WVQt THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES A WAIF ON THE STREAM. WAIF ON THE STREAM. S. M. BUTCHERS. LONDON: TRUBNEE & CO., 60, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1866. LONDON : PRIKIED BT WERTHElMliR AND CO.. CIRCCS rLACE, FINSBURV CIRCUS. PREFACE. As a child, on the brooklet's bosom, launches his paper boat, so send I forth this little venture, on a stream of loves. So frail a bark would be o'erwhelmed did unkind winds but breathe thereon. It is not meant to live through stoi'ms ; but to float down a kindly stream, where friendly hands will guide its course, for her sake who freights it now, with loving messages to all her friends. 50, Andovee Eoad, hornsey eoad, HoLLOWAY, London, N. Jultj, 186G. 85SS1.7 CONTENTS. Old Letters "Who are the Poor ? Lost Heloise ! . The Unforgotten The Song of the Bell The Spring The Lifeboat I WILL Forget March Adeline Gray The Future The Parting Sunshine and Shadow Homes not Houses . Summer Pleasures . The Spirit Lover . Is it May ? The Last Look- Forebodings "Take the Will roii the Dleu" Tyre The Days that are gone The Tree and the Leaves PAGE 1 7 10 13 17 19 22 24 27 29 32 35 37 39 42 4o 52 55 57 60 62 63 71 Vlll CONTENTS. A Stakry Night A Legend . Heart-Aches "Waiting Night Regrets for the March Rememhrances . My Album The Battle of Life The Shrine of Pride Homeless ! The New Year " A Rolling Stone gathers no Moss " Coming to Meet us . tilnes written on particular occasions : The Death op the Prince Consort On the Marriage of the Prince of Wales Lord Palmerston The Loss of the London The Feast of the Three Kings Liberty's Lament To our Brothers in Lancashire Lines on Odd Fellows' Fete . Helf for the Helpless . To Miss C. F To Mr. George Jago To Mrs. Elizabeth Butchers . PAGE 73 79 83 85 88 95 97 104 124 129 133 137 139 142 14 J 147 152 156 161 168 177 181 184 190 193 197 A WAIF ON THE STREAM. OLD LETTERS. BuKNiNG old letters — sitting by the fireside With pile on pile upon the hearth-rug spread ; I'm looking at them with a mournful feeling, But I must bm-n them, else, when I am dead, Some other eyes that do not know their story May read them, and, not knowing it, may sneer And ridicule these loved and sacred sayings, And count them worthless that I hold so dear. Sad desecration ! I will spare my treasures From such a mournfid imdeserved fate ; I'll burn them — tho' my heart may break to do it — I'll burn them now^ before it is too late ! Just as I've read, in India's blood-red mut'ny, Fond husbands — fathers — wives and children slew, In mercy sparing them the direful hist'ry Of others, murdered by that Sepoy crew ! t- B 2 OLD LETTERS, Before it is too late ! for I am aged, My pilgrimage on earth is nearly o'er ; It can't be long before my Fatber calls me To meet the dear ones wbo are gone before. He knows that I have nothing here to keep me ; Knows I am lonely now — old blood is cold. And I grow weary, and, alas ! impatient, To meet those lying underneath the mould. * * * Ah ! here's a packet — let me cut the tether : These are from Janie, my beloved child. These are from Janie, written from New Zealand, Full of her troubles. I was almost wild When first I read them, nearly broken-hearted ; For I, her mother, would have spent my life To save her from them, but I was so distant ! My child had gone — had gone out as the wife Of her dear Willie, spite of all my praying That they wo^Ild settle home. But no ! he said They would do better there — and so we parted — And parted here for ever — for she's dead ! OLD LETTEES. d My Janie, dear ! and I was distant from her ; And hands that thrilled not with the love they bore Her, closed her eyes — for ever, and for ever ! That was the trial. On that other shore I'll see my child again ; where emigration. With all its pangs and partings, hopes and fears, Shall be unknown ! for there our native country, Our heaven, will leave no cause for want or tears. Full of her troubles ! here she says "We're starving, And there's no prospect of things growing bright ; Dear Willie struggles, but is unsuccessful : AH is in sad disorder, might is right ; And could we get the money, dearest mother, We would come home again." Alas ! dear girl, 'Twas not to be. — See, here's her husband's letter. Enclosing me one soft and glossy curl. All that is left me of her but the letters ; How can I burn them ? Yet, shall stranger eyes Eead all her struggles, yearnings, cares, and troubles? They shall be burnt before her mother dies ! 4 OLD LETTERS. Yes — they are gone — my daugliter! oli, my daughter ! Only a little curl remains to me, Except thy blessed mem'ry that I cherish, Except the love that fills my heart for thee ! « * * And these are from the son I lov'd so fondly, The gallant hoy of whom my heart was proud. Alas ! he lies beneath the sim of India, Wrapp'd in a soldier's and a bloody shroud. A hero he ! although his touching story Has ne'er been uttered by the lips of Fame ; Although she gave no lam-el wreath of glory, Nor, through her trumpet, told the world his name ! Alas ! my boy, thy mother's heart is bleeding, Like thine own wounds, to read these words again ; They bring before me, in its manly beauty, The face I look for on the earth in vain. And I can fancy how the lines ran o'er it, "When famine drew the coloiu- from thy cheek ; And how thy fr-ame, so stalwart, drooping sadlj. Bent 'neath the knapsack, when thou'dst grown so weak. OLD LETTERS. 5 All ! tales of fearful marches here are written, Beneath a sun that withered with its ray, That dried the cooling brooklet, where the parching Might have refreshed them on that weary way. Red tales of slaughter that thine own eyes witnessed. That make the blood in these old veins to freeze : How must the hearts, within those men of England, Have raged with madness, as, upon the breeze, Were borne the shrieks of helpless babes, and women, Slain and dishonoured by the barbarous foe ! Alas, my Harry ! thy heart beat to save them. And in their cause thou diedst. God willed it so. Thy mother scarce in such a cause shoidd grudge thee, But oh ! her heart was widow'd and forlorn : Thou wert the last my Heavenly Father spared me — My last beloved, and my latest born. Thou wert my consolation in my trouble, When of thy father and thy sister reft, I all but sank beneath the heavy trial ; But having thee, my boy, my Harry, left, 6 OLD LETTERS. For thy dear sake I roused me, and was willing To live, tliat thou might' st prove thy mother's love. And so thou didst, and well didst thou repay it : God in His mercy let us meet above ! Farewell, my soldier son ! dear branch so hardy, Lopped off in all thy beauty and thy pride, "Withered and dead, with all thy leaves upon thee. Thy mother fain would lie down by thy side. Yes, the old trunk, once decked with comely branches, And covered thick with many a leaf and bloom, Now bare and scathed, of every twig denuded. Prays that the woodman soon may seal its doom. The fire has burned the records of thy daring. Consumed the stories of thy perils dire, But oh ! I know them, Harry ! in my mem'ry I'll bear them dear, and read them in the fire That stole them from me, as I sit here musing. Till I receive my Heavenly Father's call. A few more nights and days of lonely watching, — Then I shall meet son, daughter, husband — all! WHO ARE THE POOE? Little ones with blistered feet Wandering sadly tkro' the street, Begging at the door ; Aged, grey, and withered crones, With no pillow hut the stones For their locks so hoar. They who in damp cellars lie, Beneath the feet of passers-by, In the city's core. Those who, late, in attics high. For scanty pay the needle ply. With heart and fingers sore. Men and women lost to truth. Who nurse in age vice learned in youth, And add unto the store. "WHO ARE THE POOK ? The guilty ones -who fill the jail ! Alas ! that crime should still prevail On England's favoured shore. Those from whose hearts no love-springs flow ; Whose eyes no tears of pity know ; 'Who no one's loss restore ; Whose hearts lie dead in grave of stone ; Who seek no comfort but their own, And love themselves — no more. The proud ones who, in halls of state, Of ancestry and fortune prate, And humble worth ignore ; They who of things possessed are vain, Be it of beauty, wit, or fame : Their poverty deplore. They, who upon this needy earth. Have not the pearl of greatest worth, That shines for evermore. WHO ARE THE POOE T They who have sought no Heavenly Friend, Whose life on earth is aim and end, Are " poorest of the poor." In purse, in meekness, virtue, love ; And worse — who have no Friend above, In Him that we adore. These — and fiJl many more beside ; And no one, tho' the world is wide, Who's not in something — poor. 10 LOST HELOISE ! I -WANDER afar in the moonliglit, To seek her, the loved of my soul ; I clamber the heights of the mountain Adown which the cataracts roU ! I descend into lowliest valleys, I search on the desolate plain, With a heart brimming over with sorrow, For ah ! it is labour in vain. Heloise ! Lost Heloise ! I gaze on the face of the river, Into its abysses I peer, But only the sand at the bottom Is seen thro' its waters so clear ; And deep in the forest's recesses, Where the trees whisper over my head, I hear what they say to each other, They say, with a sigh, " She is dead ! " Heloise ! Lost Heloise ! LOST heloise! 11 There, where the voice of the ocean Speaks in his rage to the shore, I stand, and I call for my darling, And the waves shriek, " You '11 see her no more ! " where can I look for my lost one ? Where am I my treasure to find ? My heart, it is weary with longing, And sadly distraught is my mind. Heloise ! Lost Heloise ! By mountain, and valley, and river, In forest, by sea, on the plain, 1 have sought with unceasing devotion ; say, shall I find her again ? By day in the sunlight I 've sought her. And thro' the still hours of the night, " Hoping 'gainst hope " in the darkness. Till morning dawned purple and bright. Heloise ! Lost Heloise ! 1 caU her, and echoes responsive Come from wind, or from wave, or from tree ; 12 - LOST HELOISE ! Alas ! all the voices of nature But bring the same answer to me ! 'Tis the whisper of trees in the forest, 'Tis the shriek of the waves on the shore, " She is gone from thy bosom for ever ! She '11 heighten its beatings no more ! " Heloise ! Lost Heloise ! Hark ! 'tis a voice from the heavens ! Her face 'mid the clouds I descry, Beaming with beauty angelic ; The Father has called her on high. She says to me, " Eest, and be happy. Meet me in these mansions above ; We shall love all the dearer in heaven. For heaven is nothing but love ! " 13 THE UNFORGOTTEN. The Unforgotten ! Ah, what a universe springs Into being, and passes before us ! The sprite of the past the gate open flings, And a deluge of mem'ries flows o'er us ! The Unforgotten ! Yes, but it is not all sweet ; It is not all golden with brightness ; We have passed o'er some places with wearying feet. When our hearts could know nothing of lightness ! The Unforgotten ! Words that were whispered in love, And words that our heart-strings have rended ; The voices that spoke them ? — some singing above, Some absent — and some are ofi'ended. 14 THE UNFORGOTTEN. The Unforgotten ! Deeds that were wrought to our pain, And deeds that were done in affection ; For the evil we'll suffer no anger to reign, — Of the good we'll enjoy the reflection. The Unforgotten ! Times when our spirits were faint ; When our hearts had succumbed to despairing ; When uprose fi-om our bosoms a pitiful plaint, And our souls had forgotten their daring. The Unforgotten ! Joys that illumine the past As a fii*e would the midnight enlighten ; They are painted in colours that ever will last, For time does not pale them — but heighten. The Unforgotten ! Sorrows we scarcely could bear, When the sim of our life was beclouded ; When Heaven and Earth to our eyes seemed to wear The sable with which we were shrouded ! THE UNFOEGOTTEN. 15 The Unforgotten ! Hopes that we tended with care, But. they bloomed not — nor wiU they — no, never ! Still the roots from our bosoms we cannot uptear ; We have nursed them — we'll nurse them for ever ! The Unforgotten ! Places and scenes that are dear, Whether made so by joy or by sorrow ; Where perchance we have wept when our present was drear, Or have prayed for a brighter to-morrow ! The Unforgotten ! Faces, in days that are iled, Which beside us were ever the nearest ; Now, beneath the cold sod, in the land of the dead. Lie the gentlest, the sweetest, the dearest ! The Unforgotten ! Lethe ! I would that thy wave Might sweep o'er it, and wipe from its pages The plague-spots of sorrow, — the shade of the grave, Which of sin are the bitterest wages. 16 THE UNFOEGOTTEW. The Unforgotten ! Ah ! but it may not be so ; Our lot the Jehovah decreeth ; Now brilliant with gladness — now darkened with woe; All the use of our trials we cannot now know, But we shall when our spirits He freeth ! 17 THE SONG OF THE BELL. The tower wliere I swing has grown hoary with time, And its walls are with moss overgrown ; And many the peal, and the knell, and the chime, That is heard by each ivy-decked stone. For I speak to the world with my sonorous tongue, Spreading tidings of joy or of gloom ; And sweet dreams of wedlock I raise in the young ; In the old — but sad thoughts of the tomb. When I shout out my gladness for those who are wed. The young hearts brim over with glee : When I toll in my sorrow for some who are dead. Say the aged, " Thou'lt soon toll for me ! " When mankind rejoice how I merrily peal ; And when that they mourn I am sad ; Every stroke of a knell I can bitterly feel ; At each thrilling of gladness — be glad. 18 THE SONG OF THE BELL. But the knell is my grief — tlie sound floating in air Gives a death-stroke to sorrowing hearts ; And many a head is there bowed in despair When a dear one for ever departs. My voice is not hushed — but the voices of those "Who met in the belfry of yore, Who sent thro' me throbbings, and thriUings, and throes, WiU never be heard any more ! And alas ! over those who are ringers to-day, I shall toll forth the sorrowful knell ; Their tongues shall be silent for ever, and aye, But loud shall be that of the bell. I say to mankind, " Ye are passing away ; " And I ask them if all will be well, When no longer on earth they're permitted to stay, And I'm tolling in sadness their knell ! 19 THE SPRING. She has come ! she has come ! the Spring that we longed for, All thro' the cold winter of storms and of rain ; She has brought the young lambs, and the birds with their sweet songs. She has brought the dear flowers to cheer us again. They are singing — the birds — as they build in the branches. For their wee hearts are swelling with gratitude deep ; The primrose and daisy peep out from the new grass, The leaves have awaked from their long winter sleep. The trees that the autumn wind robbed of their foliage, That have stood thro' the winter all blackened and bare, 20 THE SPRING. And appeared to have lost all their strength and their beauty, Are renewing their life in sweet Spring's healthful air. But what of the hearts that were robbed, as the trees were, By the unsparing blasts of adversity's wind, Of the leaves that we designate hope — joy — and happiness ? Will they in the Spring-tide new-opening ones find ? Perchance, as each gust bore from them their treasures. They hoped and they prayed that the rude wind would spare The few that remained — and for that aU the dearer ; But futile the hope was — and fruitless the prayer. And then, like the trees, they stood naked and withered. And they stretched out their bare arms imploriug the sky ; THE SPRING. 21 But they asked not for life, and new vigour and gladness — The prayer of the trees j no, they craved but to die. Will the Spring-tide e'er come that shall bring back their treasures — The "loved and the lost" ones of whom they're bereft ? The dead hopes and joys that they cannot but mourn for, Life's gladness and sweetness — not one bright thing left ? Not here shall the dead hearts return to their fresh- ness, Tho' the trees and the flowers are blooming again ; But when their cold winter of life shall be ended, The leaves they now weep for shall gladden them then! 22 THE LIFEBOAT. Thank God for the Lifeboat ! — 'Tis dreadful to me The wild waves of ocean in fury to see ; For I think on the barks that those billows upbore, That are sunk in their deeps and are heard of no more. And I people their decks, in the peril so dread, With faces from out which the life-blood has fled ; And I see the pale ghosts wring their hands in despair, And the shrieks of the drowning are borne on the air. The young, and the old, the gentle, the brave, Alike are drawn down to their home in the wave ; The waters above them may ceaselessly roar, But the thunders of ocean shall reach thorn no more. THE LIFEBOAT. ^o Thank God for the Lifeboat ! — 'Tis fearful to stand, All helpless and powerless, but safe, on the land ; And a tempest-torn vessel, with struggling crew Toiling to save her — but vainly — to view! While 'twixt us and them rolls many a wave The most dauntless of hearts is unable to brave, While billow on billow the doomed ship breaks o'er. And her fragments are tossed by the waves to the shore. And while 'mid the waters men struggle -oith death, Our heart it stands still, and suspended's our breath ; And we feel, as we look, that distraught is our brain. And we pray that such sights we may ne'er see again. Thank God for the Lifeboat ! — If she be but there, No cause is there then for the throes of despair ; A Saviour — she speeds o'er the billowy deep, And spoils the rich harvest King Death thought to reap. 21 I WILL FOEGET. He has said to me, " Forget ! " He lias told me not to let His image in my heart have a place ; And shall my eyes be dim With bitter tears for him ? No, a smile I will wear on my face. He has told me when we meet, That as strangers we must greet Each other, who have pressed heart to heart I And tho' my bosom burst I will never be the fii-st To show that I suffer — for we part ! 1 WILL FOEGET. 25 If he can serve me so He is worthless — let liini go, Tho' my life will be a blank for evermore ; He has said to me, " Forget !" And I will ; but cannot yet To the phantoms of the Past close the door. Close the door I will, and bar. When I've lived in the Afar, But yet the crowd is pressing all too near; Time will drive them back, and then They shall never come again, Those mem 'ries of the bygones that were dear I have heard the proverb say — " Where the will is, there's the way," And I'll ever keep that motto in my view ; The die for me is cast, I'll be steadfast to the last, And to my heart I'll prove the proverb true. i^6 I WILL FORGET. I will crush out ev'ry spark, And will leave it in the dark, Like a temple where the idol is o'erthrown ; The priests that served are fled. The worshippers are dead, They are crushed hy the falling of the stone! Thro' the dim deserted halls A footstep never falls. But the echoes are reverberating round ; They, too, shall pass away, For ever and for aye ; There but Solitude and Darkness shall be found. But o'er the outer walls Of this temple, where there falls The idol, that had far too rich a shrine, The blooming creepers grow, And the sunlight's all a-glow, — Deceitful ! — like this smiling face of mine ! 27 MAECH. OuK fair young year another cliild has borne Of hope and promise bright to many a heart ; Its natal day we hail upon this morn — Oh ! may it to us all some good imj)art. It will to many — that is safely said ; And ill, alas ! 't wiU bear upon its wind ; We may be poor, or friendless — sick, or dead — Ere April's smiles our wearying hearts can find. Yet let us not the darker side portray. Nor weakly meet our troubles ere they're here ; The evil 's e'er " sufficient to the day ; " Let 's hope and trust, and ne'er give way to fear. 28 MARCH. What tho' the winds may chill us, and the storms dismay ! What tho' the gloom be difficult to bear ! — The time is drawing nearer every day For summer suns, and mild and balmy air. And tho' our hearts with sorrow overflow, And tho' our eyes may stream with bitter tears. The time is coming when no more we 'U know Or pain or trouble, bitterness or fears. May every storm in nature or in life, This boisterous month with all its gales can raise, But brace our nerves more strongly for the strife. And teach to hope for brighter, happier days. The winds of March more welcome make the heat Of July's sun, or April's tender tears ; So pain or sorrow that in life we meet But Heaven's bright summer to our soul endears. 29 ADELINE GEAY. We two stood in the woodland shade, I and my Adeline Gray ; A sweet, and a sunny, a merry maid. Was ever my Adeline Gray. And she loved me too with a woman's love, Did my darling, AdeHne Gray ; And I lavished a passion, all else above. On my beautiful Adeline Gray. We wandered on 'neath the waving trees, I and my Adeline Gray ; And the colour came with the fragrant breeze To the cheek of my Adeline Gray. But 't was only the breeze that brought it there, For pale was my Adeline Gray ; And my heart was full of a growing care For my dear one, my Adeline Gray. 30 ADELINE GRAY. The autumn came witli the summer's wane, And I and my Adeline Gray Still wandered on in the woodland lane, But paler grew Adeline Gray. The cherished form, and the inerry face Of my treasure, my Adeline Gray, Grew slighter, and sadder, and I could trace The waning of Adeline Gray. And toward the end of the autumn red, My darling, my Adeline Gray, Lay a faded lily upon her bed. And I wept for my Adeline Gray ! On my aching breast I held her head, As I watched by my Adeline Gray ; And the autumn came to its own death-bed With my dear one, my Adeline Gray ! The leaves had strewn the church-yard graves When we buried my Adeline Gray ; But safe with the Saviour who ever saves Was the soul of my Adeline Gray. ADELINE GRAY. I wander 'neath the dark trees' shade Where I met my AdeKne Gray ; I stand by the grave wherein is laid The body of Adeline Gray. And I long for the time when I shall see Again my Adeline Gray, For earth's a wilderness to me Without her— dear Adeline Gray ! 31 32 THE FUTURE. We are painting a glorious picture, In colours that never can stay ; 'Tis a flattering, flattering portrait, We are all of us viewing to-day. We are rearing a lionie in the sunshine, Forgetting perchance it will fade ; Never thinking the beauteous sti'uctui'e May evermore stand in the shade. We are looking thro' glass that is painted. On rubbish, and stubble, and straw. Believing their beauty and value Exceed all we previously saw. We are storing our gold and our silver In a bank that will probably break ; But we never will think on its failure — Each moment increases the stake. THE FUTUEE. Like a traveller parched in the desert, The pool in the distance we see ; And we hasten in joy to partake it, When a mirage we prove it to be ! Like a wanderer lost and benighted, A Will-o'-the-wisp we behold. And we cry " We are nearing the homestead ; Farewell to ye, darkness and cold ! " Let us cast down the palette and pencil, And colour the futm-e no more ; Let us build on the side that is shady ; Less pleasant, perhaps, but more sure. Let us turn from the brightly-stained window ; Thro' it false are the things that we see ; Let us haste to recover our treasures, Ere bankrupt and ruined we be ! Let 's be blind to the mirage that mocks us, And close to the meteor om* eyes ; Let us cease so to dream of the Future, But the Present more dearly let 's prize. D 34 THE FUTURE. All, why sit we hoping and dreaming, The Present has work for us all ; And only to him who performs it, Will the Past be a bliss to recall. Ah yes ! and for him, and him only, Can the Pnture have blessings in store ; Then work while the moments are flying. They'll never retui'n any more ! 35 THE PAETINa. So it is past — our love, for ever past ! The blow, so long impending, falls at last ; Like some soft breeze of poisoned, perfumed air, I should be glad 't is with, the things that were ! God knows that I have weakly worshipped thee ; God knows that in thee I no faults could see — But it is over — now 't is so no more ; No, never canst thou be to me as thou hast been of yore ! Like one, who viewing things thro' stained glass, Sees of one hue, or sky, or stones, or grass, I, looking thro' my love for thee, have seen A love exist in thee, which ne'er has been I And so in truth, thou long beloved, we part ; Ah ! what but this could so have wrung my heart — To know, that which I took for gold is only dross ; To ask my foolish heart, if losing thee — is loss V 36 THE PARTING. Eeason says, "No." My heart has loved too well At once to cast thee forth ; yet I must quell Its tumults, and must crush for ever down Its yearning's. But my brow shall wear no frown, Tho' smiles no more may grace it. I have known A rapturous breath of life — but 't is for ever flown ! Time, the physician none can e'er excel, May heal in part, but ne'er can make me well ; For ah, deep graved upon my heart will be the scar, That all the joy and peace of life for me must mar ! 37 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. The sunshine bright, We love its light, It fiUs our hearts with glee ; But we turn from the shade, And our joys they fade. When the cloud of its presence we see. But is it wise, To only prize The things that our hearts can cheer ? And should we not. In our changeful lot. Both shadow and sunshine hold dear ? 38 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. The shadow shows Who are friends, who foes, Of those who in sunshine throng ; And makes more bright The joyous light That we know must be fading ere long. The Father throws The shade of woes, O'er the lives of His children dear, Their hearts to wean From the fickle sheen Of the world — for they rest not here ! Thank God for the shade ; By Him 'twas made That we might be grateful the more For the joys we possess; Nor value them less Because they so quickly are o'er. 39 HOMES NOT HOUSES. Beloved Home ! ah, dearest treasure ! What, wlaat can equal thee ? Where else exist the bliss, the pleasure, Thy possession gives to me ? They talk of homes by walls surrounded — Not such a one I call mine own ; Ah ! it would never thus be bounded, Nor e'er be built of wood or stone. 'Tis not a place ! Should death descending Snatch away each household friend, Every loved one from us rending, The house and home we 'd cease to blend ! Could the house be home with the dear ones banished? With their voices silent for evermore ? Could the house bo home when their smiles had vanished ? Could the house be home as it was of yore ? 40 no:MES a^ot houses. Ah no, indeed ! but we 've a dwelling, No matter tlio' we houseless roam, If but from up some heart is welling A spring of love, to meet our own. Hunger, thirst — 't is hard to bear ye ; From suffering eyes the tear-drops start ; 'Tis hard indeed when loved ones share ye ! But what of hunger in the heart ? — The aching void that naught supplieth — The craving pain — the bitter tears ? The famished heart in anguish dieth — And quits a world no home endears ! Same, some have dwelt in halls patrician, And plenty had of worshipped gold ; And men have envied their condition As by, in state, their chariots rolled, — But no poor wretch their bounty craving Was e'er more homeless than were they ; 'T is true thoy smiled, but they were braving Wants as real every day. HOMES NOT HOUSES. 41 Then go, and oh ! more dearly cherish The home that thou canst call thine own ; Remember flesh and blood will perish More quickly than will brick or stone ! Yes go ! and be more kind, more tender ; Thou canst not plead thou hast not known ! More gentle deeds, more favours render , For hearts — not houses — make the home ! 42 SUMMER PLEASUEES. Down on the mossy bank Under the trees, Close by the rivulet, Cooled by the breeze, Let me lie languidly Taking my rest ; Reading or thinking, Which liketh me best. With the sun peeping down on me, MottKng me o'er With the leaves' pleasant shadows, I '11 study the lore Of those who have written In ages gone by, Or search out the secrets That heart-hidden lie. SUMMER PLEASURES. Or there in the hay-field, Half buried in hay, With a shelter to screen me From Sol's fervent ray, Let me watch the brown haymakers Move to and fro, While the breeze brings their voices So softened and low. Or let me be wand'ring Where tempting fruits grow ; Where red currants glisten. Where bright cherries glow, Where gooseberries hang Like to transparent gold, And the strawberry peeps From her leaves' sheltering fold. And while I am roaming 'Mid trees and 'mid flowers, Thro' the brightest and sweetest Of Sol's golden hours, — 43 44 SUilMEE PLEASURES. let me remember The tree by the throne, In the heaven above me, My happier home ! And while the clear brooklet Awakens my praise T'ward the great God of nature,- My thoughts it shall raise To the Eiver of Life In that city above, Whose soiil-healing waters Are waters of Love. 45 THE SPIRIT LOYER. Under tlie trees they sat, at evening's waning, The fragrant zephjTS playing 'mid their Iiair ; He, pale and weak, hut not a word complaining. She, with his head soft-pillow'd, nursed him there. And like a guardian angel bending o'er him, Her eyes looked down such overwhelming love ! Poor boy, it made more sad the death before him. And earthly bliss obscured the bliss above. He felt at rest thus in her arms reclining, Those loving arms that round about him wound ; The thought of death — the thought of her resigning — 'T was that which bowed his spirit to the ground. 'T was but awhile ago that, strong and healthy, He roamed light-hearted over hill and lea ; But ah ! disease o'ertook him, cruel and stealthy. And faint and helpless, low and weak was he. 46 THE SPIRIT -LOVER. And she was like tlie lily -buds so tender, So white witli anxious watcMng day by day ; 'T was naught but love that gave her power to render The sweet attentions that so cheered his way. And days flew on, and weaker still and weaker, "Within her arms, beneath her eyes, he lay ; When for a moment left he 'd trembling seek her; And she did naught but gaze on him and pray I One night in fear embracing one another, They looked such love their very eyesight failed ; In one long farewell clasp they held each other. In one last fervent kiss, his soul exhaled ! And soon they laid him where the trees are bending, Weeping for those who lie in Death's embrace, 'Neath the green mounds, on which the light descending From silver moons, does ev'ry leaflet trace. But where in winter midnights dark and dreary, The mournful winds are moaning wild and weird ; And thro' the gloom, 't is said have spirits weary Of their cold beds, to mortal eyes appeared ! THE SPIEIT-LOVEE. 47 E'er by his grave Anita stood so sadly, They scarce could draw her home at night to rest; And when she slept, 't was hut to dream, how gladly, That once again she held him to her breast ! One night, when all the household wrapp'd in slumber Forgat their cares, and poor Anita's grief, She lay as she had lain times out of number, Restless and sleepless — hopeless of relief. The moon was glorious, shining in so brightly At the small window, emulating day ; She had no blind, for as she lay there nightly, She would look forth, ' ' He'll come again," she'd say. Into the little room the moonhght streaming. Showed every object plain as could the sun ; And in the garden drops of dew were gleaming, And o'er the pathways tossing shadows hung. Anita looked with eyes of expectation As tho' she fancied he were really there ; And then she'd turn and pray for resignation, For she had all but yielded to despair ! 48 THE SPIEIT-LOVER. AJi, at the window witli a look so tender, That none but he could give, a face was prest ; It was his spirit ! Watching angels lend her The strength to open to her pallid guest ! Ah no ! she faints- — he glideth from before her, She prostrate faUs upon the moonlit floor ; All night the shadows dance and flicker o'er her, And they who find her think she'll wake no more. But she arises — seems resigned — more cheerful ; Of that dear vision breathes she not a word ; 'T is true her eyes may now and then be tearful, And perhaps at times a gentle sigh is heard ; But no such fearful looks of wild despairing. No sign of dread unutterable woe ; Her face tho' white as ocean-foam, is wearing A look of hope — What is 't that makes it so ? It is because in lieu of earthly union She has a prospect scai'cely held less dear ; It is their spirits' most complete communion. For which she longeth as the night draws near. THE SPIEIT-LOVER, 49 It comes at last — the night in all its splendour ; And all have sought their beds of halmy rest, All save Anita, angel guards attend her ! She waiteth for the one she loveth best ! Wide is the casement — in the night breeze stealeth Perfumed with sweetness from the sleeping flowers, Its cooling breath the waiting maiden feeleth As there she watcheth thro' the lagging hours. JJown where the shadows on the path are lying From leafy branches of o'erhanging trees, — There, where he lay when in her arms a-dying, At last her spirit-love Anita sees. Eound to the door she flies and forth to meet him, — She feels a chill throughout her fragile frame ; With eager arms outstretched she goes to greet him. With loving lij)s she breathes his cherished name I He glides towards her ever on her gazing — He cometh close — she claspeth but a shade ; But in his eyes she reads his love amazing, And for her sorrow she is well repaid. E 50 THE SPIRIT-LOVEE. Like the sweet echoes of the angels' singing His ghostly voice repeats his earth-love's name ; Thro' every chamber of her heart 't is ringing, And tlirills each nerve that trembles in her frame ! And borne along by some unearthly power, Clasped in those spirit-arms, content she glides Adown the pathways where the shadows lower. Where from the moon, its wealth the foliage hides. Down to the lake, where water-lilies floating Seemed the white robes of angels in the gleam ; Dear spot ! where oft they'd wandered, little noting That change was coming o'er their golden dream '. Oh silver lake ! oh trysting place so cherished ! Oh fairy scene wrapped round with magic spell ! Thou'rt lovely still — unchanged — but there have perished The brightest hopes of those who loved thee well I Oh frosted lake with Luna's gems so sparkling ! Cold, cold the bosom where thy lilies rest ; "When morning breaketh o'er thy waters darkling, They'll find another flower upon thy breast. THE SPIRIT-LOVER. 51 Another water-lily frail and slender, And white as any borne upon thy wave, — A flower as fair, as fragrant, and as tender, Has found beneath that bosom cold — a grave. Poor, poor drowned blossom ! sister Klies twining Shall wreathe a chaplet for thy streaming hair ; Ah dear white face upon their leaves reclining ! What lily of them can with thee compare ? Thou silver lake I no more shall lovers wander In dreams of gladness on thy moonlit shore ; No more by thee of visions growing fonder Than of realities — ^no more ! no more ! The shrinking peasant passing from his labour, Shall see twin-spirits floating on thy wave ; And carry quick the news to friend and neighbour. For thou hast been our lost Anita's grave. Lie still and calm by all the world forsaken ! Lie with thy bosom unperturbed and cold ! Unmindful of the treasure thou hast taken To swell the flocks within thy lily-fold ! 52 IS IT MAY ? "It is May!" smile the flowers as they spring up from earth ; " It is May ! " sing the birds in their carolling mirth; " It is May ! " says the sun in each life-giving ray : All nature in chorus is hailing the May. "It is May! It is Maj^!" laughs the roystering breeze, And an answering whisper he wins from the trees. List ! list ! to the stream as it glideth along : It is rippling in gladness the same joyous song ! " It is May!" shouts the boy as he rushes from school, "We'll go down and bathe in the sweet woodland pool." "It is May!" smiles the maid, "and myself I'll prepare "To joy in its sunshine, to breathe its pure air." IS IT MAY ? 53 But ah ! there are hearts that no May-tide have seen. That have sent out no blossoms, no leaves that are green, For scarce had they budded, believing 't was May, Than the frosts of December forbade them to stay ! And long have they waited, and withered, and wept ; The promise hope made them no spring-tide hath kept ; All nature may smile in her beauty to-day, But the cold hearts rejoice not — to them there's no May. To the sweet song of birds with a groan they reply ; And the music of waters they hear with a sigh ; For thrilling the chords that are touched by the strain, And the sounds that they send forth are wailings of pain. I will trust, gentle reader, 't is not so with thee. That the fruit of hope's blossoms thou'rt able to see; Then gladly thy heart will speak out and will say, When I ask thee the question — " Yes, yes, it is May !" 54 IS IT MAY? But should 'st thou, alas ! be among those who sigh For the May-tide that comes not, tho' spring is gone by, Look ujiward ! look onward ! forbear to repine ; The May sun, tho' tardy, soon on thee shall shine ! Yes, when the drear journey of life shall be o'er. And the path thou hast traversed shall know thee no more, Thy soul shaU cry out, as 't is wafted away, " The winter is over — this, this is the May I " 55 THE LAST LOOK. He is dead ! oh, do not draw me From his side ; nay, let me stay- Thus to close the eyes that saw me Last, before he passed away! I will watch him stilly lying, Till the dust is o'er him east. For my heart aloud is crying, " 'T is the last look ! 't is the last ! " "When I saw thee, times unnumbered, I had no thought that I should look On thy face when cold it slumbered, And life and motion thee forsook : We 've dwelt together, dear, — 't is ended ! Soon the grave must part us twain ; Would my soul with thine had blended, For thou 'It never come again ! '^6 THE LAST LOOK. I am gazing on thee blindly, For mine eyes are overcast ; Tears, ye dim tliem most imkindly, Let me look — it is the last ! "Would to God that o'er thee bending Life and earth might both be passed, And that my soul, its temple rending, Might soar with thine throughout the vast Of Paradise — but I am raving! Heavenly Father, oh, forgive ! Thy wrath I sinfully am braving, Pardon — and teach me how to live ! Thou dost fi'om me my dearest sever, Forbid my bosom thus to swell ; • And let me feel that Thou dost ever Do things wisely — ever well ! 57 FOEEBODINGS. I SIT in tlie deepening twilight ; There's a load upon my breast, 'T is a dread of the unknown futiu-e, And it will not let me rest. 'T is the shadow of clonds of sorrow, That loom in that distant sky ; 'T is the far-off roll of the thunder. But I tremble as tho' 'twere nigh. I have visions of deep heart perils, A creej)ing, clinging dread, That my life-blooms will all be blighted, And that weeds will grow instead ! Fate holds the book of my future, I watch as she turns each leaf. Thro' my bosom runs a tremor, As I ask, " Is it joy or grief? " 58 FOREBODINGS. And my heart, like a living creature That fears some deadly foe, Is standing still in its terror, And my blood is chilled and slow ! Up, coward heart ! and be doing, Ere these terrors are fulfill'd ! Sit still, and they '11 come for certain ; Act — and they 'U aU be kiUed ! The Future ! thou yet canst make it, By sowing its seeds to-day ; Then up and to work in earnest, Travail, be watchful, and pray ! Nurse the buds of thy love in the sunshine, Oh, shade them not over with gloom ! Peradventure they will not wither, But come to perfection and bloom ! Root out the weeds that come creeping, Exhausting the soil of thine heart ; Grow strong in the might of thine Helper, And carry out bravely thy part ! FOEEBODINGS. 59 Of life's wearisome, wearisome burden We must all of us carry our share ; But his shall be ever the lighter Who never succumbs to despair ! 60 ' " TAKE THE WILL FOR THE DEED/' " Take the will for the deed !" 't is bitter to fail, Wlien we 've strained every nerve in our frame to prevail ; But 't is bitterer far, disj^leasure to trace, Instead of a smile on the striven-for's face ! " '< Take the will for the deedl" You know not how high The pulses will leap in the bosoms that try ; Their failure to you may bring trouble and care, But them it will wreck on the reefs of despair ! " Take the will for the deed !" for some hearts will break "With failings, and frowns, that the failings awake , pause, and remember kind words never kiU, If you only had smiled, they had striven on still ! "take the VriLL FOR THE DEED ! " 61 " Take the will for the deed ! " or to thee be shame ; In success or in failure the motive 's the same ; In either, then, let them be equally dear, And cheer them with smiles if you know the}' 're sincere ! " Take the will for the deed!" Words spoken in vain! 'T is a pinnacle height beyond human attain ! Let us turn from the earth, and seek it above, Where motives are deeds in God's fulness of love. "Take the will for the deed!" Yes, Saviour, wilt Thou! And the bright golden circle will compass the brow Of each who has striven in earnest for Thee,. No matter how many his failures may be ! " Take the wiU fur the deed !" Ah, yes, there 'd be bliss If all would act up to a motto like this ; But One we can seek in our bitterest need. And He, only He, takes the will for the deed ! 62 TYRE. " Oh, howl, ye ships of Tarshish," For Tyrus, fallen low ! A mighty man of valour Has been her overthrow ! With chariots and with horsemen, He on his mission sped ; Soon at her gates were lying The dying and the dead ! Crushed hy the chariots' rolling, Trampled beneath the feet Of horses, were her children In the Crowning City's street. Her gold and silver taken. Her palaces destroyed — Oone her ships of commerce — Her market places void ! TYEE. 63 Alas ! those noble towers, So perfect and so fair, That in their stately beauty Did their heads to Heaven rear, Deep in the Great Sea's waters, Their wood, and dust, and stone, Have lain thro' all the ages Since Tyre was overthrown ! "Where are the costly vessels Of Senir's fir-trees made. Their hatches all with ivory From Chittim overlaid ? Where are the masts of cedar? And Egypt's linen sail. All 'broidered with devices, That strained to catch the gale ? Where are the oars, the produce Of Bashan's woods of oak, With which the lusty rowers Gave sturdy stroke and stroke ? Where are the silken coverings Elishah's islands found, 64 TYRE. Trimmed out with, golden fringes, With blue and scarlet bound ? The good and trusty mariners That formed each vessel's crew, Men of noted Zidon That well their calling knew ? The wisest men of Gebal, Who the place of caulkers filled ? And those of far-famed Arvad In pilotage so skilled ? Alas ! Alas ! o'er ocean They'll never sail again ! Vanished and for ever Are the vessels and the men ! Oh, wail aloud for Tyrus, — Her army of the best That hanged the shield about them, Are they gone with the rest ? The men of Phut and Persia, So muscular and tall, Who gallantly defended The Crowning City's wall ? TYRE. 65 And they the brave Grammadims That garrisoned the tower ? — They too have all departed — Grod fought — they had no power ! Lament, lament, Tarshish ! That brought rich merchandise. For ah ! a heap of ruins The Mart of Nations Hes ! No more thou'lt bring the silver. The lead, and tin so rare ; No more thy ships come laden To traffic in the fair ! Tubal too and Meshech, In Tyre ye'll not amass More riches from the selling Of slaves, and cups of brass. Togarmah sent her horses ; The islands — ebony ; Syria traded emeralds. And fine embroidery ; From Judah wheat of Minnith — And precious balm and oil ; i- 66 TYEE. And cassia, iron, and calamus, From Javan was tlie spoil. There came the wine of Helbon ; Damascus' fleecy wool ; And still, oh Mart of Nations, Thy markets were not full ! There were lambs and rams from Kedar, And Eaamah's spice and gold ; There were chests of rich apparel, And yet the haK's untold. O Tyre thou wert replenished, And thou wert full of pride ; But ah ! thy God forgetting, All thy glory died ! Lament and weep for Tyrus ! Did once to her belong The harpings of the harpers. The sounds of joyous song '? Ah yes ! but hushed for ever Are her gaiety and mirth ; A warning and a terror Is her place upon the earth I TYRE. 67 Let nations learn a lesson ; Powerless themselves to save, Tho' ever such a gallant Fleet be theirs upon the wave.; Altho' a host unnumbered, Fight bravely for their name. And countries that surround them, Be jealous of their fame. No ! tho' their ports be open And all the world be there. To traffic in the markets The merchandise so rare ! *' Neither by might nor power'" They stand, but by His grace Who brought them out of nothing, And set them in their place. God fearing, and esteeming. They greater still shaU rise ; Like Tyre — their Grod forgetting, Like her — their glory dies ! 68 THE DAYS THAT AEE GONE. The days that are gone, gone for ever, Oh, how bright do they seem now they 're flown I How sad that we never, no never, Can value things while they 're our own ! While present they must have brought crosses, And sadness, and sorrow, and pain ; But oh, now we feel what their loss is How gladly we 'd know them again ! The days when we dwelt by the ocean ; And play'd on its pebbly sti-and ; And watched with all childhood's emotion, How dashed its huge waves o'er the land. Wlien we hoarded the sea weeds as treasures, And pick'd up each beautiful shell — Ah ! how simple and pui-e were our pleasures, If so they 've continued — 't is well. THE DAYS THAT ARE GONL. 69 The days when we played with the flowers , That grew round us everywhere, Thro' the long and the bright summer hours That seem to have shone ever there. When we scampered thro' brake and thro' bramble, And rushed down the hills like the wind — Ah, how many and many a ramble Comes back from the past to my mind ! And oh ! can I fail to remember When the nights had grown cheerless and cold, In the dull and the dreary November, How thrilling the tales that we told As we sat in a group round the lire, With no light but its bright burning blaze, In attention that seemed ne'er to tire Of recitals of dread and amaze. Then, then were our dear ones around us ! We sat there with hand linked in hand — But Time in his journeyings found us, And scattered that family band. 7,0 THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE. They ai'e gone — tlie old times — gone for ever, And of some of those dear ones we 're reft, Look on them again we shall never — Let us value the few we have left. When a few more of years shall o'ertake us, This present — will then be the past ; Oh, surely the thought then should make us. To value these days while they last ! But ah ! we waste time in regretting, Hegretting the days that are flown — Forgetting — ah,, ever forgetting That only the present's our own ! 71 THE TREE AND THE LEAVES. Thf.y clustered thick o'er his branches brown, They waved their hands in glee ; From his lowest twig to his spreading crown, They covered the old oak tree. In rustling whispers soft and low, Sweet words of love they spoke ; And, the old tree bending to and fi'o. Said they'd never forsake the oak. They sang him songs of the summer time, Songs of the woods so green ; They sang in praise of his lordly prime, His eminence, and mien. They decked him out in the gayest green, They bathed his bark with dew ; And they glistened bright ia the summer sheen, As about in the breeze they blew. 72 THE TEEE AND THE LEAVES. But the summer went, and the wind grew chill, And whistled mournfully ; And the birds had ceased their songs to trill. From the boughs of the old oak tree. The fickle leaves — away they fled — He could not make them stay ; Naked, and bare, with bowing head, He thought of all things they had said, Since first they came in May. But he lifted his head to the winter's blast, And the frost and snow defied ; " I know the false from the true at last," Said he, " and my day of folly past, I'll only trust the tried." 73 A STAEEY NIGHT. My head on bosom bending, In tliouglit the stairs ascending, I paused as the window I passed by; And by the old clock standing. Upon that staii'case landing, I looked on the clear and starry sky. There was on me the depression That is caused by the regression Of the mind, to things and persons gone for aye ; Which at gloaming comes so often, And which tends the heart to soften, And to counteract the influence of the day. The stars were brightly shining, As there I stood recKning. The old clock ticking ever in my ear; And, mixing with my musing. The sounds, my thoughts confusing. Seemed the voices of the absent and the dear. 74 A STABRY NIGHT. I thouglit of nights that had been, When my heart had glad been, And the star of hope ascendant, brightly shone ; When, with bosom beating, I ever was repeating The name of him I joyed to call my own. These very stars were shining, As, my sister's arms entwining Me, I told her the tale o'er and o'er — Just where, and how, I met him, That I never could forget him — But she'll never hear the tale any more! For my eyes are dim with weeping On the tm-f, 'neath which she's sleeping; She, and father, mother, all are gone before; Here I'm dwelling lonely. Their mem'ry have I only, Yet I think I see them, at ev'ry open door! And but the windows' shaking At night, the silence breaking, A STAHRY NIGHT. 75 The soughing of the wind, or the rustling of a tree, Overpowers my reason, And in that midnight season I fancy they are coming back to me ! And with painful yearning My heart is ever tm-ning To that absent dear one, who's coming is so late ; And all things else rejecting, Expecting, and expecting, Thro' the weary, weary years I vainly wait. And I think if fate should sever Me from him I love, for ever, Him I love and long for, ev'ry day, — That as pass the years like ages, I shall read these golden pages, And ponder in my mind what they say. I imagine myself standing In years to come, upon the landing, 76 A STAERY NIGHT. Looking out witli eyes fast growing dim; My hair becoming hoary, Wliile the old clock tells its story, And I wait with an aching heart for liim ! And still the stars will twinkle While Time engraves the wrinkle, And my feet begin to totter on the stair; And the house grows still more dreary ; And my heart of life more weary ; Oh, the burden is too great for me to bear ! Now from out this window peering, "With feeling, sight, and hearing On the stretch to catch a shadow, or a sound, — Like the old Egyptian nation, I believe in transmigration ; That the soul thro' many bodies goes its round. Not into those of cattle Does it enter there to battle, A STARRY KIGHT. 77 And be purified, and cleansed from all its sin ; But to form of man uniting, Ever with its grossness fighting. For ages and for ages, it goes out and in. For I feel I can remember, As the eye sees in November, Dimly, thro' the mists that intervene, However great the myst'ry, Going thro' this self-same hist'ry. Long, long, before this present life had been. It flashes on me standing By this clock upon the landing. That all that happens, happened long ago ; Back in the faint, dim, distance Of a far off existence ! And vainly reason tells me, it cannot be so. Then oh ! if this condition Be but the repetition 78 A STARRY NIGHT. Of a life I have lived many, many times before, — When its weary length is over, May my soul, no more a rover. Be absorbed into God, and dwell on earth no more ! fr 9 A LEGEND. The queen of Meliodaa sat in deep fhouglit : The heart in her bosom with evil was fraught : She was plotting the death of her noble step-son ; Tho' to her no evil or injury he'd done : But she knew that Sir Tristram was heir to the throne, And this wicked mother had sons of her own : So she cried to her hand-maid, "A chalice me bring," And softly she muttered, " My son shall be king ! " A chalice of silver the handmaiden brought — A cup of great beauty, full richly 't was wrought ; And the queen of Meliodas secretly filled It with poison so fatal it instantly killed. And then in the chamber where young Tristram slept. She placed the vile compound — this wicked adept ; And as she withdrew, she exultingly said, "The worst of it 's over — he soon wiU be dead I " 80 A LEGEND. But it chanced that a son of hers happened to stray Into young Tristram's chamber while sleeping he lay; And the child saw the wine, as it glowed in the cup, And, seizing it eagerly, drank it quite uj). No sooner 't was done than he fell to the ground, And stiffened and lifeless he shortly was found ; And loudly the queen raised her voice in her woe, And bitter the pangs that her conscience did know. But the heart in her bosom no kinder was grown : She hated Sir Tristram — he was not her own : So the Queen of Meliodas wine did prepare, And she mixed in the poison with labour and care ; And she placed it again where she could not but think That Sir Tristram, when thirsty, would find it and drink. But so it fell out that the king passed by, And the vessel of wine did he quickly espy ; Then he took up the cup and to drink did assay. When the queen, she beheld him, and dashed it away. A LEGEND. 81 Then it flashed to his mind how her son strangely died; And, filled with suspicion, Meliodas cried, " Thou traitoress false, thou shalt tell unto me — Or I'll slay thee this moment — what drink this may be." Then he drew from its scahhard his glittering sword, "While kneeling, she cried, "Ah! have mercy, my lord!" And she told him the whole of her wicked intent, While on her the eyes of her husband were bent With a look that consumed her. Then said he, "False queen. Betrayed and deceived, and blinded I 've been ; But by faith of my body your triumph is o'er : Eepent and be shriven — your death it is sure." So together his barons the king did convene. To try for her foul deeds his treacherous queen. They condemned her to forfeit her life at the stake — For fierce was their anger for young Tristram's sake. Then the faggots they brought and the stake did prepare, And many spectators were gathered there. 82 A LEGEND, And forth came the queen, with her guilty head bowed, And dreading to meet the fierce looks of the crowd ; And trembling with fear — for no pitying eye Was gazing upon her — no friend was there nigh ! They led her away — she was bound to the stake, But no pitying murmur went forth for her sake — When down at the feet of the stern looking king, Knelt a young knight who cried, " A petition I bring; Pray grant it, my lord, to thy suppliant son !" And Meliodas answered, " Sir Tristram, 't is done ! " " Then this is the boon tliat I ask thee to give : Let yon wretched woman — the queen — let her live ! " "Thou hast asked what is wrong," said his father, "of me; Fair son, she must die for her foul deeds to thee! " "Nay, Sir," said Sir Tristram, "I pray thee forgive Her as fi-eely as I do — say, may she not live ? " "Since I granted the boon ere I knew what was craved, Thou may'st go, son, and take her, the woman is saved; But let me not gaze on her treacherous face, — She is banished for ever, and aye, from this place. And ne'er let me hear the false traitoress claim From henceforth for ever Meliodas' name! " 83 HEART-ACHES. Oh Lethe, I long for tliy stream ; Then, then I these woes might forget ; Might Kve in the thrice happy dream, That my life were a pure blank as yet. In a draught of thy soft soothing wave, Might drown the lost love of my life ; In thy peace-giving waters might lave, And forget all its folly and strife. Could forget that I'd e'er shed a tear. Wrung out by my sorrows so sore ; Could forget that I'd e'er had a fear, And this bitterness think on no more. From these heart- aches I then might be freed, From this terrible, terrible dread ; But oblivion, the draught that I need. Shall be quailed in the land of the dead. 84 HEART-ACHES. Where the worm feasteth on at his will, "^Tiere the weary so peacefully rest, Where the wicked from troubling are still ; Ah, the peace of the dead must be blest! 85 WAITING. We 'be waiting, waiting, nouglit but waiting ; Waiting for the tide To turn, to tiirn, to turn and take us To the halcyon days that wait us ; When no sorrows alternating, Aught of joy can hide ; When all o'er will be the waiting, For us and all beside. We 're sick with longing, sick with longing, Longing for the day, That 's to bring us ev'ry pleasure. Without measure, without measure; All of happiness, belonging To our life's bright May ; When joys wiU aye be thronging, And ever, ever stay. 86 WAITrnG. Alas ! liow few there are contented ; "We're weary watchers here ; "Waiting for a brighter morrow. Waiting to escape from sorrow ; But old Time has not relented ; All is dark and drear ; Our hopes and joys he 's circumvented ; Will they ever be more near ? Will our path be brighter ever ? Shall we see the light? Will no trials come beclouding ? AVill no sorrows fall enshrouding ? Will a sigh be heaved never ? WiU aU be so bright ? Will waiting be all o'er for ever ? And over sorrow's night ? Alas ! alas ! why sit we dreaming, Dreaming time away ! Precious moments are we wasting ! Swiftly from us they are hasting ! WAITING. But tears adown our clieeks are streaming, Spite of all we say, We cannot, cannot help our dreaming, We 're waiting- for our May. Sometimes I think when life is ended. And never until then, The glorious hues our fancy's painted, While for the Coming Time we Ve fainted. Will in our soul's life then be blended ; When, yes, when The weary way our steps have wended. Shall ne'er be trod again ! 87 88 NIGHT. I LOVE thee, Night, With all a lover's love ; And to my sight The Day thou' rt far above ; She, thy sister fair. With eyes of heaven's own blue. And golden hair. Is loved by not a few : Some foolishly Have called thee " dark and drear," But thou to me, Than Day, art far more dear ! In ev'ry mood. Thy charms are all divine ; I long have woo'd Thee, lovely Night, thou 'rt mine ! NIGHT. I see tliee now, Thy ebon braids of hair Shading thy brow ; Thine eyes of lustre rare, Starry with light ; The crescent moon thy diadem ; Thy dress bedight With many a shining gem ; The silver sheen Of many a rolling stream, Decks thee, my queen. In the moon's bright gleam ! Thy floating veil Is made of the mist so white ; Thro' it thy crown looks pale. And tender thine eyes, dear Night ! Upon thy face A gentle beauty dwells ; Thou mov'st with grace Over the hills and dells ; "Wide spread I see A forest, thick and fair ; 89 90 NIGHT, Each leafy tree Waves in thy fragrant air ; The g'list'ning dew Shineth like diamonds bright ; The glowworm, too, Thine handmaid, brings her light ; While, to and fro. The shadows gently wave, The streamlets flow. And the fair flow'rets lave. That lovingly bend Over their mm^rn'ring tide. And seem to lend, To their music, as they glide, Attention deep : In the tree-tops near the sky The birds are asleep ; And the breeze goes whisp'ring by. I turn mine eyes Away from the woods so wild ; Before me lies. In repose so still and mild. NIGHT. 91 A city fair ; All was bustle and din to-day, But thou cam'st there, And it gradually melted away : The patrol paces Along the silent streets ; No human faces In his lone walk he meets ; Perchance he thinks, As he passes some mould'ring arch, — (And his heart sinks. And shrinks in that midnight march, — ) Of the spirits of those Who come £i-om the grave again. To the scene of former woes, And the home where they suffer' d pain ! To the east for a ray, He looks, of morning light ; He loves the Day, But thou art queen, dear Night ! The tall spires rise, And dark old turrets frown, 92 NIGHT. And loom 'gainst the skies, As the bright moon shineth down ; The streets are alight, In alleys, and courts, there's a gleam ; Even in town, Night, Thy beauties brightly beam : But I've seen thee, Night, With a fury's passion's glow ; The moon's sweet light Hid from the world below, By thy clouded brow, Most dreadful to behold ; Not circled, as 't is now. By thy crown of yellow gold ; Thy fiery eyes Gleam'd in the light'ning's flash ! In the wind thy cries Broke forth ; in the thunder's crash Thy deep voice spoke. In threat'nings dire and di'ead ! Thy fury woke. And the fierce bolt swiftly sped. NIGHT. 93 Upon the ground Lay many a tall tree's trunk ; The wind swept round, It roared, and then it sunk In wailings low. And then 't was a moment still ; But again it rose as tho' It had more to do of ill. And then I gazed On the troubled ocean's breast ; There, were billows raised, Each with a foaming crest, That bubbled and boiled ; And the spray fell round like snow ; And the vessels toil'd, And fought, with their angry foe ! Queen with the ebon hair ! The Day thou'rt far above ; 'T is true, she's fair, But thee, oh Night, I love ! Hear me plight To thee my loving troth ; 94 NIGHT. Dear to my sight Thou art, in smiles or wrath ! In every mood Thy charms are all divine ; I long have woo'd Thee, lovely Night thou 'rt mine ! 95 REGEETS FOR THE MARCH. We have lost him — the March — yes, for ever ; He lies in the grave of the past ! His like we may see again never ; Ah, to many this March was their last ! While with us how oft we abused him ; We murmured at weather and wind ; Can we say that quite rightly we used him ? Has he left no upbraidings behind ? We know he was never much petted — There were few that rejoiced at his birth ; But how many the things we 've regretted Since, too late, we discovered his worth ! He is like some stern friend we neglected — Whose counsels we thought were unkind — Whose true love we lightly rejected — Because we were wilfully blind. 96 REGRETS FOR THE MARCH. Bat wlien from us Death, rudely tore him, How vre wished he were with us again ; What tears of remorse we shed o'er him, Forgetting regTets are in vain. Alas ! opportunities wasted We can never — no, never — reclaim; Never know the sweet bliss that is tasted Where conscience has nothing to blame. Oh, April ! we'll surely endeavour Our duty to thee to fulfil ; That when the May comes us to sever, Thou may'st not accuse us of ill. For ah ! should we fail to remember How short is the time for us here ; That each month may to us be — December - The close of Life's troublous year ? 97 REMEMBRANCES. I REMEMBER, I remember, A goodly maiden band ; All in their young hearts' freshness, Before mine eyes they stand ; And some of them are merry, And some of them are meek ; Some are of marble paleness, Some have a ruddy cheek, And some are soft and gentle, And some are blithe and gay : Alas ! my old companions, A goodly band were they ! I remember, I remember, The gentle maids I chose To be my bosom-sisters, To soothe my college woes ; H 98 EEMEMBEAI^CES. I see tliem yet around me, I feel them kiss my cheek ; I hear their merry laughter As they play some childish freak ; Thro' the corridors they're rushing-; They 're bursting up the stair : Alas ! those merry maidens Are found no longer there ! I rememher, I remember, How we met, to learn the lore Of ages that have passed away, Of heroes gone before. We listened to her well-loved voice, Wlio told us many a tale, Of battles — of ensanguined plains. That made our cheeks grow pale. Oh silent is that voice to me. It speak to others now ; But I 've a hojie again to gaze On her calm and thoughtful brow ! KEMEilBEAXCES. 99 I remember, I remember, The merry songs we sung-, In that little cornered school-room That with our voices run^; ! And there the favoured lady Whom the god Apollo blest, Sung us the songs that erst were sung On Mount Parnassus' crest. Alas ! those merry voices Cannot mingle as of yore ; We are scattered far asunder, We can never all meet more ! I remember, I remember, The poet lore we read, Of Milton, and of Shakspere, Long numbered with the dead ; A voice of music guides us — A voice both soft and low — Yet lacking naught of energy, How sweet its accents flow ! 100 REMEMBRANCES. But all ! ' tis but in visions They fall upon my ear, They're passed away like other things, AVhich once to me were dear ! I remember, I remember, A form of fairy mould, Who loved to draw us round her, A^Tien many a tale she told Of him her hero -idol, TJie founder of the seheme, Which blesseth England's children. The rude, the poor, the mean ! Oh ! may the tales she told us Arouse in every breast Uesolves, like him to labour, That like him we be blest ! I remember, I remember. His open, genial, face, With whom we studied latitude, And longitude, and place. REMEMBEAJfCES. 101 Metliinks I hear his hearty laugh As tauntingly he cries, *'0h yes, 'where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise ! ' " Too swiftly sped those pleasant hours ! True type of English wortli, You read in all he said ov did Old England gave him birth. I remember, I remember, One who of language spoke ; And all our latent energies Grammatical, awoke : With busy pencils wrote we down Full notes of all he said ; While into fields of far research Oiir unstored minds he led. With " happy " illustrations, too, He taught us how to train The little ones, our future charge, And surely not in vain ! 102 EEMEMBEAXCES. I remember, I remember, The youngest of the three, "With X, the unkncsvn quantity, And a + b + c. By wicked looks from sly, bright, eyes, How oft his own were met ! And how we feigned stupidity, I never can forget ! All our foolish wilfulness, Good-humouredly he bore ; And 't was a grief to all of us When his last class was o'er ! Yes, 'tis a pleasant memory. That time at College spent ; And 't was a bitter pain to me When all those ties were rent : There was not one from whom I felt 'T was aught but pain to part ; There was not one but who had gained Some place within my heart ! REMEMBRANCES. I think upon them often now, With fond and deep regret ; And the' no more on earth we meet, I never can forget. 103 104 MY ALBUM. 'Tis the summer evening's closing ; The light is faintly dying ; The odour of the heliotrope is filling all the air ; Thro' the window from the garden, The large night moths are flying ; And I hear the children's voices as they play upon the stair. Thus in the fading daylight, When my hands are lying idle. That my thoughts may be more active, — to the absent and the dear, Goes my heart's intensest yearning, That no pow'r of will can bridle ; And I long to see their faces, they are well-remem- bered here ! MY AXBTTM. 105 But I've my consolation, For beside me on the table, Lies my pbotographic album, and I take it in my hand ; And looking on the pages Before me, I am able To fancy when I speak to them, that here the absent stand. Then come to me my album, I '11 indulge in thy inspection ; Come show me all the faces that are gi'aven on my heart ; Here in the dying daylight. Make closer the connection 'Tween myself and those who love me, tho' we 're dwelling far apart. I want no lighted candle With its flicker, and its flaring. To shine upon their faces dear, for some of them are dead : 106 MY ALBUM. I "know tlie faint gray gloaming Will suit the look tliey 're wearing ; And will soothe my aching bosom, and will hide the tears I shed. And first the album shows me, My mother, thy resemblance ; Thou wert sure to be the first, — for thou wert ever — at my will ; And I fancy on thy lip there 's The quiver, or its semblance, That as a child I saw there, when to me there happened ill. And there is none beside thee, To shelter from the beating Of the storms, that ever rage around a lonely woman's life; Thou hast surely proved the truth, that Happiness is fleeting, For thou'st known the name of widow, far more years than that of wife. MY ALBUM. 107 And yet oh not unaided, Not lonely, nnbefriended, Hast thou toiled np the mountains, that arose upon thy way ! For God, as He has promised, "When that nearest tie was rended, Stretch' d out His hand and led thee, and kept all the storms at bay ! * And here are three companions Of my husband's ; all together ; Companions of my husband's, many, many years ago; The sharers of his rambles In ev'ry sort of weather, "With genial buoyant spirits, such as now they cannot know. For the years, our hearts are building Eound with stone, that crushes feeling ; Working silently but surely, like the insects in the sea: 108 MY ALBUM. In the tomb our youth they 're laying, And the sepulchre are sealing ; And from that prison-grave it can, oh, never more be fi-ee ! And the innocence of childhood. And the beautiful ideal. That we cherished in our youth, within that charnel- house are laid ; And there rise up care and trouble, Not mythic, but too real. Which cast substantial shadows, and so turn our sun to shade. * * * And here's my mother's sister, Who in courtship's days me aided ; And cheered me many times by her ever ready smile : For my youthful escapading. She never me U2)bralded ; TVTien I told her my adventures, she was laughing all the while. MY ALBUM. 109 And by her stands her husband, A man erect in bearing, With a look that plainly tells one, " Tho' I'm three score years and ten, Old Time has lightly touched me, Eor how well those years I'm wearing ! And at seventy I'm as stalwart, as at fifty, many men." And here 's my cousin Helen, With an innocent demeanour. Standing so demurely with her hand upon a chair : The portrait's not unlike her, Tho' I have rarely seen her Stand gazing into vacancy, as she is gazing there. For not a solitary. But a merry wife and witty Is my cousin, and her husband is here placed her vis a. vis ; He 's looking like a stoic. But I know he thinks her pretty. And he owns he 's often worsted in the war of repartee, * * is- 110 MY ALBUM. Again I turn the pages ; There's a stranger face before me ; It is here Ly right of one who looks from out the other side ; He is smiling now upon me, But a jealous thrill comes o'er me, For ah ! that stranger maiden is my brother's destined bride ! We have shared our secrets, And lived in close communion ; And I know he held no woman in his heart, if 'twere not I; But a trifle, when I wedded. Came between us, and our union Has never been since then as in the happy days gone by. Oh, can I trace, my brother, The future that's before thee ? Can I read thy destiny by looking in her eyes ? MY AI.BUM. Ill Shall I find the secret Of the spell she's thi-owing o'er thee ? Or discover the foundation where thy heart's afi'ec- tion lies ? The face is kind and gentle, The dimj)led mouth is smiling ; And clust'rini? round the forehead, twine the locks of waving hair ; And in the merry eyes, there's A look, the heart beguiling ; So I think that I may leave thee, oh my brother, to her care. « * * Thou'rt here, but oh from England, To a land beyond the ocean, Thou art gone, dear Charlotte ; and at home they miss that face ; They ever think upon thee With the tenderest emotion ; And no one but thyself again will ever fill thy place. 112 MY ALBUM. Thy father to the Saviour Each day-dawn thee commendeth ; He knows tliat Jesu's gracious love is over all the earth ; That on that foreign country, His watchfid eyes He bendeth, As often as He looks up.on the land that gave thee birth. Thy mother fond and anxious, Sits deep in expectation ; She is looking for thy letters with a yearning at the heart ; Absence love but heightens, So to that distant nation, In thought she often journeys, while the tears unbidden start. Thy sisters both are striving To follow in thy guiding ; But they miss the gentle counsels thou didst whisper in their ear ; MY ALB TIM. 113 Thy brothers in their bosoms Are their emotions hiding ; But I know they think upon thee, and they hold thee very dear. All miss thy ready smile, dear. And the voice and look so cheerful ; They miss a thousand services thy willing hands e'er made ; They dare not speak about thee, For the eyes that now are tearful, Would brim over with the bitter drops that could not soon be stayed. But they know that thou art happy ; That in that land about thee There are springing up aifections that thy heart to it will chain ; And one and all are trying, Dear girl, to do without thee, Till they see, and not in visions, that cherished face again ! 114 MY ALBUM. My friend, tlie ever active, Thy hands are full of labours, To amuse or to instruct the population of thy town ; There, ever energetic. Thou servest friends and neighbours ; With a ready smile for many, and for very few a frown. And many busy jirojects Upon thy time are pressing; Yet thou art never hurried, as are less important men : Ever willing, ever cheerful, With all thy work progressing, Eend'ring to all thy services, and ready o'er again ! « * * And here 's my smiling Ellen, Fresh in my recollection ; Since we parted in the Eastern road, a twelvemonth scarce has passed ; MY ALBUM. 115 It was a pleasant picture, To serve me for reflection ; The sun was just declining, and 't was thus I saw her last : — With a tender looking hackward, Reluctant she departed ; Her curls in wild disorder, were all toying with the breeze : She kissed her hand thrice over. And homeward, moody-hearted, Her way she slowly wended, 'neath the shadows of the trees : While frisking on before her. Was the dog she 's ever petting ; He, too, looking backward, barking loudly witli delight ; Long I watched her figure. While the golden sun was setting ; Then turned, and with my husband journeyed on into the night. * * « 116 MY ALBUM. With what a tender cadence Thy name I breathe ! yes, ever I dwell upon it fondly, and thy face I long to see ; For written in my mem'ry, To be erased never, Are a thousand sweet expressions of thy tenderness to me ! What was it, then, that won me ? A word p'rhaps kindly spoken, Or some gentle ministration when for comforting I pined ; Or the sweet sincere attention To some tale in accents broken, When I came for consolation, which I never failed to find. P'rhaps 't was a smile so kindly ; It may have been that only ; But who shall weigh its value, to a yearning heart like mine ? MY ALBUM. 117 For love, for ever longing ; Amid a crowd so lonely ; In truth tky smile was precious, and was any like to thine ? Anxious cares upon thee Are pressing, and around thee There are many things to irritate, to worry, and to wear; But thou art never ruffled ; Who can say that they have found thee, Or soured by circumstances, or grown fretful under care ! There 's a home in many bosoms For thee, and ever will be ; (Be this thy consolation, when thy life with trial is fraught ;) Embalmed a precious mem'ry Thou art, and thou wilt still be, — Safe in the heart's deep casket, with the spice of loving thought. * * * 118 MY ALBUM. Now I see a maiden In her life's sweet springing ; Pleasure grows around her, like a rose without a thorn ; She 's courted and beloved, And ali are tribute bringing ; For witching charms and graces do this maiden fair adorn. She 's something of a syren, Her spells have wondrous power ; She can, like fabled Orpheus, hold every one in thrall ; When strains of sweetest music From out her maiden bower. Upon the breeze are wafted, she enchants the hearts of all ! In days now long departed A pretty little creature, Dressed in a frock of velvet, trimmed with cherry- coloured bows, MY AI/BUM. 119 I see her, and remember Her every tiny feature, And think how life's young rivulet into the river grows ! And so her only brother. Beneath the nursery table, In a silken tasseled cap, with a parti-coloured baU, His ruddy cheeks protruding, I fancy I am able To see, while playing gaily, and shouting to us aU. Now far above his fellows His stalwart stature towers ; His voice resembles Boreas, while chafing in his might ; An open genial nature He possesses, and the hours He loves to spend in fishing, fi'om the morning till the night. 120 MY ALBUM. And near them there is Nellie, A graceful tender flower, Like her of Astolat, Elaine, Sir Launcelot's lily maid, Save that she smiles in gladness ; And distant be the hour Wlien sorrow's lightest finger shall upon her brow be laid ! * * * Oh, face for e'er engraven On my inmost heart ! departed For ever and for ever to the Paradise of God ! Every line I 've learnt by looking. While burning tear-drops started, And I thought of thee thou lost one, lying 'neath the verdant sod. There thy body lingers, But thy soul to heaven is risen. To join thy saintly sisters, in the everlasting song ; MY ALBUM. 121 Awhile those two are parted, One free, and one in prison, But Christ will re-unite them, they will not be sundered long. From the throngs of the departed On every side that press thee, Arising from thy unknown grave, thou 'It hail Him with delight ; Those loving hands outstretching, He '11 raise thee up and bless thee, And give to thee the palm branch, and the garments snowy white ! portrait of the lost one. The lineaments are faded. That thou still show'st so freshly bright, in all their maiden bloom ! But what availeth beauty ? It never yet evaded The sickle of the reaper, whose full garner is the tomb ! 122 MY ALBUM. To thy grassy grave, dear, There is no moiu-nful comer, Weeping there and planting there, upon the hallowed sjjot ; But I, around thy picture Have painted leaves of summer, And peeping from among them is the blue forget- me-not ! * * * Past like varied shadows. Panoramic, they are speeding, — The years — some clad in sable, while some resplen- dent shine ; But thou to recollection, Can'st bring, tho' far receding, A happy one, resembling that bright yoimg face of thine. Thou wert ever full of froHc, Ever buoyant, merry-hearted ; And the ludicrous around thee, thou could'st well appreciate ; MY AI.BUM. 123 Thou wert never out of topics, One done, another started ; And may no crushing sorrows, dear, thy merry heart await. And now from my inspection I will cease ; the light has faded ; And your features on the page, my friends, I can no longer see ; The wings of the night-angel, The face of heaven have shaded ; And in the deep blue depths of space, the stars tread silently. My eyes may not have rested On all — 't is no rejection! And if my thoughts outspoken, have seemed to some too cold, Believe me, when I tell ye, I 've no lukewarm affection ! And who can teach a language, all within us to un- fold ! 124 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. Courage, brave hearts ! tho' the warfare be wearing, Plunge ye again in the thick of the fight ; Vict'ry is won by the arm of the daring, Might in the end shall be vanqnish'd by right. Then clear let your battle cry ring thro' the air, " In fighting this battle, we '11 never despair ! " Look on our foes, and your courage upleaping, "Will nerve you to conquest on every side ; This is not the time to be fainting or weeping. The battle is earnest — the warfare is wide ! Then the sword and the shield we will stui-dily bear. And tho' hard be the struggle we '11 never despair ! THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 125 Here an army of Troubles is striving to crush us ; There a host of Temptations to make us succumb ; But we never will yield, and when vict'ry shall flush us, Their trumpets of triumph for aye shall be dumb. Let us bid them defiance, temptation and care, And in "Life's earnest battle" we'll never despair ! Against us Oppressions their arrows are darting ; And lUs without number encompass us round ; Deep are our wounds and we wince at the smarting. But true to our colours let 's ever be found. Then on enemies' strongholds our flag shall float fair, With its magical legend, "We '11 never despair!" The hordes of King Death are in ambush — be heedful ; Around us for ever are hov'ring his spies ; Then to watch and be wary, my brothers, is needful, And strike the betrayers as soon as they rise ! 126 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. Figlit boldly and bravely, but let us be- ware ; Death may smite, but not conquer — ^why should we despair ? FiR up the ranks — our comrades are falling ! Those nearest and dearest lie low on the field ; We hear their faint voices in death to us call- ing, To fight the great battle and never to yield ! "We'll follow their leading — we'll do and we'll dare. And die all unconquered by foes or despair ! Fill up the ranks — 't is no time to be grieving ; Sorrow but enervates — useless regret ; ^ The loss of their service we must be retrieving, Whom fondly we loved and can never forget ! Their banners triumphant to vict'ry we '11 bear, And Duty shall conquer the demon Despair ! THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 127 Yes, Duty forbids us to yield to our sorrow, In tlie heat of the conflict, forsaking the fight ; But when we unarm us and rest till the morrow, Our tears we'll pour forth in the stillness of night. Alone in the darkness our bosoms we '11 bare, But hope of reunion will banish despair, Then may our hearts to the voice of afi'ection Be opened again, while our memory speaks Of those we have lost, and the fond recollection. With the dew of ouj.- tear drops shall water our cheeks. But Thought on Hope's pinions shall fly thro' the air To the gates that are golden and closed to despair. So let it be ; but oh ! early awaking, Grird on your armour, prejiare for the strife ! And all the indulgence of sorrow forsaking, Brandish your swords in the battle of life ! 128 THE BATTLE OF LIFE. In our helmets the colours of loved ones we '11 wear, A charm that shall keep us from foes or despair. Courage, brave hearts, tho' the warfare be wearing, Plunge ye again in the thick of the fight ; Vict'ry is won by the arms of the daring. Might in the end shall be vanquish'd by right ! 129 THE SHRINE OF PRIDE. On many a shrine have our off'rings been laid, In all the excess of devotion ; To the saints without number, what tribute we 've paid, In the spoils of the earth and the ocean : Like the bright starry skies have th( ir altars out- shone, Pearls, diamonds, and rubies red gleaming ; Wliile over the splendour a glory was thrown, By the pure waxen tapers' soft beaming. And far other shrines have our human hearts reared ; To Love and to Hope we 've been kneeHng ; We 've clung to their altars while others despaired, And they gave us the balm that was healing ; K 130 THE SHEINE OF PRIDE. We have raised them a temple secure in our breasts, And we 've sacrificed much that we cherished ; But the garlands they gave us — those well beloved guests — Never know what it is to have perished ! But, ah ! there 's a shrine that too often we 've sought. And o'er us its influence stealing, Our joy, our affection, our virtue we 've brought, Our wisdom, our duty, our feeling — And offered them up — not to saints that have died, No such gifts have been laid on their altars ; But what win we not yield to the shrine of our Pride, With a wiU that nor wavers nor falters ? There the fair, haughty maid of a lineage old, Offers up all her youth and her beauty ; Then goes thro' her pilgrimage tearless and cold, And believes she 's a martyr to duty ! THE SHRINE OF PRIDE. 131 And a father and son there together will meet, And either will pay his devotion ; But the saint of theu* worship forbids them to greet, Tho' their bosoms be rent with emotion ! Oh, call it not " shrine ! " 't is an altar of gore ! We have slain there our sisters and brothers — There pierced the bosoms that loved us of yore, Sparing neither our own hearts nor others'. Oh, the sacrificed days that we 've laid on that shrine, With deliberate, heartless volition ! Oh, the loves and the joys, that were thine and were mine, Lying dead on that mount of perdition ! Nay, nay, to om- Duty, our Hope let us rear ; Let us sacrifice much to Affection ; Let us make them chaste off'rings of all that is fair, So winning tlieir help and protection : 132 THE SHRINE OF PRIDE. But cast dowu the altars on every side, Man has built from the earliest ages; AAliere blindly he worships the Demon of Pride, And receives bitter sorrow for wages ! 133 HOMELESS ! Traveller, why so sad ? Is not all nature glad ? Are there no beauties in all that surround thee ? Fresh is the breeze and free, Murmurs the honey-bee ; Break from the bonds wherewith sorrow has bound thee ! List to the brooklet's song Dancing the sedge among ; Hark to the birds with their musical voices ! Watch how the waving tree Moves to their harmony ; Ev'ry wee flow'ret looks up and rejoices. 134 HOMELESS. Smile is there not of thine ? God 's in the summer-shine 'Lumines the earth with a wonderful splendour ; She cannot ungrateful be, Bird, blossom, brook, and tree, Smile in their thankfulness back at the Sender. Vain babbler mock me not ! Mine is no sunny lot ; What are to me Nature's musical voices ? Song of the bird and bee. Voices of brook and tree, Torture the bosom that never rejoices ! Eivers career in glee On to the deep blue sea ; That is their home and they reach it in gladness Birds to their nests can flee High in the waving ta^ee ; Homeless in heart, I'm alone in my sadness. HOMELESS. 135 Pluct up the daisy bloom, Do ye not seal its doom ? Long does it smile in the sun of the summer ? Home, was its grassy sod ; Up from the valley clod No more shall it spring from the foot of each comer. Root up the stalwart tree, Where will its glory be ? Block up the current, what haps to the river ? Into a marsh it spreads Fruitful of reedy beds, Weep there the willows, and will-o' -wisps quiver ! Take from the shelt'ring tree All the nests ruthlessly. Homes of the gladsome birds high in the ether ; Will not a wailing note Burst from each tiny throat ? Will they not pour out their sorrow together '? 136 HOMELESS. Can I be aught but sad ? Home have I never had, Home of the heart of affection the dwelling ! Marsh-like I idly spread, No goal to reach ahead, Save the dark grave where my sorrow 's propelling. 137 THE NEW YEAR. It is a time for musing on the past, To trace the motives that gave birth to deeds, And learn our attributes ; the weeds to cast Away, that now, within our hearts, the seeds Of better things o'erpower ; then up shall spring, In this new year, a bounteous harvesting. It is a time to re-resolve that we. Upon the pages of th* unwritten book, Inscribe no record we should blush to see. Could aU mankind upon the entry look ; But as we write each leaf — pass through each day. Would we succeed, for succour we must pray. It is a time from out our minds to blot The mem'ry of each bitter rankling wrong ; Each angry word is better far forgot ; The weak revenge — forgiveness speaks the strong Too soon will set our sun to waste in strife One little moment of the day called Life ! 138 THE NEW YEAE. Then, 'tis a time each, other to forgive — To break the stony crust around our hearts, And stretch out loving hands to all who live In commune with us, ere e'en one departs ; For tho' all travel on the road to-day. We must part company upon the way ! So, 't is a time to shape our after fate — To heed the pathway that our footsteps tread ; Think ! have we entered at the narrow gate ? And are we by the Faithful Shepherd led ? Shall many days of this new year go by, And witness of us, " Unprepared to die ? " 139 "A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS." Oh cliarming coquette o'er those languisLing eyes Let the waxen lids droop if ye will ; Or open them on me with childish surprise, But I see thro' the artifice still ! You may bow down that head with the bright golden hair All flowing in ringlets of floss, — But listen, dear maiden, and prithee beware, For " a rolling stone gathers no moss ! " Then crush not the hearts in your pathway that lie ; Do not sneer while I ofi'er my own ; When your youth and your beauty, my love, have gone by. Your lovers will also have flown ; 140 "a rolling stone gathers no moss." Not that youth, or that beauty, alone can enchain ; They '11 be only a part of your loss ; You'll be sour and ill-tempered, and prone to com- plain That " a rolling stone gathers no moss." Beneath that indifferent air you assume There's a heart that some feeling has known ; And that heart would expand did you give it the room. With a love that would equal my own. Nay, curl not your lip with that sceptical smile ; And your ringleted head do not toss ; 'T is a very good motto, pray try it awhile, " A rolling stone gathers no moss ! " If you still persevere in thus acting a part. Without doubt what you seem you will be ; There'll be stone in your bosom instead of a heart. And your womanly sweetness will flee. "A EOLLING STOIS^E GATHERS NO ilOSS." 141 By-and-bye you '11 talk scandal, they '11 call you " old maid," At wliicli you 'U feel peevish and cross ; And you '11 sighing exclaim, as your charms you see fade. That " a roUing stone gathers no moss ! " What, is there a tear in that tender blue eye ? And has love from your face torn the mask ? Oh say 't is for ever, my dear one, put by I Sweetheart, is it too much I ask ? Let each to the other be steadfast and true, Then no rival my pathway shall cross ; And what wiU it be, love, to me or to you, Tho' " a roUing stone gather no moss ! " 142 COMING TO MEET US. " In our course througli life we shall meet tlie people wlio are coming to meet us, fi-om many strange places, and by many strange roads, and what it is set to us to do to them, and what it is set to them to do to us, will aU be done." — Dickens. They are coming to meet us — we liear in the distance Tlie sound of their footsteps as nearer they pace ; Be they friends, be they foes, alike useless resistance, For it is decreed that we meet face to face. They are coming to meet us — from o'er the wide ocean; Thro' thick tangled forests some seek for the track ; And some are borne on by the monster of motion ; But all come to meet us, and never turn back. They are coming to meet us — young children's sweet faces Beam out thro' the darkness, as forward we j)oer ; And of young blooming maidens the light tripping paces Are coming toward us, and soon will be here. COMIXG TO MEET US, 143 They are coming to meet us — the stalwart, the daring, Pressing on to the goal in their life's manly prime ; And the tottering steps of the aged, who 're bearing, Impressed on their features, the records of time. They are coming to meet us — and what is their mission ? Is the sound of their steps fraught with fate in our ears? When they see, will they give us a kind recognition ? Or start in our bosoms the thrillings of fears ? They are coming to meet us — the fairest may bring us The bitterest cup that a mortal can drain ; Or aim at our bosoms a dart that shall sting us. And no healing balm shall restore us again ! They are coming to meet us — a crowd of them treading. Some bearing rich blessings are close at the door ; And some om- weak hearts, all foreboding, are • dreading, And fain would their coming for ever ignore ! 144 COMING TO MEET US. They are coming to meet us — oli, eyes that are tearful, " The blast of the terrible ones " will be blown ! And the fate that it bears in its breath will be fearful, To proud ones who meet it and brave it alone ! They are coming to meet us — with blessing — with sorrow ; In the strength of our Helj)er their advent we wait ; And be it years hence, or to-day, or to-morrow, With Him for a shelter, we smile at our fate ! 145 fines bnitm m "^nkulm ©rtastons. THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE CONSORT. A Royal widow weeping sits on England's darkened throne, And thro' the land, from hut to hall, the direful news has flown ; And England lifteth up her voice in wailing and in woe, For him who on the bed of death, alas ! now lieth low ; And every heart in England, from lord of high degree. To lowest born among the gi-ades, swells out in sympathy With royal children fatherless, with her their widowed queen, And sends to heaven the earnest prayer, "Keep Albert's memory green." L 146 THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE CONSORT. His voice was ever raised for good — his was a well- spent life ; He did his duty well to all — to England, home, and wife ; "" And yet withal 't was gently done, without bombast or show ; A better prince — a truer man — can England ever know? Alas ! alas ! Death enters in at palace gates as sure As that he glides o'er threshold of the lowliest cottage door : His fatal hand is just as cold on prince or peasant's brow ; But keep our Albert's memory green — 't is all that's left us now ! u: ON THE MAEEIAGE OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. Hail Queen of days ! thy advent long lias been Within our isle of all our thoughts the theme ; Thy predecessors scarce from us can claim That we so much as recollect their name : A few, indeed, are bright on mem'ry's scroll, But thou triumphantly shalt crown the whole. " A thousand other themes " shall pass away, And hopes, and joys, and happiness decay ; Time — cruel despoiler — with effacing touch, ShaU wipe out cherished things, — but thou so mucli Shalt crowd into thy little being's page. That we '11 remember thee to latest age ! On in the days, far hence, when Edward reigns, And Denmark's blood shall fill our princes' veins, Our children to their children oft shall say, " God bless the King ! ah, well his wedding day, 118 ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE PRINCE OP WALES. Witli all its glorious pageantry of joy, Do I remember, tlio' so young a boy ! " And thou, Eoyal Bridegroom, what shall be my prayer For thee, and her, who aU thy lot will share ? Back in the vale of years, before mine eyes, I see the forms of other princes rise ; Princes of "Wales, thy diadem who wore, And, like thee, wedded while the name they bore. And first the Sable Knight with Cantia's maid. Arises from the silent dead-land's shade ; In Bordeaux's halls the gayest of the gay, Joan keepeth court, and Edward beareth sway. But ah ! too soon his knightly soul took Aving — He died renowned, nor knew the name of Kin'^ ! And next, another Edward 'mid the strife Of warring Eoses, calls a Warwick — wife. He, fated youth, confronts his chiefest foe — The monarch smites — the Duke repeats the blow; Down at their feet he falls ; his veins' fall tide Outgushing crimson, all the floor has dyed ! But what of Anne whom he called his own ? Alas ! she shared dark Eichard's guilty throne. ON THE MARE.IAGE OF THE PraXCE OF WALES. 149 But see, Prince Artliiir leadetli forth his bride, Fair Catalina, Arragonia's pride ; And beauteous dames of England and of Spain, Grandees and courtiers follow in their train On mules, and palfreys decked in cloth of gold, "While banners o'er them wave in many a fold. Admiring crowds the streets of London thi-ong, And all is feasting, pageantry, and song : But ah ! Ambition's schemes are soon undone; The bride a widow — Hem-y mourns a son ! Pass, pass away, too soon beclouded scene ! Is there no lasting joy in what has been ? Is there no lot, my Prince, thy compeers knew, So bright that we might pray the self-same hue Thine own should wear, as years away shall roll ? What of Prince Frederick ? Dark appears the scroll That bears the record of his wasted life : Augusta was his true and gentle wife. Not overvalued ; and in discord spent. Till every filial tie was rudely rent. His brief days unimproved, um-ecked-of, sped ; When died the Second George, the Prince was dead. 150 ON THE ]MAEBIAGE OF THE PKINCE OF "WALES. I will not stoop to paiut the vile career Of George the B-egent. For one pitjdng tear The fate of Caroline, poor wife, will call ; Then, o'er the past I '11 let the curtain fall, — Turn from its scenes so gloomy and so sad, To view how bright thy future looks, and glad ! On thee, my Prince, may no such ills descend ! The King of Kings thy bride and thee defend ! Send thee fair sailing on a sunlit sea, With gentle breezes of prosi^erity : Send thee no night, but never-ending day, (Himself the Sun that chases clouds away) Waft thee at last to Heaven's own blissful shore " Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar ! " May 'st thou look back on this thy bridal day, As the blest portal of a flower-strewn way ! Oh ! may no care, beclad in sombre hue, Thine heart hath suffered, pass that portal through, But angel-guards thy steps and hers attend, Smoothing the pathway thou art called to wend. Thy union is no high ambitious scheme. No loveless tie, as Princes' erst have been ; ON THE MAEBIAGE OF THE PEINCE OF WALES. 151 No plan of plotting ministerial brains — For Alexandra in thy bosom reigns ! So shall thy lot be blessed thy peers above, For lasting happiness is based on Love ! 152 LORD PALMEESTON. DIED OCTOBER 18tH, 1865. Leaning upon her shield Britannia weeps, With head bowed down and streaming cheeks all pale; Her hair dis bevelled o'er her bosom sweeps, Swayed by the breathings of the wintry gale. Her trident and her helm unheeded lie ; Unrecked-of dash the waves upon the shore. The while she cries with loud and bitter cry, " The arm that guided me will guide no more ! " Her very skies are clouded, and the sun Will not look down upon the wretched day : 'T is weeping rain, for Death hath taken one We loved and honoured from the earth away ! Tell England not of comfort, let her grieve, And down her cheeks the bitter drops let pour ; Tears can alone her breaking heart relieve. For Palmerston the trusted is no more ! LOKD PAT.MERSTON. 153 Listen ! slie speaks in tender, loving tone, But with a voice that tells her sorrow deep — " Oh can it be that thou whom I have known Thro' all these troublous years, art fallen asleep ? Thou, my reliance, whose unequalled skill Has borne me thro' whatever me befell ; Whose ready tact has many a threatening ill Spurned from my path and whispered, 'All is well!' Oh thou, my right hand, who shall aid me now ? Who shall uphold me now thou'rt laid to sleep ? The dew of agony is on my brow, And all my comfort. Temple, is to weep ! ' Yes, there are those that love me, but untried, Unproved, whilst thou, to aQ my sons wert dear ; Thou wert the people's premier far and wide. And they are weeping for thee many a tear. We shut our eyes upon thy length of days; We thought thee young because thy heart was young ; We'd not believe thy sun's declining rays, Could so much noontide brilliancy have flung. 154 LORD PALMERSTON. Thy name and mine for ever were entwined, * England and Palmerston,' and can it be That the chill whisj)er of October's wind, Must spread the tidings — England mourns for thee ! Ah, never more my statesmen sons thou'lt meet Within my senate, with thy j udgment clear ; Never again thy ent'ring feet to greet They'll raise theu" voices in the hearty cheer ! At no more councils can'st thou e'er preside, At no more feasts we'll see thy genial smile ; Oh thou on whom my trusting heart relied, What can assuage to me this bitter trial ! Never another word thy lips may speak, To be descanted on by foe or friend ; Death's waxen touch is laid upon thy cheek ; The last is over — and I mourn the end ! Like some fond wife new widowed do I mourn ; We'd wedded been for more than sixty years. And now that God has called thee to the bourne Erom whence is no return, — I melt in tears ! LORD PALMEESTON. 155 No matter what their creed — who me hold dear Will let their mingling tears with mine o'erflow ; If there he one who of thy death can hear Unmoved and calmly, he must be my foe. I may not know how all my future pressed Upon thy soul, as swift it passed away ; That load is lifted from thy faithful breast, The heart that beat for me is stilled for aye ! Eest then, my Temple, rest ; no care for me Shall e'er disturb thee on that further shore ; Oh, long will England feel the want of thee. But thou of England — never, never more ! Thine earthly form we may no longer see, But from our records thou canst ne'er depart ; Not only on Fame's scroll thy name shall be. But safe embalmed in every British heart ! Yes, it is well, God saw thy work was done. And called thee home to Heaven's own peaceful rest: Long has thy laurel crown on earth been won, And now He gives the golden, and the best ! " 156 THE LOSS OF THE LONDON. January 11th, 1866. They have all reached the bourne ; they're for ever at rest ; Wild winds and mad waters no more can molest ; For sealed are their eyes in eternity's sleep, And their ears have grown deaf to the rage of the deep! How radiant with hope, oh, how buoyant, how bold, "Were the souls over whom the dark billows have rolled ! And we mourn, for, alas ! man is powerless to save, When the winds lash to fury the breast of the wave! Some sought a new country afresh to begin That battle of life which so few of us win ; To raise a new home by their hands' honest toil, And to gather by labour the fruits of the soil: THE LOSS OF THE LOISTDON. l-*)? And some were returning to homes they had left, Where desolate now dwell their dear ones hereft, Who, ignorant yet of their terriLle fate. Expectant with hope for them joyfully wait ! And fathers and mothers whose heads had grown grey, Sought sons whom they loved in that land far away ; And maidens' young hearts yearned for lovers of yore, Whom they j ourneyed to meet, and to part from no more ! Alas for our plans ! The Jehovah decrees — ■ They are scattered and gone like the chaff 'fore the breeze ; And we feel our own weakness, howe'er we may boast, And that he is the strongest who trusteth Him most. Oh picture the scene in that perilous hour, When all had succumbed to the tempest's dread power ; When all man could do had been done, and in vain ; And they lay at the will of the ravenous main : 158 THE LOSS OF THE LONDOK. Think, think of the hush, the dread awe like a spell, On the hearts of the hearers that crushingly fell, As entered the captain, still calm, and still brave. And bade them prepare for a watery grave ! They shrieked not, they raved not, they tore not their hair ; They gave but a moment to silent desj^air, Then majestic they rose o'er their terrible fate, And nerved their fi-ail fi-ames the Death-angel to wait. And husbands clasped wives in convulsive embrace ; And eyes looked their last on each well-beloved face ; And hands that had aided each other of yore, Were clasped and entwined to be parted no more ; Save p'rhaps by the waves when their corpses were cold ; And the poor loving fingers no longer could hold ! Then those who, alas ! in that scene were alone, Who none had beside them their bosoms could own. THE LOSS OF THE LONDON. 159 Oh yearningly, yearningly, thought with hot tears Of the dear ones they'd loved, and been loved by, for years ; And oh if the spirit the flesh-bonds can break, And fly at such times for humanity's sake, To the loved and the longed-for, be sure they ap- peared. At that yearning moment to those so endeared. And when human nature's wild cravings were o'er, All looked on with faith, and with hope, to the shore They would reach ; and they trusted their soids to His hands Whose voice, tho' so gentle, the tempest com- mands : "WTio knows how He held them within His fond arms ? Who can tell how His accents dispelled their alarms ? How tender His touch, as beneath the wild wave He laid them to rest on the sea- weeds— their grave ? Then let us not weep, for their sorrows are o'er ; We have still to meet Death, but they'll see him no more ; 160 THE LOSS OF THE LONDON, And the Saviour in lieu of tlie homes which they sought In the house of their Father bright mansions has bought ! Oh, be it on pillows of down that we wait For the Death-angel's coming — or early or late — Or be it in floods or in red flaming fires, That the lamp of our life flickers out and expires, So may Christ in His love lay us down to repose ! So cheer our awed souls when there cometh the close ! So may we on His bosom, like them, sink to rest. And join them in Heaven 'mid the songs of the blest ! 161 THE FEAST OF THE THREE KINGS, WINTER, CHRISTMAS, AND THE OLD YEAR. King WmTER on his regal seat Was seated, and around Were standing all his myrmidons On the bespangled ground. The Frosts were there to do his will, There fleecy Snows were seen ; And Fogs, and Mists, and piercing Winds That make the air so keen. His crown of flashing icicles Was set upon his brow ; The glittering sceptre in his hand, 'Fore which the flow'rets bow And hide themselves, like Huguenots, From persecuting king, Until a milder monarch reign, The sweet and gentle Spring. u 162 THE FEAST OF THE THREE KINGS. Down fi'om his shoulders hung a robe Which ermine far outvied ; 'T was formed of beauteous snowy flakes, Fit robing for a bride. Another king beside him sat, But no such state had he ; Time was, when sycoj)hants around Before him bowed the knee ; Time was, when friends brought gifts to him, Eich fruits and flowers of earth, And precious sheaves ; and struck the lyre In honoiu' of his birth. No more such sights and sounds for him ; His star has paled its ray. And darted from the golden track Full deviously away ! He spake to Winter : — " Friend, I go To the Regions of the Past ; My predecessors all are there, And here I cannot last. But 't is pleasant in that land to live ; My faults they '11 scarcely see ; THE FEAST OF THE THREE KINGS. 163 They '11 all my virtues magnify, And kindly speak of me. They '11 call me oft the ' Good Old Year '— ' The blissful Days of Yore ; ' Oh tell me not of the Present, friend, I '11 dwell therein no more ! " Then "Winter said: — "Judge not, Old Year, Too harshly, hut depart In peace ; and let no enmity Be kindled in your heart. The Present Kes between two lands. The Puture and the Past ; And they seem golden, for there is A glamour o'er them cast. The Puture we can never trust ; It will seem bright and fair ; 'T is a subtle charm that lies thereon— Let ev'ry one beware ! And thro' the Past a river flows, A branch of Lethe's stream, It changes all remembrances To a deceitful di-eam ; 164 THE FEAST OF THE THREE KDfGS. It draws the sting from ev'ry pain, It bimes ev'ry care ; 'T is living in a Lotus-land Too long to linger there ! Here, here alone our mission lies, And your's is almost o'er. So, to those Regions of the Past You '11 go, and come no more ! But go, good friends, with all Old Year, And be not sad at heart ; There 's a merry monarch, a fi'iend of mine, You shall see before you start : And he will cheer your sluggish blood, And make your heart beat high ; And a kingly feast we thi-ee will hold Before you say ' Good-bye ! ' But see afar the lightened vale — The glow upon the hill — He comes ! I hear the sounds of mirth Where all before was still. Prepare to give him welcome kind. My followers, to-night ; THE FEAST OF THE THREE KINGS. 165 Ye Snows bespread Ms pathway thick With carpets fleecy white ; Ye Frosts arrest the glist'ning drops That hang on ev'ry tree, And clear the air, that all the stars May shine down brilliantly ! Ye, Winds, may blow a bracing breeze ; But Fogs and Mists, retire. And send, instead, the genial aid Of my attendant. Fire. On ev'ry hearth let cheerful flames Around the yule-log glow. And o'er the poorest, humblest home A gladden'd aspect throw ! " King Christmas now appeared in sight ; A merry monarch he ; In ev'ry feature could be traced The beaming forth of glee. A crowd attended on his steps, With torches and with trees Of fir, illumed and gaily decked, The little ones to please. 166 THE FEAST OF THE THREE KINGS. Some carried boug-lis of misletoe, And some of holly red ; And ev'ry one had laurel twines, Or ivy on his head. Laughter came, and Merriment, And Mirth, and Music too, Grood Cheer, and Hospitality, And Presents not a few ! Then Winter and the Old Year rose To meet the merry king-. And bade him welcome, with the troop That with him he did bring. Said Christmas : — "All ye heralds go To mortals, and proclaim A feast throughout all Christendom, In our united name. Let plenty furnish ev'ry board, Let feuds and fightings cease ; Bemember that my origin "Was from the ' Prince of Peace ! * Let ev'ry household meet in love — I come in love to all ; THE FEAST OF THE THREE KINGS. 167 But, ah ! there may be some beyond Reviving at my call 1 There may be some who Famine know, And Cold, and Nakedness ; To such as these my coming will But aggravate distress. If favoured ones, to whom I give Enough, and something more. Will not, of their abundance, take For the wretched and the poor ! " 168 LIBERTY'S LAMENT. I SAW the form of Liberty, her eyes witli weeping red; Dishevelled were the locks that flowed around her stately head ; And o'er the couch whereon there lay Italia's bravest chief ; She wrung her hands and wailed aloud in bitterness of grief. She saw him there the one she loved — above, beyond them all, — He who had flown to rescue her, how faint soe'er her call ; His brow was calm — he patient lay, tho' great she knew his pain, And tenderly she said of him, " He has not fought in vain ! liberty's lament. 169 No marvel that I love him best — 'twere strange if 't were not so ; Such champion should I never find, while oceans ebb and flow ; For me he fought in by-gone years, in places far away ; For me his sword was ever drawn, — it had been drawn to-day, But dastard hearts and coward hands have struck a treach'rous blow, And on the bed of suffering have laid my chieftain low; And I must shed these bitter tears, and dread that deadly foe Who smileth at my agony — exulteth in my woe ! No marvel that I weep for him as tho' my heart would break, For everything that men hold dear he's perilled for my sake : 170 liberty's lament. For me he's borne tlie summer's heat and braved the winter's cold ; For me forsaken house and lands, rejected power and gold ; And far across the stormy seas to lands whence I had flown He sailed, and woo'd me gently back and set me on the throne ! For all that he has done for me — for all I hold him dear ; But best of all I love him for the changes he wrought here ! This land, liis ' sunny Italy,' was long unknown to me. But she was dear unto my chief — he longed to see her free ; And so his peaceful home was left, and with his gallant band King Bomba and his myrmidons were driven from the land ! liberty's lament. 171 And in the streets of Naj^les, called the beautiful, the fair, The red-shirts thronged — the people's shouts re- sounded everywhere ; And Zouave and Bersaglieri told of battles fought and won. Of noble deeds their gallant chief had bravely dared and done. Ah ! tyrants trembled at his voice, and 'fore his footsteps fled ; Oppression sought a hiding place for his ' diminished head ! ' Then o'er united Italy did joyous voices ring, Sardinia's hopeful monarch was made Italia' s king ! Then spurning all Ambition loves — for power was not his aim — He turned him from the palace gates, jS-om grateful hearts' acclaim, And sought in other scenes a rest— a peaceful country home, And settled down to quietude ! — but ah ! there yet was Eome ! 172 liberty's lament. There yet was Rome, and Italy without it was not one, And so he thought, my gallant chief, his work was scarcely done ! Not done, indeed, while he who sat upon Italia's throne Was King without a capital, and foreigners held Rome ! It needed but one smile from him to gather them once more, The noble sons of Liberty who 'd fought with him before ; They came with courage in each heart, and strength in each right hand, They loved him, and they chose to fight to free his native land ! All honour to the men who fought by Garibaldi's side, They were my own true children, and many for me died; libeety's lament. 173 All honour to the gallant ones who came from far and near To join the ' Hope of Italy,' because they held me dear ! But ah ! the generous and the brave who gathered thus again, They met — and I remember it, altho' they met in vain ! He led them on — he raised the cry, with hot and fervid breath. And heartily they echoed him, and shouted ' Eome or Death!' But treachery awaited him, and cowards fired a shot, (Such deeds as this — unmanly deeds — the proudest name can blot) — A shot that on this bed of pain, alas ! has laid him low ; Ml Italy looks on in pain — her heai-t has felt the blow! 174 mbeety's lament. Her heart and mine ! most titterly — this thought our woes enhance — That in Italia's capital still stalk the bands of France !" She ceased, and lowly bent her head ; her tears fell down like rain ; I sighed, "Alas for Liberty!" and thus took up the strain : — "Ah, Goddess, in thy native skies the Great Disposer reigns, He doeth all things wisely, tho' ungrateful man complains : And He looks down on Italy, He sees her deadly foe, And as he doeth unto her — the Lord requite him so ! Fair promises he gives us, ah ! they are but idle breath : But oh, beware Napoleon ! or again shall ' Home or , Death ! ' Ring in thy ears affrighted — a million's battle-cry, Sent out from hearts undaunted, resolved to do or die! liberty's lament. 175 Tlie hundred eyes of Argus are upon thy every deed, Beware ! there yet are thousands who for Liberty would bleed ! Her chief shall rise in vigour fresh — the end is not yet come ; Italia yet may bask her in the blaze of Freedom's sun ! And thou, great Liberator ! — from English hearts shall rise The name of Garibaldi in petitions to the skies ! God send thee soon to England, where we reverence thy name ; Here shalt thou find such welcome as thy noble deeds can claim ! Oh come ! no chilling greeting shall await thee on this shore ! Thou shalt be thrice more honoured than was ever guest before ; For all in England love thee — the men of high degree, Down to the sons of labour, our true nobility ! 176 liberty's lament. They shall meet to do thee honour — their cheers will rend the air ; There shall gaily from the windows wave the 'ker- chiefs of the fair ; For English women love thee too, they love the good and brave ; Such welcome as we '11 give to thee, Italia never gave!" 177 TO OUR BEOTHERS IN LANCASHIRE. Oh ! heroes are ye, brave men of the North ; And England is proud of your genuine worth ; — On you there is resting a fate to appal The bravest of hearts — ah ! the hearts of us aU. Ye, ye are the " scapegoats," and we are the freed ; But we 'U help and we '11 aid in this hour of your need ; We '11 empty the horns of our plenty on you, Till the sunshine of gladness appears to your view ! But not as we cast unto beggars a mite — We '11 give of our fullness, for it is your right ; We '11 willingly render whate'er ye can claim, For you're brothers and sisters in more than the name ! And nobly you 've struggled, and bravely you 've borne. The hunger and nakedness : weary and worn. Weighed down by the want, and the weeping, and woe; — Oh, what you are bearing we never can know ! N 178 TO OUR BROTHEES IN LANCASHIRE. We have read of tlie Spartans so stern and so bold, Who succumbed to no foe in the days that are old ; We have heard how the mothers and wives of the dead Looked on without bowing in sorrow their head — Looked on without weeping for those they had lost : 'T was for Greece ! and a Spartan ne 'er counted the cost! In the depths of their hearts all their sorrow was kept, They smiled! — 'twould have been a disgrace to have wept ! But ye are not warmed with the red-battle fire That glows in the breast, in the tumult so dire, Where foe leaps on foe in the demon-like strife, And the struggle grows fiercer, and redder the knife ! Your pulses are slow, and your frames have grown weak. And the want — it has stolen the tint from your cheek ! And 'tis harder — God knows — to be patient and wait, And be true to your country, tho' dismal your fate, TO OUR BROTHERS IN LANCASHIRE. 179 Than it is to be patriots where trumpets are blown, Or heroes when armies before you have flown ! And Lancashire women are putting to shame The matrons of Sparta — wide, wide be their fame ! They may weep, it is true, with a low-drooping head, To hear how their children are crying for bread. Or when on the brows of their husbands are seen The wrinkles which tell that the sorrow is keen. But their love for their country is strong and is sure ; And so — Grod be thanked — they have learned to endure ! May He, to whom nations are but as a drop In His universe-ocean, most graciously stop That war fratricidal, from which there do flow Such fountains of tear-drops, such rivers of woe ! And ye who have proved yourselves " good men and true," Bear on ! and your country shall give you 3'^our due ; Shall lighten the burden ye faint under now .; Shall wipe off the fear-drops that rest on your brow ! Bear on, English heroes ! and hist'ry shall tell Of the battle ye 're fighting so bravely and well ; 180 TO OUR BROTHERS IN LANCASHIRE. Generations to come of your deeds shall be proud, When each of you lieth enwrapped in his shroud ! May God the Omnipotent give you the power And the patience to bear while the dark shadows lower, And God the All-bountiful stir up our love, That we with you may share what He sends from above ! Oh, people of Britain ! come one, and come all, And give and give freely ! — 't is brothers that call ! "Where, where is the heart that is faihng to feel ? Or the hand that refuseth the balm that will heal ? Not in Britain ! thank God ! not in Britain ! — for here The children of sorrow are ever held dear ; The alien distressed, oft to England has flown, Then how shoidd we feel towards brethren oiu' own '? 181 LINES ON THE OCCASION OF A FETE HELD BY THE PLYMOUTH DISTEICT OF ODD FELLOWS, IN AID OF THE DEVONPORT, STONEHOtrSE AND EAST CORNWALL HOSPITAL. Asylum for tlie sick and suffering poor ! Oil, house of mercy, long may'st thou befriend Each prostrate creature carried to thy door, And God from Heaven the dews of blessing send ! And generous patrons may'st thou ever find Who hesitate no duty to fulfil ; Men wealthy, charitable, good, and kind. Who have the power, and never lack the will. How many a one there lies with aching head, Burning with fever, agonised with pain, Seeking for rest upon some wretched bed, But seeking long and earnestly in vain ! 1 82 LINES. Without the means for what so much they need — A Nurse's watching and a Doctor's skill — By death, alas ! too often are they freed ! We have the power to aid them — have we will ? For close unhealthy rooms and poisoned air, Unwholesome food, neglect, and racking pain, They may have quiet, medicine, nursing, care, That health, God willing, shall restore again. Sad, sad calamities befall our fellow-man ; 'T is ours to stem the torrent of the ill : AVe all should do whatever good we can : Do we who have the power, possess the will ? No formal Charity, no pity cold. Is theirs who ask you them to join to-day : To whatsoever cause they give their gold They give their love — for truthful men are they. No wish have they to be renowned by Fame, Tho' their good deeds might well her trumpet fill ; To benefit mankind was e'er their aim ; They have the power, nor do they lack the will ! LIITES. 183 Then come and join them — swell their band to-day. They'll tempt thee not to thoughts or deeds of wrong ; Some pleasant hours should intersperse our way, — 'T is seldom flower-bestrewed, nor is it long. Then let us not pass every blossom by That grows along life's stony, thorny track, Let's pluck them soon before they fade or die, — With pleasant odours they shall pay us back ! 184 HELP FOR THE HELPLESS. "WRITTEN LN AID OF THE " SOUTH DEVON AND EAST CORNWALL HOSPITAL," AND THE " DEVONPORT AND "WESTERN COITNTIES INSTITTTTION FOR THE BLIND," JUNE 28th, 1865. Lift up your voices, brothers — cry to the careless throng — " Help for the helpless ! ye -who heedless pass along ! Help for the helpless! ye "who joy in the summer ray; Whose hearts leap high "with gladness throughout the livelong day : Ye, tliro' -whose healthful veins Life's crimson cur- rent flows With a joyous gushing motion, and no taint of fever knows! " HELP FOR THE HELPLESS. 185 Cry to them — brothers — cry, "Help for the help- less ! ye. Who smile on the fresh green verdure that clothes the forest tree ; Who lie on the grassy sward 'neath the shade of a monarch oak, And watch the waving branches, and list to the raven's croak ; Who seek the feathery fern in the spot where it loves to hide. And wander thro' the woodlands by the winding river's side ! " Arrest the careless footsteps — yoiu" voices raise on high — "Help for the helpless!" shout "ye cannot help deny! Ye gaze in loving eyes where the heart's affections speak, And little ones with sunny hair ye kiss upon the cheek. 186 HELP FOE THE HELPLESS. And gentle words and guileless smiles o'er life a radiance throw, And fill your hearts with happiness that others never know." Speak to them all — my brethren — speak to them all and say "Ye love the golden sunshine throughout the sum- mer day : There are those with tlirobbing temples, with a burn- ing parching skin. Who pray for cooling breezes to quench the fire within ; And there are eyes all sightless, that never see the light— The sun, that source of splendour, ne'er dissipates their night." Speak to them all, and tell them of those who help- less lie. And long for a sweet wild flow'ret and a sight of the summer sky — HELP FOR THE HELPLESS. 187 " There are those who'll never walk again by the flow'ry hedge-row's side, Or wander in the woodlands wild, or cross the moor- lands wide : They'll never see the hawthorn bloom : they'll hear the lark no more ; Like the summer leaves they fade away. Oh ! help the helpless poor ! And what are all the forest-trees to those deprived of sight ? And what are blooming roses, or liKes creamy white? In vain for them kind Nature decks the earth with every hue ; In vain for them the sky above puts on its clearest blue ; They cannot see the shimmering stream, nor watch the waving corn : Oh, pity then and aid the blind, so helpless and forlorn ! 188 HELP FOR THE HELPLESS. And, worse than all, — they cannot see affection's yearning face ; In tender eyes that dim with tears no sympathy can trace : The little children's prattling talk may reach their ears, 't is true — They do not see the golden hair, the wond'ring eyes ' of blue ; No simny smile their hearts can cheer throughout their darksome race ; All faces are a blank to them, and darkness ev'ry place. Help for the sick and blind ! smooth the imeasy bed! Raise from the restless pillow the throbbing, aching head ! Oh ! quench the fever in the blood, strengthen the pulses weak, Invigorate the languid frame, and tint the pallid cheek ; HELP FOR THE HELPLESS. 189 Or, if God will it not to be, from all discomfort save, And give tliem tender nursing, till they rest within the grave ! Help for the sick and bHnd ! Let ye the sightless see "With the vision of the mind that ever must be free ! Tho' the body's eye be darkened, in their eternal night Let in upon their souls a flood of heav'nly light ; They may have celestial dreamings, as Milton had of yore, Till, their soul from body parting, they see for ever- more ! " 190 TO MISS C. F., ON THE OCCASIOK OF HER LEAVING ENGLAND FOE CHILI, OCTOBER loTH, 1864. Farewell ! Farewell ! We part for years, And it percliance may be for aye ! We part in sorrow and in tears, For thou wilt soon be far away ; And who can fill the empty place That thou wilt leave in each fond heart ? What tho' we gaze on many a face, If thine, the best-beloved, depart ! Thou, like the sun at eventime. Wilt leave us to the gloomy night. And, rising in another clime, Thou'lt turn the darkness into light : At least for one — fuU many a brand With genial glow his hearth may cheer — Thou^\i kindle on the Chilian strand The " light of home," so bright and dear ! TO MISS C. F. 191 And newer ties will bind thee there, And newer friends will round thee throng ; But still upon thy bosom bear The names of those thou 'st known so long. Oh think of us at evening's hour, In the gloaming — on the mount or moor ; When the heart, with strong regressive power, Lives o'er again the days of yore ! Picture our faces in the fire — Our voices hear in the evening breeze, Breathing out our hearts' desire In whispers to thee o'er the seas. In that new path thy feet will tread. Oh let the old remembered be ; Green were the branches overhead. And smooth the road was made for thee ; And loving hands cast many a flower Before thy feet, as on they strayed, And pointed out, for Rest — a Bower, The same in sunshine and in shade ! Thou'lt not forget — it cannot be ; Thy heart, dear friend, we know too wellj 192 TO MISS C. F. Old friends and scenes in memory Thou 'It keep, long after this farewell ! 'Mid giant myrtles there may bloom The gayest flowers on Chili's strand ; And o'er the hills, dispelling gloom, Eise brighter suns in that far land Than those that on our England shine ; But thou wilt never love her less ; She holds that girlhood's home of thine — Thou 'It think upon her but to bless ! Parewell ! Farewell ! The Saviour guide Thee safely to that foreign shore ; 'T is bliss to know whate'er betide, That thou art Christ's for evermore ! Farewell ! Farewell ! We part, dear friend — To meet again ?— Ah, who can tell ! To Grod and Christ we thee commend. And once more breathe Farewell ! Farewell ! 193 TO MR. GEOEGE JAGO, OF PLYMOUTH, OS THE OCCASION- OF THE PRESENTATION OF A TESTIMONIAL FROM HIS FRIENDS AND PUPILS, MAY 26th, 1865. When his sharp ploughshare has the ground up- torn, The careful husbandman then plants the corn ; Watches and waits with toiling patient care, Sends to the heavens the fervent, anxious pray'r ; Where'er he can, uproots the choking thorn, And guards and toils, to " dewy eve " from morn. Then, when the showers come down the ground to bless, How swells his heart with unfeigned thankfulness, — Joys in the strength and verdure of the blades. In the ears' fulness when the verdure fades ! 194 TO MR. GEOEGE JAGO. So tliou liast toiled — so watclied and waited thou I O'er the hard soil hast guided straight the plough ; So in each springing blade thy heart has joyed, And every weed thou covild'st thou hast destroyed. Thy field has been the mind of untaught youth, Which, ere it could receive the seeds of truth, Had to be freed from thistle and from thorn. The weeds of prejudice of ignorance born. Stony and sterile — stubborn, too — the soil, More than enough faint heart and hand to foil ; But with the soaring lark thou did'st arise, And for a blessing prayed the melting skies ; All the day long, on Nilus casting bread, Thou 'st toiled to touch the heart, to store the head ■ All the day long, for many, many years, Thy throbbing brow be-sprent with labour's tears ; And not unmoved thy fellow men have seen How great thy labours and thy cares have been ; Contrasted, perhaps, the spending of thy day, With their less useful, but more pleasant way * 'T is true, the thoughtful look, the answer keen, Have swept away the irksome dry routine ; TO MR. GEORGE JAGO. 195 But there 's the same old ground to travel o'er Which thou hast traversed times untold before ; The same familiar words again to say, " Precept on precept, line on line " to lay I Who will presume of all thy toils to tell ? But, Grod be praised, the seed has answered well. Look out upon the fields, the bending ears Are thick and full, with fruit of hopes and fears ! See how they wave to greet thee that did 'st rear — Is 't not a harvest ripe, and more than fair ? Are some that promised well to earth down-trod V 'T was not thy foot that pressed them to the sod ! Are there some stalks that barren are of fruit V Hast thou sown seeds that have not taken root "? Grieve not o'er these — for 0, thou can'st not tell How far has spread the seed, nor where it fell ! Upon some distant fields the sheaves may rise. Yet this side heaven be hidden from thine eyes. Brave heart, still plough, and sow, and watch, and wait ; Still labour on from early dawn till late ; 196 TO MR. GEORGE JAGO. Sow in the morning, and again at eve, "Thou know'st not which shall prosper;" but believe That " they who sow in tears in joy shall reap ; " They who go forth with precious seed, and weep, Heart-glad retiu-n, and full rich sheaves they bear, The golden recompense of all their care ! 197 MRS. ELIZABETH BUTCHERS, OF PLYMOUTH, BOKN JAJS^UAEY IItH, 1766. WRITTEN on the occasion of her attaining her 100th birthday. Fast fall the shades of night ; Life's grey and dim twilight, Has succeeded to the brightness of the sun ; Thy strength is well-nigh spent, But soon thou' It pitch thy tent. Where the travel and the trouble will be done. What changes thou hast known I Great kings have been o'erthrown, — E'en Napoleon has arisen — passed away; And states a foreign yoke Have nobly, bravely broke. Since thine eyelids ope'd on earthly light of day. 198 MRS, ELIZABETH BUTCHERS. We, who cannot tell One fourth of thy years, dwell On departed days, thro' the halo distance flings ; But oh ! what must it be, Back on a century To look, with all the changes mem'ry brings I But those whom thou didst meet In the morn ere noonday's heat. Have not all of them departed long ago ? The companions of thy youth, Whose words were love and truth, 'Neath the valley clods are lying cold and low ! They have reached their journey's end, Each loved and cherished friend ; Thou hast parted from them all upon the way ; But other friends thou'st met, Who travel with thee yet ; And thy weak and falt'ring footsteps they will stay. MRS. ELIZABETH BUTCnEBS. 199 See the scions of thy race, Who from thee their being trace — Children's children, and their children, thou hast known ; Yes, generations three. Whose beginning was in thee, Have around thee, in thy pilgrimage, upgrown. And these thy steps attend. Unto thy journey's end, "With affection and with reverence combined ; And they '11 often of thee speak, "With the tear-drops on their cheek. In regretful, tender accents, true and kind. For long the day has been. Of thy pilgrimage I ween ; A day of changeful April, smiles and tears ; But now thou 'rt near the shore, Of that land of " Evermore," "With the echoes of the harpings in thine ears ! 200 MRS. ELIZABETH BUTCHERS. In the silence of tlie niglit, Wlien thy soul prepares for flight, In His arms may the Savioirr bear thee o'er Where fi*om fleshly trammels freed, Our aid no more thou 'It need, Once entered in at Heaven's golden door ! THE END. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 10M-1 1-50^2^5, 470 remington rand inc. 20 l^S ANGELES PR U3ii9 B657w uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 368121