Remember she is motherless. 
 Oh, Parent, pause ! that angry frown, 
 
 Those hasty words of thine, 
 Will bring malignant influence down 
 
 On thy domestic shrine. 
 Thou, Pastor of an Alpine flock, 
 
 Should'st gently fold the Lambs that stray : 
 Teacher of others ! thou should'st seek, 
 
 Even 'mid earthquake's heaving- shock, 
 To stand unmoved with courage meek, 
 
 And pray thyself, as thou hast taught to pray ! 
 
 Oh ! why those bitter words ? they will not win, — 
 
 Nay, thine own temper in thine own fair child 
 Will stir her heart to disobedient sin, 
 
 For purpose strong may live in spirits mild. 
 The placid lake will ruffle into storm 
 When the fierce gales sweep by, and so the form 
 
 All calm in youth and beauty, may be driven 
 To wild resolve; and then with fearful power 
 
 The stirred soul acts ; it feels its home-ties riven, 
 Ami look- to vengeance as its rightful dower. 
 
 ii 2
 
 18 LAULINE. 
 
 Oh, daughter pause ! upon a stormy sea 
 Why venture from the sheltering shore, 
 
 Though an unwonted storm has set you free — 
 Has snapped the cahles that retained you there ?— 
 Go hack ! go back again ! for never more 
 Shall sunshine beam so happily on thee, 
 As in the home you leave, to go you know not where ! 
 
 Vain words of warning ! Those in wrath 
 Hear nothing. — See the Father's cheek 
 
 Grows deadly pale, and his contracted brow, 
 And quivering lip, and vain attempts to speak, 
 
 Tell of consuming fire just bursting forth 
 
 In all its fierceness ; — and the angry glow, 
 That flashes, 'mid her tears, from Lauline's eyes 
 
 Proclaims reflected anger, kindling now 
 To that wild grief, too strong to waken sighs. 
 
 They part in anger — Lauline flees — 
 
 Her lover takes her willing hand — 
 And soon amid the billowy seas, 
 
 At midnight on the deck they stand. 
 Oh ! there was dread in that lonely hour, 
 The storm-wind was passing with wand of power ; 
 There was creeking and noise as they ploughed the deep, 
 That hindered the innocent even from sleep. 
 Rut one fair form, in the pitiless storm, 
 
 Heard voices of wrath and of warning uttered, 
 They spoke to her heart — we beheld her start, 
 
 As the rolling thunder muttered.
 
 LAULINE. 1!) 
 
 She clung to her husband — her face turned pale. 
 And silent were they in that noisy gale : 
 She looked the picture of wild despair, 
 As we viewed her cheek by the lightning's glare ; 
 His hand she clenched with an anxious grasp, 
 But he answered not with a kindred clasp ; 
 Like marble he stood and surveyed the flood, 
 With a wordless lip and a glazing eye, 
 As he gazed on the meteors flashing by. 
 
 What, had he ceased to love her, now 
 That she was made his own ? 
 
 And must she view an altered brow, 
 And hear an altered tone ? 
 
 No ! Each has sinned ; — they feel it now. 
 Unsanctioned was their nuptial vow, 
 No parent's blessing on her head, 
 Its memoried words of soothing spread ; 
 They stood together unforgiven, 
 Beneath the frowning eye of heaven. 
 
 Who, amid peril, draws his breath 
 Calm in his bosom ? — undismayed 
 
 Awaits the clutch of gathering death ? — 
 Will not the boldest be afraid?
 
 20 LAULINE. 
 
 There are some spirits who have trod 
 The pathway leading on to God, 
 Souls who have drank of heavenly love, 
 Whose hope and portion is above, 
 
 And these amid the wildest storm 
 May know the peace of holy calm — 
 For them to die is gain. 
 
 And who is he of feeble form 
 
 Who comes to whisper words of balm 
 Nor whisper them in vain ? 
 
 There is upon that heaving deck 
 A man of fervent prayer, 
 On God he casts his every care, 
 
 And waits the expected wreck. 
 He might be seen the truly brave, 
 As yawned around the opening wave. 
 
 There came a moment's hush, so still 
 That every tone was heard, 
 
 And that good man had simple skill 
 To preach God's holy word. 
 
 He spoke of Jesus — and they listened, 
 In Him he bade them live, 
 
 He cried, whilst many a rough eye glistened, 
 " Father forgive ! as we forgive, 
 
 Oh, let us die forgiven ! 
 So that the parted ones of earth 
 
 May meet again in heaven."
 
 LADLINE. 21 
 
 And Lauliue and her husband knelt — 
 The soothing power of prayer was felt ; 
 The bitter memory of offence 
 Gives way to peaceful penitence, — 
 " Father forgive I" they both exclaim, 
 And Lauline breathes her father's name, 
 One last embrace was given and taken, 
 Such as a Spirit's love might waken. 
 
 Now curls the breaker with its crest of white, 
 
 Gleaming beneath the lurid sky, 
 \~ though it tokened, in its warning light, 
 
 Some undiscovered danger nigh — 
 And the storm comes on with resistless force, 
 And it sweeps o'er the ship in its fated course, 
 And it snaps the mast, and it rends the sail, 
 Ynd it drives the vessel before the gale ; — 
 
 She strikes the rock, with a fearful shock, 
 And the parting joints give way, 
 
 And the savage waters seem to mock 
 The crew that is cast away. 
 
 Twas a fearful sight, by the dawning light, 
 
 To look on the sea-strown land, 
 For along the naked beech were spread 
 The mangled forms of the dying and dead, 
 On the lonely wave-girt strand.
 
 22 LAULINE. 
 
 There was one that lived, and her fevered eye 
 
 Glanced wildly around — around, 
 To her wailing cry there was no reply, 
 
 But the voice of the deeps profound. 
 
 Then, one by one, on the desert shore 
 Were gathered a few, who by plank or oar, 
 
 Through the boiling surf had kept afloat — 
 
 And there came the crew of the smallest boat, — 
 They land together at break of day, 
 
 Together they meekly kneel — 
 Oh, those who have shared such a perilous way 
 
 Can tell how such voyagers feel. 
 
 She looked among those rescued men 
 
 For the form she longed to see, 
 And her hope-strung vision was strengthened then. 
 
 She scanned each one — but it might not be — 
 
 Hers was a bitter destiny. 
 
 She joins that group of sailors ; rude 
 
 Yet kindly hearts were theirs ; 
 They fain would cheer, yet not intrude 
 On the sacred grief of her solitude, 
 
 On a woe which no one shares. 
 
 They bore each cold and lifeless form 
 
 To a sheltered spot on the shore, 
 Where the voice of tempest and sound of storm 
 
 Might never reach them more :
 
 LAULINE. 23 
 
 And Lauline gazed on each ghastly face 
 
 Grim with the marks of death's emhrace — 
 
 She was cold in the calm of still despair, 
 
 Though the husband she loved was not slumbering there. 
 
 It was strange to see how firm she grew, 
 
 How firmly now she trod : 
 Though not a tear of hers might dew 
 
 The sailors' burial sod ; 
 Deep was her feeling — such as fears 
 To quench its fire in useless tears. 
 
 She aids the mariners, and seeks 
 
 What may be found between the creeks. 
 
 And one was found whom the varying deep 
 
 Had swept ashore on the smoothest sand, 
 And he lay as calm as in peaceful sleep, 
 
 While a volume was held in his stiffening hand 
 Death had not power to destroy the smile 
 That clung to those lips so free from guile. 
 It was not the mark that the death-fear leaves, 
 Over which the friend of the parted grieves ; 
 But a beam of heaven o'er that cold face 
 Had softly passed and had left its trace. 
 
 'Tvvas the good old man who amid the strifi 
 
 Of the angry tempest stood, 
 And hade them seek for a better life 
 
 In th( l.md beyond the flood.
 
 24 LAULINE. 
 
 Though dead he speaketh yet, and Lauline hears 
 A spirit-voice that whispers to her still, 
 
 And now at length a freshening gush of tears 
 Pours from each glazing eye — as when a rill 
 
 Long hound by frost, breaks from its icy chain, 
 
 And flowing on, wakes spring-tides green again. 
 
 I need not tell how carefully they laid 
 
 That corpse apart in yon secluded nook, 
 Or with what fervid thanks the widow prayed, 
 As to her heart she clasped the blessed book. 
 Oh ! it had been to him a constant guide, 
 Its power was felt by seeing how he died, 
 And she may gather blessing, and may share 
 The holy comfort that is treasured there. 
 
 She opened it and read, for she alone 
 
 Could read, in broken sentences, aloud 
 Amid her sobs — and thrilling was her tone, 
 
 Whilst reverentially the seamen bowed. 
 She read of immortality, and light, 
 
 Of hope through Jesus ; of a world afar, — 
 Till there seemed kiudling on the brow of night 
 
 The gentle radiance of some distant star 
 That beckoned them to follow ; and it grew 
 Larger and brighter, and its lustre threw 
 Something like joy amid the gathering gloom, 
 That else had brooded o'er that new-made 1< 
 
 END OF CANTO I.
 
 L A ULINE 
 
 CANTO TI.
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The sun beneath the evening cloud 
 May sink in darkness from our view, 
 
 And long beneath the misty shroud 
 May lurk the heaven's own blue ; — 
 
 The tree by winter's frost bereft 
 Of every pleasant leaf of green, 
 
 When spring her early couch has left 
 May be again as it has been, 
 
 And morning suns may gem the dew, 
 
 And heaven regain its wonted hue. 
 
 There are no evenings all of gloom, 
 There are no storms without a smile, 
 
 And winter is not all a tomb — 
 
 But yet she is. The dead erewhile
 
 28 LAULINE. 
 
 Shall start from every opening mound, 
 
 And live again in mightier life 
 
 Than e'er they knew in this world's strife ; 
 And so the dull and frosted ground 
 
 Is like enough to human graves — 
 
 Death seems the victor — they but stay 
 Till Death's own Conqueror comes to say 
 
 " Wake to the voice of Him who saves ! 
 Wake to the sunlight of that day, 
 When the prepared shall greet His ray, 
 
 Who rising o'er the darkened earth, 
 
 Shall call the new-born life to birth." 
 
 But not of themes so high as these 
 At present is it ours to speak — 
 
 And yet they came upon the breeze, 
 Which passed across the whitened cheek 
 
 Of one who stood so sadly lone — 
 
 — We fancied that we heard her tone — ■ 
 Sad, but resigned ; and sorrowing, though 
 Faith sparkled o'er her placid brow. 
 
 Her brow was placid ; too serene 
 For long enduring fair to be : 
 
 'Twas like the calm so often seen 
 To hover o'er the glassy sea 
 
 Before the storm-wind comes to call 
 The billows from their secret caves,
 
 LAULINE. 29 
 
 When the tornado and wild squall 
 Wake into wrath the angry waves. 
 
 That calm is pleasant while it lasts, 
 Like the glad lighting up ere death, 
 
 Yet its lone gleam prophetic shadow casts, 
 And with its beauty mingles baleful breath. 
 
 Lauline was calm — and calmer grew, 
 
 Whilst fretful were the shipwrecked crew, 
 And many a day of hardship came, 
 
 And little hope of near escape ; 
 Whilst she continued still the same, 
 
 Like kindly genius of the cape ; 
 And though while waiting, day by day, 
 No nearing vessel sought the bay. 
 Yet the abundance of the sea 
 Helped out the land's sterility. 
 
 We turn where gentler prospects smile, 
 Than those around the lonely isle, 
 Back to those cherished scenes of home, 
 Where now the wanderers' thoughts will roam. 
 Those scenes for which affection yearns, 
 
 When they are lost and gone for ever, 
 For though each seeming tie we sever, 
 \ spirit-link remains, which spirit-sight discerns. 
 
 <■ 2
 
 30 LAULINE. 
 
 There, a soft breeze was o'er the water straying, 
 
 When the first wreath of Evening's mist was seen, 
 And pleasant zephyrs, as in dalliance playing, 
 
 Stirred the light foliage on the banks of green ; 
 
 The sun departing chastened all the scene, 
 While its last mellowed tints with quivering ray, 
 
 Just glimmered fitfully the boughs between, 
 Giving - that loveliness to parting- day, 
 Which woos by mead or mount to wend our evening 
 way. 
 
 Meet time for meditation ! and well suited 
 
 Yon spot beneath the branching tree, which spread 
 Its arms above the waves that oft saluted 
 
 Its rootlets with their kisses as they sped. 
 
 Long had that aged tree upraised its head, 
 When winter swept in snow-storms o'er the plain, 
 
 And in its nakedness had seemed as dead, 
 Yet when the spring assumed her gentler reign, 
 It donned its leafy robe, and sweetly smiled again. 
 
 Tradition coupled with that aged tree 
 
 Strange stories of the dead of other days, 
 
 And many an urchin as he passed would be 
 Frighted by fancy, and avert his gaze, 
 Or peer moie closely through the tangled sprays, 
 
 Either intent to shun or know the worst, 
 Whilst wild imagination oft would raise 
 
 The shadowy form of murderous wight accursed, 
 
 Till on the startled sight it seemed in truth to burst.
 
 LAULINE. 31 
 
 And just as vaguely does the human heart 
 Give out its secrets ; — now the prying glance 
 
 May catch the ghost-like vision — then a start 
 Of horror thrills the spirit — Death's wild dance 
 Is seen within, — and Death's pale trains advance 
 
 From out the depths of being. We should flee 
 Back from each other, were it our -sad chance 
 
 Even at intervals the guilt to see, 
 
 Which rankles in the breast and stirs its enmity. 
 
 Yet beautiful that lonely spot, 
 
 Where now the Pastor Arnaud sat alone — 
 Deep brooding", till his moody soul forgot 
 How time passed on by hours. — He marked them not, 
 
 And darkness came ; and then the hollow moan 
 
 Of threatening wind, and then the thunder's tone 
 Spoke distantly. The nimble storm advancing 
 
 Swept through the branches with exulting groan, 
 And luridly the lightning's flash was glancing 
 On the small stream so late in summer sunshine dancin« , 
 
 Oh ! lightning can waken the slumbering thought 
 From the depth's of that stern one's soul ! 
 
 And he rises as though the storm had brought 
 Memories beyond control. 
 
 There is a wildness in the eve, 
 Thai gazing scans the war on high,
 
 32 LAULINE. 
 
 As though 'twere glad the while, 
 And something in the laugh that plays 
 Around the lip with doubtful blaze, 
 
 Too bitter for a smile. 
 Too bitter for the smile that glows, 
 To mark the spirit's deep repose, 
 
 When tempests shout amain ; 
 It lacks those hope-enkindled fires 
 Which only innocence inspires, 
 
 And guilt must seek in vain. 
 
 And was he guilty ? — Could there be 
 A guiltless heart where vengeance bore 
 Almost unbroken sway ? 
 Where gentler feelings chased awav, 
 Would from that darkened bosom flee, 
 Though there they dwelt before ? 
 
 It is not good for man to be alone, 
 
 Unless alone communing with his God. 
 Mind must commune with mind to keep its tone 
 
 Up to the pitch of its high destiny — 
 He who has never or but seldom trod 
 In penitence thy path humility, 
 
 Will find the Tempter try his deadliest power 
 In solitude's unguarded, helpless hour.
 
 LAI' T.I NT. 33 
 
 Man cannot bring 1 himself to feel alone ; 
 
 For fancy animates each lifeless thing, 
 Peoples the solitudes with forms unknown, 
 
 Gives to the elfin-race each fairy ring, 
 To some strange water-sprite the haunted stream, 
 
 To mountain spirits solitary peaks, 
 And 'mid the shadowing forest it will deem 
 
 In every passing breeze the wild wood-demon speaks. 
 
 But there are subtler things than these, 
 Not creatures of our phantasies ; 
 Spirits of vast malignant power, 
 That steal on man's unguarded hour, — 
 Who whisper thoughts with guileful skill 
 To win us onward to our ill. 
 
 Their language, though it wordless be, 
 kinds a prepared response within, 
 
 Some hidden chain of mystery 
 Linked with the cherished love of sin — 
 
 Something that will an answer waken 
 To those suggestions from below, 
 
 That throng upon the God-forsaken — 
 Which even purest souls must know — 
 
 The reflex of the Evil One, 
 The image of his form imparted, 
 
 Dwelling in those whom he has won, 
 But firmest in the stubborn-hearted
 
 ! LAULINE. 
 
 Those who will lend a listening ear 
 To these dread messages of fear, 
 Will soon the fiend's behests obey, 
 And yield to sin's resistless sway. 
 
 And Arnaud listened, till his thought 
 
 Was captive to the deadly spell, 
 As though his very heart had caught 
 
 The deep malignity of hell. 
 
 " I would," he cried, " that I could seize 
 
 That lightning's stroke of withering might, 
 And turn it wheresoe'er I please 
 
 With fateful and unerring blight. 
 I would not care to have the blaze, 
 
 That gleaming shows the purpose won, 
 I care not for astonished gaze, 
 
 So that the thing I wish be done ; 
 I ask not for the echoing thunder 
 
 From out the depths of heaven's profound, 
 
 To tell to those who throng around 
 That mighty instruments of wonder, 
 
 Like dread artillery play their part : 
 No ! silent let the shock arrive, 
 
 The victim give one fearful start — 
 One shriek, and not survive. 
 
 Oh, cursed one ! no longer mine, 
 
 I would this storm should reach to thee
 
 LAU1.1M . 35 
 
 And him thou callest thine ! — 
 
 In vain from vengeance ye may flee ! 
 The elements shall all conspire 
 To gird your path with scathing fire, — 
 God will such lawless ones condemn, 
 Nor will I dare to pity them." 
 
 1 know not if the Prince of Air 
 
 May be permitted to fulfil 
 The godless, vengeance-breathing prayer 
 
 Of those that cherish ill ; 
 But so it was that storm was felt 
 
 Ere many hours were past, 
 By the fated ship where Lauline knelt 
 
 Beside the tottering mast ; 
 And the wrath of that tempest with terrible roar, 
 Was caught by the echoes on many a shore, 
 And when young Morning essayed to smile 
 On the desolate rocks of the lonely isle, 
 Her eye was wet with a tear of rain, 
 That fell upon those whom the pitiless main, 
 Had almost forbidden to smile again. 
 
 Yet haply these were stricken less than he 
 Who lingered sadly 'mid familiar scones- 
 
 They must exert each power and energy, — 
 Tor him no pressing duty intervenes
 
 36 LAULIN] 
 
 To chase corroding thought awav : 
 
 But, brooding o'er the fearful past, 
 Week after week — aye, day by day — 
 
 His view is more and more o'ercast, 
 Whilst better feelings each decay, 
 And evil wins unhindered sway. 
 
 No kindly rainbow on the cloud 
 Tells of refreshing sunshine near ; 
 
 Unmitigated shadows shroud 
 The almost night-like day of fear : 
 The stern reprover sterner grows, 
 And not a sign of pity shows ; 
 No word of mercy breathes for those 
 Whom in his impious rage he calls his Master's foes. 
 
 Though stern, he had been wont erewhile 
 To meet the young with greeting smile, 
 And would some soothing word bestow 
 On tiny childhood's helpless woe, 
 But now he only saw the trace 
 Of guilt in every glowing face, 
 And Beauty's blaze, however bright, 
 
 Was but sepulchural lustre now, 
 And scenes of innocent delight 
 
 Were as the breach of solemn vow. — 
 Each g'ush of human feeling stirred 
 That Pastor's voice to chiding word ; 
 But, for the loving and the young, 
 
 Fiercest denunciations breathed,
 
 LAULINE. 37 
 
 As though some deadlier poison clung 
 
 Amid those flowers most sweetly wreathed, — 
 
 As though it were a deadly crime 
 To strive in this lone world of sin 
 So much of Eden's joy to win 
 
 As yet outlives the blight of time. 
 
 And days and nights in silent solitude 
 
 He kept apart from all. They noticed this, — 
 
 And busy questioners would now conclude 
 That there was something grievously amiss. 
 
 And men did shun him : love gave place to fear. 
 That smitten shepherd's flock was scattered wide, 
 Content was banished from the mountain side, 
 
 The young would sigh ; the old let fall the tear, 
 For even God's own house seemed desolate and drear. 
 
 Lauline had been a bright and joyous thing, 
 
 Whose presence cheered the weary labourer's toil 
 They missed her pleasant voice ; for she would sing 
 
 The sacred hymns of childhood ; and the while 
 Some simple peasant praised her infant song, 
 
 An answering chord was stirred within his breast 
 
 That realized a hope of endless rest, 
 For which that minstrelsy had bade him long. 
 
 And, as she grew in years, her kindly look 
 Was ever prompt to greet the mountain maid — 
 
 I)
 
 38 LAULINE. 
 
 And words of cheering from God's holy book, 
 To those bowed down in spirit, she essayed 
 
 To bring - with sweet appliance. She partook 
 A spirit's nature ; and amid the hills 
 
 Her soft voice echoing- over many a brook, 
 Seemed joyous in its tone as their bright sparkling rills. 
 
 That voice was heard no more ; the song 
 
 Was silent now the hills among, — 
 Perchance herself that cheering needed 
 
 Which she on others had bestowed, 
 Perchance in sorrow, all unheeded, 
 
 'Twas her's to bear the bitter load 
 Of poverty, and vain regret 
 
 For home and comforts memoried yet. 
 
 END OF CANTO II.
 
 L A U L I N E 
 
 CANTO III.
 
 TAN TO III. 
 
 Those cots that nestle in the snow- 
 Are lighted by the pine-logs' glow, — 
 'Tis Christmas, and the Mountaineer 
 Welcomes that centre of the year 
 With brighter hearths and fuller cheer, 
 
 ■-' 
 
 Yet not the sole memorial this 
 
 Of true and heartfelt thankfulness ; 
 
 They meet and join in vocal praise, 
 
 Their glad Hosanna-anthems raise, 
 
 And each to each repeats the strain 
 
 That Angels sung o'er Bethlehem's plain, 
 
 Till echoes catch the sound and sing the song again. 
 
 Then, gathered round the social hearth, 
 They join in innocence of mirth, — 
 
 2
 
 42 LAULINE. 
 
 But ere the welcome feast is spread, 
 Before the cup of joy is taken, 
 
 The memory of the parted dead 
 
 One soft, bright passing tear must waken. 
 
 They sorrow not all hopelessly 
 
 For those who are but gone before, 
 Though here they may not meet them more, 
 
 Yet time is speeding silently, 
 And in a never-ending rest 
 The lost may be again possessed. 
 
 In every cot one memoried name 
 
 Unspoken of, unbidden came ; 
 
 Thought would revert to one away 
 
 The jewel of last Christmas Day, — 
 
 For Lauline's smile a year ago 
 
 Had shone unsullied as the snow, 
 
 When all with Love's own cheerful voicing 
 
 Had hailed her in their choral strain, 
 The centre of a wide rejoicing- — 
 
 Oh ! had they wished her joy in vain ? 
 
 There was one dwelling standing alone, 
 Deep in the shadow of the mountain, 
 
 Crumbled by years, and overgrown 
 By mosses, which befit the fountain ; 
 
 A lowly and unnoticed place, 
 
 Which foot of pride would pass unheeded,
 
 LAULINE. 43 
 
 Yet would the wauderer embrace 
 
 Its refuge, were a refuge needed. 
 There was the blazing pine-log fire, 
 
 But not a joyous circle round, — 
 For death had smitten child and Sire, 
 
 And one form alone was kneeling on the ground. 
 
 Thither there came an unexpected stranger, 
 
 Toil-worn, and sad. She did not stay to ask 
 If there were entrance for the distant ranger, 
 
 For she in sunnier years was wont to bask 
 On the green turf around, and now 
 
 She knows a welcome will be hers within, 
 Although her sunken cheek, and altered brow, 
 
 Might render her unknown to nearest kin. 
 
 She entered : and, though changed her form, 
 
 She still was unforgotten there, — 
 For 'mid the tempest and the storm, 
 Thence had arisen many a prayer 
 Invoking God's protecting care 
 On Lauline's distant way ; — 
 There now her faithful nurse was kneeline\ 
 Assured by deep and hopeful feeling 
 For Lauline's sake to pray, 
 
 'Tis true she started when her vision met, 
 At her first entrance, Lauline's glazing eye,-
 
 44 LAULINE. 
 
 'Tis true her cheek with many a tear was wet, 
 When to her questioning came no reply, 
 But one deep sobbing and half-stifled sigh : 
 
 She had been given back again 
 
 Yet haply given back in vain. 
 
 It was not easy to provide 
 
 Much help amid those circling snows — 
 The cots were scattered far and wide, 
 
 And rudely now the night-wind blows ; 
 Yet when upon her homely bed 
 
 The fainting girl was laid, 
 Quickly the eager widow sped 
 
 Adown the mountain glade. 
 She sought for succour, and it came, 
 Lured by the spell of Lauline's name. 
 
 Beside her bed the matrons crowd, 
 
 To show their real good-will — 
 Although perhaps a little proud 
 
 Of their officious want of skill. 
 The grey-haired Sire, the vigorous youth, 
 
 Each willing left the festal board, 
 Each emulous to prove his truth 
 
 Of love, to her they hoped restored : 
 As ready messengers they wait 
 Around the lowly cottage gate.
 
 LAULINE. 45 
 
 One cot that towers above the rest 
 
 Is with no joyous presence blest — 
 
 The Pastor's home. He leaves its hearth, 
 
 Which echoes not with Christmas mirth ; 
 
 He turns aside to seek the gloom 
 
 Of Lauline's long deserted room : 
 
 It is as when she went away, 
 
 Unchanged, as though 'twere yesterday, 
 
 Save that some withered wreaths of flowers, 
 
 Gathered in Spring's bright sunny hours, 
 
 Confess the absence of the hand 
 
 That day by day would fondly twine 
 The floral treasures of the land, 
 
 To deck her simple shrine. 
 
 The dying embers send a beam 
 Which makes the darkness darker seem, 
 And sombre thoughts are sadly shrined 
 In Aruaud's half-illumined mind ; — 
 Some thought of Lauline still remains, 
 Some pitying germ its life retains ; 
 For though he never breathes her name 
 He cannot quite forget her claim ; 
 And yet his pride must needs repress 
 Each memory of her gentleness. 
 
 What startles on the Pastor's ear 
 Is it, a cry of joy or fear ?
 
 46 LACJLINE. 
 
 And why that shout of gathering throng 
 Instead of wonted carol-song ? 
 Hears he her name ? or does he dream 
 
 Of what he almost hopes, yet fears ? — 
 They near the bridge — they cross the stream — 
 
 That gallant band of mountaineers. 
 
 They stand beneath the Pastor's roof, 
 
 They tell their quick and broken tale : — 
 He meets them with a stern reproof, 
 
 Though with emotion deadly pale. 
 Then, gathering force, he fiercely cried 
 
 " Have I not said that one accursed 
 Is by a Father's soul denied ? — 
 
 His purpose may not be reversed ! 
 This vow is registered on high, 
 
 And Duty's claims must be revered — 
 I cannot see her ! — Though I die 
 
 Shunned, hated, scorned — I must be feared." 
 
 Eager, expecting hearts were there, 
 Each anxious to be first to bear 
 
 Some welcome tidings back : 
 They had not thought a Father's heart 
 Could from all parent feelings part, 
 
 And sad was their returning track : 
 Weeping they went ; and one by one 
 
 They whispered of that awful vow —
 
 I. \i i.ixe. 47 
 
 What must be said ? and what be done ?- 
 Lauline is home-forbidden now. 
 
 They reach her nurse's dwelling, 
 
 And LauKne seems to sleep as yet, 
 Though still her breast is swelling 
 
 With thoughts which Sleep may not forget. 
 The whispered tones of those returning 
 Speak of her Father's angry spurning, 
 And though those accents may but seem 
 Like the faint visions of a dream, 
 She startles from her slumber now, 
 With fear's cold sweat upon her brow ; — 
 She dreamed of friendly greetings heard, 
 
 But now she feels 'tis all in vain, 
 Those kind ones utter not a word 
 
 .ill is, alas ! too plain : 
 She sees those friends to tears are stirred, 
 
 She knows the worst, though nought is said, 
 And with a sigh that might have moved 
 The Sire that now no longer loved, 
 Like a drooped lily sank her head 
 Down on the nurse's humble bed 
 As though the breath of life had fled. 
 
 'Twas long before the broken-hearted 
 
 Could raise her trembling eyes to heaven — 
 At every passing sound she started, —
 
 48 LAULINE. 
 
 She thought how wildly she had parted 
 With every earthly blessing given : 
 
 And yet she lived, and Hope sometimes 
 Would gently breathe in softened strain ; 
 
 Guilt of premeditated crimes 
 
 On her had left no deepening stain. 
 
 By slow degrees she smiled again ; 
 Although her filial error lent 
 A pang destructive of content, 
 Yet quiet trust, submissive feeling, 
 Brought with them dews of heaven's own healing ; 
 And now she sought to be alone, 
 
 For kind as those around her were, 
 She longed to kneel, and weep, and groan, 
 
 Without one earthly witness there. 
 
 And those whose genuine love had spread 
 
 A shelter over Lauline's head, 
 
 Would leave her now from time to time 
 
 Alone to weep, alone to pray — 
 And once, when pealed the Sabbath-chime, 
 
 Each friendly neighbour now away, 
 She deemed that she had power to climb 
 
 Up from the vale the churchyard way. 
 
 Though fainting oft, she reached at length 
 The spot wherein her Mother slept. 
 
 She stood with scarcely natural strength, 
 Nor idly sighed, nor fondly wept.
 
 l.AULINE. i9 
 
 It was the hour of evening prayer 
 
 But she mingles not with the worshippers there, 
 
 Alone in the ancient porch she stands, 
 
 With downcast eye and with folded hands, 
 
 And she hears a voice, a voice well known, 
 
 Though bitter and harsh have its accents grown. 
 
 She listens with dread, and would turn away, 
 
 For her darkened soul is afraid to pray ; 
 
 But there she is bound by a spell, that weaves 
 
 Its meshes around her every thought, 
 She could hear the sound of the prayer-book leaves, 
 
 By the breeze in the evening's silence brought, 
 And the tremulous words of her once-loved Sire 
 
 Are the words of other days, 
 And the shadow of that ancient spire 
 
 Its memoried tale conveys, 
 Where vows were breathed when she was given 
 At the holy font as a child of heaven. 
 
 Now prayer was over, and they raise 
 The Anthem of united praise ; 
 
 Then listen for instruction, flowing 
 From lips which once they loved to hear, 
 Though now they listen half with fear : 
 
 His eloquence with fire is glowing — 
 But fire of wrath, and not of love — 
 Oh ! is it kindled from above ? 
 
 Poor Lauline hears : — he speaks of ber, 
 Calls her her Father's murderer ! — 
 
 K
 
 50 LAULINE. 
 
 — One wild, unearthly shriek 
 Startles all assembled there, — 
 
 No one dares to stir or speak — 
 Is it a spirit of Despair 
 Speaking its unavailing prayer 
 
 In agony of pain ? 
 
 All is hushed and still again : 
 Lauline the little porch has left 
 Almost of consciousness bereft, 
 And sinks beneath a sacred shade 
 By yew and walnut branches made, — 
 That sacred spot, where she would lay 
 Her broken heart with kindred clav. 
 And 'twas her death-bed. She no more 
 Pity and pardon may implore, — 
 She sank in death — but dying gave 
 Birth to an infant on her Mother's grave. 
 
 Strange whisperings and surmisings keen 
 
 Were rife throughout the peopled glade ; 
 
 Each one was startled and afraid — 
 What could the fearful omen mean ? 
 Was Arnaud's death-knell clearly rung 
 
 In that strange, supernatural sound ? 
 Else why did it seem to bind his tongue? 
 
 And why follows silence so deeply profound
 
 LAULINE. 
 
 Some impending danger broods 
 Over the mountain solitudes ; 
 Either avalanche will sweep 
 Furious down the Alpine steep, 
 Or the wolves will venture hold 
 'Mid the shepherd's richest fold, 
 Or the hunter on the hill 
 Vain shall ply his wonted skill, 
 Or an Enemy shall come 
 With the roll of threatening drum, 
 Or, more deadly than the lance, 
 Death shall hither turn his glance. 
 
 Idle dreams ! ye say — yet oft 
 
 Such in simple hearts will rise 
 When in Summer's evening soft 
 
 Sudden storm invades the skies. 
 Blame them not ! — a power they felt, 
 
 'Twere hetter perhaps if we would feel: 
 At God's own altar while they knelt 
 
 r J ney did not kneel as oft we kneel, 
 Professing to believe His power, 
 
 To do what seemeth good to Him, 
 Yet calling, in the following hour 
 
 Such truth a superstitious whim. 
 
 It may be, and perhaps it is 
 Fi illy to see the coming doom,
 
 52 latum:. 
 
 Yet who could hear a voice like this 
 Breaking the still of Evening's gloom 
 
 And nothing feel ? — It spake to one. 
 
 With withering power the message came, 
 
 And Arnaud writhed. Though marked by none 
 His very soul was scathed by flame. 
 
 The people parted. He alone 
 
 Within that silent Church remained. 
 
 Where every voiceless form of stone 
 A kind of Spirit-utterance gained. 
 
 It was a goodly fane that told 
 
 Of the wealth bestowed in the days of old, 
 
 And Fancy still would seek the smile 
 
 Of Beauty, to gladden the lonely aisle. 
 
 There was here and there a trace of decay, 
 
 Where the walls were marked by the lichen grey, 
 
 And often amid the cloisters dim 
 
 Would the flickering bat at evening skim, 
 
 And the busy spider wove her veil 
 
 In the rich carved work of the altar rail : 
 
 It appeared as though Ruin had peeped within, 
 
 But might not as yet an entrance win, 
 
 Though the cold, deserted, and desolate air, 
 
 Too plainly breathed that neglect was there. 
 
 And what were Arnaud's thoughts the while 
 He paced along the solemn aisle ? —
 
 LAULINE. 53 
 
 And when the chimes of the Evening hour 
 "Were pealing forth from the lofty tower, 
 What was the truth which the Pastor felt 
 As, self-accused, in the Church he knelt ? 
 
 " Aha ! 'twas a strange, wild thought of old, 
 
 That when the bell from the Church-tower tolled, 
 
 The Spirits of Hell affrighted fled 
 
 From the hearts of the living and graves of the dead ; 
 
 That then the Evil One would not dare 
 
 To haunt the Saint in the house of prayer. 
 
 But, alas ! it was fancy ! The holiest chime 
 
 Will smooth not the furrows of earlier crime, 
 
 And the seed of Storm, which the Fiends of Air 
 
 Have planted in by-gone seasons there, 
 
 Will its terrible harvest of whirlwind bear." 
 
 Presage of dread ! — 'Twas quickly found 
 Lauline had left her lonely room : 
 
 Some hasting to the burial ground, 
 
 Instinctive sought her Mother's tomb — 
 
 And there indeed the victim lay 
 
 A cold and silent form of clay. 
 
 With matron-care the babe they tend. 
 
 Whose feeble wail is faintly heard, 
 \nd while the needful aid thc\ lend, 
 
 l'.\ gentlesl sympathizing^ stirred : 
 
 E 2
 
 54 LAULINE. 
 
 They bear the lifeless corpse away, 
 And place it iu the porch apart, — 
 
 Thither the Father's footsteps stray — 
 Oh ! had vou seen his fearful start ! 
 
 No speech his opening lips would yield, 
 No tear might cool his burning eye, 
 No groan be heard, — he breathed no sigh,- 
 
 Expression's fountains all were sealed ; 
 
 Like an embodiment in stone, 
 He seemed to every passer by, 
 
 To tell how much was undergone 
 Of heart-corroding agony. 
 
 They buried Lauline in her Mother's grave, 
 And lilies with their earliest bloom, 
 
 And scented blossoms, sweetly wave 
 Around the quiet tomb. 
 
 Arnaud was there what time they laid 
 His daughter in the yew-tree shade ; 
 But reason, feeling, all were fled ; 
 He seemed less living now than dead, 
 A helpless Idiot, pitied now 
 Even by those who knew his vow. 
 
 r.KD OF CANTO III.
 
 L AULINE. 
 
 CANTO IV.
 
 CAN TO IV. 
 
 WHAT mighty changes may we trace 
 
 Within a few revolving years ! — 
 The beauteous form forgets its grace, 
 
 The smile of youth is lost in tears ; 
 The child of yesterday has now 
 The weight of age upon his brow ; 
 Whilst we forget the varied scenes 
 
 Through which our own wild path has led,- 
 For memory almost always leans 
 
 Most upon days the longest fled, — 
 We fancy we are still unchanged, 
 Whilst friendly ones have grown estranged. 
 
 When Lauline in the day of storm 
 Sought, on the weather-beaten shore, 
 
 To find her husband's lifeless form 
 She deemed his course was o'er :
 
 58 LAULINE. 
 
 Each was supposed by each to sleep 
 Calm in the bosom of the deep ; 
 Yet each survived to feel again 
 
 The misery of life — 
 To reach once more the haunts of men, 
 
 And share in human strife. 
 
 Ronan, for such her husband's name, 
 Was drifted on the mast away 
 
 Far from the place where Lauline came 
 Upon that fated day, 
 
 And on another islet lone 
 
 Was Ronan all unconscious thrown. 
 
 Rescued he was, but days passed by 
 Before the soul illumed bis eye, 
 And then again upon the ocean 
 He felt that he was speeding on — 
 'Twas but a dream that she was gone — 
 Some phantom 'mid the mind's commotion- 
 How could it be that they had been 
 Partakers in such deadly scene, 
 Yet he alive, and still must be 
 Safe in the ship and out at sea ? 
 
 How sweetly does the breeze of spring 
 Its blossom-opening freshness bring, 
 How sweetly does the sunshine smile, 
 And pleasant flowers expand the while, —
 
 LAULINE. 59 
 
 But if the frozen breeze shall blow, 
 
 And blooms retire, and leaves retreat 
 Beneath the covering of snow. 
 
 As waiting- for some genial heat, 
 Tis kindly nature gives them here 
 A hiding place from blasts severe, 
 To keep the promise of the year. 
 
 Something there is akin to this, 
 \\ ben o'er the overburdened soul, 
 
 That lately took its fill of bliss, 
 
 The winds of torturing trouble roll. 
 
 There is a shield of moral snow, 
 
 By God's own loving-kindness given, 
 
 Which stays the hardest frosts of woe, 
 And saves the heart by sorrow riven. 
 
 The torpor of the time removes 
 The earlier feeling which betrays 
 
 To murmuring-. — Surely this reproves 
 Impatience ; for our God delays 
 The threatened vengeance, and lie stays 
 
 Till those lie punishes may bear 
 
 Their grievous lot, unbroken by despair. 
 
 They have their future tasks in future years. — 
 Reproved and not destroyed, 'tis theirs to b< 
 
 The messengers of mercy. This appears 
 The holiest part of their high destiny,
 
 60 LAULINE. 
 
 To go to those who weep and wipe their tears, 
 To soothe the mourner in the house of sorrow, 
 
 To speak of peace to those who sigh for rest, 
 To show the rising sun of heaven's to-morrow, 
 
 And pour the oil of comfort in the wounded breast. 
 
 But Ronan, when he first became alive 
 
 To all he was — to all he had been — felt 
 In spite of all resolve, there would revive 
 
 Some feelings deemed suppressed, what time he knelt 
 Upon the sinking vessel — and he blamed 
 His Lauline's father for the fearful fate 
 Of her he loved. Oh ! was it now too late 
 For him to be repentant ? Had he named 
 The name of Christ, and named it all in vain ? — 
 His path to peace must be along the way of pain. 
 
 Around he looked on faces strange, 
 
 He heard a tongue till now unknown, 
 'Twas his that ocean-path to range 
 
 With many, yet alone. 
 
 Some secret sighs, some bitter tears 
 Were heaved and shed for former years, 
 But manly courage came again — 
 A man among his fellow-men. 
 
 He nerved himself for toil, 
 Prepared to brave the hardest fate, — 
 He could not be more desolate, — 
 
 And though he might not smile,
 
 Gl 
 
 He could be ca I in and self-possessi 
 When groundless fear unmanned the rest. 
 
 He takes his post. As yet the gales 
 Are favouring to the wide-spread sails, 
 And on they wend with meteor haste 
 Towards regions of the northern waste.— 
 As yet no danger seems to rise 
 From out the depth of Arctic skies; 
 Successful enterprise has gained 
 
 Almost the guerdon of her boast, 
 And every sinew now is strained 
 
 To reach the frost-bound coast. 
 
 Though dark the prospect, yet the beams 
 Of Hope arise, and shed their gleams 
 Of lovely radiance o'er the seem'. 
 That else had desolation been. 
 Much like the clime, where crisps the 
 Beneath the ice-breeze silently, 
 Where Evening from her ebon wings 
 The long enduring night-time flings, 
 And winter holds a lengthened reign 
 In glacier- palace o'er the main. 
 Yel 'mid the gloom a glorious race 
 Flashed from the concave lend a errace. 
 And every frost-made crystal gleams 
 Bright as a gem when morning beams, 
 And when the Spring return . her hours 
 lJo bo' appear to wake the flow< i 

 
 62 LAULINE. 
 
 For, starting from her magic hand, 
 At once their clusters paint the strand. 
 
 So from the night of Ronan's woe 
 Shall rise a morn of brightest glow. 
 Through want and peril, toil and pain, 
 'Tis his to win his home again ; 
 And Hope, like borealis light, 
 Now beams across his darkest night. 
 
 With hunter skill, and fearless heart. 
 He wields the spear, or flings the dart, — 
 Or, from behind some bank of snow, 
 His rifle, with unerring aim, 
 Sends amid herds of arctic game 
 The desolating blow. 
 
 Meanwhile the frost-blocked channels stay 
 The wanderers from their long-lost homes,- 
 
 Oh, they may sigh for those away — 
 
 Yet such the fate of him who roams ! — 
 
 The vessel, in that frozen sea, 
 
 Sleeps by an iceberg helplessly. 
 
 Long years roll by, ere Ronan gains 
 Once more his native hills and plains ; 
 Through many a clime, o'er many a sea, 
 He struggled on undauntedly.
 
 1. AT LINK. o\'3 
 
 At length he conies with golden store, 
 
 Exhaustless, as would deem the poor ; — 
 
 Too soou he learns his Lauline's doom, 
 
 He weeps upon her lowly tomb. 
 
 But hitter thoughts come thronging there, 
 
 Almost the presage of despair. 
 
 " Twas his own hated arm that grasped 
 
 So anxiously the drifting mast. 
 
 Which fatally conveyed 
 His own still vigorous being past 
 
 The isle where Lauline prayed. — 
 ■Why had he saved his worthless life ? 
 
 He might have swam and gained the shore ; 
 Or, if amid the waters' strife, 
 
 He'd sunk to rise no more, 
 He had not known those bitterest tears 
 Belonging to his later years." 
 
 Then lie bethinks him — " Slit- is now at rest, 
 
 Nbl waiting to be blest; 
 
 But already enjoying the heavenly smile 
 
 Which beams in the presence of God,— 
 While he must continue with effort and toil 
 
 To tread the same path which his Lauline had trod, — 
 Her warfare was over, with him was the strife, 
 The change and the sorrow, the battle of life." 
 
 There gathered -on,'- around whom he had known 
 
 I low changed thc\ were! — alas! tiny knew him not,
 
 He had forgotten liow the years hud flown 
 
 Since he forsook in youth his Alpine cot, — 
 Yet who than he more likely to he found 
 At that lone grave in yonder burial ground ? — ■ 
 He had forgotten they supposed him dead, 
 
 That no one dreamed of such a strange return — 
 Yet speculation, like some tiny burn, 
 Grew in its depth and strength, as on and on it sped. 
 At last some glimmering flashes of the truth 
 Beamed upon one or other. Some in youth 
 Had shared with him the chamois chase, 
 And these now fancied they could trace 
 Lines of an unforgotten face. 
 
 There was a spot called Lauline's bower, 
 
 Close bordering on a mountain lake, — 
 And thither in the Evening hour 
 
 Ronan his frequent way would take ; — 
 And now he sought this spot again, 
 
 And knelt beside the silent flood — 
 Oh ! little was lie thinking then 
 
 How near his side his daughter stood ! 
 
 L'liat little lake was still and hushed, 
 Save where one whispering runlet gushed ; 
 There, never plash of hasting oar 
 Sent ruder ripples to the shore ; 
 
 But fanned by breezes softly passing, 
 That kissed so lightly as they played, — 
 
 Its bosom might be formed for glassing 
 The beauties that o'erhung the glade.
 
 LAULINE. (35 
 
 It mirrored one whose form so fair, 
 An image of such perfect grace, 
 The very spirit of the place, 
 
 If 'twere embodied, well might wear. 
 
 She stood — and one bright tear-drop stealing 
 Down from that eye where beauty sleeps, 
 Softened the lustrous gleam that peeps 
 Forth from beneath the long dark lash, 
 
 Incapable of quite concealing 
 Its wonted lightning flash.. 
 
 She had grown up, amid the wild, 
 A lovely, but neglected child, 
 The plaything of the old and young, 
 Where, parentless, her lot was flung. 
 It was her Mother's glance that now 
 
 The startled eve of Iionan met, 
 Reflected from the wave below 
 
 On one who well remembered yet 
 How he and Lauline loved to gaze 
 On those blue depths in earlier days. 
 
 " Oh ! phantom of the vanished dead, 
 
 And dost thou beckon me away? — 
 Wearest thou still a form so fair? 
 And have not weariness and care 
 
 Yet turned thy raven-tresses grey, 
 Nor BtOOped thy buoyant head '.' — 
 Oh! I forgot that thou had'st left the world, 
 
 That now no earthL weight thou bearest, 
 
 I' -J
 
 66 LAULINE. 
 
 That now a Spirit-form thou wearest — 
 
 All harmless cares upon thy path were hurled.''" 
 
 Yet what he saw was scarcely a creation 
 
 Of fevered fancy, from old memoried scene?, 
 It cannot be that mere imagination 
 
 Paints the light moving bough which intervenes 
 At intervals, and hides the face 
 Reflected there. Can he not clearly trace 
 The moving outline ? Lauline must be there, 
 Lending that mountain tarn her face so fair. 
 
 " Lauline ! my lost one ! art thou there ?" he cried, 
 
 And Lauline's image bounded to his side — 
 
 " Father ! they told me so — it must be true — 
 
 They said I had a Father, and 'tis you ; 
 
 They told me, too, that you would know my name — 
 
 Lauline, you said — my Mother's was the same." 
 
 The words were simple, yet they had the power 
 
 Once more to call to life a fainting soul, — 
 To lloiian this had been a trying hour, 
 
 Thronged with wild feelings almost past control. 
 He struggled with them, yet that favourite bower 
 Had nearly witnessed how his life of care 
 Would seek in death itself a refuge from despair. 
 Now he was saved ! That angel whisper came 
 In time to breathe the magic of her name, 
 And fearful thoughts, and guilty purpose fled, 
 Chased by the memory of the sainted dead :
 
 LAULINE. Ii7 
 
 A father's feeling, and a parent's love, 
 Now o'er his withered spirit move, 
 While wordless tears alone express 
 The strength and depth of tenderness. 
 
 They lingered till the Evening Hymn 
 
 Came pealing from the vale below, 
 And shadows Hung their vestments dim 
 
 Over the sunset's glow. 
 
 Peace once again might cast her smile 
 
 O'er Ronan's weather-beaten brow, 
 For filial tones will oft beguile 
 
 The wretched from their woe. 
 
 Ave, peace, and more than peace, shall grow 
 For him who mourned and suffered long, 
 
 And joy its radiant beams shall throw 
 On those forgiving wrong. 
 
 KM) OF CANTO IV.
 
 <fe
 
 L A U L I M E 
 
 I ' A X I'll V ,
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 As streamlets down the mountain side 
 
 Through the soft moss in stillness glide, 
 
 Not whispering of the path they take 
 
 To join the waters of the lake, 
 
 So silently those loved ones went 
 
 Down to the Alpine settlement ; 
 
 And there were those to greet them there, 
 
 To offer of their cots a share, 
 
 To wipe their tears and soothe their care. 
 
 Emotion's first wild conflict o'er, 
 They felt a peace unknown before, 
 And those they met were glad to see 
 One of their own old company ; 
 And yel they spake of thoughts to him 
 That he bad striven to suppress ;
 
 I 2. I (VULINE. 
 
 His faith no longer faint and dim, 
 
 Had lived and grown amid distress — 
 Strength springs from trial ! he had known 
 The might which thus springs up alone. 
 
 Trembling he mentions Arnaud's name — 
 And some with angry flashing eye, 
 Betokening vengeful energy, 
 With eager readiness exclaim 
 " Oh, retribution just ! His woe 
 Is deeper than his daughter bore — 
 He saw, he knew it all before — 
 Aye, he has sunk beneath the blow, 
 Reaping the fruits he dared to sow." 
 
 " A maniac in a wretched cell ! 
 
 Oh, you may g*o and mock him now, 
 And bid the cruel father tell 
 
 His own bad tale — the why- — the how 
 He sunk to that same low estate ; 
 
 Now you may laugh to hear the voice 
 That caused you to be desolate, 
 
 Itself unabLe to rejoice !" 
 
 The tears down Konan's manly cheek 
 Chased one another. " Could they speak 
 Of such revenge to one whose breath 
 Spoke pity in the view of death '? 
 No ! no !" he cried, "once unforgiveu 
 I stood beneath the eye of Heaven,
 
 I. All, INK. 73 
 
 And then, not looking long to live, 
 I spake a promise to forgive — 
 Yea ! this the copy of the prayer, 
 Raised in that moment of despair ;" 
 (For the young Lauline now had placed 
 
 A well-worn Bible on his knee, 
 And there her Mother's pen had traced 
 
 Those words of peace which set her free 
 From sin's dark spell, upon the deck, 
 Whilst waiting the expected wreck) — 
 " Father forgive, as we forgive, 
 
 Oh, let us die forgiven ! 
 So that the parted ones of earth 
 Mai/ meet again in heaven !" 
 
 " Lauline, my daughter ! we must strive 
 To keep such feeling still alive, 
 And be it ours, my girl, to tend 
 Your Grandsire as a helpless friend.'' 
 
 That night the very soul of prayer 
 Seemed to diffuse its presence there : 
 The spirit of the gentle child 
 Caught the rich feeling, though she smiled 
 At the strange thought, so strange to her 
 
 1 tf going to her Grandsire's cell, 
 To be his cheerful minister, — 
 
 And hin.' will do her bidding well, — 
 All hitter feelings pass away 
 Before the dawn of heavenly <l;i > ! 
 
 Q
 
 74 LAULINE. 
 
 How sweet the sleep, how bright the happy dreams 
 Of those who share that dwelling's calm repose ! 
 
 Although not richer than, when morning beams, 
 Is that soft calm each loving bosom knows, 
 Lit by the lustrous light which from forgiveness flows. 
 
 It was not long ere Arnaud's weary lot 
 Was seen and pitied. To a cheerful cot 
 
 They moved the helpless man. He felt the change ; 
 He looked on those he saw, but knew them not — 
 
 Yet ever and anon in accents strange 
 He spake to one or other. At the first 
 Ronan would stay alone, — he saw the worst 
 And did not wish his Lauline to despise 
 One who might yet give joy instead of care, 
 And so he waited. Still the sufferer's eyes 
 Were quite indifferent, nor seemed to share 
 Aught that was felt by those so kindly gathered there. 
 
 One day, alone beside that poor old man 
 
 Ronan had sat in silence very long. — 
 He was departing, — Arnaud then began, 
 
 Something between a narrative and song, 
 " Oh, listen to me, Sir ! you do not know 
 The mystery that hangs about my woe, 
 Hear ! hear, from my own lips, the fearful tale, 
 Hear horror, if you can, and not turn pale !" 
 
 Now Ronan's heart was really, truly kind, 
 And so he turned again, and paused to hear
 
 LAULINE. <0 
 
 Those words of misery and fear, — 
 
 They were the first which that old man had spoken, 
 Which seemed to promise a return of mind, 
 
 And they were hailed as a propitious token. 
 Yet soon he wandered ; — no continuous thought 
 As yet was his. Now was the time of dreams, 
 With something more than common feeling fraught, 
 Though fed by water from distempered streams. 
 
 " I see them glare in the lightning's blaze, 
 
 And redly frown in the morning's haze, 
 
 And they point at me as they wanton by, 
 
 In the shriek of the storm, and the soft wind's sigh ; 
 
 When I try to whisper a holy prayer, 
 
 And turn me to heaven, I see them there ; 
 
 They mock me in dreams, and they steal my rest, 
 
 Though they wear the forms that I love the best; 
 
 For they dance along in a ghastly crowd ; 
 
 And the garment they wear is the grave-yard shroud, 
 
 Their eye-balls are shrunk, and their cheeks turned pale, 
 
 And their green teeth chatter as howls the gale ; 
 
 But they wildly laugh to hear me groan 
 
 To be for a moment alone — alone ! 
 
 Then theyshout to their fellows. Theycome, they come! 
 
 Unearthly forms from their shadowy home, 
 
 Till there is not a leaf that moves on the tree 
 
 But carries its demon for torturing me." 
 
 " I heard them whisper I should dwell 
 Alone in some secluded cell, —
 
 76 LAULINE. 
 
 Oh, then, methought there is a spell 
 To keep these hideous things away, 
 
 And how I longed to win the calm 
 
 That once more promised to be mine ! 
 
 That whisper was a healing balm, 
 
 For what they whispered seemed to say. 
 That yet for me some cheering ray 
 
 Amid the gathering dark might shine ! 
 
 " But they were demons. Down ! down ! down ! 
 
 They dragged me to a cold damp room, 
 With angry tone, and threatening frown, 
 
 That gleamed like lightning mid the gloom. 
 They left me there ! they shut me in 
 Amid embodiments of sin, 
 They chuckled when they heard me groan, 
 
 They knew I was not left alone. 
 And days, and nights, and weeks went by, 
 
 My daily bread and water came, 
 But not one sympathizing eye — 
 
 'Twas ever, ever still the same." 
 
 " I cannot tell you how I came 
 To lie on this soft, quiet bed, 
 
 I think that I am still the same — 
 And yet I dreamed that I was dead : 
 
 I did not think my body now 
 
 Had aught at all to do with earth,
 
 LAUUNE. 77 
 
 But things come back again to show 
 
 The meanness of our present birth — 
 ' Of the earth earthy !' — yet we know 
 
 Right little of the solemn past, 
 And all the future's radiant glow 
 
 Is by the cloud of flesh o'ercast. 
 Though shadowy all, 1 yet must love 
 
 The sweetness of that solemn scene 
 Where spirits of the parted rove 
 
 The woodland openings between." 
 
 A gentle girl was by his side, 
 
 Like one his happier years had known, 
 And, ere he drank the cup of pride, 
 
 He called that lovely one his own. 
 
 And now his scanty hair was grey, 
 
 But hers was still the raven curl ; 
 If envious years had passed away 
 
 They had not scathed that trusting girl, 
 Fearing, perchance, her glances meek, 
 
 They had not paled with poisonous woe 
 The rose that bloomed upon her cheek, 
 
 Nor traced with care her polished brow. 
 
 He listened, and he seemed to hear 
 
 The soothing words that fell, 
 As, gushing from his eye, a tear 
 
 Promised to break the spell 
 
 g2
 
 78 LAULINE. 
 
 That long had banned that aged one 
 From every lovely thing — 
 
 And, now his life was nearly run, 
 To end his sorrowing. 
 
 At length there came a child-like smile- 
 Such smile was his in other days — 
 
 It seemed so free from earthly guile, 
 It might have been a heavenly blaze, 
 
 And, oh ! it was a holy vision 
 
 Surely, that called him back to life, 
 
 Painting for him a scene Elysian 
 Even amid the shades of strife. 
 
 Yet think not all at once he grew 
 
 To be himself again — 
 Even the morning's brightest hue 
 
 Has shadows to precede its train, 
 And Memory's first return from slumber 
 
 Is all confused and full of dreams ; 
 It weighs not time, it counts not number, 
 
 And scarcely is the thing it seems. 
 
 " Aye, 'tis an Angel ! — when they laid 
 The loved and loving in the grave, 
 
 I heard the mattock and the spade 
 
 Clang yonder, where the Yew-trees wave —
 
 LAULINE. 79 
 
 I saw the vault — they should have hid 
 The name upon the coffin lid ! — 
 There were the letters, marked in flame, 
 I was the murderer, hers the name. 
 It was the image of my heart, 
 
 In which her name was deeply shrined — 
 Nay, friendly one, thou need'st not start, 
 
 But from that coffin lid there shined 
 A name I know — I dare not tell, 
 Marked on my heart with fire from Hell, 
 And o'er it in a softer blaze 
 
 The light of Heaven's own glory shone, 
 As though to mock my eager gaze, 
 
 By telling where the loved was gone — 
 Ah ! it was mockery to me, 
 For there my home might never be. 
 
 " I was the creature of despair — 
 Companion to the fiends of air. 
 I gazed upon the sacred page, 
 
 But only saw the words of wrath 
 
 Flashing in burning glances forth : 
 Like those, who in an earlier age 
 
 Round Sinai's cloud-girt summit ranged, 
 
 Saw their great Prophet's visage changed, 
 No more the meek and gentle friend, 
 
 But one whose brow was clothed in fire, 
 
 The token of Celestial ire ; 
 So would old blessed memories blend 
 
 With thoughts that now were always mine,
 
 80 LAULINE. 
 
 Which would their fearful aspect lend 
 To scare the smile of peace and love ; 
 
 Once joy would beam from every line, 
 Now Heaven's own gold and silver dove, 
 Had dwelt 'mid Earth's polluting things, 
 And there was poison on her wings. 
 I knew that she was still the same, 
 
 The same bright bird to others yet, — 
 To me she was a withering flame — 
 
 Oh, how I struggled to forget ! 
 
 " One morn they took me to a spring 
 That bubbled up the rocks between, 
 And sparkling gems amid the spray, 
 
 Like glow-worms on a bank of green,' 
 Seemed to enjoy their amorous play ; 
 Or insects on their gold-bright wing 
 All glittering in the sunshine ray. 
 Oh, they were beautiful! They grew 
 To larger form and fairer hue. 
 Were they not messengers of heaven, 
 To soothe the world-rent bosom given ? 
 I think they were. They came at first 
 Like dew on one o'er-parched with thirst, 
 A pledge of better blessings sent 
 To win the murmurer to content. 
 
 " I srrew more calm — I did not see 
 One face among them mocking me. 

 
 LADLINE. 81 
 
 I thought, — and yet I know not whether 
 
 They whispered to me " Come up hither!" 
 
 But so it was, I seemed to rise, 
 
 Borne on a spray-wreath toward the skies, 
 
 And Earth's harsh scenes, and Sorrow's sighs 
 
 Were left behind, far, far below 
 
 In their own home of sin and woe. 
 
 " They bore me on — I know not where — ■ 
 Those brilliant beings moved the cloud — 
 
 On, on we went through realms of air, 
 
 From fairer scenes to scenes more fair, 
 
 So bright, that Evening's gathering shroud 
 
 Shrunk back again at our appearing, — 
 Night was afraid ! — her shadows fled, 
 And glory circled round my head, 
 
 And gems of an unearthly shine 
 
 Plucked from the radiant stars were mine 
 
 In all that glad careering. 
 
 " I said that angels bore me on — 
 
 Oh, Angels surely those must be ! 
 A moment present, and anon 
 
 Glancing through all immensity. 
 I saw them, felt them, heard them sing, 
 I watched them rest on outspread wing, 
 And then, within a point of space, 
 They left me resting where I lay, 
 Amid a light more calm than day,
 
 82 LAULINE. 
 
 The while my gifted eye could truce 
 Those spirits on their upward way. 
 
 " Oh, I was sad to see them go — 
 
 I could not guess their embassy — 
 I thought of scenes of former woe, 
 If that is thought, when, wild as dreams, 
 The present is not what it seems, — 
 
 They had been blessed hours to me, 
 Or moments haply that had power 
 Each to be equal to an hour — 
 But — had they gone to ask their God 
 
 His purpose towards a child of sin ? 
 It might be theirs to bear the rod 
 For one who oftentimes had trod 
 The paths of guilty crime, 
 
 And he who had not cared to win 
 The approval of his heavenly sire. 
 
 At length might find the fated time, 
 When, hurled from happiness sublime, 
 His lot should be unquenched fire. 
 
 " They left me, and it grew quite dark, 
 And yet it did not seem like night — 
 
 Music far sweeter than the lark 
 Pours at the dawning of the light, 
 
 Came gushing on my soul, and made 
 
 Almost a sunshine of the shade. 
 
 Sweet strains were these — those plaintive sighs, 
 
 Rich as yEolian melodies —
 
 lauline. 8:j 
 
 But these were nothing - — there were nigh, 
 Like those from blessed Araby, 
 
 Perfumes and scents from odorous flowers 
 
 For many pleasant pleasant hours, 
 So sweet ! it seemed a phantasy. 
 
 * 
 
 "And there I lay — I did not dream ! • 
 
 Oh, no ! it was too true for sleep — 
 Yes, I must startle — I must scream, 
 
 Should aught awaken me to weep. 
 Awaken me ! They well might try 
 
 Who wished to hurt me, and to break 
 The pleasant slumber which can lie 
 
 On one so now subdued and meek — 
 My pride was gone — for me no more 
 Ambition's tempest woke its roar, 
 I would not now be proud again, 
 My pride has all been pride in vain !" 
 
 " What did I say ? Did reason come 
 And tell of long past seasons still ? 
 
 I thought I heard the distant hum 
 From out my native hamlet straying 
 And caught the rippling of the rill 
 
 Beside the village roadway playing. 
 What is it now ? I know that face, 
 
 Oh, surely now I live again ! 
 
 And yet the fever of my brain 
 
 Hacks me with something worse than pain,
 
 84 LAULINE. 
 
 I cannot measure time or space — 
 
 I know not how or when it chanced— 
 
 But still, o'er me, electric flame 
 
 Or baleful comet's influence glanced, 
 
 To make me now no more the same. 
 
 " The same ! It were in vain to dream 
 Of all those long, long vanished days ; 
 
 'Twere tracing to its fount a stream 
 Around whose fount no beauty plays — 
 
 The things of loveliness are gone, 
 
 Even the few that lured us on. 
 
 " 'Twas sweet to me. You see it all, 
 
 Bright angels stand beside me now, 
 The lost, the long-lost, loved are here — 
 
 They come to heal my broken vow, 
 They hush the sigh ; they mark the tear, 
 Aye, all the tears that silent fall, 
 They watch them, and they wait the call 
 
 Of one who did not mean them wrong, 
 One who was led away by guile, 
 
 Whose thoughts were still on holy song 
 Though evil tempted him the while." 
 
 Though rambling thoughts, in words as wild, 
 Were breathed, as to his long-lost child,
 
 LAULINE. 85 
 
 Though shadowy visions only met 
 
 The sense of his distempered eye, 
 There were some gleams of memory yet 
 
 Which might grow stronger by and bye. 
 Sometimes a mindless laughter rang 
 
 When sunshine lit the pleasant room, 
 Or cries that told of inward pang, 
 
 When Evening shadowed it with gloom. 
 But now and then that silent tear, 
 
 Which only Reason knows to shed, 
 Would give them hope in place of fear, 
 
 The while they watched beside his bed, 
 For they were glad to see him show 
 The calm consistency of woe. 
 
 At length once more the Christmas blaze 
 
 Was bright in every mountain home, 
 As Arnaud, with enquiring gaze, 
 
 Looked from the window of his room. 
 Twas plain some mighty spell was working 
 
 Deeply within his troubled heart, 
 There might be clearer memory lurking, 
 
 Although as yet enshrined apart. 
 Did he look back to other days ? 
 
 Did he remember one sad night, 
 When o'er the waste such cheerful blaze 
 
 Guided the wanderer by its light? — 
 Rest now his thoughts upon the gloom, 
 Which shadowed then lost Lauline's room ? 
 When He, himself uncheered and sad, 
 His daughter's home-return forbad ? 
 
 II
 
 86 LAULINE. 
 
 Such are his thoughts. The past comes back — 
 
 Each after each, its shadowy scenes 
 Sweep by along a sinuous track, 
 
 Whilst scarce a shadow intervenes. 
 Outlined as clearly as they were 
 
 When they were real, not memoried, things, 
 They almost wake again Despair, 
 
 With all the agony it brings. 
 
 The Fiend of Madness now asserts again 
 His fearful power to torture Arnaud's brain. 
 The furious passion of his early life 
 Grows into curbless fury — and the strife 
 Of his tossed spirit scarcely knows a bound. 
 Ronan's fond hopes are prostrate on the ground — 
 The soul-less man can never breathe Her name, 
 Or speak that pardon which he longs to claim. 
 Oh, deem not thus ! Young Lauline's youthful spirit 
 
 Thinks of the Spring, when flowers shall rise anew, 
 She whispers " shall these fading things inherit 
 
 The freshening influence of celestial dew, 
 And man be left uncared for ? — Father, no ! 
 
 God has his purposes, you say, to serve — 
 Since he afflicts us we must bear the blow, 
 
 And feel that it is less than we deserve. 
 But, say you not that he will answer prayer ? 
 Then why, my Father, why should we despair I" 
 
 Sweet youthful prophetess, thy strain 
 Can scarcely sound and sound in vain :
 
 LAULINE. 87 
 
 Faith hath grown up in thee, and cheers 
 Away by smiles thy Father's fears, 
 No hopelessness may dwell with thee 
 Thou child of pure sincerity. 
 Again, although by slow degrees, 
 
 The storm of passion felt a lull, 
 And, ere the spring had clothed the trees, 
 
 And made the meadows beautiful, 
 Almost a child-like quiet came — 
 Indeed he did not seem the same. 
 
 Where wild consuming fire has sped 
 
 On to the prarie's utmost bound, 
 Where'er the scathing flame has spread, 
 
 Is leafless yet productive g-round : 
 It may be waste and barren now, 
 
 Yet the attentive swain shall rear, 
 Wherever he shall drive his plough, 
 
 The golden harvest of the year. 
 Awhile is left a sterile seeming, 
 
 But by degrees the rain from heaven 
 Will show, by fields with plenty teeming, 
 
 The fruitful seasons God has given : 
 So violent emotions often, 
 
 When their first wrathful fire shall cease, 
 May serve, perchance, to soothe and soften, 
 
 And fit the soul for scenes of peace. 
 
 When spring-tide brought the scented flowers 
 Young Lauline would arrange those gems
 
 88 LAULINE. 
 
 In wild but natural diadems. 
 Reminding Arnaud of departed hours, 
 
 In which another Lauline decked 
 With the same fleeting things her brow — 
 How altered now ! — She lieth low — 
 
 The flowers are faded — life is wrecked. 
 
 Then sweetly clustered in the cheerful room 
 Blue violet groups were everywhere displayed, 
 They brought back memories of the scented glade 
 Where they were wont, unplucked, to shed perfume : 
 And Arnaud's strength was now so much renewed, 
 His fevered frenzy now so much subdued, 
 That in the garden's laurel-sheltered way, 
 Leaning on Lauline, he would calmly stray, 
 And by degrees the mossy lanes were sought, 
 Stirring up holier thoughts, with happier feeling fraught. 
 
 Each memoried walk had lessons of the past, [veyed, 
 
 Each murmuring stream some whispering voice con- 
 Each ancient tree, each shadow that was cast 
 
 By rock or hill, its own impression made. 
 And then at last alone would Arnaud wander, 
 
 Ronan and Lauline watching him unseen — 
 Often they saw him pause, and seem to ponder 
 
 The story of some well remembered scene — 
 And once, when evening shadows gathered o'er, 
 
 They marked him seeking out the yew-tree gloom, 
 That silent churchyard where some time before 
 
 Ronan was found beside his Lauline's tomb ;
 
 LAULINE. 89 
 
 And there the old man knelt. His lifted eye 
 
 Was raised to heaven, and calmly now he prayed. 
 
 Faith was re-kindled. In that distant sky 
 
 Dwelt two fair spirits freed from earthly shade, 
 
 Spirits of those who, whilome, mourned below, — 
 
 For Lauline's mother had her cup of woe, — 
 
 And he might soon rejoin them. There he wept, 
 But wept not hopelessly. The tears, he shed 
 Brought down a blessing on his aged head ; 
 
 His prayer was answered, and he knew the peace 
 Which pardoned sinners only know, 
 
 When their fierce self-accusings cease, 
 And love- won hearts with comfort glow. 
 
 Heaven's pardon had removed the ban, 
 
 And Arnaud rose an altered man, 
 
 Clothed with a meek and quiet mind, 
 
 With heart subdued, and soul refined. 
 
 He sought the cheerful hill-side cot, 
 
 Which seemed more cheerful than before, 
 
 For waiting at its open door 
 Were those who shared the blessed lot 
 
 That broken spirit to restore ; 
 
 And now he looked as when of yore 
 No sullying passion stained his brow, 
 And when from gentle lips would flow 
 
 The words of blessing or of prayer, 
 Or in the Church-assembled throng 
 Would join in tones of holy song, 
 
 As though untouched by care.
 
 99 r.AurjNH. 
 
 They silently embraced — words were too weak 
 The thoughts of those full hearts to speak — 
 
 Till Ronan, on his bended knee, 
 The Pastor's parent-blessing sought, 
 
 And Lauline knelt instinctively. — 
 Straight in his arms the old man caught 
 
 The girl, and kissed her tenderly, 
 And taking Ronan by the hand, 
 Gently, yet firmly, bade him stand. 
 " You are the injured — mine the task 
 From you forgivenesses to ask, 
 Yet I believe you have forgiven, 
 
 For if you had not loved me well, 
 
 I had not lived to break the spell 
 Which kept me back from peace with heaven. 
 I feel that God has cancelled crimes 
 Committed in my erring times, 
 Still for my few short days below 
 'Twill be some solace that I know 
 You can a like forgiveness show." 
 
 ***** 
 
 The morrow comes, and the Sabbath chime 
 Is sounding over the fragrant thyme, 
 And the scented breezes, as they float, 
 Bear onward the voice of the holy note, 
 And it reaches the Pastor's raptured ear. — 
 Though the sound to him was ever dear, 
 On many a Sabbath although it tolled, 
 And along the valleys its echoes rolled, 
 Yet not till this glorious spring-tide morn 
 Was its sound to the aged Arnaud borne.
 
 LAUI.1NE. 
 
 91 
 
 Before his name is numbered with the dead 
 He longs again those holy courts to tread, 
 J lis heart with sacred gratitude o'erflows, 
 His kindling eye with heavenly feeling glows ; 
 Though his transgression may have led astray 
 Some of the flock whom once he taught to pray, 
 Yet now, repentant, he may win them back 
 By " words of love, from misery's thorny track," 
 Himself a warning beacon, he would tell 
 The happiness he knew before he fell, 
 Would paint the bitter anguish of the soul 
 That yields itself to passion's wild control, 
 Then would extol the all-sufficient grace 
 Which led him from his wanderings, to retrace 
 His erring steps, and to regain the way 
 Which leads to regions of eternal day. 
 
 With gentle Lauline at his side 
 
 He entered now the ancient aisle, 
 
 And, with a venerable smile, 
 Which seemed reflected far and wide, 
 
 He looked a blessing on the throng 
 
 Assembled there for matin-song. 
 He who had filled the Pastor's place 
 
 During his long, long absent hours, 
 Sees in his calm, expressive face 
 
 The token of returning powers. 
 He leads him to the vestment room, 
 
 And robes him with the Pastor's dress, 
 And o'er that brow, once dark with gloom, 
 
 Beams the rich light of thankfulness.
 
 92 LAULINE, 
 
 Then, as they enter the holy fane, 
 
 Feelings are stirred which we cannot restrain — 
 
 Every one rises the Pastor to greet, 
 
 They feel it a comfort that thus they may meet, 
 
 Then silent they wait for the words he shall tell, 
 
 For of old he had loved and instructed them well. 
 
 They listened with attention mute, 
 
 And he, as though inspired, 
 Spake freely of the bitter fruit 
 Which sprang to him from poison-root, 
 
 When pride his spirit fired — 
 He asked forgiveness of his God, 
 
 Forgiveness of his fellow men ; — 
 How oft for pity he had trod 
 
 Each pathway of the mountain glen, 
 Before the evil shadow came 
 Which made a mockery of his name. — 
 He asked their pity, and their tears 
 Told they remembered other years — 
 He spake of mercy freely given 
 To one who every tie had riven 
 That bound his heart to earth or heaven, 
 And, like a soul already free, 
 He pointed to eternity, 
 And his last benediction gave 
 Even in sight of Lauline's grave. 
 
 Poor human nature cannot bear 
 The full extremes of joy or woe,
 
 LAULINE. itt 
 
 And when the soul is free from care 
 The strength is often waxing low ; 
 
 And so it was in Arnaud's case, 
 
 His spirit-life was strengthened now, 
 Yet must his feeble body bow, 
 
 For well-nigh finished is his race. 
 
 He feebly uttered " Home ! my home !" 
 And soon in his lost Lauline's room 
 He woke to consciousness again, — 
 I know not if 'twere joy or pain — 
 
 But, as he glanced around, 
 He saw that it was still the same — 
 
 We heard not from his lips a sound 
 But yet his colour went and came, 
 As though within him bliss and woe 
 Were pulse-like throbbing to and fro. 
 
 Ronan and Lauline knelt beside his bed — 
 
 He grew more calm, he marked their suppliant look. 
 He laid his quivering hand on either head, 
 And then, in trembling accents feebly said, 
 
 " Oh never cease to heed that blessed book, 
 Walk by its maxims, it shall teach the way 
 From sin and death, to where the heavenly ray 
 Beams from the throne of God, and every eye 
 Is free from tears, and hushed is every sigh. 
 On you, my children ! may a blessing rest, 
 Those who have solaced others shall be blest"
 
 94 LAULINE. 
 
 Now quickly came his panting breath 
 He tried to speak — we could not hear — 
 
 It was the solemn hour of death, 
 
 Which he could meet without a fear, 
 
 For, calm as if in slumber lying - , 
 
 The Pastor, full of peace, was dying. 
 
 When he had run his mortal race 
 We laid him on a lowly bier, 
 
 But not the keenest eye could trace 
 Even the shadow of a tear 
 
 To dim the quiet of his face. 
 
 Sweetly he sleeps where yew-trees wave 
 Beside his daughter's humble grave, 
 And oft, beneath the walnut's gloom, 
 The peasant points to that lone tomb, 
 Where stands a monumental stone 
 To those who on before are gone, 
 And it is graven thereupon — 
 
 " jF3£p|l£& fovgibe ! as toe fovgibe, 
 ©J), let us trie forgiben! 
 
 *o tf)at tijc parteti ones of eavti) 
 ifKlap meet again in f^eaben." 
 
 END OF LAULINE.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 EZEKIEL'S VISION. 
 
 Listen, son of Buzi's line, 
 
 Tones are heard by Chebar's stream, 
 Lightning starts from hands divine — 
 
 Oh ! it cannot be a dream ! 
 Lo ! the northern whirlwind sweeps — ■ 
 
 Clouds majestic meet the gaze, 
 Where an amber radiance sleeps, 
 
 Like a robe of folded blaze. 
 
 See the living creatures now 
 
 Bursting from their misty shroud — 
 Forms of light with dazzling brow 
 
 On the astonished vision crowd ! 
 Gaze, and every feature know ; 
 
 Look ! for now the spirit flings, 
 Veiling its excessive glow, 
 
 Shadow from its seraph wings.
 
 96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Gaze ! — for through the mighty frame, 
 
 Moving onward to and fro, 
 Flashes of Celestial flame 
 
 Gleam where'er the Spirits go : 
 Listen ! — from their moving wings 
 
 Echoes far a mighty sound, 
 Such the deep-toned tempest flings, 
 
 Billowing the deep profound. 
 
 As the lightning hastes away, 
 
 Glancing quick from pole to pole, 
 Prophet ! mark their onward way, 
 
 Mark the subject wheels that roll, 
 Speeding on their dreadful rings, 
 
 Lit with myriad eyes around, 
 Till the Spirit heavenward springs, 
 
 Bearing them above the ground. 
 
 While the mighty Spirit stays 
 
 All the awful structure feels, 
 How the slumber of its blaze 
 
 Checks the progress of the wheels ; 
 How the amber light grows dim, 
 
 Till a voice in thunder breaks, 
 Mightier than the Seraphim — 
 
 Hark ! — it is the Godhead speaks !
 
 MISCT.I LANEOUS POEMS. 07 
 
 THE INDIAN'S DEATH SONU. 
 
 I GO to the Hills of the Setting Sun, 
 
 For the sands of life are well nigh run ; 
 
 I go to ascend the lonely peak, 
 
 Whence the founts of blessing and cursing break, 
 
 Where the changing light of the rainbow rolls, 
 
 And the eye can look down on the land of souls. 
 
 The eye of the dying is gifted to see 
 The joyous homes of the brave and free ; 
 But the gaze of life may never behold 
 The homes of the happy by streams of gold, 
 And I to that glorious land shall hie, 
 When bade by the Master of life to die. 
 
 I shall haste to the glorious hunting grounds, 
 Where the Antelope leaps and the wild Elk bounds, 
 Where my tent is pitched in the meadow of green, 
 \ml the generous spirits are brightly seen, 
 The guest of Wacondah my soul shall be, 
 In tin- beautiful homes of the brave and fi
 
 98 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But he who has crushed the old man's heart, 
 
 When he climbs that peak shall backward start ; 
 
 He shall look upon bliss and then be hurled 
 
 Back to the rocks of a hateful world, 
 
 By his evil eye for ever banned 
 
 From the blessed homes of the happy land.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 99 
 
 I LOVE TO ROAM WHEN ZEPHYRS SWEEP. 
 
 I love to roam when zephyrs sweep 
 In summer softness o'er the deep, 
 And when the sea-birds seek the laud 
 I love to pace the lonely strand, 
 Where Ocean far as eye can reach 
 Rolls its broad waters to the beach, 
 Reflecting, as its billows flow, 
 The saffron tints of Evening's glow. 
 
 I love to mark the parting day 
 In varying colours fleet away, 
 When the horizon seems to rest 
 Still nearer on the Ocean's breast, 
 While mist and mellowed light combine 
 To picture walls for Nature's shrine, 
 Ere darkness leaves the silent sea, 
 Clad in its own infinity. 
 
 I love from many a beetling cliff 
 To view afar the white-sailed skill', 
 Which Fancy, as it steins the wave, 
 Deems but a dwelling for the brave
 
 100 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Dancing too proudly on to bear 
 A freight of moody sorrow there, 
 As if its deck might never know 
 The sigh of fear or plaint of woe. 
 
 I love to roam where Memory strays 
 Unbidden back to other days, 
 And paints upon her tablet true 
 Departed scenes with vivid hue — 
 Scenes that have ceased to mock the eye, 
 Or waken in the breast a sigh, 
 Save such as recollection brings, 
 Fraught with a blessing on her wings. 
 
 This is a sigh that always wreathes 
 A zone of sweetness while it breathes, 
 Born of remembrance, lent to cast 
 More chastened beauty o'er the past, 
 Whose bright companion tear-drops stay 
 Only to catch the parting ray, 
 Like Evening's drops of summer dew 
 Bearing the lovely rainbow's hue. 
 
 Or such a sigh as softly tells 
 How feelingly the bosom swells, 
 A plaintive breathing, lent to show 
 A sympathy with other's woe,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 101 
 
 As echo's softest wailings gush 
 In answer to the widower thrush, 
 Or well like notes from angel lyres 
 Responsive to iEolian wires. 
 
 And holy feelings such as these 
 
 Are wakened oft by Evening's breeze, 
 
 As with half melancholy tone 
 
 It whispers to the heart alone ; 
 
 Though often scathing thoughts intrude, 
 
 Even in solemn solitude, 
 
 Yet to the soul that turns to heaven 
 
 There — there are rich revealings given. 
 
 i 1'
 
 102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 WHERE IS THE FLEETING THOUGHT? 
 
 Where is the fleeting thought ? 
 
 O'er the waters glancing, 
 
 Where moonbeams are dancing, 
 Where pearls are sought 
 
 In the depths of the sea, 
 
 Or where wander free 
 Zephyrs with perfumes fraught. 
 There — there is she. 
 
 For a moment she bends 
 
 O'er the home of sadness, 
 
 Then leaping with gladness, 
 To laughter tends ; 
 
 And joyous in her glee, 
 
 Unfettered and free, 
 On her light wing she wends 
 
 All merrily. 
 
 Thought we must fetter thee ! 
 
 Inconstant thy motion, 
 
 As spray on the Ocean, 
 Yet art thou free ? 
 
 Or art thou not a slave, 
 
 Tossed by every wave, 
 Foam-like borne dreamily 
 
 On to the grave.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1015 
 
 DECEPTIVE PLEASURES. 
 
 Though death may lurk in every spray 
 That bears young Passion's flowers, 
 
 Madly we seek the downward way 
 To make those blossoms ours. 
 
 And pleasant for a time they seem 
 To youth's unpractised view, 
 
 And full of promise is the beam 
 Which paints their tempting hue. 
 
 But bitter produce do they bear, 
 And those who pluck the shoot, 
 
 Designing but its flowers to wear, 
 At last will eat the fruit. 
 
 Would you escape the deadly snares 
 Which pleasure spreads around, 
 
 Refuse the garland she prepares — 
 Shun her enchanted ground.
 
 104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 C A B U L. 
 
 Whence comes that rider on the breathless steed, 
 Urged to the utmost, faultering in his need ? 
 Backward he turns an almost frenzied glance, 
 His gaunt hand trembles but retains the lance ; 
 Wild meaning flashes from his lustrous eye, 
 The fitful blaze of wordless agony ; 
 And Terror's sweat-drops damp his bloodless brow, 
 And dark his face, that messenger of woe. 
 And why alone ? What foemen in the rear 
 Join in the chase, and mock his wild career? 
 
 He comes, the lonely bearer of a tale, 
 To scare the weak, to turn the fearless pale ; 
 He, the sole relic of the band that hied 
 From sheltering India, full of warrior's pride ; 
 Whose nodding crests, and glittering banners gay. 
 Seemed almost tokens of a festal day. 
 
 Dauntless they went, and England's soldiers there 
 Bore themselves nobly, as they ever bear. 
 Though ghastly Death with desolating' eye 
 Frowned in the darkness of the wintry sky, 
 Through drear ravines and desert heights they sped, 
 W T hile foes assailing, only gazed and fled ; 
 Or, vanquished, yielded to the King that came 
 Strong in their arms his long lost throne to claim —
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 105 
 
 Lost by his tyranny, and seized by those 
 His own ingratitude had made his foes. 
 
 Yet exile had not taught the cruel Chief 
 To pardon crime, or sympathize with grief. 
 'Twas not enough his conquered serfs should yield, 
 Leaving to him the undisputed field ; 
 'Twas not enough amid the storm-wind's roar 
 To hear Guznee proclaimed his own once more ; 
 'Twas not enough that he, the exiled one, 
 Now trod the threshhold of his former throne : 
 But war-won first-fruits of the reckless fray 
 Must taste the fierceness of a Coward's sway ; 
 And dastard murder fling a deadlier stain 
 O'er the red cruelty of that campaign. 
 
 Those mountain tribes, as rugged as their clime, 
 Seem to submit, but only bide their time. 
 'Mid sheltering crags, which yield secure retreat, 
 The angry leaders and their warriors meet : 
 They saw the banded army as it passed, 
 Their own low wail had echoed to the blast, 
 And though forebodings rise, yet no despair 
 Can touch the patriot hearts assembling there. 
 
 That army comes, professing but to bring 
 Back to the Affghan throne an exiled King — 
 Oh ! specious pretext ! Deeply do they know 
 The grasping spirit of their Christian foe;
 
 J 06 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 They view the fanes, the altars of their Sires, 
 Their infant prattlers round the household fires, 
 And silently the deep resolve is made 
 To teach betrayers they may be betrayed. 
 
 " What mean those offerings at a Moslem's tomb. 
 By Christians offered, save to hide the doom 
 They fain would bring us ?" And while thus there ran 
 Such dark suspicious on from man to man, 
 From many an eye one burning tear-drop gushed, 
 Full many a cheek a daring purpose flushed, 
 And mingled feelings crowded on the whole 
 Revenge — the ruling passion of the soul. 
 " Revenge ! aye, full revenge ! the fierce, the long, 
 The wild revenge, the feeble owe the strong ! 
 The slaughtering ambush in the silent shade, 
 Thus be the perfidy they taught repaid !" 
 
 It was repaid. Cabul may boast a name 
 Dark in the annals of Britannia's fame. 
 
 Their perils past, each danger undergone, 
 Their task accomplished, and the victory won. 
 Britannia's sons securely for a while 
 There seemed to bask in Fortune's sunnier smile ; — 
 But such the sunshine as is often spread 
 In beauteous mockery over Etna's head, 
 While happiness and love together rove 
 In shady vineyard or in trellised grove,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS l'Ol - 1()7 
 
 Unheeding- of the fire that burns beneath, 
 Mighty, but hushed, the hiding-place of death. 
 
 Their sunshine leaves them — on their fruitless toils 
 No more Britannia's martial Genius smiles, — 
 They seek to flee, by even him betrayed 
 Who owed his throne, his being, to their aid ; — 
 Forced to retreat — nay, rather forced tu fight 
 'Mid the confusion of a helpless flight. 
 
 Fierce Retribution comes. The Victors they 
 Who bled and yielded in the earlier fray : 
 Deceived before, to Christians now sincere 
 Listens the Affghan with distrustful ear — 
 " Had they not heard of stolen Scindia's wrong- 
 Chanted at eve in many a native song ? 
 Had not the war-cry from the Ghilzies height 
 Rent the hushed silence of the quiet night ? 
 Boomed not the sound of echoing guns from far ? 
 Held not the foe the post of Candahar ? 
 Can they be trusted ? Will not these combine 
 Around Cabul the self-same chains to twine ? 
 Shall they then yield their country and their right 
 To those intruders now compelled to flight, 
 Or woo their bonds, and bend again the knee 
 To that besotted Chief of Dourannee ?" 
 
 Far other dreams, more daring purpose theirs ! 
 As tangled deeply in his self-laid snares
 
 108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Their victim writhes and struggles to he free, 
 This their dire purpose, this their stern decree — 
 " One only shall escape, that one shall tell 
 The vengeance we exact for those that fell." 
 
 No more the stainless banners proudly float, 
 No warlike music wakes its stirring note ; 
 No longer discipline asserts her sway 
 Over the thousands of the vast array : 
 Confusion reigns ; the Demon of Despair 
 Laughs at the efforts of unhoping care : 
 Vainly the leader cheers his broken troop, 
 Their strength is wasted, and their spirits droop : 
 The icy fierceness of the mountain air 
 Claims as its victims those the sword might spare,- 
 And vainly red one scanty watch-fire glows 
 Over those regions of perpetual snows ; 
 All shelterless and starving, throng on throng, 
 Scarcely they drag their wearied limbs along, 
 While glittering o'er the beetling cliffs appear 
 The swords of foes relentless in the rear, 
 Who chase them, wolf-like, with untiring cry, — 
 Resistance serves not — 'tis as vain to fly — 
 Yet every fugitive, to reach the van, 
 Unthinking presses on his fellow man, 
 And many a fainting form beneath their tread 
 Slumbers unheeded with the countless dead. 
 
 There is the Hindu from his genial clime, 
 And England's youth in manhood's earliest prime,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 109 
 
 And there in clustering crowds the Sipaliees 
 Bend to the coldness of the midnight breeze : 
 Nor are they sons of war alone that brave 
 Those mountain passes, and that mountain grave ; 
 But woman, trusting woman, dares to climb 
 Heights she had shuddered at in happier time, 
 And urges on her rude Yahoo to tread 
 His dangerous path o'er precipices dread. 
 And childhood's helpless and expiring- cry 
 Preludes the anguish of its Mother's sigh. 
 
 From every peak the deadly juzail flashed, 
 Down each ravine Beloochee warriors dashed ; 
 Thousands on thousands unresisting fell, — 
 The wily Affghan kept his promise well, 
 And England's boldest ones astounded saw 
 The bitter fruitage of aggressive war. 
 No time to pause — no hour to snatch repose, 
 The slain are only sepulchred by snows; 
 There, stiff with frost, some dead arm points on high, 
 There moonbeams glimmer on a frozen eye, 
 And naked forms, by passing comrades known, 
 Glare amid death like monuments of stone. 
 
 Soon these shall join them ! soon their bones be spread 
 To mark the murderous pathway that they tread ! 
 
 Who may I>l- Baved? The foeman scorns to spare — 
 I oless some few — the honoured or the fair. 
 
 K
 
 110 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 This tiny band with fearful bosoms sent, 
 Doubting, yet hoping, to the Chieftain's tent, 
 Received as hostages, allowed to share 
 The meagre comforts of its desert fare, 
 Found that a savage Chief would deign to show 
 That scarce expected mercy to his foe. 
 
 And they were spared. For many a cheerless day 
 From fort to fort their dreary journey lay, 
 Yet even in their wretchedness is given 
 A high and holy confidence in Heaven, 
 As the soft, feeling voice of woman's prayer 
 Breaks on the silence of the desert air. 
 That prayer was heard — a rescuing army came 
 To win them back, and vindicate its name. 
 
 Blame we our foes who stood in equal fight, 
 Unconquered guardians of each free-born right ? 
 Or blame we him whose subtle courage planned 
 To chase the stranger from his native land, 
 Met courtier perfidy with equal fraud, 
 And warrior prowess with the patriot sword ? 
 
 Nay ! blame ourselves. Ambition's siren breath 
 Allured our armies onward to the death, 
 And though avenged and conquering at the last, 
 For this our thousands whiten in the blast, 
 And widows' sighs, and orphans' bitter tears 
 Must blight the trophy that Ambition rears.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ill 
 
 Yield not, oh ! England ! to the lust of power, 
 Let Mercy smile in thy successful hour, 
 Teach to the myriad tribes that own thy fame 
 That thou art Christian, not alone in name, 
 Let Truth and Justice reign ; nor ever draw 
 The sword of Albion in forbidden war ; 
 But if agg-ression grasps some peaceful land 
 Go, wrest the weapon from the spoiler'.s hand ! 
 Or if Ambition, coveting our own, 
 Strikes at our altars, and assails the throne, 
 When Justice bids thee, when the cause is right, 
 Then fly to arms, be valiant in the fight ! 
 So shall the grateful tears that Patriots shed 
 Bedew the laurel that shall deck thy head, 
 And smiling Peace her choicest wreaths bestow 
 In clustering olive for Britannia's brow.
 
 112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Spring with her sunny sheen no more 
 Lingers still on the distant shore, 
 But comes with her flowers and leafy cheer 
 To waken the smiles of the youthful year, 
 
 Long she tarried, hut now she flings 
 Clustering flowers from her sunny wings, 
 And youth comes back to the eye of age, 
 As it turns away from the learned page. 
 
 Hasten ! and leave the well-worn book, 
 
 Seek her blossoms beside the brook, 
 
 And forsake the student's dim fireside, 
 
 To roam in the meadows in green spring-tide. 
 
 Nature's smile will tell you a tale 
 
 Scarcely known to the student pale : 
 
 Oh ! there is something in flower or stream 
 
 More lofty and pure than mere book- worm's dream, 
 
 Worn with toil in the hours of night, 
 Why do you shun the noonday light ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 113 
 
 Oh ! there is more in the tangled nook 
 Than the pedant wins from his musty book 
 
 Hasten away with dawning- da\ . 
 
 Or in the hour of evening grey ; 
 
 Go to the wild wood and breathe its calm, 
 
 For cibroad i^ the wearied student's balm. 
 
 k 2
 
 114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sometimes amid the festal throng 
 Soft whispers greet my ear, 
 
 A gush of half seraphic song 
 Which glads the heart to hear, 
 
 But never tones to equal thine, 
 
 Thou unforgotten one of mine. 
 
 Of mine ? — alas! how memory dwells 
 
 On shadows long gone by, 
 And dreams of unexhausted wells 
 
 That long ago were dry ! 
 Mine ! mine ! ah, no ! it might not be, 
 Thou meteor of my destiny. 
 
 PITY. 
 
 If grief hath glazed the tearless eye, 
 And be who mourns would mourn apart, 
 
 Not the vain words of pity try — 
 
 They seem to soothe, but burn the heart. 
 
 But when the starting tear of woe 
 Tells that the fountain is not dry, 
 
 The scathed and riven heart may know 
 A solace from your sympathy.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 115 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 " Say, Stranger, why those tear-drops flow, 
 And whence that scarcely stifled sigh ? 
 
 Is it some thought of long* ago 
 
 That heaves thy bosom pensively ?" 
 
 " Lady," the wanderer replies, 
 
 " If thou like me wast doomed to roam, 
 Could'st thou suppress the longing sighs 
 
 That whisper of a distant home ? 
 
 " Then blame me not, though Memory strays 
 To other scenes and other times, 
 
 Reverting to those happier days 
 
 That once were mine in sunnier climes : 
 
 " Climes where in boyhood's spring we roved, 
 
 In tasted yet the cup of woe, — 
 < >h ! that was joy — we had not proved 
 
 Aught that 'tis better not to know. 
 
 " I sigh for childhood's palm-tree shade, 
 For climes where soft Acacias grow,
 
 116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Lands where my brothers often played 
 Beneath the green Banana's bough. 
 
 " Oh dreams like these will make one feel- 
 Then, gentle Lady, will you say 
 
 'Tis weak for gushing tears to steal 
 In memory of the far away ? 
 
 " I cannot, riven from my home, 
 
 The smile of seeming pleasure wear ; 
 
 Nor can I, as I onward roam, 
 
 Suppress the sigh that tells of care. 
 
 " Must not the heart beat pensively, 
 That scarce a pitying voice may hear, 
 
 Save that which wounds by asking why 
 The stranger sheds the bitter tear ?" 
 
 " Stranger ! I would not give thee pain ; 
 
 I would not lightly ask to hear 
 Thy tale of sorrow o'er again, 
 
 If that would wake a bitterer tear. 
 
 " But I remember to have heard, 
 Beneath the branches of the palm, 
 
 The voices of the tropic bird 
 
 Amid the hush of Evening's calm.
 
 MISCELI Wl'.ors POEMS. 1 17 
 
 ■ : And tones like thine have met my ear, 
 
 Where the Banana's shadow plays ; 
 And still 'tis sweet such tones to hear 
 
 Like echoes of those vanished days. 
 
 ■'• And when the stranger seeks my door 
 
 I long to hush his sigh of care, 
 To cheer the guest from thy bright shore, 
 
 For I was once a stranger there."
 
 118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THERE ARE FEELINGS WE MAY NOT REVEAL. 
 
 There are feelings we may not reveal, 
 That deep in the bosom must dwell, 
 
 Emotions that over us steal, 
 Which the soul must confess, but the tougue may not 
 tell. 
 
 There are feelings that breathe of regret, 
 And call from the bosom a sigh, 
 
 The cheek with the tear-drop is wet, 
 Whilst the spirit is sad, though we cannot tell why. 
 
 There are feelings that whisper of joy, 
 And round us a halo they fling, 
 
 Unsaddened by any alloy — 
 We have pleasure we scarcely may trace to its spring. 
 
 They are feelings too tender for earth ; 
 They speak to the spirit within, 
 
 And awaken a sense of the worth 
 That the soul would possess if unsullied by sin.
 
 ELLANEOUS 1H) 
 
 Oil! THERE IS A REGION V\'HERE SADNESS 
 AND GLOOM. 
 
 Oh ! there is a region where sadness and gloom 
 
 Never venture to darken the breast of the rose, 
 Where myrtles entwine, and where amaranths bloom, 
 
 And nectar from fountains of loveliness flows ; 
 There spring' always rests on the evergreen tree, 
 
 There the dew of the morning its freshness bestows, 
 There bright is the sun over mountain and lea, 
 
 And clouds never shadow the day at its close. 
 
 Sweet music may breathe to the listening air, 
 
 And soft may be echoed the summer wind's sigh, 
 But moan of the tempest may never be there, 
 
 Nor ever the gale of the winter be nigh ; 
 A happier land than the wanderer knows, 
 
 Where tears shall be wiped from the sorrowing eye, 
 Where the weary shall rest in delightful repose, 
 
 And sip of the streams that shall never be dry. 
 
 We dream and we sing of a laud such as this, 
 We have heard of a climate so lovely and fair ; 
 
 We may tell, but we cannot impart of its bliss, 
 For the flower of its joy only flourishes there.
 
 120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 A gleam of its sunlight oft rests on our bowers, 
 And gems with the sheen of its colouring rare, 
 
 But such a reflection alone can be ours, 
 
 We wait for the future its blessings to share.
 
 MISCEIXANEO! s POEMS. 121 
 
 DAPHNK. 
 
 FROM GESNER'S IDYLS. 
 
 No hero's deeds on field of fight, 
 
 No stories of the battle plain, 
 No tales of treachery or might 
 
 Shall taint Affection's heart-breathed strain. 
 
 With timid step she quits the scene 
 Of tumult, with its tempest roar, 
 
 To greet with shepherd pipe the sheen 
 Of waters trembling to the shore. 
 
 Charmed by the whisper of the stream, 
 She wends along the path of flowers, 
 
 Or rests tu woo a pleasant dream. 
 
 Where verdant foliage weaves her bowers. 
 
 There shall slit trill her sweetest song — 
 For Daphne are the notes combined 
 
 Spring, as she leads the hours along, 
 [a less serene than Daphne's mind.
 
 122 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Flashed from her sparkling eye the glance 
 Of chastened pleasure flings its ray ; 
 
 While frolic smiles for ever dance 
 On dimpled cheeks, and lips as gay. 
 
 Aye, lovely Daphne ! since the hour 
 
 I knew thou wouldst not scorn my lays : 
 
 Gladness has gemmed my lowly bower. 
 With promised bliss for future days,
 
 >,!M ELLANEOUS POEMS. 123 
 
 i I CRACK. BOOK I., ODE 5, AD PYRRHAM. 
 
 PyrbhAj in thy pleasant bower, 
 Where the clustering roses flower, 
 Say, what youth with rich perfumes 
 Seeks thy grot amid the blooms. 
 
 Say, for whom, with simple air, 
 Bind you thus your golden hair, — 
 Oh ! how often shall the tear 
 Fall for changing- fortune here ? 
 
 He who too confiding lies 
 In the sunshine of thine eyes, 
 Soon must wail, when o'er the wave 
 Dark the angry stormwiuds rave. 
 
 ! [apless if he dreams thou'lt be 
 Still so lovely, still as free, — 
 Inexperience deems thee fair, 
 deceptive gales are there. 
 
 I iiiv dripping vestments place 
 Where the votive tablets grace 
 fane, — as glad to be 
 From Pyrrha as from shipwreck free.
 
 1 ■_: ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 HORACE, BOOK II., ODE 20. 
 
 Neither on hackneyed nor on feeble wing, 
 
 Doubly a bard, will 1 be borne 
 Through liquid air: — nor will I longer stay 
 
 On earth. Greater than Envy's scorn, 
 From cities I will speed away. 
 
 — My dear Maecenas I who sing. 
 
 I, I, of pauper parents sprung they say, 
 I shall not die ; no Stygian dew 
 Shall hinder me. Now, now my feet around 
 Rough scales arise ; with plumage new, 
 Bird-like above my arms are crowned, 
 
 And feathers on my fingers stay. 
 
 Safer than Icarus, a songbird I, 
 
 The shores of murmuring Bosphorus 
 Will view, and shifting sands of Gaetula, 
 
 And Northern plains. Gelonians thus 
 Distant shall know me ; he of Dacia, 
 Hiding his fear of Marsians nigh, 
 And Colchian too :— me too, the skilled of Spain, 
 And he who drinks from Rhone shall learn. — 
 Be dirges absent then, and shameful woe 
 
 And wailings round my empty urn ; — 
 Suppress loud mourning, and forego 
 Every sepulchral honour vain !
 
 ELLANEOUS POEMS. 125 
 
 SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN'S HYMN. 
 
 When early morning gilds the sky, 
 
 To Thee, O God ! our prayers we raise ; 
 
 When slumber leaves the opening eye 
 We breathe the whisper of Thy praise. 
 
 When evening comes, with dewy close, 
 Our thoughts and hopes to Heaven arise, 
 
 And calmly sinking to repose, 
 
 On Thee the trusting heart relies. 
 
 Father ! we yield our thanks to Thee, 
 
 That thou hast brought us to Thv throne ; 
 
 To bend the glad and willing knee 
 i »!>edient to our God alone. 
 
 We bless Thee for our Teachers, given 
 
 To point us to the living way, 
 To lead us up from earth to Heaven, 
 
 From sin and ignorance away. 
 
 ( »li ! maj we learn to prize them more, 
 
 ii'<l\ messengers of thine, 
 Till upon Can;; iceful shore 
 
 We meet where endless Sabbaths shi 
 
 i, 2
 
 126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 GOD EVERYWHERE. 
 
 Where the solitude is deep 
 
 Deity is there unseen ; 
 Where the scented zephyrs sweep 
 
 O'er the prarie's richest green ; — 
 Or where ancient pile is strewn, 
 
 Ruined, yet majestic still ; 
 Or a dwelling scarcely known 
 
 Crowns the top of distant hill, 
 
 Where the choral strains that swell 
 
 Richly through Cathedral aisles, 
 Move the soul with sainted spell, 
 
 There the God of Mercy smiles. 
 Where, amid assembled saints, 
 
 One unnoticed sheds a tear, 
 Mortal may not list his plaints, 
 
 Yet the Godhead waits to hear. 
 
 Where distress is rudely known, 
 
 'Mid the Captive's gloomy cell, 
 God his hidden one will own, 
 
 Will not there refuse to dwell. 
 Time and place are nought to Him. — 
 
 — Where the spirit breathes the prayer, 
 Though in clouds when faith is dim, 
 
 Yet be sure that God is there.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 127 
 
 THE HOME PRAYER. 
 
 God of those sainted sires whose care 
 Awoke our iufant hearts to prayer, 
 And pointed us in wayward youth 
 To paths <>f peace — the paths of truth ! 
 
 Assist us, oh, our fathers' God, 
 To tread the paths our fathers trod, 
 So that, whate'er our lot may be, 
 Our grateful heart may turn to Thee ! 
 
 If wealth her gemmed and golden snares. 
 To strew our onward path prepares, — 
 Uphold our weak and erring feet, 
 And lead us to the mercy-seat. 
 
 If sorrow's dark and starless night 
 Bear for futurity its blight, 
 And bitter sighs and burning tears 
 Must be the lot of coming years, 
 
 Though withering grief and scathing car< 
 Obstruct the avenues to prayer, 
 Still may we raise the trusting eye, 
 Secure of happiness on high.
 
 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 What, though our fearful lot be cast 
 Where wildest moans the forest blast, 
 And where the sombre night bird broods 
 Amid unbroken solitudes, 
 
 Or where proud Commerce throngs her den 
 With world-worn, yet untiring men, 
 May we remember still to pray, 
 Though earth presents such thorny way. 
 
 Thanks for our humble board, though spread 
 With nothing more than daily bread, 
 Oh. crush the thoughts of human pride, 
 If that we wish should be denied. 
 
 We are thine own, and would resign 
 Our will confidingly to thine, 
 And, oh ! assist our prayers to rise 
 As an unceasing sacrifice.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 129 
 
 MAMMON. 
 
 W E dream, perchance, in early youth 
 < )!' minds that only bow to mind, 
 
 ( >i' hearts that only throb to truth — 
 Of all that man may never find. 
 
 The heart will bow at Mammon's shrine, 
 And smiling woo its own despair, 
 
 And minds that burn, and souls that shine, 
 Will stoop to pay their homage there. 
 
 What wonder that the common horde, 
 Of heartless and of mindless clay, 
 
 Should think that wealth must be adored 
 When minds the mightiest own its sway ? 
 
 Oh. spurn we then the golden brihe, 
 Let holier hope our bosom fdl, 
 
 And tn the God of heaven ascribe 
 The high subjection of our will.
 
 130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ANGELS. 
 
 Prat ! for the souls of the dead are around us, 
 And whisper a warning, though we will not hear ; 
 
 Viewless existences ever surround us, 
 Raising our joy, or awaking our fear. 
 
 Souls disembodied, an infinite number, 
 
 Tending, as angels, the path of their God, — 
 
 Wait for the flesh to arouse from her slumber, 
 Wait for the Church, still enchained to the clod. 
 
 Aye ! the freed spirits may watch our devotions, 
 List to our breathings, and join in our prayers, 
 
 Marking with gladness those holy emotions 
 Cheering us on amid heart-chilling cares. 
 
 ( )h ! if those souls that may over us hover, 
 As in the body could sorrow anew. 
 
 Must it not grieve them when here they discover 
 Murmurs so frequent, and praises so few ?
 
 Mix II LANEOUS POEMS. 131 
 
 THE SABBATH BELL. 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen and catch the swell 
 Of the rich, deep notes of the Sabbath Bell ; 
 There is something soft in the holy chime, 
 Like a whispered tone from a better clime,— 
 Like an echo of peace from the breath of prayer. 
 When it softly ends the sigh of care. 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen and catch the swell, 
 
 For the spirit will own its soothing spell, 
 
 As it bids the weary and worn repair 
 
 To the holy aisle for a solace there ; 
 
 For the purest of pleasure the blessing given 
 
 When the secret heart communes with Heaven. 
 
 CHILDREN'S HYMN. 
 
 God <>f our Spirits ! we worship before Thee, 
 Anthems of joy and thanksgiving we raise ; 
 
 Oh ! do Thou help us, while thus we adore Thee ! 
 Perfect from infants the song of Thy praise ! 
 
 Thee we adore, for the wonderful story 
 
 Told of Thy power, in the word of Thy love; 
 
 Lather ! while here we would give Thee the glory, 
 Thrusting to worship Thee better above.
 
 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 
 There is a freedom won for those 
 Who on a Saviour's love repose, 
 Forgiven now, though once his foes, 
 
 A freedom from the power of sin,- 
 The soul its own redemption knows, 
 
 And feels the evidence within. 
 
 What, though around the heart remain 
 Some traces of the former stain, 
 Branded by Error's broken chain — 
 
 Are not the bands of slavery riven ? 
 And who may join those links again, 
 
 Or stay the ransomed soul from heaven ? 
 
 By Him who died, but died to save, 
 By Him who triumphed o'er the grave, 
 By Him whose death her ransom gave, 
 
 The Spirit leaves her home of clay, 
 And, freed from earth in Death's dark wave, 
 
 Puts the corruptible away.
 
 i.i i i\ EOl ■ PO] 133 
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 When thou fleest from the world, 
 Spurn its transient pleasures vain ; 
 Wouldst thou not be downward hurled, 
 Look, oh ! look not back again ! 
 
 " Flee ! — nor ever turn thine eye, 
 
 Lustful for its vanished joys ; 
 Think that even in a sigh 
 
 Breathes a poison that destroys. 
 
 "Flee! the sulphrous tempests sweep 
 O'er the home of childhood's years, 
 
 Faith forbids the eye to weep — 
 'Tis but sin that wakens tears!" 
 
 Harsh one ! no! the tear may fall 
 
 When we leave some much loved spot ; 
 
 Still, obeying duty's call, 
 
 He we serve condemns us not. 
 
 Though the pang of riven ties 
 
 Wounds the trembling bosom here ; 
 
 Trusting faith may live with sighs — 
 Calm submission with a tear. 
 
 M
 
 134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Bid us not unweeping be, 
 Laying every feeling by ; 
 
 He who wept at Bethany 
 
 Will not blame the glistening eye. 
 
 If His human nature wept, 
 Will His sentence be severe? 
 
 Feeling still its empire kept — 
 Will not He forgive the tear ?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEM*. 135 
 
 THE BEREAVED. 
 
 Beside the dying bed she wept 
 
 Bereavement's bitter tear, 
 As there the anxious watch she kept 
 
 O'er one, the loved, and dear ; 
 And in her breast the stifled sigh 
 Gave answer to the glistening eye. 
 
 She stood beside the open grave, 
 And thoughts of gathering gloom 
 
 To that young brow a shadow gave, 
 In keeping with the tomb, — 
 
 As though the cruel stroke forbad 
 
 Her bosom ever to be glad. 
 
 She turned to his deserted room, 
 
 Whose empty echoing tone 
 Seemed to proclaim her living doom, 
 
 And made her feel alone ; 
 While silent grief and wordless woe, 
 Quenched the bright eyeball's earlier glow. 
 
 She came again amid the crowd, 
 
 And tried to learn its smile, 
 Yet such a smile as scarce can shroud 
 
 The thoughts that burn the while, —
 
 13G MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Around her lips a smile may play, 
 Yet is its feeling- passed away. 
 
 Nor till upon the couch of death 
 The stricken flower was laid, 
 
 And short and panting grew the breath, 
 Was ever smile displayed 
 
 On that fair lip which did not throw 
 
 More shadow o'er the darkening brow. 
 
 Oh, when the ties of love are riven, 
 How welcome is the grave ! 
 
 And how we seek escape to Heaven, 
 From life's embittered wave ! — 
 
 Smiles but in death can chase away 
 
 The gloom which broken hearts betray.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 137 
 
 PSALM (XXVII. 
 
 Unless the Lord impart success, • 
 In vain the builders ply ; 
 
 And vain, without His presence blest, 
 The watchman's wakeful eye. 
 
 Aye ! early rise, and late take rest 
 Through long and weary years, 
 And eat the bread of carefulness, 
 
 And drink the cup of tears. 
 
 Yet know that God, the only giver, 
 With bounteous hand bestows 
 Upon his own beloved ones, 
 The blessings of repose. 
 
 And the rich heritage of sons, 
 We to His mercy owe, — 
 Like arrows in a Giant's quiver, — 
 To baffle every foe. 
 
 m 'J
 
 138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PSALM CXXXVII. 
 
 By the river of Babylon weeping we sate, 
 
 While Zion was trodden by those that we hate ; 
 
 Our harps were forsaken, no music they gave, 
 
 As they hung on the willows that shadowed the wave. 
 
 And those who had carried us captive away, 
 Demanded the songs of our happier day ; 
 But silent and sad are the minstrel and lute, 
 In the land of the stranger our music is mute. 
 
 Should I cease to remember, oh ! Salem, thy shrine^ 
 Let the hand of my prowess its cunning resign ; 
 Be my tongue ever silent, oh ! land of my birth, 
 If I cherish thee not before richest of mirth ! 
 
 Remember, oh ! God of our Fathers, the day 
 When Jerusalem fell to the spoiler a prey ; 
 And the children of Edom were shouting around, 
 Hurl temple, and palace, and throne to the ground. 
 
 Thou ! grief-wasted daughter of Belus ! shalt know, 
 When foemen shall triumph, like anguish of woe, 
 And greetings shall welcome the hand that has slain 
 The babe that the mother besought for in vain.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 
 
 PSALM XCVII. 
 
 Yea, the Lord reigneth ! 
 
 Let nations rejoice, 
 Let the Isles He sustaineth 
 
 Exalt their glad voice. 
 
 Lo! where He dwelleth, 
 "Mid darkness alone, 
 
 And the truth that excelleth 
 Encircles His throne. 
 
 Blaze of the leven 
 
 Gleams redly around, 
 
 And before Him are driven 
 His foes at the sound. 
 
 Those who were spurning 
 
 Jehovah before, 
 At the touch of His burning 
 
 With trembling adore. 
 
 Mountains ice-belted, 
 His presence of flame 
 
 All like wax has quick melted 
 To seal with His name.
 
 140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Signs of His glory 
 The heavens declare, 
 
 Of His justice the story 
 Is legible there. 
 
 Wild the confusion 
 
 The Gentiles shall know, 
 
 Who their graven delusion 
 Of Idols avow. 
 
 Daughters of Zion ! 
 
 Be glad when ye hear, 
 For the God ye rely on 
 
 In judgment is near. 
 
 Thou, Lord, preservest 
 The souls of Thy saints, 
 
 Thou, the God who observest 
 Their tears and complaints. 
 
 Light of thy gladness 
 'Mid darkness is sown, 
 
 In the hour of their sadness 
 Thy presence is known. 
 
 Wake your rejoicing, 
 Ye saints of the Lord ! 
 
 Sound out with glad voicing 
 Your trust in His word !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PO] HI 
 
 OH ! THIS IS NOT OUR REST, 
 
 Oh ! this is not our rest ! 
 We feel it when the weary world is still ; 
 
 We mourn like fledglings for the natal nest, 
 Lone wanderers, lost amid strange scenes of ill. 
 
 It is not rest to sleep ! 
 The busy soul is ceaseless in its toil ; 
 
 The eye is closed, it may no longer weep, 
 And yet the heart is scarcely calm the while. 
 
 Wild dreams come o'er us then, 
 We act in thought the bitter scenes of life, — 
 
 Oh, childhood's slumber ! what would world-worn 
 men 
 (Jive for thy freedom from that spirit's strife ? 
 
 Vain ! vain the longing now — 
 We breathe no more at eve the child-like prayer ; 
 
 For sin has graved her wrinkles in the brow, 
 And dreams of smiles give place to dreams of care. 
 
 ( )li, this is not our rest ! — 
 There might l><- calm if Sin would ne'er intrude;
 
 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yet even those but tarry to be blest, 
 In whom the power of sin is most subdued. 
 
 And though we would be free — 
 Sin binds us still — yet list to God's behest, 
 
 Walk on through trial here, then upward flee 
 Above the things of time, and be at rest. 
 
 This — this is not our rest, — 
 There is a rest whose day-time knows no waning ; 
 
 Where Jesus folds his children to his breast, — 
 And, blessed hope ! there is such rest remaining.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 143 
 
 TO A MOURNER. 
 
 Oh ! do not weep ! — Yet why should I 
 Attempt that sacred fount to close, 
 
 Which God permits not to be dry, 
 
 And whence a stream of blessing flows ? 
 
 For tears are blessed things — although 
 We love them not when born of pain — 
 
 Since mercy beams o'er present woe, 
 As sunbeams rest on falling rain. 
 
 The Sun is there — the drops that fall 
 
 Are ready to receive the ray, 
 And rainbows would appear to all, 
 
 Were but the mists of earth away. 
 
 I say no longer " do not weep," 
 'Twere tempting you to disobey, 
 
 But strive afar those doubts to sweep 
 That intercept the heavenly ray. 
 
 Weep on ! — your tears will soon be dry — 
 Sooner than you perchance suppose, 
 
 His smile who wipes the tearful eye 
 Already on the dew-drop glows.
 
 144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Perchance thou mayest not view the light 
 That paints the bow on tears of thine, 
 
 But walk by faith, and not by sight, 
 And God for thee shall rise and shine !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1 15 
 
 SONNET I. 
 
 Oh, there are many pleasant things on earth, 
 
 For though the tnorn and thistle frequent grow, 
 
 To mind us of our lot of toil below, 
 Yet gems of beauty claim a kindred birth 
 Where wild flowers blossom — and amid the dearth 
 
 Of things which gladden with their coloured show, 
 
 The glow-worm's love-lit lamp in valleys low 
 Shines like the blaze of unpretending worth, 
 
 Making its own soft lustre, and whose light 
 Whitens the gloom around. Oh ! who can see, 
 
 Things such as these amid Time's murky night, 
 And not look on to glad eternity, 
 
 Clothed in its heavenly raiment dazzling bright, 
 And rainbow tints upon immensity, 
 
 Painted, to greet the raptured Spirit's sight ! 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 I CATCH again the well remembered sound 
 
 Of whispering water dashing down the steep, 
 I ':- hut a tiny rill which one might leap, 
 And yet 'tis linked with thoughts that know no bound.
 
 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 In the far past the spot was hallowed ground, 
 
 When dreams of future life, like those which sleep 
 
 Pours out for later years, would gather round — 
 Aye, there were voices in the winds that sweep 
 
 Now, as of yore, above the ancient mound 
 That tombs the bones of heroes, and I heard 
 An angel's pinion, as the fluttering bird 
 
 Rose from its mossy nest. — Oh ! vanished past, 
 Why was the spirit thus so vainly stirred, 
 
 Why were such visions wakened — visions not to last ? 
 
 SONNET III. 
 
 Dreams ! I am dreaming now — the gurgling rill 
 Has not been silent, yet I heard it not 
 While I was musing fondly of the past. 
 
 There was no other sound, for all was still ; 
 
 No murmur reached me from yon moonlit cot — 
 No voice resounded from the echoing grot — 
 
 What wrapt my senses thus ? — what vision cast 
 Its spell around me ? Does the soul partake 
 
 In things without us, or do we, within, 
 
 Live in a spirit-world, which scorns to make 
 
 Allegiance with the outward ? 'Mid the din 
 Of this world's being if we strive to wake, 
 
 We find how oft we dream, and that the word 
 
 Which heaven speaks out by things of earth — falls on 
 our ear unheard.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 
 
 STANZA. 
 
 Tis sweet to think that some fair breast may treasure, 
 
 Safely enshrined, some wayward gush of song, 
 That one kind eye may turn a look of pleasure 
 
 On flowers of Poesy neglected long. 
 And that when we are lost amid the throng 
 
 Of heedless beings, worn by worldly toil, 
 Sweet Memory, as she skims the page along, 
 
 May wake on Beauty's lip the grateful smile, 
 And bid the bosom throb with kindly thoughts the while. 
 
 RECOLLECTION. 
 
 As on the storm-cloud shrouding Evening's sky, 
 
 The parting sun a lovely Iris flings, 
 
 Laughing 'mid showers that rudely hover nigh, 
 
 So when warm passion opens Feeling's springs, 
 
 And starts the tear-drop from the half-sad eye ; 
 
 How oft some joyous recollection brings 
 
 Remembrances that make a glad " Good-bye !" 
 
 I orming of tears hright gems, and music of each sigh.
 
 148' MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 
 
 Oit, Saviour ! ere thy life on earth 
 
 In human form began, 
 A Messenger announced thy birth. 
 
 And told the news to man. 
 
 " Prepare, for Christ, prepare the way, 
 They heard his voice proclaim, 
 
 Sinners confessed thy sovereign sway, 
 And bowed before thy name. 
 
 Thus may thy faithful Stewards, Lord ! 
 
 Thy glorious path prepare, 
 Teaching the scorner of thy word 
 
 To hreathe the fervent prayer: 
 
 So that when thou again shalt come 
 To judge the world in might, 
 
 Throngs may await their heavenly home, 
 Accepted in thy sight.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. H9 
 
 THE EPIPHANY ; 
 
 OR, THE MANIFESTATION OF CHRIST TO THE GENTILES. 
 
 The Star of Israel sends its ray 
 Amid those Gentile lands 
 
 Where, to the glorious orb of day, 
 The Persiau spreads his hands : 
 
 They see the token from afar, 
 
 And follow that benignant star. 
 
 It leads them from created light 
 
 To where an infant lays, 
 Where on their newly-wakened sight 
 
 Bursts a celestial blaze — 
 They kneel, they offer, and adore 
 A God they had not known before. 
 
 So when by faith to us is given 
 To see the Star of God, 
 
 Oh, may we follow on to heaven 
 The paths our fathers trod, 
 
 Not pausing on our arduous ran 
 
 Till we behold the Saviour's face.
 
 150 MISCELLANEOUS POEM'S. 
 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 Earth's brig-litest scenes are girt with gloomy shade ; 
 
 Doubt treads upon the path of hope, and steals 
 Its bliss away. The fairest visions fade, 
 
 The joyous prospect, if approached, reveals 
 
 Some hidden gulphs, which distance but conceals. 
 Vain expectation's bubble disappears, 
 
 The eye may gleam with smiles — yet who but feels 
 Pangs unconfessed, whose true response is tears, 
 For, though the lip be gay, the heart is rent with fears. 
 
 Oh ! smiles but prelude tears ! The joyous eye 
 Is still the oftenest wet with Sorrow's dew ; 
 
 And glad young bosoms early learn to sigh ; 
 
 And scenes which shone with light, when life was new, 
 Wearing in childhood's morn a heavenly hue, 
 
 Droop into shadow as our moments fly : 
 Oh ! what remains of beautiful and true ? 
 
 What lasting good is found beneath the sky ? 
 
 Vain is man's portion here, his hopes must soar on high. 
 
 Though Reason owns the truth, we strive to hide 
 
 The deep reality, by flinging round 
 The pictured vanities of Fancy's pride, 
 
 Like meteors dancing 'mid the glooms profound 
 
 That darkling hover o'er the charnel ground, 
 Till custom teaches us without a sigh 
 
 To mark the struggle at the utmost bound 
 Of human being, and to close the eye 
 Of parted friends, as though we never were to die.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 
 
 A SUMMER NOON-DAY SKETCH. 
 
 The Summer sun looks hotly down on Earth, 
 The tiny streamlet waxes tinier still, 
 And its small voice grows smaller, as if this 
 Partook the weary lassitude of living things, 
 Which creep in silence to the nearest shade, 
 And wait the cooler evening to resume 
 The voices of their love. 
 
 But where the forge 
 Sullies the banks of yonder stream, the sound 
 Waxes no fainter. 'Mid the wreathing smoke 
 The clang of ponderous hammers labour on — 
 No Summer sun may dry the treasured store 
 Of water artificially dammed up, 
 Nor can the weary heat of noon suspend 
 The busy industry of urged-on man, 
 Who fain would soothe him in the quiet shade, 
 But Mammon keeps him to half ceaseless labour, 
 And only pays him for his stern fatigue 
 By granting sounder sleep to him who toils 
 Than unto him who from the thews of others 
 Wins for himself the wealth that gives repose, 
 Until repose itself is wearisome. 
 Poor men ! I pity both — both those who toil 
 In sweltering heat beneath the noontide blaze, 
 And those whose busy brain, in search of wealth, 
 Forbids the sweet enjoyment of repose, 
 Which riches else might purchase.
 
 152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST. 
 
 No sacred law was broken — 
 The Priest received the child, 
 
 The solemn words were spoken, 
 And He, the undefiled, 
 
 Bore in his flesh the blood-stained token- 
 Of man the reconciled. 
 
 Though no such rite were needed 
 
 By Him, the Son of God, 
 Haply he interceded 
 
 Thus with his infant blood, 
 And infant plainings richly pleaded, 
 
 As a first offered bud. 
 
 He suffered for our erring — 
 Tlis human blood was spilt — 
 
 Though in his soul was stirring 
 No shadow of our guilt ; 
 
 As man he shrunk not from incurring 
 Far more than man has felt. 
 
 Oh, may our hearts be willing 
 
 To His behests to bow, 
 No more those lusts fulfilling, 
 
 Renounced by early vow, 
 With mingled love and sorrow thrilling, 
 
 May they receive Him now.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 
 
 THE LONELY DEATH-BED. 
 
 A stranger, and alone ! No fond one sighs, 
 And no one sheds a tear when he is sad, 
 
 Or, if the Sun of happier hours should rise, 
 No heart were lighter should his own be glad. 
 
 Parted from all those lovelier sympathies, 
 With which the Earth, in happiuess, is clad, 
 
 Forsaken of his kind — no heart will share 
 
 The pang of grief, the agony of care. 
 
 But still, at intervals, a tear-drop stole, 
 
 And trembled in the eye to quench its smile — 
 
 Yet told how peacefully the secret soul 
 
 Dwelt on its inward blessedness the while, 
 
 That aid from heaven, empowered to lift the whole 
 Above the influence of earthly guile, 
 
 Gave a rich foretaste for the joy that waits, 
 
 The favoured denizen of Eden's gates. 
 
 Such calm may banish half the thoughts of earth, 
 May raise the spirit to its native height, 
 
 Asserting for the soul celestial birth, 
 
 Exulting in its power — its conscious might, — 
 
 Accounting human lore of trivial worth, 
 And longing for revealings of the light, 
 
 Which speaks the advent of eternal day, 
 
 And guides the Pilgrim on his heavenward way.
 
 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I do not ask if guiltiness be thine, 
 
 Poor, suffering one ! 'Tis something if I know 
 That sickness cowers thy frame — that thou must pine 
 
 Lone and untended — and that on thy brow 
 Is marked how patiently thou dost resign 
 
 Thy spirit, to receive the coming blow. 
 Still may the calm of holier feeling shed 
 Its soothing influence round thy lonely head. 
 
 He kneels, I mark the act, he kneels, he prays, 
 And Mercy hastes to catch the fervent prayer ; 
 
 No longer does he scan with fevered gaze 
 
 The things of earth — they are beneath his care — 
 
 He sees the light of unbeclouded days, 
 
 His treasure is in heaven, his heart is there, 
 
 Cleaves the rent frame and takes its upward flight. 
 
 And thou art gone — thine anguish claims no more — 
 
 The boon of pity, or compassion's aid, 
 For thou shalt dwell where sorrowing is o'er, 
 
 Where joys shall bloom, and pleasures never fade — 
 Where the true riches linger for the poor, 
 
 And for the homeless mansions that are made 
 Without the help of hands, whose gates enfold 
 Eternal bliss, and happiness untold. 
 
 Oh, happy is thy lot, although thy way 
 
 Was circled round with many a piercing thorn, 
 
 Though darkling was thy path, Eternal day 
 Shines on thy being now, and though forlorn,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 
 
 And fraught with bitterness thy earthly stay, 
 
 Yet is it thine with Seraphs that adorn 
 The courts of heaven, in company to bow, 
 And claim archangels as thy brethren now. 
 
 Nor only these — the ransomed of our God, 
 The martyr armies in their dazzling white, 
 
 The saints who washed their robes in Jesu's blood, 
 And He whose presence makes the temple bright — 
 
 He who the wine-press of the earth has trod, 
 Upon whose head innumerous crowns of light 
 
 Have taken place of thorns, who fills the throne, 
 
 Are now thy friends, though here thou wast alone.
 
 1,56 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE DYING CHILI) TO ITS MOTHER. 
 
 MOTHER, 1 know I should not cry 
 
 To part from this glad scene, 
 And yet 'tis very hard to die, 
 
 While every thing is green. 
 
 I do not like to leave the Spring, 
 
 With all its pleasant hours, 
 While busy bees are on the wing, 
 
 Amid the scented flowers. 
 
 Or if the Summer time were here, 
 
 And fruit on every tree, 
 I could not help the starting tear, 
 
 That 'twas not part for me. 
 
 And when the teeming harvest yields 
 
 Its glorious crops of grain, 
 I should not like to quit the fields, 
 
 And not to come again. 
 
 But when the later Autumn sweeps 
 
 The withered leaves around, 
 And every thing of beauty sleeps — 
 
 Then lay me in the ground.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1">; 
 
 Or when old Winter's dusky form 
 Is crisped with frozen sleet, 
 
 'Twould be a refuge from the storm 
 To wear the winding-sheet. 
 
 Oh, Mother, I had rather die 
 When Nature's self is sad — 
 
 Nay, Mother, tell me not to cry, 
 I cannot now be glad. 
 
 But if the wild wind's plaintive sigh 
 Moaned Nature's own distress, 
 
 My Mother, I could say good-bye, 
 And shed some tears the less.
 
 158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE REPLY 
 
 Oh, Child, thou dreamest ! and those words of thine 
 
 Will pierce thy Mother's heart ; 
 Could she so sweet a babe resign 
 
 And not a tear-drop start ? 
 
 She does not weep, but one soft, stifled sigh 
 
 Tells of her inward grief, 
 Too deep for tears — the moistened eye 
 
 Might promise some relief. 
 
 Thy words, my Child, are full of spirit thought, 
 
 They breathe not of the earth, 
 Surely from some sweet Seraph caught, 
 
 They are of heavenly birth ! 
 
 And does not one celestial ray beam down 
 
 On her who hears their tone ? 
 The smile of heaven will chase its frown 
 
 From hearts that mourn alone. 
 
 High feelings stir within her, she can give 
 Her child in faith to God who gave, 
 
 She knows that it again shall live 
 Triumphant o'er the grave.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 
 
 Yea ! they shall meet again, where every eye 
 
 Shall be from tears for ever free, 
 And where the gloom of Winter's sky 
 Shall never, never be. 
 
 There shall be no more parting, no more sighs, 
 The dwellers there shall dwell for ever, 
 
 In those bright mansions of the skies 
 Sorrow approacheth never.
 
 160 MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 
 
 THE NATIVITY OF OUR LORD, 
 
 OR THE BIRTH-DAY OF CHRIST, COMMONLY CALLED 
 CHRISTMAS-DAY. 
 
 Father ! since thou didst give 
 Thine own begotten Son, 
 
 In human clay to live, 
 
 And put our nature on, — 
 
 To lay his g'lory by, and come 
 
 The offspring- of the Virgin's womb : 
 
 Oh, grant a second birth, 
 
 Adopting, saving grace, 
 To make the sons of Earth 
 
 A spiritual race, 
 That they, as children of Thy love, 
 May reign with Christ and God above I
 
 MISCELLANEOl - I OEMS. Kil 
 
 THE UN PITIED. 
 
 Has injured Mercy left our destined land, — 
 Has Pity, weeping as she winged her way, 
 
 Spread her bright pinions for a happier strand ? 
 Has grasping Avarice obscured the day, 
 
 And spread the darkness thicker where we stand? 
 Or is it Cruelty withholds the ray, 
 
 Which meek Benevolence essays to throw 
 
 In Hoods of sunshine o'er the homes of woe ? — 
 
 Or is it Chance, as Sceptics madly deem, 
 That leaves the wretched one to pine alone, 
 
 That steals from life's dark path each quickening gleam, 
 Checks the soft whisper and the kindled tone, 
 
 W bich Friendship utters, like a pleasing dream, 
 Whose music saddens to a dying moan, 
 
 And death-yells oft repeated wildly roll, 
 
 though in mockery of the vanquished soul? — 
 
 Or is it Crime which brings in vengeance down 
 On the devoted head the curse of heaven ? 
 
 Is it the quailing at Jehovah's frown, 
 
 Fearful as lightning mat lias newh riven 
 
 in- throne of cloud ? An undesired renown, 
 Such a- o\ yore to murdering Cain was given, 
 
 2
 
 162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Marked on the brow in characters of shame, 
 Singling the victim of the missioned tiame. 
 
 Perchance 'tis none of these — we cannot look 
 With eye undazzled on the humblest page 
 
 Which Providence inscribes — and few can brook 
 To think that every step from youth to age 
 
 Is graven deeply in the Eternal book, 
 
 Whose records even angels cannot gauge, 
 
 Nor shall a puny mortal vainly dare 
 
 Assert the purpose of the judgments there. 
 
 No, humbly let us read, and strive to learn 
 The heavenly lessons every day unseals, — 
 
 Why should we ask for more, the while we spurn 
 The plainest truths Omnipotence reveals ? 
 
 Is it not impious to strive to turn 
 
 Backward the cover with its seven seals, 
 
 To scan with pride the archives of the sky, 
 
 Or question the designs of Deity ? 
 
 Has He not written in His holy word 
 
 Truths that will guide the soul to heavenly rest ? 
 Lives not the pattern of our glorious Lord, 
 
 With rich compassion glowing in his breast ? 
 Have we not often read, or known, or heard, 
 
 How he performed the Father's high behest — 
 How as a sacrificial Lamb he died, 
 And Mercy poured in fountains from His side.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1G."5 
 
 Has He not bidden us, while lingering here, 
 To feed the hungry, to relieve the poor, 
 
 To hush the orphan's sigh, to wipe the tear, 
 To solace those whose course is well nigh o'er, 
 
 To whisper to the widow at the bier, 
 
 Of lands where those that love shall part no more : 
 
 Though crime be written on some guilty brow, 
 
 Still is it ours to mitigate his woe.
 
 164 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 ODE TO ALBION. 
 
 Hail ! Albion, hail ! thou child of the sea, 
 Surrounded by Ocean, the joyous, the free, 
 The Island of Beauty, the home of the brave, 
 The scourge of oppression, the friend of the slave ; 
 Pure are thy breezes, as soft Summer's smile, 
 Hail thee ! my native home — Liberty's Isle! 
 
 Hail ! Albion, hail ! when storms shall blow wild, 
 And sing their hoarse song to the Nereid child ; 
 It shall be but a lullaby, Britain, to thee, 
 It shall whisper repose to the land of the free ; 
 Firm are thy bulwarks, and strong is thy form, 
 Proof to the tempest, unmoved by the storm. 
 
 Hail ! Albion, hail ! when foemen shall come, 
 And bid thee to battle " by trumpet and drum," 
 Still as brave are thy hosts, and thy warriors as bold, 
 As are told of in story of regions of old, — 
 Aye, they shall conquer, and minstrelsy wild 
 Shall hail thee, oh, Albion ! Victory's child. 
 
 Hail ! Albion, hail ! when peace is thy lot, 
 How dear are thy vales, and one's own lonely grot, 
 Where Earth's fond affection, made holy, may twine 
 Sacred garlands of love for each bosom of thine :
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 
 
 Then the bright herald of Peace from above 
 
 Shall bail thee more honoured, the birth-place of Love. 
 
 Hail ! Albion, hail ! the Day Star is thine, 
 
 Thou hast sprung where the beams of its healing may 
 
 shine, 
 And the light of the Truth is the crown that shall glow 
 With the purest of lustre to circle thy brow ; 
 Thine be the glory, yea, thine to proclaim 
 To nations afar our Emmanuel's name.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 HOW SADLY LONE AFAR TO DWELL. 
 
 " How sadly lone afar to dwell 
 
 Away beyond the sea, 
 Where all is strange — in mount or dell, 
 
 In fruit, and flower, and tree ; 
 Ah ! me, I would not wander there — 
 'Twould almost force me to despair/' 
 
 Nay ! nay ! such lot, though somewhat lone, 
 
 Need surely not be sad, — 
 There, too, might breathe Affection's tone, 
 
 And there we might be glad ; 
 The self-same feelings may be there 
 That soothe at homo the voice of care. 
 
 What though, perchance, another land 
 
 Presents another view, 
 Where goodly trees that round us stand 
 
 Wear an unwonted hue, — 
 And strange to us the trailing flowers 
 That cluster round our foreign bowers, — 
 
 What though the plaintive winds that sigh 
 
 Speak not of homes afar, 
 We lift our trusting glance on high, 
 
 We view the self same star
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 167 
 
 That on our birth-place flung its glow 
 Only a little while ago. 
 
 And far beyond those glittering gems, 
 
 That stud the vault of night, 
 We look for glorious diadems 
 
 Of heaven's unfading light, 
 Winch God, the righteous judge, prepares, 
 In answer to a Saviour's prayers. 
 
 The self-same God, the self-same faith, 
 
 The self-same hope are ours, — 
 We credit what our Maker saith, 
 
 Just as in England's bowers ; 
 Then why should sadness bow the heart 
 Of forest-dwellers far apart ? 
 
 The rolling waters have not riven 
 
 The tender ties of earth, 
 But closer linked with hopes of heaven 
 
 They gain a richer worth ; 
 \nd in the wilderness despair 
 Flees, as we bind those ties with prayer.
 
 168 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SPELL. 
 
 I hear the soft chords of a lyre from afar, 
 
 That scarce stay to whisper the tones they have made, 
 
 Like the glimmering light of a beautiful star, 
 
 That lends but a gleam to the depth of the shade. 
 
 I hear the soft chords, but the Harper is still, 
 Nor warbles the minstrel a song to his lyre — 
 
 My soul is awaking — the musical thrill 
 Has lent to my bosom a spark of its fire. 
 
 My soul is awaking ! I see from afar, 
 
 The brightest and best of the daughters above, 
 The river of light from the beautiful star, 
 
 That wakens the notes of the music of love. 
 
 My soul is awaking ! a spark of its fire 
 
 Has perished the flax that enfettered my will, 
 
 My soul is awaking — my voice and my lyre, 
 In numbers of wildness shall answer the thrill.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ] 60 
 
 SUSPICION. 
 
 And dost thou then suspect me now ? 
 
 And would'st thou have me stand aloof ? 
 Suspicion leads to broken vow, 
 
 And thus affords suspicion proof! 
 
 But proof of what ? — That she can fling 
 The poison of her own dark shade 
 
 Over an angel's purest wing, 
 
 Then blame the blot herself has made. 
 
 Oli, cursed the suspicious breast ! 
 
 In others its own image glares, 
 And thus some pure transparent mind 
 
 Reflects the vice it never shares. 
 
 Suspect ! if you would have a crime 
 Committed by the crimeless now — 
 
 Thus shall you stamp, at earliest time, 
 Resolve to sin on stainless brow.
 
 170 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE PRAYER OF THE INFIDEL. 
 
 Tell me, oh, Lethe ! where thy waters glide — 
 
 Is it o'er sandy plains, 
 Where the rude desert stretches wide, 
 
 And solitude in grandeur reigns ? 
 
 Is it along some deep, some wild ravine, 
 
 Where scarce a footstep wends — 
 Some bare and rugged rocks between, 
 
 Where night her hue of blackness lends ? 
 
 Oh ! tell me where they glide, that I may drink 
 
 Of that oblivious stream, 
 And leave upon its misty brink 
 
 The sad remembrance of my dream. 
 
 Forgetfulness ! is solitude thy home, 
 
 Deep in the mountain cave ? 
 Or must thy broken Pilgrim roam, 
 
 To seek thee in the silent grave ? 
 
 Oh ! tell me where to find thy calm repose, 
 
 A refuge from despair, 
 And let oblivion hide my woes — 
 
 Conceal from mortal eyes my care.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 
 
 I'd wander to some lonely shore afar, 
 
 But 'twere in vain — for yet 
 The ray of that same evening star 
 Would dare my memory to forget. 
 
 Could I but find thy dread and fated stream, 
 
 My soul should drink its fill, 
 Drown the fierce image of its dream, 
 
 And in the calm of death be still.
 
 172 MISCELLANEOUS l'l/KMs. 
 
 WELCOME TO THE PENITENT RESTORED 
 
 Erring child of that creation, 
 Where the great Redeemer died, 
 
 Thou hast sought and found salvation, 
 Welling from his pierced side. 
 
 Thou hast poured out floods of sorrow, 
 Breathed the penetential sigh — 
 
 Here the day-time knows no morrow, 
 Tears are wiped from every eye. 
 
 Jesus, source of restoration ! 
 
 Stooped and laid his glory by, 
 Yearning o'er a guilty nation 
 
 Justice had condemned to die. 
 
 Breathing words of consolation, 
 
 Speaking to the wounded soul, 
 " I will heal thy desolation, 
 
 Wash and I will make thee whole." 
 
 Thou hast cleansed thy spotted spirit 
 
 In the fountain of His blood — 
 Welcome ! welcome to inherit 
 
 Bliss before the throne of God.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 
 
 Join the angel band in raising 
 Anthems to His sacred name, 
 
 Through Eternal ages praising 
 Jesus Christ the dying Lamb. 
 
 p 'J
 
 174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 FOR ST. ANDREW'S DAY. 
 
 Mark i. Ki — 18. 
 
 Along the borders of the sea 
 The humble Jesus strayed, 
 
 Where fishermen of Galilee 
 Essayed their lowly trade — 
 
 The net was cast — the brethren twain 
 
 Forgot to draw that net again : 
 
 For He, the stranger on the strand, 
 With gentle accents spake, 
 
 Yet gentlest tones were like command, 
 And they their all forsake ; 
 
 Not faithless these, not worldly men, 
 
 Who look for recompense again. 
 
 No tarrying theirs ! The voice that bade 
 Those honoured brethren first, 
 
 Was heard, and soon as heard obeyed 
 By these 'mid storm-winds nursed ; 
 
 No pause, no question uttered, they 
 
 Dared follow Him without delay.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POF.MS. 17") 
 
 Where now an Andrew thus prepared 
 To go where God's own word mav call? 
 
 And where the Saint that late hath dared 
 For thing's of Christ to give up all ? 
 
 Such spirit, gracious Lord! renew, 
 
 That we may serve as promptly too.
 
 176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 FOR ST. THOMAS' DAY. 
 
 John xx. 19. 
 
 The doors were closed ; in heavenward prayer 
 Breathed every voice that whispered there ; 
 
 With bended knee, and lifted eye, 
 They sought the blessing that is given 
 
 When faith undoubting mounts on high 
 And claims the promised boon from heaven : 
 And is there one lone kneeler there 
 Who doubts the influence of prayer ? 
 
 Jehovah hears ! the God most high 
 Is listening from his throne of sky, 
 
 That Jesus, whom the Jews had slain, 
 Takes the petitions as they rise : 
 
 He died, but now he lives again ! 
 Preparing mansions in the skies — 
 And can they doubt that He is there, 
 To answer every rising prayer. 
 
 Some lingering doubt, some boding fear, 
 Unuttered, yet the Lord can hear !
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 
 
 Swift in the midst the Saviour stands — 
 He lives ! He lives ! who once has died, 
 
 See where the nails have torn his hands ! 
 See where the spear has pierced his side ! 
 He comes to teach the doubter there, 
 That Jesus lives to answer prayer.
 
 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 PARAPHRASE ON JOB VIII. 8—22. 
 
 Examine records of the former age ; 
 In search of knowledge turn to history's page ; 
 There shalt thou find accumulated store 
 Of past experience, and traditioned lore ; 
 Our rising sun, unshaded by a cloud, 
 Before the evening darkens in the shroud ; 
 The meagre present lends no certain ray, 
 To us the creatures of the passing day ; 
 Yet turn to Nature, read the letters fair, 
 The tomes of wisdom that are written there. 
 Consider ! can the marsh-engendered rush 
 Spring in its freshness where no waters gush ? 
 Look how it glitters in the mid-day sheen, 
 With polished surface and resplendent green, 
 Yet what decays so deeply and so soon, 
 A withered mockery ere to-morrow's noon ? 
 
 Thus shall the hypocrite,' whose feet hath trod 
 The devious paths that lead his heart from God, 
 Find that his hope is perished, and his stay 
 Swept as the spider's feeble web away. 
 The day of trouble comes, his outstretched hand 
 Leans on a sand-built house that cannot stand, 
 In arrogant self-righteousness secure, 
 He trusts a fabric that shall not endure.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 
 
 — Though while the sun a cheering radiance flings, 
 The blooming shoot in green luxuriance springs, 
 And branches waving with abundant flowers, 
 Adorn his garden in the sunshine hours, — 
 Yet since his roots in hidden windings creep, 
 With fibres circling round a stoney heap, 
 Whence not the frugal plant with secret toil 
 Can draw fresh vigour from the barren soil, 
 If genial showers no longer dew the ground, 
 Nor spring diffuse its mellowed warmth around, 
 The plant is blasted by the chilly night, 
 Or shrinks to nothing at excess of light. 
 Then as he falls, his impious thought denies 
 The joyous influence of summer skies, 
 Yet shall he moulder on his parent Earth, 
 To form a Nidus for another's birth. 
 
 Behold the Majesty of Heaven will fill 
 His cup with bitterness who hates His will, 
 Whilst he who studies to perform His word, 
 Shall reap the blessings of a gracious Lord ; 
 His heart o'erflowing shall attune his voice 
 And teach his lips exulting to rejoice : 
 The vile shall envy his exalted name, 
 The men that hate him shall be clothed in shame, 
 The sinner's dwelling shall in vain be sought, 
 And proud hypocrisy be counted nought.
 
 180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 CHILDHOOD'S SCENES. 
 
 I. — MY BROTHER 
 
 Brother ! do you remember now 
 The ancient nut tree's fallen bough 
 That, while the thunder held its sound, 
 By lightning shivered, sought the ground, 
 Where, when the evening lent her hours, 
 Or joyous holiday was ours, 
 Beneath its lowly roofing shade 
 In summer we have often played ? 
 
 Do you remember when the chill 
 
 Of winter breezes stayed the rill, 
 
 And we no longer cared to meet 
 
 In summer's shadow-loved retreat, 
 
 But rather sped with rapid run 
 
 To warmer sports of childish fun, 
 
 What pleasure stirred when met our view 
 
 The hoops we wished for, firm and new ? 
 
 Brother ! perchance you may forget, 
 But there my memory lingers yet, 
 And oft in hour of solitude 
 Will mourn o'er past ingratitude.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181 
 
 You from ;i fragment of our shade 
 In shapely form a hoop-stick marie, 
 And joying in a brother's glee, 
 You gave the finished toy to me. 
 
 And I was grateful then, and felt 
 My heart with warm emotion melt ; 
 But soon in momentary fray 
 All softer feeling fled away ; 
 With infant rage, in passion's might, 
 It grew the weapon of my spite, 
 And Evening saw it deal the blow 
 Full on a guiltless brother's brow. 
 
 You wept, and passion lost its sway, 
 
 I came to wipe your tears away, 
 
 And deeply wept myself the while : 
 
 Your sorrow softened to a smile, 
 
 You knew I loved you, though my heart 
 
 Would oft to sudden fury start, 
 
 And my repentant tears I know, 
 
 As you forgave me, healed the blow. 
 
 'Twas a stern moment lent to prove 
 The richness and the depth of love ; 
 1 did not know a brother's worth 
 Till the harsh usage called it forth ; 
 And tears so sweet, so bitter met 
 My soul can never more forget. 
 
 Q
 
 182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Oh, while I tune the simple strain, 
 
 I seem to be a child again, 
 
 And memory, as she lingers here, 
 
 Lets fall upon the page a tear : 
 
 Not the rude tear of bitterness, 
 
 Nor burning drop of harsh distress, 
 
 And scarcely such as sorrow knows, 
 
 But that which softly, pensive flows 
 
 When recollected evil swells 
 
 The stream from pleasure's brimming wells, 
 
 A sacred feeling born of bliss 
 
 Calmly attends a tear like this,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 
 
 CHILDHOODS SCENES. 
 
 II. — MV SISTER. 
 
 When Autumn seemed to long to pour 
 Down from the trees her yellow store, 
 And each delighted youngster there 
 Claimed from the loaded bough a share : 
 Once I had asked for liberty, — 
 School was a prison then to me 
 That would not give my lip to taste 
 The first-fruits of Pomona's feast. 
 
 With bursting heart, and wounded pride, 
 I found my urgent suit denied, 
 So bootless was my boyish boast 
 Of all the codlings I would roast ! 
 And how, permitted, I should eat 
 Fresh from the tree the pippin sweet, 
 And how my little mates might share 
 The waxy plumb or juicy pear. 
 
 At length the given task was done, 
 The West was waiting for the sun, 
 As though she stretched her rosy arms 
 To bid him welcome to her charms.
 
 184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 T saw the bridegroom sinking low, 
 But gloom was on my sullen brow, 
 Because beneath each rifled tree 
 No gathered fruit remained for me. 
 
 I saw my little Sister pass 
 Delighted o'er the orchard grass, 
 While envy, like an evil spell, 
 Forced my proud spirit to rebel. 
 — She boi'e her treasure to a shrine 
 Of branches I had claimed as mine ; 
 I marked her lightly bound away, 
 Nor could I longer brook delay ; 
 Deeply with jealous envy stung, 
 Away the gathered fruit I flung. 
 
 'Twas done with such malicious speed, 
 She did not mark the hated deed. — 
 But there was one, whose watchful eve 
 Had seen it done — and heaved a sigh : 
 " How could you, you ungrateful boy, 
 Your Sister's pleasure thus destroy. 
 While joyous o'er the green she flew. 
 Only to find and welcome you ? 
 Those she delighted to prepare 
 Only that you might taste your share." 
 
 There needed not a chiding tongue, 
 
 My feelings were too much o'erstrung, —
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 
 
 My heart relented. — While my cheeks, 
 Wet with the tear contrition seeks, 
 Told of repentance, Sister came, 
 And called her brother by his name. 
 — He gave an answering- warm embrace, 
 And wept in silence on her face ; 
 Awhile he wept — she strove to dry 
 The tear that glistened in his eye,- 
 But one upon another came, 
 As though to mock her tender aim, — 
 At length upon her bosom pale 
 He, sobbing deeply, told his tale. 
 
 No anger on her lip arose, 
 But, as the dew when Zephyr blows 
 Scarce trembles on a flowering stem, 
 So in her eye one sparkling gem 
 Just glistened brightly for a while, 
 Then blended softly with a smile, — 
 And she forgave me. Can I be, 
 While such a Sister lives for me, 
 Without some taste of holier bliss 
 Bright beaming o'er the dark abj -
 
 18(J MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 AFFECTION. 
 
 See ! Affection weaves 
 
 A garland of blushing leaves, 
 And on the wing of melody she comes, 
 
 Softly sound your flutes, 
 
 Strike your harps and your lutes, 
 Wake the murmur of your clarions, and the rolling of 
 your drums. 
 
 Hark ! the music roves 
 
 In the shade of myrtle groves ! 
 Louder and louder swells the symphony, — 
 
 From the womb of Earth, 
 
 It takes a second birth, 
 And bears its echoing accents to the bosom of the sea. 
 
 Softer grows the tone, 
 
 Like the sound of waters thrown 
 In the still moonlight down a steep cascade, 
 
 With the chastened swell 
 
 Of the eventide bell, 
 Sounding in mingled sweetness with the zephyr of the 
 glade. 
 
 Minstrel ! strike the wire, 
 Rouse, arouse ! thy sleeping lyre,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1S7 
 
 Fling back an echo to Affection's strain, 
 
 And with kindred "low. 
 
 Though the notes are more low, 
 To the whisper of her music awake the song again.
 
 188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SAINT JOHN THE EVANGELIST'S DAY. 
 
 Cast the bright beams of light divine 
 Over thy Church, oh, gracious Lord ! 
 
 And let unwonted brightness shine 
 Around the precepts of thy word. 
 
 Let that Apostle's holy page, 
 
 Who leant upon thy bosom here, 
 
 Shed radiance on our pilgrimage, 
 Till we before Thy throne appear. 
 
 THE INNOCENTS' DAY. 
 
 If, at Thy word, oh, God ! the babes grew strong, 
 And glorified in death Emmanuel's love, 
 
 Leaving this lower world to tune the song 
 
 Which hymns redemption's finished work above; 
 
 So, by the energy of strengthening grace, 
 May every lust beneath our feet be trod, 
 
 And we, with constant footsteps ever trace 
 The path of sorrow if it leads to God.
 
 ELLANEOUS POEMS. 189 
 
 IS IT HYPOCRISY? 
 
 Calm though the brow may seem to be, 
 It is uo proof of peace within, 
 
 The eye from shade of tear-drop free 
 May groan for hopes it ne'er shall win. 
 
 The life-pulse still may calmly beat, 
 Whilst o'er the sorrow-stricken soul 
 
 Shall pass the burning- Simoom's heat, 
 Or floods of chilling anguish roll. 
 
 Some of us are too mirror-like — 
 We sigh or smile at times, 'tis true, 
 
 Yet but the outward rays that strike 
 Give to us our chameleon hue. 
 
 I)eep are our spirit-feelings shrined — 
 We dare not give them to the gaze 
 
 Of a cold world that is too blind 
 To see the beauty of their blaze. 
 
 What is the world '.' 'tis falsehood all, 
 And those who tread its weary round, 
 
 \t its low shrine must stoop to fall. 
 Ami offer worship half profound.
 
 190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then do not blame the silent tongue, 
 Scorn not the seldom moving - eye — 
 
 Souls can be great, though scarcely strung 
 To bear a rude world's scrutiny. 
 
 Is it hypocrisy to be 
 
 Unchanged by every passing beam ? 
 Throb not those hearts most truthfully 
 
 Which careless ones unfeeling deem ? 
 
 Is it not lawful, then, to hide 
 
 The secrets of such tender heart ? 
 
 And wherefore is it counted pride 
 If one should feel and move apart ? 
 
 We may have sorrows all our own, 
 
 And woes we would not dare to tell, — 
 
 Some we can better bear alone, 
 And almost all can bear as well. 
 
 I would not ask from friends a tear — 
 What is to them my secret sadness ? 
 
 No ! I would hide it, and appear 
 
 Glad, till I join them in their gladness.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS EOEMS. 191 
 
 TRIFLES. 
 
 Who would forget the glade, 
 
 Where the hours of childhood passed, 
 
 Or cease to remember the beautiful shade 
 The trees of the garden cast ? 
 
 And who would spurn the flower, 
 
 That bears to his wearied eye 
 A token recalling the light of an hour 
 
 Of joy in the days passed by ? 
 
 Who would despise the tone 
 
 That the rippling streamlet throws, 
 Though the head of the fountain remains unknown, 
 
 And he knows not whither it flows ? 
 
 Who in a land afar 
 
 Would banish the soothing dream, 
 That comes like a voice from the radiant star, 
 
 On its long familiar beam ? 
 
 Or if with softened swell, 
 
 A strain that he loved to hear, 
 On the breezes were borne to the captive's cell, 
 
 Would the prisoner close his ear ?
 
 192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The feeblest gleam of light, 
 
 The softllest uttered sound, 
 May speak to the soul with a wonderful might, 
 
 And stir up its deeps profound. 
 
 Scorn not a trifle, then, — 
 
 For it has its destined power, 
 Though borne on the notes of a memoried strain, 
 
 Or linked with a scented flower.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 193 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 If disappointment, with malignant breath, 
 
 Breathe o'er thy bosom with its blighting power, 
 Then seek the woodland or the lonely heath, 
 
 Calm in the stillness of the Evening hour ; 
 Or if perchance some saddened thought, 
 With painful recollection fraught, 
 Sweeps o'er the confines of thy soul, 
 
 Then seek the valley where the waves 
 With murmuring music wildly roll, 
 Or rest upon the grassy bed, 
 
 Where, sleeping in unheeded graves, 
 Are those whose souls have onward sped. 
 
 There, as the streamlet seeks the sea, 
 
 The spirit may be borne away 
 To regions of Eternity, 
 
 Enjoyed by those whose bodies lie 
 So calmly slumbering in the clay, 
 
 There the bright hour, when she may fly 
 To other lands — comes dreamily, 
 
 And Time, with all its woe or bliss, 
 
 In such a sacred scene as this, 
 
 May scarcely venture to control, 
 
 The high aspirings of the soul. 
 
 K
 
 194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 FAREWELL, THOU DREAM OF BLISS! 
 
 Farewell, thou dream of bliss, 
 
 Of bliss no more for me, 
 But, oh ! let Memory fondly tell. 
 And Recollection catch the swell, 
 That tells of hope and thee, — 
 Again appear, 
 And wipe the tear, 
 That glistens in the eye to lure thy spirit here. 
 
 Farewell ! — I would forget, 
 But Memory lingers nigh, 
 And sadly sits at Sorrow's shrine, 
 Whilst Recollection claims for thine 
 The homage of a sigh : 
 
 Hopes that have sped 
 Where all is dead, 
 And ye visions of bliss that for ever are fled. 
 
 Farewell ! 'Twill soon be o'er, 
 
 I seek the silent vale, 
 They never may return — I deemed 
 That I was loved — but, ah ! I dreamed 
 False as the moonbeam pale. 
 Will hopes so dear 
 Again appear ? 
 Ah, no ! again farewell — once more a parting tear.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 195 
 
 Farewell ! — It is the last — 
 
 No tear shall dim the eye, 
 No sigh shall heave the weary breast, 
 But all be hushed in endless rest, 
 And every tear be dry, — 
 
 When tempests rave 
 Around my grave, 
 And spread oblivion o'er the bliss and woe ye gave.
 
 196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 Mark, where on the ocean sailing, 
 Some proud ship is wafted by, 
 
 Now is heard the plaint of wailing, 
 Murmurs now the lone one's sigh. 
 
 Many saddened hearts are leaviug 
 Friends, and home, and all behind, 
 
 Memory to the bosom heaving, 
 
 Brings their accents soft and kind. 
 
 Memory that may oft-times waken 
 Dreams of gladness and of bliss, 
 
 Whispers to the soul forsaken 
 
 Nought but woe in scene like this. 
 
 Melancholy may be dwelling 
 In the gloomy breast of one, 
 
 Doubt and fear his bosom swelling, 
 He ne'er dreams of danger done. 
 
 Tis a kind of moody madness, 
 Telling but of pain and woe, 
 
 Her attending nymph is sadness, 
 
 Ne'er mayst thou such sadness know.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 197 
 
 Thoughts that breathe of nought but sorrow, 
 
 Dire misfortune, blighting grief, 
 Never hoping that to-morrow 
 
 May afford her sweet relief. 
 
 But another may be dreaming, 
 
 Of a speedy voyage past, 
 Pleasure o'er the future gleaming, 
 
 Speeds in fancy onward fast. 
 
 Smiles he now — when some are weeping, 
 
 Hope is sparkling in his eye, 
 Sweetly on his pillow sleeping, 
 
 Fears not wind or stormy sky. 
 
 And the wilding waves of ocean 
 
 Only serve to speed his way, 
 Glad he marks their wild commotion, 
 
 As the distance fades away. 
 
 He whom every wave may frighten, 
 Sinks with sickness as they splash, 
 
 He who hopes each hour will brighten 
 Quails not at their wildest dash. 
 
 So on life's light vessel speeding 
 
 O'er the billowy sea of years, 
 He who every danger heeding, 
 
 Sinks desponding 'mid his fears. 
 
 R -2
 
 198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But though present scenes he glooming, 
 Hope may paint a brighter ray, 
 
 Pointing on to prospects blooming, 
 Gilded with some cheering ray. 
 
 He who dreams not of desponding 
 Safely speeds his voyage on, 
 
 Listening to Hope's responding, 
 Smiles and sees the danger gone.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 109 
 
 YOUTH AND MATURITY. 
 
 As on the lonely path of life we take 
 
 Our pilgrimage, in boyhood's day, when all is new, 
 Each wildly glancing dream seems but to make 
 
 Another source of joy — like morning's pearls of dew, 
 
 Reflecting back each tint the sunrise threw ; 
 Or like the landscape on some placid lake, 
 
 A single image that reflection drew, 
 When rippling breezes murmur by, 
 Seems at that breath to multiply. 
 
 And when those days of boyhood have heen swept 
 Down the first rolling eddy of the sea of years, 
 
 V> e wonder that misfortune should have slept 
 
 So long — for then, alas ! too soon the fiend appears, 
 To chase our smiles, or sadden them to tears ; 
 
 ,1 sweeps the desolating, simoom past, 
 And then the rude destructive tempest nears, — 
 
 Affliction's moan and Sorrow's sigh 
 
 Now "lily seem to multiply.
 
 200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 There is sorrow in Love when the smile that appears 
 Is only the prelude to anguish and tears, 
 And the eye that is brightest with beauty and gladness 
 Is destined to beam, and then darken to sadness. 
 
 There is falsehood in Love when the worm at the heart 
 In silent concealment is preying apart, 
 And the bosom that throbs with fond hope for to-morrow 
 Has visions of bliss, but must waken to sorrow. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 I never meant to touch the string again, 
 
 I deemed that I had tuned my last fond lay, 
 Love could no more awake the answering strain 
 
 Which poured unbidden in an earlier day — 
 
 I said that I had flung my harp away, 
 And started fairly in pursuit of gain, 
 
 Resolved to follow matters that would pay; 
 But soon the sordid passion in its train 
 Brought many a pang of bitterness and pain, 
 
 And in a disappointed mood, the sway 
 Of Poesy returned, no longer vain, 
 And bade me break my vow, and touch the string again.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 201 
 
 NOW IS THE DAY OF SALVATION. 
 
 Oh ! man attend ! The day of grace, 
 That passing 1 day speeds by apace, 
 
 Sbon must its light be o'er, — " 
 The Archangel waits to sound the alarm, 
 And swear by God's Almighty arm 
 
 That time shall be no more. 
 
 Cry, then for mercy now ! To-day 
 The Lord himself has deigned to say 
 
 He welcomes all that come, — 
 He pardons sin and soothes distress, 
 The naked clothes with righteousness. 
 
 And leads the wanderers home. 
 
 Jesus, our Saviour, Conqueror, King, 
 
 Has phucked from Death his vengeful sting, 
 
 Not for himself, but you ; 
 For yo,u he holds the sword and shield, 
 To guard you through earth's hostile field, 
 
 And make you conqueror too.
 
 202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 FOURTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 
 
 Walk in the Spirit of your God, 
 And that shall make you free ; 
 
 Beneath your feet shall sin be trod, 
 Your fleshly lusts shall flee. 
 
 The Spirit wars against the flesh, 
 
 Hating its low desires, 
 Beholds the Saviour bleed afresh, 
 
 And towards its home aspires. 
 
 The thoughts of flesh are all unclean, 
 
 Idolatrous and vile, 
 Angry, seditious, and obscene, 
 
 Mingled with murderous guile. 
 
 These are the foes that dash the bowl 
 
 Of mercy from our hand, 
 And stay the progress of the soul 
 
 To yonder happy land. 
 
 But fruits of peace and heavenly joy, 
 Meekness, and faith, and love, 
 
 Will the enlightened heart employ, 
 And these shall live above.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 203 
 
 THE STORMY SEA. 
 
 Go wander by the stormy wave, 
 
 Look out across the sea, 
 See how those billowy breakers rave ! 
 
 While winds sweep furiously — 
 Hast thou a friend whose valued life 
 Is trusted to that angry strife ? 
 
 Can you forget that now his eye 
 May turn in thought to you, 
 
 And doubt may almost wake a sigh, 
 Whether you still be true 
 
 As when you wandered hand in hand, 
 
 Ere bidding farewell on the strand. 
 
 Oh ! will you for a moment say 
 That now you would not share 
 
 The privilege to kneel and pray 
 With him the trusting prayer, 
 
 That both may join and ever be 
 
 Where there is no more stormy sea ? 
 
 And if at night you start from sleep, 
 When the wild winds are high, 
 
 Remember those that plough the deep, 
 Beneath that threatening sky,
 
 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Think how they gaze on storm and cloud, 
 When lightnings wake the thunder loud. 
 
 Think of the peril each one feels, 
 When tossed from side to side, 
 
 Scared as the quivering vessel reels, 
 Forgetful of its pride ! 
 
 And raise a prayer for those th&t so 
 
 The might of mighty ocean know, 
 
 And ask that these may then obtain 
 
 A sense that God is near, 
 Ask that the God who rules the main, 
 
 Would soothe their anxious fear : 
 That He whom winds and waves obey, 
 Would still protect them on their way.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 205 
 
 WHERE IS THE PLACE FOR SONG? 
 
 Where is the place for song ? — Amid the bowers 
 Of holiest solitude, where down the rocks 
 
 Leaps the soft whispering stream, and to the dowers 
 Tells its untiring tale ? Or where the Hocks 
 Roam uncontrolled ? — where the soft echo mocks 
 
 The Pilgrim's music ? — where the owlet grey 
 Screams its wild note of fear ? or where the fox 
 
 Hides her young brood, and tears her stolen prey, 
 
 Far from the busy town, far from mankind away ? 
 
 What is the time for song ? When Evening sheds 
 
 Her dewy softness o'er the closing day, 
 When weary flowrets bow their perfumed heads, 
 
 And glimmers o'er the lake the star's first ray ? 
 
 Or when at early hour o'er meadows grey 
 The morning light on every dew-gem gleams ? 
 
 Or when the queen of night assumes her sway, 
 And Fancy shapes a thousand wayward dreams ? 
 Or when from noonday sun the flood of lustre streams ? 
 
 Each time, each place, accordetli well with song, 
 Its wide dominion is one general sway, 
 
 Nor breathes unheeded in the bustling throng, 
 Nor speaks in vain to lone ones far away — 
 
 s
 
 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 It lives when joy is present — when we long 
 
 For pleasures past — or when in thought we stray 
 Onward to other times, whose cloudless years 
 Will need no rainbow since they know no tears. 
 
 Where cruelty, and wrong, and bitter strife, 
 'Mid crowded cities stare us in the face ; 
 
 Or pining want, hard struggling after life, 
 Tells of our country's error or disgrace, 
 
 Where sorrow treads and infamy is rife, 
 
 Hope sings a siren strain — and in the place 
 
 Of angry feeling at our brothers' woes, 
 
 The tear we shed with better prospect glows. 
 
 Oh, think not that the lyre we feebly sweep, 
 Hath in its numbers no unearthly power — 
 
 It hath a spell — for we should often weep, 
 Had we no fragment of the Poet's dower. 
 
 Its music heard, rude Passion sinks to sleep, 
 And calmness grows amid the stormiest hour, 
 
 Restraining evil thought by gentlest sway, 
 
 Till the suggestive ill has passed away.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 207 
 
 BEFORE RAIN. 
 
 The distant hills are clear to-day, 
 
 Each outline marked, each boundary seen, 
 Each field distinct, each winding way 
 
 Is viewed the meadowy tints between. 
 The sky beyond is cool and grey, 
 
 Whilst mountain sides are warm and green,- 
 These bask beneath the sunny ray, 
 
 Whilst moving clouds that intervene 
 Fling their soft shadows as they play, 
 
 And yet so fleeting that they seem 
 
 Only like mists upon a dream, 
 Obscuring pleasure but to pass away 
 
 And leave it lovelier still. — 
 There is the yellow of the corn 
 
 Half ripened to its Autumn hue, 
 And purpling tints will now adorn 
 The branches of the berried thorn, 
 
 A neutral shade in far off view — 
 
 And silver-like is seen the rill, 
 So much remote that were its gush 
 The stream-force of a torrent's rush ; 
 Its murmur would not reach the ear, 
 
 Though silence reigns upon the earth, 
 And vision deems its course so near, 
 
 That we are lured to trace it to its birth.
 
 208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 APPEARANCES. 
 
 As in the Summer's sunny hours, 
 The marsh is purpled o'er with flowers, 
 And freshly green the verdure spreads 
 Beneath the venturous foot that treads : 
 So pleasure flings its richest hloom 
 Over the pathway to the tomb, 
 And he who all unconscious dares 
 The hidden peril of its snares, 
 May in that pleasant pasture find 
 All that seems beautiful and kind ; — 
 And the soft path, and verdant way, 
 May lure him to a longer stay. 
 On, onward still, his footsteps press, 
 In search of promised happiness, 
 Till soon amid the quagmire's cheat 
 No solid ground awaits his feet, 
 And, sinking in the treacherous mire, 
 He rues the longings of desire ; — 
 The green luxuriance but conceals 
 The death the sinking victim feels. 
 — Judge not of pleasure by its face, 
 Danger may lurk in loveliest place.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 209 
 
 ALTERED FROM "THOM." 
 
 (FOR MUSIC.) 
 
 When dark is the wood and all starless the sky, 
 
 When the rustling- leaves falling - , forsake every tree, 
 We'll meet, but not whisper of seasons gone by, 
 
 Nor of friends that again we may never more see ; 
 No weak word of mine shall recall back to thee 
 Thy vows that were made and were broken to me ; 
 I'll seem in my silence to reckon them dead, 
 All withered and lost as the leaves that we tread. 
 
 Alone you must meet me, when midnight is near, 
 By yon blighted old bush we so fatally know, 
 The voice that allured me, oh ! let me not hear, 
 
 For my heart must not beat to its music of woe. 
 In darkness we'll meet, and in silence remain, 
 Each word and each look now were mockful and vain ; 
 One mute moment mourn o'er the dream that misled, 
 Then sever as cold as the leaves that we tread. 
 
 S -
 
 210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 I know not why the dying year 
 
 Has thrilling charms for me, 
 1 know not why the desert drear 
 
 Awakes my minstrelsy. 
 
 I know not why the Autumn day, 
 
 When softening into night, 
 Has o'er my soul a kindlier sway 
 
 Than Summer's sunshine light. 
 
 I know not why the wailing moan 
 
 Of tempest winds should stir, 
 Deeply within a softer tone 
 
 Than Spring's own harbinger. 
 
 Perchance the melancholy note 
 
 May find an answering thrill, 
 From chords that stir, though never smote 
 
 By happy Minstrel's skill. 
 
 Perchance 'tis even sweet to muse, 
 
 On age's cold decay, 
 Perchance the spirit can but choose 
 
 To bound or shrink away.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 211 
 
 Perchance exulting in the gale, 
 
 When Autumn leaves are driven, 
 As token of the mourner's wail, 
 
 When Earth's last ties are riven ; 
 
 Perchance rejoicing in the waste 
 
 Beside the lonely wave, 
 Since nothing checks the pilgrim's haste, 
 
 Down to his quiet grave ; 
 
 Or rather that the secret breast 
 
 Is somewhat weaned from clay, 
 And, longing for a home more blest, 
 
 Wins a fore-tokening ray. 
 
 And that one ray enkindling there 
 
 Glad thoughts of sacred things, 
 The spirit glows with ardent prayer, 
 
 And then the full heart sings.
 
 212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Floating on the breath of Spring, 
 Scarcely moves thy painted wing, 
 Hovering o'er the homes of flowers, 
 Joyous in the sunshine hours, 
 Resting only where the rose 
 Its earliest leaf of velvet shows, 
 Or where the yellow daffodil, 
 The last that bloomed, is lingering still 
 Or fluttering where the daisy peeps, 
 In verdant fields or grassy steeps, 
 Thine are only sunshine hours, 
 Blithe companion of the flowers ; 
 Winter's snow and angry storm 
 May not touch thy fragile form, 
 Happier thou ! 'tis thine to die 
 With the Summer's farewell sigh.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 213 
 
 PASTORAL SERENADE. 
 
 Arise ! oh, my fair one, and come away, 
 The snow is all past, and the rain is gone ; 
 
 The carolling hird at the dawn of day 
 
 Tells that the frosts of winter have flown, — 
 Oh ! why, my beloved, am I left alone ? 
 
 Arise ! oh, my fair one, and come away, 
 
 Join me to welcome the dawning of spring ; 
 
 Haste, haste ! my beloved, and let us stray, 
 Where florets their mingled perfumes fling, 
 And the honey-bee sails on his gauzy wing. 
 
 Arise ! oh, my fair one, and come away, 
 
 For the time of the singing of birds is now, 
 
 And the voice of the turtle at close of day 
 Is heard on the tree-clad mountain's brow, 
 Where murmurs of echo are answering low. 
 
 Arise! oh, my fair one, — I'd go with thee, 
 
 W here the joyous flocks on the mountain stray ; 
 
 The pearl and the ruhy are not for me, 
 
 Hut gems of the morn-dew are fair as they — 
 Oh, arise ! my beloved, and come away.
 
 214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Though humble my home, and there comes not there 
 The splendour of pomp with its proud display, 
 
 Yet chased are the mists of corroding care 
 By bright content, with its gladdened ray, 
 Oh, arise ! then, my loved one, and come away. 
 
 I have wandered alone in the winter keen, 
 
 I have marked where the mountain torrent flows, 
 
 I have trod where the Fairies' feet have been, 
 I have seen their revels, and I know 
 Where the choicest flowers of the forest grow. 
 
 I have climbed the crag, and have scaled the steep, 
 And I know the home of the nestling dove ; 
 
 I know where the young of the Eagles sleep — 
 The vales below, and the rocks above, 
 Are the native realms of the Goddess of Love. 
 
 I know where the rose and the lily twine, 
 And I know of a dearer flower than those — 
 
 The hand of affection would place in thine, 
 The fairest floret the lover knows — 
 And I ken where that beautiful floret grows. 
 
 We will tend our flocks in the lonely vale, 
 
 We will watch where the bounding lambkins stray, 
 
 And voice of woe shall not dare to assail 
 The Maiden I claim as Queen of May, — 
 Arise ! then, my loved one, and let us away.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 215 
 
 PRIDE AND MODESTY. 
 
 A violet long neglected laid 
 Beneath a haughty rose's shade, 
 And seemed no more to promise bloom 
 Than those we carry to the tomb. 
 
 It is as though some deadly blight 
 Dwells in the absence of the light, 
 And that one lonely hidden flower 
 Is made the victim of its power, 
 Whilst every sun that brightly glows 
 Gives its caresses to the rose. 
 
 Each passer marked the blushing leaf, 
 That shone like smiles which heed not grief, 
 And never guessed that humble worth 
 Might hide beneath it on the earth. 
 
 A storm-wind comes, and o'er the rose 
 
 Fiercely and long the tempest blows, 
 
 Till, as a ruin overthrown, 
 
 Its stem is rent, its petals strewn, 
 
 And no admiring' passer by 
 
 Turns on the wreck a loving eye.
 
 216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But now the morning- sunbeams steal 
 
 Down on the violet slowly, 
 As though they came to kiss and heal 
 
 A thing so meek and lowly, 
 And perfume from the modest flower 
 
 Lures gentle ones to seek tlie gem, 
 To make it for its transient hour 
 
 The glory of their diadem. 
 
 Another year from that low root 
 Numbers of scented buds shall shoot, 
 And not one branch of envious rose 
 Shall ever dare to interpose, 
 When Spring-tide's sun in softness glows.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 217 
 
 ON A FRAGMENT OF TESSELATED PAVEMENT 
 
 W iiy is it that a Fragment which is flung 
 Unheeded by the workman from the trench 
 He digs, attracts the passer's notice ? Why 
 Seems it of worth to him — that piece of pavement? 
 
 He stores it carefully, and ponders much 
 On its first origin. 'Twas formed of old, 
 Perchance when Roman legions held our land, 
 Or when Phoenician merchants sought our shores ; 
 Or even, haply, when some unknown race 
 Were skilled in arts not given to our sires. 
 It may be it was formed upon the spot, 
 Or borne by Pilgrim from beyond the sea, 
 Or washed ashore by ocean's heaving wave, 
 Or in the paunch of monster of the deep 
 Carried securely from some distant land — 
 The passer knows not whence it is — but still 
 It bears him back to hoar antiquity, 
 To vears he cannot reckon. It may be 
 Even a relic of the earlier world 
 Deposited within the infant Earth 
 Long ere the Deluge swept its furrowed surface. 
 
 The workman views it as a worthless potsherd ; 
 The mere collector counts its money-value ; 
 
 T
 
 218 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Antiquary tries to trace its era, 
 
 Assigning it a suppositious date, 
 
 And learnedly discusses signs that mark 
 
 The fragment to belong to this or that. 
 
 Not for its beauty but reputed age 
 
 It wins his notice : beautiful it is 
 
 And must be, if 'tis very, very old. 
 
 Yet would he too, all heedless, fling aside 
 
 The still more ancient fragment of a world 
 
 Peopled and swept away ere man was formed — 
 
 Fragment of that which once was full of life, 
 
 Of that which lived, and moved, and had its being, 
 
 In some huge lake, raising its sinuous bulk 
 
 To tangle in its wide expanded jaws 
 
 Its floating food. Oh ! very, very old 
 
 Are these, and yet they cannot win 
 
 The favour of an Antiquarian eye. 
 
 They do not speak of things akin to man — 
 
 They bear us, truly, into regions wild 
 
 Of airy speculation, but man's mind 
 
 Has graven upon these no signature. 
 
 We do discern a message from the past 
 
 In every fragment which the hand of man 
 
 Has moulded ; and could we but decipher 
 
 Their mvstic meaning, what a flood of truth 
 
 And long-lost knowledge might these things convey. 
 
 While we would honour those who strive to read 
 These hieroglyphics of the past — to us
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 219 
 
 They speak in other language, and impart 
 
 Material for high thought. Imagination 
 
 Weaves round each crumbling - ruin lovely visions, 
 
 Couples each fondly with departed scenes, 
 
 Waits not for History's sanction to resolve 
 
 How far correct has been her favourite guess ; 
 
 She does not pause for Science accurate 
 
 To stamp approval on her thought instinctive, 
 
 Her inward testimony proof enough 
 
 That there is something of the vanished past 
 
 Called into life again by that same fragment. 
 
 We view the dimly-lighted cell, where rites 
 
 Of ancient superstition had their home, 
 
 Where haply the oracular response 
 
 Was breathed to anxious querists ; and we see 
 
 The idol-fane, and native worshippers, 
 
 Round-thronging, helpless suppliants to their God, 
 
 Whilst on their shores, like blasts of desolation, 
 
 Descends the conquering foe. How came they hither ? 
 
 Some demon-power has wafted them along ! 
 
 They have a might exceeding that of men ! 
 
 What can the simple tribes affrighted do 
 
 To oppose their coming ? To the holy shrine 
 
 The nobles haste, and clustering warriors there 
 
 Await the onslaught. Now the painted roof 
 
 Yields its last echo to the heathen's prayer — 
 
 The flame shall soon devour it : and the floor, 
 
 Garnished with all Idolatry's rude art, 
 
 Crushed by the iron tread of mailed men,
 
 220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Is broken into fragments. Is it one 
 
 Of these we hold ? Did this, perchance, receive 
 
 The parting footfall of the Pythoness, — 
 
 What time, infuriate as the raging foe, 
 
 She fled the scene, and left her malediction ? 
 
 Or else we picture gentler scenes than this ; 
 
 The decorated dwelling of the fair, 
 
 Where light and joyous footsteps loved to glide 
 
 To the rude music of those earlier days. 
 
 We catch bright glances from young sunny eyes, 
 
 And fancy we can see them answered too, — 
 
 Fond feelings then had found a dwelling-place 
 
 In human hearts — and on this broken tile 
 
 There haply may have fallen many a tear 
 
 Gushing from very rapture ; many a smile 
 
 Reciprocating others, may have gemmed 
 
 The hall where this was placed. We view the thr 
 
 Of gleesome revellers at some high feast — 
 
 Perhaps it is a happy nuptial day — 
 
 No cloud appears, the sky is all serene, 
 
 All is one promise of continuous joy. 
 
 But by and bye a melancholy moan, 
 
 A trembling of the ground, a voice of wind, 
 
 Fire flashing from the rocks — at once proclaim 
 
 The Earthquake's devastating sweep at hand 
 
 All, all are swallowed up ! — the lofty tower 
 
 Totters to its foundation — homes of pleasure 
 
 Are desolated now. This scrap may be 
 
 The only relic which shall ever greet 
 
 One human eye again.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 221 
 
 And how much more, 
 Were we to yield explicitly to Fancy's rule, 
 Might yet be conj ured up ! 
 
 In visions dim, 
 Yet bt-autiful and terrible, scenes come before us 
 That mock the cold realities of life • 
 Whene'er we see such relic. Therefore we 
 Would nut unheeded pass the fragment by.
 
 222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SNOW-FLAKE. 
 
 A beautiful Snow-flake, as pure and as white 
 
 As when it was formed in its frosty height, 
 
 Came wheeling and whirling round and round, 
 
 As though it were fearful to reach the ground, 
 
 And awhile it danced on the wintry air, 
 
 As though it were joyously lingering there ; 
 
 But at length it sank to the cradling earth, 
 
 From whence it sprang in its vapoury birth ; 
 
 And there as a fair lone thing it lay — 
 
 (Like the first white hair when the head turns grey, 
 
 Till one by one its fellows come there, 
 
 And we wonder in vain for the raven hair :) 
 
 But while we gaze on the stainless dress 
 
 That clothes the earth with its loveliness, 
 
 As the sunbeams glow on the white snow-wreath, 
 
 What dark pollution is forming beneath ! 
 
 And that which was pure as the earliest ray 
 
 Is sullied and mingled with earthly clay, 
 
 And thence an unsightly current glides 
 
 To join the waves of the muddy tides, 
 
 Till nothing of purity, beauty, or light 
 
 Remains to the Snow-flake once brilliantly white, — 
 
 'Tis a thing of the world, and the loveliness given 
 
 Could only endure by its union with heaven.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 223 
 
 Oh, emblem of warning ! how many we know 
 Who once seemed as pure and as stainless as snow, 
 Who awhile held aloof from the world and its snares, 
 Who would not, they thought, be engrossed by its cares; 
 Yet sinking, at length became mixed with the throng, 
 And learnt without fear to partake in its wrong ; 
 Then yielding still more, by degrees would give way 
 To the sunny temptation of revelry's sway, 
 And all that was lovely and pure has been gone, 
 Like the bright Flake of Snow when the warm sun has 
 shone.
 
 224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 HALLOWED LOVE. 
 
 There was a time the stainless gleam 
 Flashed o'er the bosom of the stream, 
 Where Pison's parent waters rolled 
 Between their banks of spangled gold : 
 Thence Gihon from a kindred head 
 Round Ethiopia's borders spread, 
 While from the self-same fount could well 
 The billows of the Hiddekel, 
 And proud Euphrates owed its birth 
 To this, the chosen spot of Earth. 
 
 As yet the lovely Iris stood 
 In hues of beauty o'er the flood, 
 Whether there beamed the noontide's ray, 
 Resplendent on the constant spray, 
 Or poured the gentler orb of night 
 Over the wave a paler light, — 
 Save that the day-time loved to fold 
 Its gorgeous tints in robes of gold ; 
 While moonlight, scarcely less divine, 
 Set the rich gems in silver shrine ; — 
 And now and then above the glade 
 The light from Seraph's pinions played, 
 Glancing with heaven-enkindled gleam 
 O'er the pure bosom of the stream,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. L'25 
 
 While vividly the radiance flew, 
 Lending the bow another hue. 
 
 — As yet no tempest-cloud unfurled 
 Its darkness o'er the sinless world, 
 Whilst man, the image of his God, 
 The happy paths of Eden trod. " 
 
 But soon the Iris left the shore 
 
 And cheered the eye of man no more, 
 
 Destined to span the azure sky 
 
 To tell that hope remained on high. 
 
 Dread was the silence of the vale, 
 
 Save that more plaintive breathed the gale; 
 
 Then, Evening o'er her rosy breast 
 
 In sadness cast a sombre vest — 
 
 Deep and more deep the shadows fell 
 
 Over the florets of the dell — 
 
 And man was naked — and the air 
 
 Forgat to waft his vesper prayer. 
 
 — Terror and fear till then unknown 
 
 Over his onward path were strewn — 
 
 Ah ! he had sinned — he trembled now 
 
 To hear the wonted " Where art thou!" 
 
 Love had not breathed in sighs — nor pain 
 Had followed in Affection's train,
 
 226 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Pure was its bliss, no taste of woe 
 Might the unsullied bosom know. 
 Love was the breath of every air 
 That fanned the buds and blossoms there, 
 And love, beyond the power of dreams, 
 Enriched its lakes and gemmed its streams, 
 And whispered soft from every tree 
 Amid the wild birds' minstrelsy. 
 
 Earth was a temple — man alone 
 Breathed back to heaven an answering tone, 
 For He who fills the throne above 
 Inspired His sang with higher love, 
 Whilst many a spirit pure and bright 
 Bore to his bowers the sacred light : 
 And thus the paths of peace he trod, 
 Holding communion with his God. 
 
 But he has sinned — and he must go 
 A wanderer in a world of woe, 
 With only here and there a ray 
 To glad the new immortal's way, 
 With only here and there a flower, 
 And that the creature of an hour. 
 
 Yet there is One — that One may bless 
 And cheer him in his loneliness ; — 
 Such sacred gift will He bestow, 
 From whom all solid pleasures flow,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 227 
 
 Who in the infancy of time 
 In Eden's blest and rosy clime, — 
 While the new being He had made 
 Unconsciously in slumber laid, 
 Quickened and formed a kindred frame, — 
 Bone of his bone, her soul the same, 
 That man, His image, might not moan 
 Because he trod the Earth alone. 
 
 There is a sacred witchery thrown 
 Over her actions and her tone ; 
 Affection, free from mortal stains, 
 The brightest beam of heaven retains, 
 A power surviving to control 
 The ruder passions of the soul, 
 Like halcyon breezes from the shore, 
 Lulling the ocean's tempest roar. 
 
 It is not like each other joy 
 
 That death is missioned to destroy, 
 
 A pleasure so refined and pure 
 
 That heaven permits it to endure, 
 
 To smile on life's tempestuous wave, 
 
 To glow and live beyond the grave, — 
 
 To be a halo round our head, 
 
 Gilding each dreary path we tread, — 
 
 A joyous ray amid the gloom 
 
 To light our passage to the tomb. 
 
 And though where mortal footsteps stray, 
 Few are the flowers that gem the way,
 
 228 MISCELLANEOUS POKMS. 
 
 The buds from Eden's rosy vale 
 Still lend a perfume to the gale : 
 And still a whisper from on high 
 Is mingled with affection's sigh, 
 And virtuous love is still a gleam 
 Glanced from the pure celestial beam. 
 
 Though sullied in its downward course, 
 Its brightness still proclaims its source, 
 And o'er the bosom home where plays 
 The softness of its heavenly rays, — 
 Where its etherial flashes shine, 
 Though dim it be 'tis still Divine ; 
 Nor will the God of Heaven disown 
 This faint reflection from his throne ; 
 Nor will that power refuse to shed 
 Its blessing on Affection's head ; 
 But oft it stoops to fan the flame 
 That bears on Earth Affection's name, 
 Till that which seemed but fond desire 
 Burns as a flame of sacred fire. 
 
 — The love that first was onlv o-iven 
 To other breast, aspires to heaven ; 
 Its earthly love remembered yet, 
 For memory never may forget, 
 Is upward borne on wing of prayer, 
 And meets its cherished object there. 
 And as congenial breathings rise 
 Softer than Evening's symphonies,
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 229 
 
 A tie more lasting, more refined, 
 Each to the other seems to bind, 
 'lis just a taste of heavenly bliss 
 Shed on such barren scene as this, 
 A kindly ray of sunshine given 
 To guide the 'wildered heart to heaven. 
 
 Mark the transparent wreaths that skim 
 
 Over the wave at Evening dim ; 
 
 Think of the purple vapour borne 
 
 From night and ocean by the morn ; 
 
 Then let the eye of Fancy seek, 
 
 'Mid alpine hills, some lofty peak, 
 
 Nor may the gazing soul forget 
 
 The mountain's misty coronet, 
 
 That, wafted from the parent sea, 
 
 Descends as dew upon the lea ; 
 
 Or strays where rippling currents flow, 
 
 Like crystal from the mountain's brow. 
 
 — Look where the thousand streamlets break 
 
 Forth from the high embosomed lake, 
 
 Glance o'er the valley at your feet, 
 
 Where streams with kindred torrents meet ; 
 
 Then -scan the waters as they spread 
 
 Over the riverg winding bed, 
 
 Till in the mighty sea they roll — 
 
 From shore to shore, from pole to pole. 
 
 Thus every tiny mountain rill, 
 Or murmuring ripple of the hill, 
 
 u
 
 230 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Even the spray the bird may fling 
 In summer from his silken wing, 
 Or vapour that delights to dwell 
 Upon the bosom of the dell, 
 Or stream that rolls with rapid rush, 
 Or fountain, with its gentler gush, 
 Are but the offspring of the sea, 
 And seek their home instinctively. 
 
 So from the lofty one above 
 
 Are flowing down the streams of love,- 
 
 And thus Affection claims to be 
 
 An Infant of Eternity.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 23J 
 
 TRUE GLORY. 
 
 While Angelic hosts adoring 
 
 Cast their crowns at Jesu's f-eet, 
 We, on wings of prayer upsoaring, 
 
 Worship at the Mercy-seat. 
 From thy radiant throne beholding 
 
 All the denizens of Earth ; 
 Jesus ! in thine arms enfolding, 
 
 Lead us to the second birth. 
 
 Spread, oh, Dove of Peace ! thy pinions 
 
 O'er the Islands of the Sea, 
 Win from dreary Death's dominions 
 
 Many nations back to thee ! 
 Brood where erst embattled legions 
 
 Bore the desolating sword, 
 Bid the wrecks of ruined regions 
 
 Flourish at thy living word ! 
 
 'Tis not where the banner gory 
 Floats on charnel field of war, 
 
 That the beams of spotless glory 
 
 Light the blood-stained victor's car :
 
 232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Glory round the brow is beaming, 
 Where the spirit burns within ; 
 
 And the eye with tears is streaming-, 
 Tears of penitence for sin. 
 
 Where the words of consolation 
 
 Whispered by the lip sincere, 
 Turn to joy the desolation, 
 
 Waken hope and dry the tear. 
 Heavenly glory far excelling 
 
 That which laurelled heroes win, 
 Shines on those who joy in telling 
 
 Jesu's power to vanquish sin. 
 
 Most of all on those who taking 
 
 Humble stand beneath the cross, — 
 Friends, and home, and all forsaking, 
 
 Counting former gain as loss. 
 Haste afar, where shades of sadness 
 
 Whelm the tribes in heathen night, 
 Bearing news of peace and gladness, 
 
 Spread abroad the Gospel's light.
 
 MISCE1 I am. us POEMS. 233 
 
 ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. 
 
 If called to tread the thorny maze. 
 As witnesses for God below, 
 
 Oh, may our faith discern the blaze 
 Of promised glory's brighter glow, 
 
 Lighting the happy pathway trod 
 
 By those who kept the faith of Got! ! 
 
 Oh, Holy Spirit ! from above, 
 
 Dwell, richly dwell, in every breast, 
 
 To teach us how to bless and love 
 Oppressors, even while oppressed, 
 
 That still on Thee in suffering stayed, 
 
 We all may pray as Stephen prayed. 
 
 i J
 
 234 M ISC ELLA \ EOU S PO E M S. 
 
 SEA VIEW FROM THE CLIFFS. 
 
 Far from their base extends the mighty Sea, 
 
 Dashing- and rolling- on with ceaseless tide 
 
 In its mysterious magnificence. 
 
 The winds are hushed, — the very cloud of mist 
 
 That hovers o'er its bosom is not stirred, — 
 
 Its far horizon cannot be discerned ; 
 
 The curtain that it wears is like the dark 
 
 "Which hides the Infinite. It seems at rest, — 
 
 Srill by some viewless influence urged along, 
 
 The thunder of untiring waves rolls in 
 
 To greet us on our height. In caves below 
 
 Eddies the boiling surge. Its hollow moan 
 
 Comes softened by the distance, like the voice 
 
 Of one who suffers, not in conqueror's tones, — 
 
 And yet the waves their daily inroads make 
 
 Aggressive on those old time-riven rocks, 
 
 Till one by one their tottering- heads bow down 
 
 And fall beneath the waters, and another 
 
 Shows its bold front, and dares the hopeless strife. 
 
 Now all is calm ; yet mighty is th< 
 Of Ocean's calmest movement. Oh! who. storm 
 And windy tempest plough its bosom up, 
 Driving its billows fiercelier to the sho;
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 2o5 
 
 Would feeble mortal dare on this lone cliff 
 
 Fearless to take his stand ? Why it would quiver 
 
 Like the unstable turf of green morass, 
 
 And threaten every moment to engulph 
 
 The venturous being- who should tempt its path. 
 
 Nathless the grandeur of this desolate spot 
 
 Reads us a lesson of Supernal power. 
 
 God has appointed bounds —and hitherto 
 
 The waves may come, but not one ripple further. 
 
 He rules the ebbing and the flowing tide ; 
 
 The waters in the hollow of His hand 
 
 Are grasped. The level shore, the lowly beach, 
 
 With Him are boundaries firm as solid rock, — 
 
 He is the GoD whom Seas and winds obev. 
 
 Nor lifeless is the scene, — the Summer now 
 Attracteth hither all her transient guests — 
 The sea-birds nestle upon every ledge — 
 The precipice of rock is full of life. 
 
 W here it might seem that human foot must fail, 
 I I if hardy fowler dares alone to tread, 
 Slung by a single rope from towering height 
 That overhangs a little the abodes 
 
 Of those wild-winged ones. Thence he bears the youn< 
 Whose downy produce gives luxurious ease 
 To those who toil not : and to those who toil 
 It brings ;t pittance of the daily bread, 
 The homely fare of these poor [slanders.
 
 236 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Aye, on their barren crags they dwell apart, — 
 
 It looks as if no harvest waved for them 
 
 In yellow fields, — no loaded wains are seen, — 
 
 They are so far dependent upon others 
 
 For coarsest fragments of the staff of life. 
 
 Has Providence forsaken them ? Oh, no ! 
 
 Provision is provided. For their wants, 
 
 Simple and few, a little will suffice ; 
 
 And on the plumed inhabitants of Air 
 
 And skimmers of the Ocean is impressed 
 
 A law of constancy, which brings them back, 
 
 Year after year, to these same cornless shores, 
 
 To build their nests, and give their wealth to man. 
 
 Man cannot take it all — Prolific Nature, 
 Never redundant, always has enough, — 
 The tribe of birds seems not a whit the less 
 For all the depredations of our race, — 
 Still in their plumages, of white or black, 
 They incubate upon the rock in throngs, 
 And oft-times to the aimost famished hind 
 The eggs procured, even at risk of life, 
 Yield sustenance to keep that life in being. 
 
 What mean we then by Natuke ? Is it but 
 
 The regularity of all we see 
 
 Moving obedient to some mighty law ? 
 
 Is it some changeless yet progressive thing?
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 237 
 
 A mere machine, yet fitted to produce 
 Greatest results, and to develope man, 
 With all his powers of intellect and soul, 
 In a long series of successive years, 
 From the poor atom that has scarcely lii'e, 
 Floating its little day within a drop 
 Of putrid water from some stagnant pool ? 
 
 Worse than absurd this infidel conjecture ! 
 He who can credit an uncaused effect 
 Is by too quick gradation now descending 
 Below his station in the scale of being — 
 Mindless and soulless he would fain become 
 The very counterpart of beasts that perish. 
 
 " But Nature acts hy law ?" We grant it true, — 
 
 Yet who impressed upon the vast machine 
 
 Ceaseless obedience to the given law ? 
 
 Whose the injunction ? Whose the high decree ? — 
 
 Look forth from hence, why do these free-winged birds 
 
 Come from all regions at their stated time, 
 
 Assembling constantly on one small spot, 
 
 Unerring in tlieir flight, not wrecked at sea, 
 
 Not gathering when the storm-winds sweep the cliff, 
 
 Not coming when the icy breeze is out, 
 
 But joyous in the Summer's transient warmth, — 
 
 Choose the fit season — choose the fittest day, 
 
 Or even Attest hour for their arrival ?
 
 238 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 It is not knowledge that from race to race 
 Accumulates in long transmitted line. 
 No calculation deep is theirs, and yet their instinct 
 May laugh at human reason. Why is this ? 
 Yield they not still obedience to the law 
 Of God's requirements, whilst rebellious man 
 Has dared to claim for Reason the high place 
 Which God alone may dwell in ? Therefore, man 
 Caught in his self-made snare is ever falling, 
 Trapped in the meshes of his worshipped Reason. 
 Oil ! if he thought how weak he is himself, 
 How feeble to produce substantial good, 
 He would not deem the reason that is his 
 Infallibly the sole sufficient guide. 
 
 THOMAS RAQ13, PRINTER, HldH STREtlT, BIRMINGHAM.
 
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