3991 A6045 1 ~' T n-t 1 Q — Q 5 ^S^ .■Vg^-f;^ ORIGINAL POEMS B Y OLIVE. THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES AtCfys - ||rcf;uc. ^^^^^HESE poems were printed two years ago for sale for J) SfraC^ a local charitable purpose, but the book could not Jn|L be got ready in time for a particular Bazaar. Many friends of the authoress have expressed their disappointment at the non-production of the poems they knew I had proposed publishing. I have, therefore, acceded to their wishes by ordering this little book to be brought out now in the state in which I left it. It may possess interest, beyond the circle of the acquaintance of the authoress, as shewing a result of education in a village school before the passing of the Elementary Education Act. My atten- tion was first called to " Olive's " poems by verses I had seen written in newspapers containing local allusions to my own neigh- bourhood. I found, on inquiry, that they were written by the youngest daughter of one of my father's tenants, who had been educated at Linley School, and that she had become a regular contributor to a London as well as to provincial publications. With respect to the poems, they are not revised by any other hand than her own, beyond my marking a few lines in which the metre 91705 Qt PREFACE. required improvement, but the lines, thus altered, are " Olive's " own. There is a poem in the middle of the book which I wished to be exchanged for some other, but no new poem was received before the whole was printed. Two poems at the end of the book, describe traditions well known on the Montgomeryshire Border of Shropshire. The first, on the " Robbers Grave," tells the story written in prose by the Rev. 'Mostyn Pryce. It was the fact that for many years after the alleged sheep-stealer's execution, grass did not grow on his grave, as he prayed it might not, in proof of his innocence. It might of course be suggested that the inhabitants or friends of the man were interested in preventing the growth of grass on the grave. The grave, however, may be seen in Montgomery Churchyard, and I have not found any local testimony favour the suggestion that artificial means were used to establish the man's innocence in accordance with his dying prayer. The poem of " Maggie's Pinfold," describes a well-known tradition connected with a circle of stones near Corndon, which may also be seen by any one who has the curiosity to visit a spot well worthy of a visit. The story of the Lake, which appears in another poem, is, of course, a tale of the North, and not connected with Shropshire. R. JASPER MORE. June, 1874. Original |3ai>ms. PART I. Cftt |loct. HAT is a poet 1 ? not some wondrous thing, But just a person you may meet with often In daily life ; who does his best to sing, The ruggedness of his own lot to soften. Who goes his way and does his work as well, As if he heard no pleasant echoes ringing, From that far land where none but poets dwell, With nought to mar the sweetness of their singing. Who, though he loves to notice birds and flowers, Can yet plan out and do a good day's labour, Who thinks it not beneath his mental powers, To do his duty and respect his neighbour. This is a poet ; and 't is such as he, Who, though the great ones pass them all unheeding, Though hard their hands and small their learning be, Make their whole lives a poem worth God's reading ! %n Jfnbocatum. Shine, crystal moon, where the river's sweet flow Creeps through the alders that grow by my home ; Beam, golden stars, as in years long ago, Forth from your watch-towers in Heaven's high dome. Blow, western wind, o'er the green clover lea, Sigh through the aspens your old summer chime, Weave the same chants that were music to me When my heart was so light in that mystic spring-time. Sing, happy bird, in the white cherry bloom, Float through the rosy-tipped orchards away, Till your carol is lost in the wood's leafy gloom, And its echo dies out with the vanishing day. Come, joyous Spring, with your old sunny glow, Gladden the earth with your sunshine and rain, But can ye restore me the lost " long ago 1 " Can ye bring, can ye bring me my childhood again ? In Wmaxv of Kefar. K. i. ffi. Once more we gather round the blazing hearth — Not with the careless glee of other years — A gloom has fallen on our Christmas mirth, And dimmed our glowing holly-wreath with tears. For one has passed from out this troublous scene, A noble heart whom we would fain have kept ; Old men have mourned his death, and tears have been In eyes that have not since their childhood wept. For he was one who knew the varied strings Of life's great harp ; to wake its lowest tone Into sweet music, and to common things To give a grace and sweetness of his own. When death or sickness visited a home, His was the hand that pointed us above, That led us weeping from the grave's dark gloom, And pierced the clouds that veiled a Father's love. ORIGINAL POEMS. -o-3=> ■■ <§H>- To those who stumbled in rough duty's path, His loving heart with warm compassion stirred ; From him they had no threats of coming wrath, But prayers, and many a kind consoling word. The laugh of little children was to him Sweeter than that applause which courts the great, Like echoes from the songs of seraphim, Floating at eve through heaven's half-open gate ! In him the widow and the fatherless Have lost a brother and a faithful friend, Whose bounty, like his love, was fathomless, Whose sympathising kindness knew no end. And now we lay him sadly in the ground, Having no words our sorrow to reveal, Knowing how far above all voice or sound Is that deep grief which all around us feel. O, Thou ! to whom this feeble prayer shall come, Through shining angel-ranks and starry spheres, Grant that we, too, may reach that far-off home, And spend with him heaven's long, eternal years ! -^m@F4 «pnlcn W&aab. FIRST PART. The breeze sighs through the leafy wood ; I love to turn away, And lose in this green solitude The cares of every day: For other feelings may grow cold, And other fancies range, But Nature greets us as of old — Her love will never change. Such dreams as happy childhood weaves Come back to cheer me now; As then, the shining beech-tree leaves Bend down to touch my brow. Around me grows the drooping birch, The fir-tree's graceful pride ; The sombre pine and graceful larch Rise stately, side by side. ORIGINAL POEMS. -CH^— (§-0- » And sweetly glancing through their gloom, By contrast yet more fair, The mountain ash, whose snowy bloom Has sweetened all the air. Beneath the fern the rabbit flits, A happy life has he ; Amongst the boughs the squirrel sits, And chatters forth his glee. And green the honeysuckle wreaths Around the branches twine; The pale wild rose its perfume breathes O'er clustering tufts of thyme. The oak-trees' mighty arms outspread, The sunlight glints between, The woodlark singeth over head In his sweet world of green. Instead of restless, hurrying feet, The soft wind wanders by; And through the boughs I watch a fleet Of cloud-ships in the sky. ORIGINAL POEMS. .<>-§> — Co- Arid these are with me all day long, To light my working hours: The winds' low sigh, the wild birds' song, The greenwood's leaves and flowers. SECOND PART. Linley Wood 's in all its glory, When old autumn passes through — Golden, crimson, brown, and hoary, Every tree a different hue. Some their pleasant green remaining, Some grown sere with early frost, Some whose wondrous tinted veining Make all artist-labour lost. Sloping down the "coppice dingle," Trees of all the forest grow : There the colours meet, and mingle In a ripe, delicious glow. Slender birch and silvery willow, Maple saplings straight and tall, Oaks and larches, elms and beeches, Solemn firs amongst them all. ORIGINAL POEMS. Like a flame the red is stealing Down the avenue of beech, Whose gray trunks are carved and tattered, High as boyish hands can reach. Further, where the great, dark pine trees Hold dominion of their own, The sad Spirit of the Forest Sighs and whispers all alone. And, like music heard in dreaming, Floating forth in echoes low, Comes an answer through the gloaming, From the brook's harmonious flow ; Sweet and mystic are its numbers, Yet by poets understood, Winding 'neath the round-leaved alders, By the shades of Linley Wood. O the glory of the woodlands ! O the beauty of the skies ! O the grandeur of the mountains, As the summer faints and dies ! ORIGINAL POEMS. -o-^> — «£-°- Nature's best and choicest beauties, Forest, hills, and waters meet, Where old Rhadley smiles so proudly On the meadows at his feet. Many a cottage, neat and nest-like, Many an open, pleasant farm, Leads to where the white church-steeple Gives to all a sacred charm. Ju % Hbnto. •4 "Peace ! peace !" the waving trees do say — "Peace! peace!" my heart replies. — Ai Inoji. Green waving trees ! ye are so dear to me, Your quiet presence hath so strange a charm, That I have even prayed Beneath your solemn shade That I might lay my head upon my arm, And die, forgetting all the cares that be. Then many a tinted leaf and fragrant bell Should drop its tears upon the passing breeze; The ringdove's plaintive note Should through the stillness float, And, more than all, the green, majestic trees Should mourn for one who loved them dearly well. IO ORIGINAL POEMS. The light and shade would play upon my face, As now they dance about the ground I tread ; Green tufted fern-leaves there Should wave in scented air ; The wild rose and the hawthorn bough should shed Their blossomed sweetness o'er my resting-place. To no more tears my wearied eyes should wake, But in the stillness of the summer eves The soft stars looking through From their great arch of blue, Should find me lying 'neath a roof of leaves, In such a calm as sorrow could not break. Oh ! Death ! that gatherest the fair young flowers, But heedest not the prayers of weary men, I pray thee that if thou Coldly pass by me now, Yet hear my prayer, and kindly take me when My soul is purified by those calm hours ! ii IfPit P^S BTxH Wo cp iMsm Sfe^^^^S^ PART II. Mbcrc art (Tbou? hinking of thee when at twilight I stray, Where the night breezes come cool to my brow ; Thinking of thee through the long busy day, Silently wondering "Where art thou now 1 ?" It may be thy soul is in sadness and woe ; Wearied with sorrow thy spirit may bow : Would I might comfort thee — would I might know, E'en as the angels do, where thou art now. Far from thee earthward, my pathway must tend, Yet, when the seal of death rests on this brow, Then shall I meet thee, and love thee, my friend ; Then shall I never sigh "Where art thou now?" 12 (!)rr reabincj the fifje of iicats. heart that nothing false comes nigh, A love for all things pure and sweet, A poet's soul, an artist's eye — Alas for him in whom they meet ! For busy men will never own A fellowship with things so high ; Great souls most often live alone, We only love them when they die. Such was his fate who now is gone : He worked with faith from day to day, And hoped and waited for the dawn, When purer creeds shall have their sua)-. But hard it was for him to learn, From careless look or taunting speech, How deaf an ear the world will turn To thoughts whose source it cannot reach. 13 ORIGINAL POEMS. -»-§>- Till wounded by the scorn he met, And failing in the work he tried, Himself against the world he set, And threw his half-done tasks aside. Awhile he lived a loveless life ; Then as a wearied child lies down, So did he pass from out the strife, And so resigned his earthly crown. Of him, now he is with the dead, Men speak thus kindly : " Had we known How pure a light his spirit shed, How much more love we might have shown." Of him the angels in their bliss Say sadly, " 'T is in vain we lend To earth a soul so high as this, Whose worth they could not comprehend." H Jit % DalkiJ jof % Sljaboto uf Qtixtb. To die : to be forgotten, and to lie In the lone grave, where all will pass me by, Careless and heedless of who lies below, Oh, it is hard ! I do not wish to go, To leave the busy world — the anxious race In which I hoped so soon to take my place. Yet I have never tried to write my name With iron pen upon the scroll of fame. But I have longed, with earnest longings, too, The painful path of duty to pursue; To do some good, some lonely ones to cheer, To leave some record of my being here, In kindly deeds and acts of mercy shown To those whose paths were rougher than my own. And now to die. My resting-place will be Under the shadowy arms of some old tree. The autumn's golden leaves, the winter snows Will fall unheeded, and the step of those '5 ORIGINAL POEMS. o-g-