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 11 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 4
 
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 :■ 
 
 JEWELS GATHERED 
 
 I'A INTER AND POET 
 
 I 
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 .-7-' 
 
 ins 
 
 CSTontcnts. 
 
 I 
 
 Siihjfct. 
 
 A ROY 
 
 AliRA. THE GEORGIAN SULTANA 
 
 A CHILD TWO YEARS OLD 
 
 A CHILD'S ANSWER . 
 
 ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD 
 
 A POET'S BLESSING . 
 
 A SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY 
 
 CHARADE ... 
 
 CHRLSTMAS '. . . . 
 
 CUMNOR HALL . 
 
 HAFICH AND HAITICH . 
 
 JEANIE MORRISON . 
 
 ODE TO TRANQUILLITY . 
 
 <) MISERERE DOMINE! . 
 
 ON THE REMOYAL OF SOME OL 
 
 POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY 
 
 SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUS'l' 
 
 THE COITAGE HOMK 
 
 THE COWSLIP 
 
 THE ENGLISH MERCHANT AND TIIK SAR.UKN LADY 
 
 rHE FLAX SPINNERS' SONG 
 THE GLOYE 
 
 IHE GKASSHOPl'ER 
 
 IHK IlKRMir 
 
 J mi: MINSTREL'S Ct;KsK 
 
 D FAMILY PORTRAITS 
 
 N. P. Will. IS . 
 
 Collins 
 
 Rkv. I. Wii.i.i.\Ms . 
 
 Church Pot-try . 
 
 A iioiiy Dions 
 
 UHL.\Nn 
 
 Drvdkn 
 
 Praei> 
 
 SiK W. Scott . 
 
 W. J MiCKI.F. . 
 
 Lani;iiein 
 
 mother\vkll_ . 
 
 Coleridge 
 
 Sir W. Scott 
 
 Jllttik-iuooti's Magazine 
 
 Anoiiyiiious 
 
 Pirns 
 
 A iioiiyiiioiis 
 
 Wild Garland 
 
 Liiys and /iailads 
 
 Anonynions 
 
 L. Hint . 
 
 SlllTIII'.V . 
 I'.SRNKLI. . 
 I'm \M> 
 
 Page 
 .•?8 
 r,i 
 
 • 42 
 
 '4 
 
 77 
 
 78 
 
 4 
 
 2 
 
 6 
 34 
 
 7.^ 
 
 80 
 
 66 
 
 64 
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 -M I", r a laiiy cliild, whose golden hair 
 Around her sunny face hi clusters hung ; 
 And as she wove her king-cu]) cliain, she sung 
 Her household melodies — those strains that bear 
 The liearer back to Eden. Surely ne'er 
 A brighter vision blest my dreams. " NN'hose child 
 Art thou," I said, "sweet girl?" In accent mild 
 She answer'd, " .Mother's." When I (|uestinn'd 
 
 "Wiiere 
 1 icr dwelling was?" — again she answer'd, " Home." 
 ".Mother!"an(l "Home!" — Uli, i)lcssed ignorance I 
 Or rather, blessctl knowledge ! What advance 
 i-'arther than this shall all the years to come. 
 With all their lore, effect ? There are but gi\en 
 'J'wo names of higher note, " I'ather"' and " Heaven." 
 
 C'lii'iti II I'DKna 
 
 :=^l^ 
 
 >"^ 
 
 I // I
 
 
 S 
 
 X-' 
 
 t1 
 
 
 li 
 
 «^' 
 
 ristmas 
 
 'Tlr^l 
 
 T T E AP on more wood ! — the wind is chill, 
 
 But let it whistle as it will, 
 We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
 Each age has deem'd the n2w-born year 
 The fittest time for festal cheer. 
 Even heathen yet, the savage Dane 
 At lol more deep the mead did drain ; 
 High on the bjach his galleys drew. 
 And feasted all his pirate crew ; 
 Then in his low and plna-built hall, 
 ^Vhere shields and axes deck'd the wall, 
 They gorged upon the half-dress'd steer ; 
 Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
 While round, in brutal jest, were thro.vn 
 The half-gnaw VI rib and marrow-bone ; 
 Or listen'd all, in grim delight, 
 While scalds yell'd out the joys of fight. 
 Then forth in frenzy would they hie. 
 While wildly loose their red locks fly. 
 And dancing round the blazing pile. 
 They make such barbarous mirth the while, 
 As best might to the mind recall 
 The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 Loved when the year its course had roll'd. 
 And brought blithe -Christmas back again, 
 With all his hospitable train. 
 1 >omestic and religious rite 
 Gave honour to the holy night : 
 On Christmas-eve the bells were rung. 
 On Christmas-eve the mass was sung ; 
 That only night in all the year 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; 
 The hall was dress' d with holly green ; 
 Eorth to the wood did merry-men go 
 To gather in the mistletoe.
 
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 1 
 
 
 
 C'lristinas. 
 
 Then open'd wide the baron's hall 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, ami all ; 
 Power laid his rod of rule asiile. 
 And ceremony dofTd his pride ; 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes. 
 That nigjht niiijht village-partner choose ; 
 The lord, underogating, share 
 The vulgar game of "post and pair." 
 All hail'il, with uncontroll'd delight 
 And general voice, the hajipy night. 
 That to the cottage, as the crown, 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 The fire, with well-dried logs sup|>lied. 
 Went roaring u]i the chimney wide ; 
 The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
 Scndib'd till it shone, the day to grace, 
 Bore then upon its massive board 
 Xo mark to part the S(|uire and lord. 
 Then was brought in the lusty brawn. 
 By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
 Then the grim boar's-head frown'd on high, 
 Crested with bays and rosemary. 
 Well can the green -garh'd ranger tell 
 How, when, and where the monster fell ; 
 What dogs before his death he tore, 
 And all the baiting of the lioar. 
 The wassel round in good brown bowls, 
 Clamished with ribbons, blithely trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard by 
 rium-porridge stood, and Christmas pye ; 
 Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce. 
 At such high tide, her savouiy goose. 
 Then came the merrv' masquei-s in, 
 And carols roar'd with blithesome din ; 
 If unmelodious was the song, 
 It was a hearty note, and strong. 
 Who lists may in their mumming see 
 Traces of ancient mystery ; 
 White shirts supplied the masquerade, 
 And smutted cheeks the visors made ; 
 Mut, oh I what masquers richly (light 
 <an boast of bosoms half so light I 
 Ilngland was merry England, when 
 ( )ld Christmas brought his sports again. 
 
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 .yAftt**-*" 
 
 i''jr''//-^r'^-^'Vt.'t.it^' — '^ . 
 
 CJiristinas. 
 
 'Twas Christmas broacli'd the mightiest ale ; 
 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
 A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
 The poor man's heart through half the year. 
 
 Still linger in our northern clime 
 Some remnants of the good old time ; 
 And still, within our \ alleys here, 
 We hold the kindred title dear ; 
 Even when perchance its far-fetch'd claim 
 To Southron ear sounds empty name ; 
 Eor course of blood, our proverbs deem, 
 Is warmer than the mountain-stream. 
 And thus my Christmas still I hold. 
 Where my great grandsire came of old, 
 With amber beard, and flaxen hair. 
 And reverend apostolic air, 
 The feast and holy-tide to share. 
 And mix sobriety with wine,   
 And honest mirth with thoughts divine. 
 
 Sir W.m.tf.r Scott. 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 A CROSS my first, with flash and roar. 
 
 The stately vessel glides along. 
 And silent, on the crowded shore, 
 
 There kneels an aged crone. 
 Watching my second's parting smile, 
 As he looks farewell to his native isle. 
 
 My whole comes back to other eyes 
 
 With beauteous change of fruit and flowers. 
 
 But sad to her are those bright skies, 
 And dim those joyous bowers ; 
 
 Alas ! my first is dark and deep. 
 
 And mv second cannot hear her weep ! 
 
 Praki). 
 
 if^Ji>j»3r?t
 
 hv that ruiuM i 
 
 •' \VnV sitt'st thou 
 hall. 
 
 Thou aged carle so stern and grey ? 
 Dost thou its former pride recall. 
 
 Or ponder how it pxss'd away "' " 
 
 >* " Know'st thou not me?" the deep 
 
 I s voice cried ; 
 
 I 7i "So long cnjoy'd, so oft misused ; 
 
 1 ^K Alternate in thy fickle pride, 
 
 ' '>^^ ,1 1 1 1 II 
 
 I : , "V . I)i-,ircil. iici'u'ftfii, and accuscil . 
 
 Before my breath, like blazing fla\. 
 Man and his marvels pass awav I 
 And changing empires wane and wax ; 
 Are foundc<l, flourish, and decay. 
 
 " Redeem mine iiours, the space is l)rief, 
 \VhiIe in my glass the sand-grains 
 siiivcr ; 
 
 And measureless thy joy or grief. 
 When Time and thou shalt part fm 
 
 't 
 
 v./' 
 
 SiK Waiii.k Scdir. ^ -*■'' V-'.? / '•
 
 'T^HE dews of summer night did fall ; 
 The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
 Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
 And many an oak that gi'ew thereliy. 
 
 Now nought was heard bencatli the skies- 
 The sounds of Inisv life were still —
 
 1 
 
 Cum nor I J all. 
 
 Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 " Leicester !" she cried, " is this tliy love 
 That thou so oft hast sw orn to nie. 
 
 To leave me in this lonely grove, 
 InunurVl in >hanieful privity? 
 
 "• No more thou com'st willi lover's spce<i 
 
 Thy once-beloved bride to see ; 
 lUit be she 'live or be she dead, 
 
 I fear, stern earl, 's tlic same to llice. 
 
 " Not M) llie linage 1 received 
 \\ hen happy in my father's hall ; 
 
 No faitiiless husband then me grieved. 
 No chilling feai-s ditl me appal. 
 
 '■ I m^e up with the cheerful morn. 
 
 No lark more blitlic, no flower more gav ; 
 
 And like the bird that haunts the thorn. 
 So merrily sung the livelong day. 
 
 "If that my beauty is but small, 
 Amongst court-ladies all despised — 
 
 Why didst thou rend it from that hall. 
 Where, scornful earl, it well was prized '/ 
 
 " .\nd when you fust to me matle suit. 
 How fair I was, you oft would say; 
 
 And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit — 
 Then left the blossom to decay. 
 
 " \'es, now neglected and des]iisi;d. 
 The rose is pale, the lily's dead ; 
 IJut he that once their charms so prized 
 , Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. 
 
 '* For, know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, 
 And tender love 's repaid with scorn. 
 
 The sweetest beauty will decay 
 N\ hat floweret can endure the slunn '/ 
 
 -^^ 
 
 C* >^~- 
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 ) 
 
 ^Z^ 
 
 f
 
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 Ciiiiuior Hall. 
 
 " At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne. 
 Where every lady's passing rare ; 
 
 That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, 
 Are not so glowing, not so fair : 
 
 " Then, earl, ^hy did'st thou leave the beds 
 Where roses and where lilies vie. 
 
 To seek a jsrimrose, whose pale shades 
 Must sicken when those gaudes are bv? 
 
 " 'Mong rural beauties I was one ; 
 
 Among the fields wild flowers are fair : 
 Some country swain might me have won. 
 
 And thought my beauty passing rare. 
 
 " But, Leicester — or I much am wrong, 
 Or, 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 
 
 Rather ambition's gilded crown 
 
 Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 
 
 " Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
 (The injured surely may repine). 
 
 Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
 
 When some fair princess might be thine ? 
 
 " Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
 And, oh ! then leave them to decay ? 
 
 Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
 Then leave me mourn the livelong day ? 
 
 " The village maidens of the plain 
 
 Salute me lowly as I go ; 
 Envious they mark my silken train. 
 
 Nor think a countess can have woe. 
 
 " The simple nymphs ! they little know 
 How far more liappy's their estate ; 
 
 To smile for ioy, than sigh for woe ; 
 To be content, than to be great. 
 
 6! (. 
 
 ^;
 
 ^'^ftw— 
 
 hi 
 
 Ciimnor Hall. 
 
 " How far less blest am I than them, 
 Daily to pine and waste with care ! 
 
 Like the poor plant, that from its stem 
 Divided feels the chilling air. 
 
 " Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy 
 The humble charms of solitude ; 
 
 Your minions proud my peace destroy, 
 By sullen frowns or prating rude. 
 
 " Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, 
 The village death-bell smote my ear : 
 
 They winked aside, and seemed to say, 
 ' Countess, prepare ; thy end is near ! ' 
 
 " And now, wliile happy peasants sleep. 
 
 Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; 
 No one to soothe me as I weep, 
 
 Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 
 
 " My spirits flag, my hopes decay — 
 Still that dread death-bell smites my ear 
 
 And many a boding seems to say, 
 
 ' Countess, prepare ; thy end is near I'" 
 
 Thus, sore and sad, that lady grieved 
 In Cumnor Ilall, so lone and drear. 
 
 And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day ap])eared 
 In Cunmor Hall, so lone and drear. 
 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 And maiiv a cry of mortal fear. 
 
 liic death-bell thrice was heard to ring ; 
 
 An aerial voice was heard to call ; 
 And thrice the raven flappeil his wing 
 
 Around the towers of Cumnor Hall : 
 
 
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 The mastiff howl' d at village-door ; 
 
 The oaks were shattered on the green 
 Woe was the hour, — for never more 
 
 That hapless coimtess e'er was seen ! 
 
 And in that manor now no more 
 Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; 
 
 For ever since that dreary hour 
 
 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall ! 
 
 Tlie village-maids, with fearful glance, 
 Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, 
 
 Nor ever lead the merry dance 
 
 Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 Full many a traveller oft hath sighed. 
 And pensive wept the countess' fall. 
 
 As, wand' ring onwards, he has spied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 W. J. MiCKLE. 
 
 ^1 
 
 iv.
 
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 U«> 
 
 /— -- f*' .( '^ -^'- — ^i^M 
 
 .-3>unii'i>--^ liia' 
 
 7y/£- XEir-yi:AK\s xigiit oi^ a miserable .vaa 
 
 T N the lone stillness of the New-Year's night 
 
 An old man at his window stood, and turned 
 His dim eyes to the firmament, where, bright 
 
 And pure, a million rolling planets burned. 
 And then down on the earth all cold and white ; 
 
 And felt that moment that of all who mourned 
 And groaned upon its bosom, none there were 
 With his deep wretchedness and great despair. 
 
 For near him lay his grave — hidden from view 
 Not by the flowers of Youth, but by the snows 
 
 Of Age alone. In torturing thought he flew 
 Over the Past, and on his memory rose 
 
 That picture of his life which Conscience drew. 
 With all its fruits — Diseases, Sins, and Woes ; 
 
 A ruined frame, a blighted soul, dark years. 
 
 Agony, Remorse, and withering Fears. 
 
 Like spectres now his bright Youth-days came back, 
 And that cross-road of Life where, when a boy, 
 
 His father placed him first : its right-hand track 
 Leads to a land of Glory, Peace, and Joy ; 
 
 Its left to wildernesses waste and black, 
 
 Where snakes and plagues and poison winds destroy. 
 
 Wliich had he trod ? Alas ! the seqients hung 
 
 Coiled round his heart, their venom on his tongue. 
 
 .Sunk in unutterable grief, he cried, 
 
 " Restore my youth to me ! f )h, God ! restore 
 
 .My moni of life ! Oh, father ! be my guide. 
 And let me, let me choose my jialh once more I" 
 
 iJut on the wide waste air his ravings died 
 Away, and all was silent as before. 
 
 His youth had glided by, fleet as the wave ; 
 
 His father came not — he was in liis grave. 
 
 1 1
 
 [CJT 
 
 V> 
 
 (fa«~;^3^Sjaiai<gs=^Kia!(ia«a:rf:(2tx:a*a 
 
 N'c70- Year's Night. 
 
 Strange lights flashed flickering by : a star was falling ; 
 
 Down to the miry marsh he saw it rush — 
 Like nie ! he thought ; and oh ! that thought was galling. 
 
 And hot and heartwrung tears began to gush. 
 Sleepwalkers crossed his eyes in shapes appalling ; 
 
 Gaunt windmills lifl;ed up their arms to crush ; 
 And skeleton-monsters rose up from the dim 
 Pits of the chamel-house, and glared on him ! 
 
 Amid these overboiling bursts of feeling, 
 
 Rich music, heralding the Young Year's birtii. 
 
 Rolled from a distant steeple, like the pealing 
 Of some celestial organ o'er the earth. 
 
 Milder emotions over him came stealing ; 
 He felt the soul's unpurchasable worth. 
 
 " Return !" again he cried imploringly; 
 
 " Oh, my lost Youth ! return, return to me !" 
 
 And Youth returned, and Age withdrew its terrors. 
 
 Still was he young, for he had dreamed the whole ; 
 But faithful is the image Conscience mirrors 
 
 When whirlwind passions darken not the soul. 
 Alas ! too real were his sins and errors ; 
 
 Too truly had he made the earth his goal. 
 He wept, and thanked his God, that with the will. 
 He had the power to choose the right path still. 
 
 Here, youthful reader, ponder ; and if thou, 
 Like him, art reeling over the Abyss, 
 
 And shakest off Sin's iron bondage now, 
 
 This ghastly dream may prove thy guide to bliss 
 
 But should Age once be written on thy brow, 
 Its wrinkles will not be a dream like this ; 
 
 Mayest vainly pour thy tears above the urn 
 
 Of thy departed Youtli— it never will return ! 
 
 \^ 
 
 >^Ji*- -Vi , wj -:«nL'.u""(iillJjnMliU-'^^- 
 
 12
 
 K^ 
 
 
 ti 
 
 
 ■' 
 
 ro THE crcA'oo. 
 
 "LT AIL, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 
 
 Thou messenger of spring I 
 
 Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 
 What time tlie daisy decks the green, 
 
 Thy certain voice we hear ; 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
 
 Or mark the rolling year? 
 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 
 I hail the time of flowers, 
 And hear the sound of music s\v eet 
 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
 The schoolboy, wandering through the wood 
 
 To pull the primrose gay. 
 Starts thy curious voice to hear. 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
 
 Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
 An annual guest in other lands. 
 
 Another spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear ; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. 
 
 No winter in thy year ! 
 
 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 
 
 We'd make, with joyful wing, 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe, 
 
 ronijianions of the spring. 
 
 An«)N 
 
 ^■f&:^:^cr^ 
 
 - '-! 
 
 ... .....I. -ffiiimiyf 
 
 ?§; j /if JLfN^>
 
 iHa^^^^sd 
 
 ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD 
 
 A/TETHINKS it is a glorious thing 5^ 
 
 To sail upon the deep ; 
 A thousand sailors under you, 
 Their watch and ward to keep : 
 
 To watch the frigates scatter' d round, 
 
 Like birds upon the wing ; 
 Yet know they only wait your will — 
 
 It is a glorious thing. 
 
 Our Admiral stood on the deck, 
 
 And look'd upon the sea ; 
 He held the glass in his right liand, 
 
 And far and near look'd he : 
 
 He could not see one hostile ship 
 
 Abroad upon the main ; 
 From east to west, from north to south. 
 
 It was his own domain. 
 
 Good news for England tliis, good news 
 Forth may her merchants fare ; 
 
 Thick o'er the sea, no enemy 
 Will cross their pathway there. 
 
 A paleness came upon his cheek, 
 
 A shadow to his brow ; 
 Alas ! our good Lord CoUingwood, 
 
 What is it ails him now ? 
 
 i-^^^:^i32:::r::^^^:^^^^2:^fe| 
 
 g^rrsse? 
 
 14
 
 
 Admiral Collinqioood. 
 
 Tears stand within the brave man's eyes, 
 Each softer pulse is stirred : 
 
 It is the sickness of the heart, 
 Of hope too long deferr'd. 
 
 lie's pining for his native seas, 
 
 And for his native shore ; 
 All but his honour he would give 
 
 To be at home once more. 
 
 lie does not know his children's face ; 
 
 His wife might pass him by, 
 He is so alter'd, did they meet. 
 
 With an unconscious eye. 
 
 I le has been many years at sea. 
 He is worn with wind and wave ; 
 
 He asks a little breathing space 
 Between it and his grave : 
 
 He feels his breath come heavily, 
 His keen eye faint and dim ; 
 
 It was a weary sacrifice 
 
 That England ask'd of him. 
 
 He never saw his home again : 
 
 The deep voice of the gun. 
 The lowering of his battle-flag, 
 
 Told when his life was done. 
 
 His sailors walk'd the deck and wept, 
 Around them howl'd the gale ; 
 
 And far away two orphans knelt — 
 A widow's cheek grew jialc. _ 
 
 Ami<i tlie many names that light 
 
 Our hij.tory's blazon'd line, 
 I know not one, brave Collingwood, 
 
 That touches me like thine. 
 
 <d--^j^ 
 
 Anon. 
 
 3:lI:!^:;5^::^^^IZ!S?:r3c:^. 
 
 '5
 
 y I 
 
 ■■Mj 
 
 1 
 
 THE SUFFOLK YEOMAN' S SONG. 
 
 f~^ OOD neighbours, since you've knock'd me down, 
 
 I'll sing you a song of songs the crown. 
 For it shall be to the fair renown 
 
 Of a race that yields to no man. 
 When order first on earth began. 
 Each king was then a husbandman ; 
 He honour'd the plough 
 And the barley-mow, 
 Maintained his court from off his farm, 
 And kept all round him tight and warm, 
 Like a right-down Suffolk yeoman. 
 
 The plough was then a nation's boast, 
 And the pride of those who rul'd the roast ; 
 And so felt one well worth a host, 
 
 A brave and a noble Roman. 
 Some here may call to mind his name, 
 But the thing is true, and it's all tiie same ; 
 In war and debate 
 He sav'd the state. 
 He made the haughty foe to bow ; 
 And when all was done, went back to plough, 
 
 Like a home-bred 'Suffolk yeoman. 
 
 Said Horace, " I'm grown sick of court. 
 And Csesar's crack champagne and port ; 
 To sing and pun for great folks' sport 
 
 Is the life of a raree-show man : 
 I long, 'mid all the fun of Rome, 
 To see how my farm goes on at home." 
 
 Now his parts were renown' d 
 
 The world around ; 
 But he stuck to his turnips, wheat, and hops ; 
 And yet trust me if he grew such crops 
 As a thriving Suffolk yeoman. 
 
 ,>, I 
 
 ;*A 
 
 i6
 
 4 
 
 Sv 
 
 i 
 
 \^MSS 
 
 n 
 
 fit^ 
 
 The Suffolk Yconiaii's Son<:[. 
 
 Good freeholders and stout were they 
 Who form'd our warlike realm's array. 
 When Europe trembled many a day 
 
 At the name of an luiglish l^owman. 
 The arm that drew the gallant bow 
 Could pitch on the rick and barley-mow ; 
 They lov'd the tough yew, 
 And tlie spot where it grew. 
 For that was near our good old Church ; 
 " And we'll never leave her in the lurch." 
 
 Says my loyal .Suflollc yeoman. 
 
 When George the Third adorn'd our lluoiie, 
 His manly ways were just our own ; 
 'I'hen Hritons stood in arms alone. 
 
 And defied each foreign foeman. 
 The good old King, lie fear'd his ( iod. 
 Hut he fear'd no man on earth who inid ; 
 He lov'd his farm, 
 And he found a charm 
 In every useful, sterling art ; 
 And he wore the home-spun coat and heart 
 
 Of a manly Suffolk yeoman. 
 
 Since, then, the brave, the wise, and great. 
 Have been plain folks of our estate, 
 We claim a pride of ancient dale, 
 
 .\ pride that will injure no man. 
 Though .Scotch philosophei-s and Jews 
 Would starve us out, and our name abu-<e, 
 We'll stand by the King, 
 The Church, and each thing 
 'Ihal our loyal fathers honour'd most ; 
 .\nd such shall be the pride an<l boast 
 
 Of a manly SulTolk yeoman. 
 
 
 •7 
 
 I /« I
 
 ZiTV the First. 
 
 T 1" was a merchant a merchant of fame, 
 
 And he sail'd to the Holy Land ; 
 Gilbert d Becket was his name ; 
 And he went to trade witli the Syrians rich 
 For velvets, and satins, and jewels, -which 
   He might sell on the western strand. 
 
 But the luckless merchant was captive ta'en 
 
 By a Turcoman fierce and rude ; 
 They bound his limbs with a galling chain, 
 And they set him to labour, early and late, 
 In the gardens which fay round the palace gate 
 Of the terrible chief Mahmoud. 
 
 It was there he met with a Saracen maid 
 
 Of virtue and beauty rare : 
 And, behold, our merchant forgot his trade ; 
 
 % 
 
 
 II' 
 
 11 
 
 fcf A %■ 111 If;/ 
 
 i8
 
 
 i.Tcr^.''^,- 
 
 
 \ 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 T/ti" Ens^lis/t M<'irhijiit, ^'c 
 
 His English habits aside he flung. 
 And he learn'd to speak with a Saracen tongue. 
 For the sake of that damsel fair. 
 
 He taught Zarina the Christian's lore ; 
 
 And llie hours speil swiftly by, 
 When togetlier they trod the lonely shore. 
 And she listen'd to him will a willing ear, 
 And he gazed in her eyes, so deep and clear, 
 ]5y the light of the morning sky. 
 
 They plighted their faith, and they vowM 
 to wed. 
 If Gilbert should e'er be free ; 
 How could she doubt a word he said ? 
 For her heart was trustful, pure, and mild. 
 Like the heart of a young unfearing child, 
 And she loved him hopefully. 
 
 But daj-s stole on, and months stole on, 
 
 And Gilbert was captive yet ; 
 A long, long year had come and gone, 
 When the maiden wander'd with earnest eye 
 To the shadowy walk 'neath the palm-trees 
 high. 
 Where oft before ihcy met. 
 
 " I am a Christian, my Gilbert, now," 
 
 The .Saracen lady said ; 
 The tone of her voice was sweet and low. 
 Like the voice of the night-breeze, cool ami 
 
 calm. 
 When it sighs through the leaves of the mm 
 nmring ])alm. 
 Of its own light sounds afraid. 
 
 " Al eve and at morn to thy (iud 1 pr.i\ . 
 
 Oh, why should 1 lingir here ' 
 \x\. U.S flee to thine Lnglaiid, far away ; 
 The God wc serve shall guide our baik 
 f )ver the desert of waters dark ; 
 For how can a Christian fear? 
 
 ^^^r^i)#5^ 
 
 ::^v. 
 
 ." * ^ m. ^ •■*»* 
 
 - '.do - 
 
 Zi uw i i»M ii»~ 5 ,'»*vi M i u i im>m i » "»w» A <i   < i /»jf » > . t juy <>iir n i^iwiii<i» | i |;|M iii v <i
 
 
 T/ie English Merchant 
 
 " I will send to thee at the hour of eve, 
 
 When the curtains are drawn o'er heaven ; 
 And I shall not weep for the friends I leave, 
 For I am an orphan, and ne'er have known 
 A gentle word or a kindly tone. 
 Save such as thou hast given. 
 
 " My gems shall purchase a gallant boat, 
 
 And a crew of skilful men : 
 Oh, when on the fetterless waves we float. 
 With the wide blue sky and the wide blue sea 
 Stretching around us triumphantly, 
 Wilt thou not bless me then ?" 
 
 He kiss'd her hand, and he vow'd to come ; 
 
 And the night was calm and fair : 
 Oh, how the captive thought on home. 
 As he gazed the dashing waters o'er, 
 And noiselessly paced the rugged shore : 
 But Zarina was not there ! 
 
 He look'd to the east, he look'd to the west. 
 
 But her form he could not see ; 
 And fear struck cold upon his breast. 
 For he almost fancied the stars so pale 
 Had watch'd their meeting, and told their tale 
 To some mthless enemy. 
 
 \\ 
 
 He look'd to the south, he look'd to the 
 north, 
 A light, light step he hears ! 
 And a figure steps from the shadows forth - 
 Ijut, alas ! for Zarina, it is not she ; 
 It is but her faithful nurse Safie, 
 
 And her eyes are dim with tears. 
 
 " Oh, listen," she cried, in bitter woe, 
 
 " Zarina is captive made ! 
 Sir Christian, Sir Christian, alone must 
 thou go ; 
 
 20
 
 fr 
 
 i^ii ,. .^1   mtimWH"*^* 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
 ■'" ??■ -i^: 
 
 rt//</ ///t" Saraciii Lady. 
 
 " 'lliy w ay is still clear ; but they know ilial slie 
 Was wont to wander at eve with thee, 
 Piv treacherous lips betray \1. 
 
 " She bids thee flee to thine own fair land. 
 
 For thou can.st not aitl her here." 
 Tlie old nurse pointed with her hand, 
 (lilliert :i licckel he grieved and sigh'd ; 
 lUil he saw the bark on the white waves ride, 
 And he thought on England dear. 
 
 " Adieu, my lad\-,"' al last he saitl, 
 \Vhile the nurse in silence wept ; 
 " ( )ii, I ne'er will forget my Saracen maid, 
 I'.ut I'll gather an army, firm and brave, 
 Ami come to seek thee across the wave ! " 
 lie spake, and on board he leapt. 
 
 Away flies the bark o'er the billowy foam. 
 
 As though her sails were wings — 
 .She seems to know she is travelling home ; 
 .\nd at last good (Jilbert a Hecket stands 
 On the noblest land of all earthly lands — 
 ( )h, how his glad heart springs ! 
 
 I > 
 
 1/ 
 
 
 
 V m.- 
 
 -..:&. 
 
 
 JIH»^ 
 
 K 
 
 
 J 
 
 21
 
 L 
 
 Where is Zarina? A captive lone 
 
 She sits, witli tearful eye ; 
 Till two long years are come and gone, 
 And at last, when her ruthless gaolers slept, 
 One eve of beauty, forth she crept 
 To gaze from the lattice high. 
 
 The wall was steep, yet she dared to leap — 
 
 Safe on the turf doth she stand I 
 'Tis pleasant to be on the green earth free ; 
 Yet where shall the hapless maiden go 
 P'or the English tongue she doth not know. 
 Though she seeks the English land. 
 
 She hath wander'd down to the shore, 
 and there 
 Is a bark about to sail. 
 With tapering masts that seem'd to bear, 
 Upon their crests so slight and high, 
 The outspread curtains of the sky. 
 Hung o'er with star-lamps pale. 
 
 Oft hath the maiden her lover heard. 
 
 When he spake of his far-off home ; 
 Back to her lip returns the word. 
 And "London ! London!" in haste she cries. 
 With a piteous tone and with streaming eyes 
 While the seamen around her come.
 
 p — 
 
 ir 
 
 and the Saraicn Ladv. 
 
 1 
 
 J 
 
   
 
 It is ^ad antl strange. 
 
 said tlio sailors tlK-n. 
 "Tliat the damsel weepetli thus ; 
 I?ut oh, let it never lie said that men 
 Look'd on a woman in sore distress, 
 And gave no aid to lier feebleness ! - 
 The maiden shall sail with us I" 
 
 So they took her in ; and Zarina smiled. 
 
 And thank'd them with her eyes ; 
 Clentle she was as a chidden child ; 
 I'.ut the mariners could not understand 
 'ihe wondrous wonls of the eastern land. 
 So they sail'd in silent wise. 
 
 They came to shore at fair Stamboul, 
 
 And the maiden roam'd all niglit 
 Through its streets, so calm, and still, and 
 cool; 
 .\nd to every passer-by that came 
 ."^he murmur'd forth the one dear name, 
 Clasping her hands so white. 
 
 Some tum'd aside with careless pride, 
 
 And some with angry frown ; 
 With a curious ear some tum'il to hear ; 
 I'ut the word she spake each passer knew, 
 I'or London is known the wide world througli, 
 From England's fair renown. 
 
 From place to place did the maiden stray, 
 
 And still that little word 
 Was her only guide on her venturous way. 
 1- ull many a l>itying stranger gave 
 .\id to her journey by land and wave. 
 
 When her l(jw sweet voice was heanl. 
 
 And oft at eve would Zarina stand 
 
 ( )n the edge of the darkening llooil, 
 Antl sing the lays of her own far land .- 
 So swecl was her voice when she sang of home, 
 ( Tlial the listening peasants wouhl round her 
 come, 
 I'rofTering their simple food. 
 
 I 
 
 •£■«« 
 
 2;
 
 
 TVzt' Eiii^Iisk Merchant 
 
 
 Thus when full many a month had passM 
 
 Of wearisome wanderings long, 
 To the wish'd-for place she was borne at last ; ^ 
 And the maiden gaz'd with bewilder'd eye \\ i 
 On each spreading roof and turret high, 
 Mid London's hurrying throng. 
 
 Through all that maze of square and street 
 
 With pleading looks she went ; 
 And still her weary voice was sweet. 
 But now was " Gilbert " the name she cried : 
 The world of London is very wide, 
 
 And they knew not whom she meant. 
 
 Oiibert ! — her lover's name— how oft 
 
 Had she breath'd that sound before I 
 Her eye grew bright, her tone grew soft ; 
 For she thought that life and hope must dwell 
 In the precious name she loved so well ; 
 And her troubles all seem'd o'er. 
 
 Now Gilbert a Becket was dwelling there. 
 
 Like a merchant-prince was he ; 
 His gardens were wide, and his halls were 5 
 fair ; 
 His servants flatter'd, his minstrels play'd ;- 
 He had almost forgotten his Saracen maid, 
 And their parting beyond the sea. 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 H 
 
 But word was brought, as he sate at meat, | 
 
 Of a damsel fair and sad. 
 Who wander'd for ever through square and 
 street, 
 With clasped hands and strength o'crspent. 
 Murmuring "Gilbert !" as she went, 
 Like one possess'd, or mad. 
 
 Gilbert a Becket, he straightway rose. 
 For his conscience prick'd him sore ; 
 Forth from his splendid hall he goes — 
 A well-known voice is in his ears. 
 And he sees a fair face veil'd in tears, 
 And he thinks on the Syrian shore. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 24
 
 ixiid the Saracen Ladv. 
 
 Z:.zz7r^s^>zi..::^/A 
 
 [. Forth to Zarina in haste he came, 
 
 Oh, how could he ever forget ? 
 "Gilbert I"' she cries — 'tis the self- 
 same name, 
 I But ah I what a changed and joyous tone, 
 For the maiden's heart is no more alone, 
 And the lovers at last are met I 
 
 I 
 
 1 UOCl 
 
 4-' 
 
 Their first-born son was a priest of power. 
 
 Who ruled on English ground — 
 I^is fame rcmaineth to this hour I 
 God send to every valiant knight 
 ady as true, and a home as bright. 
 As Gilbert the merchant found ! 
 
 Lavs and Ballads. 
 
 I le took that happy wanderer home ; 
 
 He plac'd her at his side ; 
 O'er desert plain, and o'er ocean's foam 
 She hath come, with her changeless love 
 
 and faith ; 
 And now there is nothing can part, save death, 
 The bridegroom and the bride ! 
 
 The maiden was led to the holy font. 
 They named her Matilda there; 
 Vet ever was Gilbert a Becket wont, 
 W In his joyous home, with a sweet wife blest, 
 To say that he loved Zarina best, 
 His Saracen true and fair. 
 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 ■SBlliSi-" 
 
 > '•■ —*».-■ « -T«_:^'.—. .^\» — .^^^i '— ^ — • <ni<— oLiit — «.ifi£ »■-- ^ 
 
 K 1
 
 V^THAT wakes me from my gentle sleep ? 
 Sweet sounds my soul delight : 
 Oh, mother, see ! what can it be. 
 At this late hour of night ?" 
 
 " I nothing hear, I nothing see, 
 So rest in slumlier mild ; 
 
 No music comes to comfort thee. 
 Thou poor and sickly child !" 
 
 "It is no earthly sound I hear. 
 That gives me such delight ; 
 
 'Tis angels call me with their song- 
 So, mother dear, good night !" 
 
 Uhland. 
 
 iH 
 
 '\§r^^:s^:^SS^ 
 
 ^^c?^^^^s5=i^5==^:'^s=^lS^:^^^)re:^=t^^^fp 
 
 26
 
 "DENEATII Vienna's ancient wall 
 
 Lie level plains of sand, 
 And there the pathway nms of all 
 That seek the Holy Land. 
 
 And from the wall a little space, 
 
 And by the trodden line, 
 Stands, seen from many a distant place. 
 
 A tall and slender shrine.* 
 
 It seems, so standing there alone. 
 To those who come and go, 
 
 No pile of dull unconscious stone, 
 Lut touch'd with joy or woe ; 
 
 * A Gothic cross of ilic arcliilcclurc ul the thiilcc-mh century, 
 somewhat rescinljling (Juecii Klinor"s crosses in Kngland, stands at 
 a little distaifce outside the city of Vienna, and is cuniinonly called 
 " l)ie S|iinnerinn am Kreuz." 
 
 ■A 
 
 ' 
 
 
 :^j^^^ 
 
 ^'^ „;_• ---n^lli.   - ^w»«r.. .^ I I l l ll" ! !"!!' -...»— ~. ,   
 
 -^^i-r 
 
 27
 
 riv.'^'' 
 
 
 h 
 
 'J 'he Sphiuing Maiden'' s Cross. 
 
 .Seems to the stranger on his ^^■ay, 
 A friend that forth hath set, 
 
 The parting moment to delay, 
 And stands and hngers yet. 
 
 While to the long-gone traveller 
 
 Returning to his home, 
 It seems with doubtful greeting there 
 
 Of joy and sorrow come. 
 
 Smiles have been there of beaming jo) , 
 
 And tears of bitter loss, 
 As friends have met and parted by 
 
 The Spinning Maiden's Cross. 
 
 Young Margaret had the gentlest heart 
 
 Of all the maidens there. 
 Nor ever fail'd her constant part 
 
 Of daily toil and prayer. 
 
 But when the Sabbath-morn had smiled, 
 
 And early prayer was o'er, 
 Then Marg'ret, gentle, still, and mild, 
 
 Had happiness in store. 
 
 For then with \V'enzel side by side 
 In calm delight she stray'd. 
 
 Amid the Prater's flowery pride. 
 Or in the Augarten's shade. 
 
 " Gretchen beloved! Gretchen dear ! 
 
 Bright days we soon shall see ; 
 My master, lord of Lowethier, 
 
 Will link my lot with thee. 
 
 " And there, upon the Kahlen's swell. 
 
 Where distant Donau shines. 
 He gives a cot where we shall dwell. 
 
 And tend his spreading vines." 
 
 Though joy through Margaret sent a thrill 
 
 And at her eyes ran o'er. 
 Few words she spoke for good or ill. 
 
 Nor Wenzel needed more. 
 
 But when again the Sabbath-bell 
 
 Had struck on W^enzel's ear, 
 A sadder tale had he to tell, 
 
 And Margaret to hear. 
 
 " Gretchen beloved ! Gretchen dear ! 
 
 Joy yet ; — but patience now ; 
 My master, lord of Lowethier, 
 
 Has bound him Avith a vow ; 
 
 "And he must to the Holy Land, 
 
 Our Saviour's tomb to free ; 
 And I and all his faithful band 
 
 Must with him o'er the sea." 
 
 A swelling heart did Margaret press, 
 
 But calm Avas she to view ; 
 Meekly she bore her happiness. 
 
 Her sorrow meeklv too. 
 
 Her solitary Sabbaths brought 
 A prayer, a patient sigh, 
 
 As on the Holy Land she thought. 
 Where saints did live and die. 
 
 1! 
 
 li 
 
 I 
 
 ; 
 
 
 2S
 
 liut from the Holy Land soon came 
 
 Reluming pilgrims there, 
 And heavy tidings brought with them 
 
 VoT Margaret's anxious ear. 
 
 I'or Wenzcl is a captive made 
 
 ill i'aynim dungeon cold, 
 And there must lie till ransom paiil 
 
 A hundred coins of gold. 
 
 Alas loi -Margaret ! should she spin, 
 '■!. And all her store be sold, 
 
 Ij In one long year she scarce could win 
 \ A single piece of gold. 
 
 Vet love can hope through good and ill, 
 
 W'lioii olhcr hope is gone ; 
 .Shall she w lio loves so well be still, 
 ^'^ .And ho in prison groan '! 
 
 ii=:;:;5^ 
 
 |^^^^ ^ a<»« Mn i t fi 
 
 ^iit 
 
 29
 
 TIic Spiuniitsr Maideti s Cross. 
 T/f/ She felt within her inmost lieart 
 
 
 y 
 
 A strange bewilder'd swell, 
 Too soft to break with sudden start, 
 Too gentle to rebel. 
 
 And what she hoped or thought to earn 
 
 Poor Margaret never knew, 
 But on her distaff oft she'd turn 
 
 A thoughtful, hopeful view. 
 
 And by the stone where last they met 
 Each day she took her stand ; 
 
 And twirl'dthe thread till daylight set, 
 With unremitting hand. 
 
 
 
 
 fry/ 
 
 Her little store upon the stone \;.i% 
 
 She spread to passers-by; ^'^^ 
 
 And oft they paused and gazed upon 
 Her meek and mournful eye. 
 
 And e'en from those who had but few, 
 
 Full oft a coin she won, 
 And faster far her treasure grew 
 
 Than e'er her hopes had done. 
 
 ti- 
 
 ^ 
 
 X ^ But all in vain it grew, alas I 
 
 ')\ . 
 
 !f' } Her destined ransom store ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 For from the Holy Land there pass 
 The travellers once more.
 
 -— — *^— '■ r^ ^ 
 
 The Spinning Alaititns Cross. 
 
 And when to her their news tliey said, 
 
 All cheer p.nd hope were gone ; 
 For Wenzel is in prison dead, 
 
 His captive sorrows done. 
 
 llicn on her face what woe was set ! 
 
 Vet still she spini and spun, 
 As if her hands could not forget 
 
 The work they had begun. 
 
 And still beside th' accustomed stone 
 
 She took her daily stand, 
 And twirl'd the thread till day was done, 
 
 With unremitting hand. 
 
 Through shine and rain, through heat and snow, 
 
 llcr aimless task she plied ; 
 \nd wrought for two long twelvemonths so, 
 
 And then she gently died. 
 
 They took the treasure she had won, 
 
 Full many a varied coin, 
 And o'er the stone where she had spun 
 
 They raised that sliapely shrine. 
 
 .\nd still Vienna's maids recall 
 
 I Icr meekly suffer'd loss, 
 And point the fane beneath the wall — 
 
 t Spinning ^aibcu's (Tross. 
 
 Rev. W. WiiF.WKi.i. 
 
 
 i"^ 
 
 
 3«
 
 
 THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MExV. U 
 
 \Va 
 
 [When Sir Jonathan Trelawny, one of the seven 
 s^N '^A (C^ Bishops, was committed to the Tower, the Cor- 
 
   ^^~5______/J —^^ nishmen rose one and all, and marched as far as 
 
 "(^ ^^f^^^^yf^ 'V Exeter on their waj' to extort his hberation.] 
 
 %Jr GOOD sword and a trusty hand, 
 ''LJ a merry heart and true, 
 
 King James's men shall understand 
 '"'^ What Cornish lads can do. 
 
 And have they fix'd the where and when? 
 
 And shall Trelawny die ? 
 Here's twenty thousand Cornishmen 
 
 Will see the reason why ! 
 
 Out spake their captain brave and bold, 
 
 A merry wight was he : 
 If London Tower were Michael's hold. 
 
 We'll set Trelawny free ! 
 
 We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, 
 
 The Severn is no stay, — 
 All side by side and hand to hand, 
 
 And who shall bid us nay ? 
 
 And when we come to London Wall, 
 
 A pleasant sight to view. 
 Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all, 
 
 To better men than you ! 
 
 Trelawny he's in keep and hold, 
 
 Trelawny he may die ! 
 But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold 
 
 Will see the reason why ! * 
 
 Rev. R. S. Hawker. 
 
 * The last two lines of the chorus are ancient, 
 and constantly simg to this day by the Cornish 
 miners. 
 
 ,fi 
 
 th 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^^^^liAi^^J'TlSS^ 
 
 
 32
 
 
 THE COWSLIP. 
 
 XFOLDIXG to the breeze of May 
 The Cowslip meets the vernal ray ; 
 The topaz ami the ruby gem 
 
 ^ Her blossom's simple diadem ; 
 And as the dew-drops gently fall, 
 They tij) with pearls her coronal. 
 
 In princely halls and courts of kings 
 
 Its lustrous ray the diamond flings ; 
 
 Vet few uf those who see its beam 
 
 Amid the torch-light's dazzling gleam 
 
 As bright as though a meteor shone, 
 
 Can call the costly prize their own. 
 
 But gems of every form and hue 
 
 Are glittering here in morning dew ; 
 
 Jewels that all alike may share, 
 
 As freely as the common air ; 
 
 No niggard hand or jealous eye 
 
 Protects them from the passer-by. 
 
 Man to his brother shuts his heart, 
 
 And Science acts a miser's part ; 
 
 l)Ut Nature with a liberal hand 
 
 Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land. 
 
 If gold she gives, not single grains 
 
 Are scatter'd far across the plains ; 
 
 But, lo ! the desert-streams are roll'd 
 
 O'er precious beds of virgin gold. 
 
 If flowers she oflers, wreaths are given 
 
 As countless as the stars of heaven ; 
 
 Or music— 'tis no feeble note 
 
 She bids along the valley float ; 
 
 Ten thousand nameless melodies 
 
 In one full chorus swell the breeze. 
 
 ( )li ! Art is but a scanty rill, 
 
 That genial seasons scarcely iill ; 
 
 !5ut Nature needs no tide's return, 
 
 To nil afresh her flowing urn ; 
 
 She gathers all her rich supplies 
 
 Where never-failing waters rise. \\ ii D (Iaki 
 
 »■' 
 
 TtigH^ 
 
 I y
 
 ^afit^ anb ^atlitlj; 
 
 OR, 
 A BIRD IN THE HAND'S WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH. 
 
 ""PHERE are two little songsters well known in the 
 land, 
 
 Their names are I-have and 0-had-I ; 
 T-have will come tamely and perch on your hand, 
 
 But 0-had-I will mock you most sadly. 
 
 I-have at first sight is less fair to the eye ; 
 
 But his worth is by far more enduring 
 Than a thousand 0-had-Ts, that sit far and high 
 
 On roofs and on trees so alluring. 
 
 Full many a golden egg this bird will lay, 
 And sing you " Be cheery ! be cheery !" 
 
 Oh, merrily then will the day glide away, 
 And sweet shall your sleep be when weary. 
 
 But let an 0-had-I once take your eye. 
 
 And a longing to catch him once seize you, 
 
 He'll give you no comfort nor rest till you die. 
 Life-long he'll torment you and tease you. 
 
 He'll keep you all day running up and down hill, 
 Now racing, now panting and creeping ; 
 
 While far overhead, this sweet bird at his will 
 With his golden plumage is sweeping. 
 
 Then every wise man who attends to my song. 
 Will count his I-have a choice treasure ; 
 
 And whene'er an 0-had-I comes flying along, 
 Will just let him fly at his pleasure. 
 
 34
 
 35
 
 I^i 
 
 !£ 
 
 There dwelt a king of pride and might— so runs the solemn tale — 
 All on his throne he sat alone, so gloomy and so pale ; 
 With thoughts of terror in his heart, and torture in his word. 
 His eye an eye of fury — his pen a bloody sword I 
 
 There came unto this castle a noble minstrel pair. 
 
 One crown'd with golden ringlets, and one with hoary hair ; 
 
 The aged minstrel with his harp upon a palfrey i-ode. 
 
 And by his side in youth's gay pride his blooming comrade strode. 
 
 The old man spake unto the youth, "My son, this fateful hour 
 Pour forth thy richest melodies and strains of deepest power ; 
 And summon up thy mastery o'er joy and sorrow's spring, 
 For 'tis our task to touch to-night this stony-hearted king I" 
 
 Behold, beneath the pillar'd dome those simple minstrels stand ; 
 There sate the monarch on his throne, his queen at his right hand ; 
 He like the meteor's blood-red glare, in awful majesty — 
 She like the full moon, calm and fair, in summer's tranquil sky. 
 
 The aged minstrel struck his harp, he struck with wondrous skill. 
 And gathering richness as they rise, his notes the wide hall fill, 
 Blent with the youth's transparent voice, a stream as crystal sheen, 
 And, like some solemn spirit-strain, the old man's tones between. 
 
 They sang of spring-time and of love — of happy golden days, 
 Of freedom and of dauntlessness, of faith, and prayer, and praise ; 
 They sang of all sweet impulses the trembling heart that thrill, 
 They sang of all high thoughts that raise and purify the will. 
 
 Hushed is the mocking courtier-group that stands around the throne. 
 The king's defying warriors, the power of God they own ; 
 The queen, in strange sweet pensiveness, all melting at the strain. 
 Plucks from her breast of snow a rose, and drops it to the twain. 
 
 "Ye have misled my people ! seduce ye now my queen?" 
 Thus, quivering with fury, spake that king of wrathful mien ; 
 He hurls his flashing sword, it cleaves the youth's imguarded heart, 
 Thence, tor a golden stream of song, doth life's red torrent start ! 
 
 I 
 
 
 ^^Qp=m:):^:^\ 
 
 36
 
 -s-r*,. 
 
 ■N'7- 
 
 The Minstrcrs Cursr. 
 
 The hearers gaze, as though a bolt had fallen before their eyes, 
 While on his weeping master's breast the fair youth sinks and dies ; 
 The old man wraps him in liis robe, and sets him on the steed, 
 And binds his drooping form upright, and leaves the place with speed. 
 
 Behold, before the lofty gate that white-haired minstrel stands. 
 
 His harp, of harps the fairest, he grasps with trembling hands ; 
 
 Against a marble column lie hath shattered it in twain. 
 
 And he cries, while hall and bower ring back his fearful tones again — 
 
 " Woe, woe, ye lofty galleries ! let never music float 
 Along your mournful vacancy with soft and swelling note I 
 \'ocal alone with sigh and groan, and slave's low step of dread, 
 Until the God of vengeance your pride in dust shall tread ! 
 
 " Woe, woe, ye fragrant gardens, beneath May's sunny glance ! 
 Look on these dull and glassy eyes, this ghastly countenance I 
 Your pleasant shades shall wither, your fountains shall be dry, 
 A bleak and stony wilderness your wide-spread lawns shall lie I 
 
 " Woe, woe, thou ruthless murderer ! thou curse of minstrel fame I 
 Vainly thou seek'st a bloody wreath to twine around thy name ! 
 That name shall be forgotten in the depths of endless night, 
 And, like a bubble on the air, shall vanish from tlic sight ! " 
 
 The old man lifted up his voice, and Heaven hatli heard his cry ; 
 Those stately halls are desolate, in dust those turrets lie ; 
 One lonely column stands to tell of glories passed away — 
 Even this, already shattered, may fall ere dawn of day. 
 
 Around, for odorous gardens, there's a waste on every hand. 
 No tree gives grateful shadows, no fountain breaks the sand ; 
 Nor can ye find that monarch's name in legend, tale, or verse, 
 It hath perished — it is nothing : — behold the MiNSTREl.'s Cur.sk ! 
 
 Um..\.ND. 
 
 v% 
 
 n X. 
 
 'i- 
 
 ^^^i^ 
 
 . K^j,-^,.^'^ — T-::^, 
 
 ■r -i 
 
 37
 
 THE WATER-LILIES. 
 
 T^HE yellow gem that earth reluctant yields 
 
 To Tejo's stream or Andes' torrent force, 
 Shines not like this small bark : the lucid pearl 
 That lies in cavern dark, deep moor d beneath 
 The ocean-tides, is not so purely white 
 As you, her consort. 
 
 Beauteous flowers ! in times 
 Of ancient Greece, when fancy sway'd the land. 
 Her virgins, as they drew the clear cold lymph, 
 Soothed the young Naiad, cradled on your leaves, 
 With lullabys that ruled the rocking stream. 
 Anon her shepherds eyed yon golden boat. 
 And mann'd it straight with some invisible love. 
 That fled from earth corrupt and sultry air, 
 To rest on the blue river. 
 
 Beauteous flowers ! 
 Your Maker's hand is o'er you ; He in all 
 His works is inexhaustible ; He crowns 
 The green and many-flowering sward, and flings 
 His chaplet o'er the dark and flowing wave. 
 
 Rev. E. Barnard 
 
 A BOY. 
 
 T^HERE'S something in a noble boy, CI Unshaded by a thought of guile, 
 A brave, free-hearted, careless one, f And unrepress'd by sadness ; 
 
 With his unchcck'd, unliidden joy, p Which brings mc lo my cliildhood 
 
 His dread of books and love of |j back, 
 
 fun, f[ As if I trod its very track. 
 
 And in his clear and ready smile, Lms/i ■^"'"^ ^^^"^ ^'■^ ^^'^ gladness.
 
 4^ 
 i 
 
 And yet it is not in his play, 
 
 When every trace of thought is lost, 
 And not when you would call him gay, 
 
 That his bright presence thrills me most. 
 His shout may ring upon the hill. 
 
 His voice be echoed in the hall, 
 His merry laugh like music thrill, 
 
 And I in sadness hear it all, — 
 
 For like the wrinkles on my brow, 
 I scarcely notice such things now. 
 
 But when amid the earnest game, 
 He stops as if he music heard, 
 
 And heedless of his shouted name. 
 As of the carol of a bird, 
 
 Stands gazing on the empty air. 
 
 As if some dream were passing tlierc ; 
 
 'Tis then that on his face I look — 
 
 His beautiful, but thoughtful face — 
 And, like a long-forgotten book. 
 
 Its sweet, familiar meanings trace ; 
 Remembering a thousand things 
 Which pass'd me on those golden wings 
 
 Which Time has fetter'd now : 
 Things that came o'er me with a thrill, 
 And left me silent, sad, and still, 
 
 And threw iijion my brow 
 A holier and a gentler cast, 
 That was loo innocent to last. 
 
 Tis strange how thought upon a child ^ y How in iiis heart will spring 
 
 Will, like a presence, sometimes 
 press ; 
 And when his pulse is beating wild. 
 
 And life itself is in excess ; 
 When fool and hand, and ear and eye, 
 Arc all with ardour straining high, — 
 
 fi A feeling whose mysterious thrall 
 (// Is stronger, sweeter far tlran all ; 
 I And on its silent wing. 
 
 How with the clouds he'll tlo.U 
 
 away, 
 yy^ As wand' ring antl as lost as they I 
 
 N. v. Willis 
 
 \j'^r^'' ■" V 
 
 MjI 
 
 >4 
 
 .v;
 
 ^r-1^^ 
 
 THE 
 
 ©■^ipferttlub ^oIitar})'s 3'oiig to t^« ^^x^)^t. 
 
 ''PHOU spirit of tlie spangled night .' 
 
 I woo thee from tlie watcli-tower higli, 
 
 Where thou dost sit to guide tlie bark 
 Of lonely mariner. 
 
 The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 
 The distant main is moaning low ; 
 Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
 A melancholy song I 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
 And sweet the noontide's fervid beam 
 But sweeter far the solemn calm 
 
 That marks thy mournful reign. 
 
 I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
 And never human voice have heard ; 
 I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And I have linger'd in the shade 
 From sultry noon's hot beam ; and I 
 Have knelt before my wicker door, 
 To sing my evening song. 
 
 And I have hail'd the grey morn high 
 On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
 And tried to tune my little reed 
 To hymns of harmony. 
 
 I : 
 
 I 
 
 40
 
 l^iJr '   '■   I i i i « 
 
 Son^- to the A'ight. 
 
 l>ut never could I tune my reed, 
 At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet 
 As when upon the ocean-shore 
 I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 
 
 The day-spring brings not joy to me. 
 The moon it whispers not of peace : 
 But, oh ! when darkness robes the heavens, 
 My woes are mix'd with joy ; 
 
 And then I talk, and often think 
 Aerial voices answer me ; 
 And, oh ! I am not then alone — 
 A solitary man. 
 
 And when the blustering winter-winds U''-^ 
 
 Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
 I lay me on my lonely mat, 
 
 And pleasant are my dreams : 
 
 And Fancy gives me back my wife, 
 And Fancy gives me back my child ; 
 She gives me back my little home, 
 And all its placid joys. 
 
 Then hateful is the morning hour, 
 That calls me from the dream of bliss, 
 To find myself still lone, and hear 
 The same dull sounds again. 
 
 KiuKE Wmit:. 
 
 
 W 
 
 4> 
 
 I <*• I
 
 
 -^^i^'*Vii,:fo!ii«ttf^>;-=^. 
 
 A CHILD TWO YEARS OLD. 
 
 HERE have you been, my blue-eyed ell"? 
 Ransacking all Nature's pelf, 
 To dress out that little self? 
 Those locks so fine, 
 You stole them from the silkworm's shelf, 
 All his ciold-mine. 
 
 For lips you robb'd the vermeil's dyes ; 
 Those eyes you stole from summer skies ; 
 That laughing sprite that 'neath them lies, 
 
 Beyond bright even, 
 That innocence of your blue eyes, 
 
 You brought from heaven. 
 
 Sure they are come from some bright sphere, 
 Where there is spring throughout the year ; 
 Its music still is on your ear, 
 
 A shadowy beam, 
 A spell that weaves o'er all things here 
 
 A golden dream. 
 
 And while with you so merrily, 
 With your blue eyes I seem to bee 
 O'er all around a gladsome glee, 
 
 No care obtruding ; 
 O'er bird and llower strange revelry 
 
 And glory brooding. 
 
 Then let them laugh, my lady blue, 
 At the hours I spend with you ; 
 Oh, happy, happy, were it true 
 
 That all my days 
 Had been no worse than all with you 
 
 And your sweet ways ! 
 
 My bonny, blue-eyed cherub thing — . 
 A cherub, had you but its wing ; 
 But then, I know, away you'd spring 
 
 With all your gladness. 
 Nor soil your sweet apparelling 
 
 With sin and sadness. 
 
 What shall I call you ? — my bright gem, 
 
 Best jewel, or love's diadem ? 
 
 A bud of heaven on life's poor stem ? 
 
 A blue-eyed flower ? 
 Star peeping through Night's blue-robed 
 hem? 
 
 Beauty's own dower ? 
 
 Oh, no 1 you are — the little Bess, 
 
 A little spirit sent to bless 
 
 All about you — no more — no less — 
 
 A pledge of love, 
 In casket of rich loveliness, 
 
 P'rom One above. 
 
 What ! are you ciying, lady dear ? 
 You've left His breast, but do not fear ; 
 Your heavenly Father, He is here : 
 
 Oh, do not spurn, 
 Wash'd with His blood. His woes to Ijcar, 
 
 And then return. 
 
 Rev. I. Williams. 
 
 i^Mj^JiUU^ tim ^'j^rx'^XfM j^^. f 
 
 .^..-^^X 
 
 42
 
 cT--::^: 
 
 
 l^AR in a wild, unUnown to jniljiic view. 
 
 From youlli to age a rcvcicnd Iiciiiiit grew 
 I lie moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
 I li^ fdiid the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
 Remote from men, with God he pass'd his days, 
 I'rayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 
 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
 Sccm'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose — 
 That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; 
 This sprung some donbi nf I'mxidence s sway ; 
 
 43
 
 '•■Mi: ^ ( 3fA^i^ , ff ;^i^^.i^j^^r,.~~^.:^^^^f.^y^Zf:f>:!i-i^^ 
 
 t 
 
 The Hermit. 
 
 His hopes no more a certain prospect boast. 
 And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
 So, when a smooth expanse receives impress'd 
 Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, 
 Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow. 
 And skies beneath with answering colours glow ; 
 But if a stone the gentle sea divide. 
 Swift ruffling circles curl on every side. 
 And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, 
 Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
 To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, 
 To find if books or swains report it right 
 (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
 Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew). 
 He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore, 
 And fixed the scallop in his hat before ; 
 Then, with the rising sun, a journey went. 
 Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
 
 The morn was wasted in the pathless grass. 
 And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
 But when the southern sun had warm'd the day, 
 A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
 His raiment decent, his complexion fair. 
 And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair ; 
 Then, near approaching, "Father, hail !" he cried; 
 And " Hail, my son !" the reverend sire replied. 
 Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, 
 And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
 Till each with other pleased, and loath to part. 
 While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
 Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound. 
 Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
 
 Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
 Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey ; 
 Nature, in silence, bade the world repose, 
 When, near the road, a stately palace rose. 
 
 jr,i»sjSK64iS.e«ii4i«iiUji**^i!SJ;£i^£*ct 
 
 _ ^ _ - _ - ~ -- j^ ^_i . 
 
 44
 
 There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass. 
 
 Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. 
 
 It chanced the noble master of the dome 
 
 Still made his house the wandering stranger's home ; 
 
 Vet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise. 
 
 Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
 
 The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; 
 
 Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; 
 
 The table groans with costly piles of food, 
 
 And all is more than hospitably good. 
 
 Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, 
 
 Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 
 
 At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day, 
 
 Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
 
 Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
 
 And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. 
 
 Up rise the guests, obedient to the call, 
 
 An early banquet deck'd the splendid liail ; 
 
 Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced. 
 
 Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. 
 
 Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go ; 
 
 And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe ; 
 
 His cup was vanished ; for, in secret guise, 
 
 The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 
 
 As one who spies a serpent in his way. 
 Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
 Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, 
 Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear,— 
 So seem'd the sire, when, far upon Ihc road, 
 The shining spoil his wily partner sliow'd. 
 He slopp'd with silence, walked with IrembUng licari. 
 And mucli he wish'd, but durst not ask to part ; 
 Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hartl 
 That generous actions meet a bxse reward. 
 While thus they pass, the sun his glory slirouds. 
 The clianging skies hang out their sal)le clouds ; 
 
 T'lltitritini "■ ■^^''^-^'•ili'- tiCrt III tfmmiii'f'"'*lillttAW"f^[C'^' 
 
 45
 
 
 N' \! 
 
 «f\^ 
 
 .\'.K 
 
 ',-'^y^ ] 
 
 W ( 
 
 .^■: 
 
 
 r^'-AX' 
 
 The Hermit. 
 
 A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 
 And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
 Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat 
 To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 
 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, 
 And strong, and large, and unimproved around ; 
 Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, 
 Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
 As near the miser's heavy door they drew, 
 Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
 The nimble lightning, mix'd with showers, began, 
 And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran ; 
 Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain. 
 Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 
 At length some pity warm'd the master's breast 
 ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ; 
 Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care. 
 And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 
 One frugal faggot lights the naked walls. 
 And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls; 
 Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine 
 (Each hardly granted), served them both to dine ; 
 And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, 
 A ready warning bade them part in peace. 
 With still remark, the pondering hermit view'd, 
 In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
 And why should such (within himself he cried) 
 Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 
 But what new marks of wonder soon take place 
 In every settling feature of his face. 
 When, from his vest, the young companion bore 
 That cup the generous landlord own'd before. 
 And paid profusely, with the precious bowl. 
 The stinted kindness of this churlish soul I 
 
 
 l^^ 
 
 1^ 
 
 \A1' 
 
 .:,,.m 
 
 \^\ 
 
 t: 
 
 46
 
 Cf 
 
 /v»'- 
 
 V* 
 
 .^-^ 
 
 i< 
 
 l^ 
 
 The Hermit. 
 
 lUit now the clouds in airy tumult tly ; 
 The sun emeri^ing opes an azure sky ; 
 A fresher green the smelling leaves display, . 
 And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : 
 Tile weather courts them from their poor retreat. 
 And the glad master bolts the wary gale. 
 While hence they walk, tlie pilgrim's bosom wrouglu 
 With all the travail of uncertain thought : 
 His partner's acts without their cause appear ; 
 'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here : 
 Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. 
 Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
 Now night's dim shades again involve the sky ; 
 Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 
 Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
 The soil improved around, the mansion neat, 
 And neither poorly low nor idly great ; 
 It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
 Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. 
 Hither the walkers turn their weary feet, 
 Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. 
 Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, 
 The courteous master hears, and thus replies : — 
 " Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
 To Him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
 From Him you come, for Him accept it here, 
 A frank and sober, more than costly cheer I " 
 He spoke, and bade the welcome table spread, 
 Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed ; 
 When the grave household round his hall repair, 
 Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 
 At length the world, renew'd by calm repose. 
 Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ; 
 lielorc the jiilgrims part, the younger crept 
 Near a closed cradle where an infant slept, 
 
 /;-7 r'J — " 
 
 W\ 
 
 y 
 
 ^ 
 
 (? 
 
 -X 
 
 J 
 
 >V\ 
 
 :.^ 
 
 ,^'' 
 
 -%\^,\ 
 
 47
 
 ^M 
 
 W'i 
 
 x^ 
 
 i'fe 
 
 f\\ 
 
 \ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ,,h. 
 
 The Hermit. 
 And writhed his neck ; the landlord's little pride, — 
 Oh, strange return ! — grew black, and gasp'd, and died ! 
 Horror of horrors ! what, his only son ! 
 How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ! 
 Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. 
 And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 
 
 Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, 
 He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed ; 
 His steps the youth pursues : the country lay 
 Perplex'd with roads ; a servant showed the way ; 
 A river cross' d the path ; the passage o'er 
 Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
 Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied. 
 And deep the waves beneath them bending glide. 
 The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, 
 Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in ; 
 Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head. 
 Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 
 
 While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, 
 He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
 "Detested wretch !" — but scarce his speech began. 
 When the strange partner seem'd no longer man ! 
 His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
 His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet ; 
 Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
 Celestial odours breathe through purpled air ; 
 And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day. 
 Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. 
 The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. 
 And moves in all the majesty of light. 
 Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew. 
 Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
 Surprise in secret chains his words suspends. 
 And in a calm his settling temper ends ; 
 
 ■X 
 
 r\,^ 
 
 > 
 
 U'W 
 
 w 
 
 ^y< 
 
 7n 
 
 ■iiw 
 
 ■^\ 
 
 <-T^ 
 
 
 48
 
 a 
 
 •^ 
 
 ;^\ 
 
 '■^ 
 
 ■V, 
 
 V 
 
 The Hermit. 
 But silence here the beauteous angjcl broke 
 (The voice of Music ravishVl as he spoke) : — 
 "Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
 III sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
 Tliese charms success in our bright region fiml, 
 And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
 For this commission'd, I forsook the sky : 
 Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
 Then know the tnith of government divine. 
 And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
 The Maker justly claims that world lie made ; 
 In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
 Its sacred majesty through all depends 
 On using second means to work His ends : 
 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye. 
 The Power exerts His attributes on high ; 
 Your action uses, nor controls your will, 
 And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
 What strange events can strike with more surprise 
 Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? 
 Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just. 
 And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. 
 The great vain man, who fared on costly food, 
 W hose life was too luxurious to be good, 
 Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine. 
 And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine. 
 Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost ; 
 And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
 The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door 
 Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor, 
 With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
 That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be k 
 Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bow 
 And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
 
 •'tf^-!*f*f'.t: 
 
 w/cm 
 
 
 49
 
 The Hermit. 
 
 Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
 
 With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
 
 In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
 
 And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 
 
 Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
 
 But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God ; 
 
 (Child ofhis age) for him he lived in pain, 
 
 And measured back his steps to earth again. 
 
 To what excesses had his dotage run ! 
 
 But God, to save the father, took the son. 
 
 To all but thee in fits he seemed to go, 
 
 And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. 
 
 The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
 
 Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
 
 But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack, 
 
 Had that false servant sped in safety back ! 
 
 This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, 
 
 And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
 
 Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, 
 
 Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 
 
 On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew ; 
 The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
 Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high. 
 His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
 The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; 
 The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. 
 
 The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 
 " Lord, as in heaven, on earth Thy will be done." 
 Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place. 
 And pass'd a life of piety and peace. Parneli,, 
 
 1 
 
 *J
 
 
 •■■i-r.ii M\ "irnr-^'Vr^ii-'   lai. .1. l AUT X M , : ^^ 
 
 5'
 
 '^i 
 
 The Glove. 
 
 And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, 
 Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. 
 
 The lions and the tigers roar'd with horrid laughing jaws. 
 
 They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws ; 
 
 With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another. 
 
 Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother ; 
 
 The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air : 
 
 Said Francis then, " Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." 
 
 De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame. 
 
 With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same ; 
 
 She thought, — " The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be, 
 
 He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me ; 
 
 King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the occasion is divine ; 
 
 I'll drop my glove to prove his love ; great glory will be mine." 
 
 She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him, and smil'd ; 
 
 He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild : 
 
 The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place, 
 
 Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. 
 
 " Ah, ah !" said Francis, " rightly done !" and he rose from where he sat ; 
 
 " Not love," quoth he, " but vanity, set love a task like that." 
 
 L. Hunt (aftey Schiller). 
 
 52
 
 :lirr3-<m>^.<-»-ji«M!% >>ii«^a»Bi<ia!!i-^'Vi--=»"^ - «' r > i iM ixft»is»W'<*'. «' 
 
 ODE TO TRA X{] C '//. LI TV. 
 
 nrRANQUII.LITV ! tliou better name 
 Tlian all the family of fame I 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
 
 To low intrigue or factious rage. 
 
 For, oil, dear child of thoughtful Trulli I 
 
 To thee I gave my early youth ; 
 And left the bark, and bless'd the stedfast shore, 
 ICre yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its roar 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks lliy ^lu inc, 
 
 On him but seldom, power divine. 
 
 Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 
 And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee. 
 
 Mock the tired worldling. Idle llojie 
 
 And dire Remembrance interlope 
 'I'o vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks hcliind 
 
 l!ut me thy gentle hand will load 
 At morning through the accusluniM nic.id ; 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 Will build me up a mossy scat ; 
 And when the gust of autumn crowds 
 And breaks the busy moonlighi clouds, 
 'I'iiou best the thought canst raise, the heart aiiune, 
 Ligiit a.s the l)usy clouds, calm as the gliding niinni. 
 
 The feeling heart, the searcliing soul. 
 
 To ihee I dedicate the whole ! 
 
 And while within myself I trace 
 
 The greatness of some future race, 
 
 Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
 
 'I'he i)resent works of |)rescnl man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
 T(M) foolish for a tear, loo wickeil for a smile I 
 
 CoI.KklDtiK 
 
 tiir 
 
 M^ 
 
 •i- "^ i^V   " :n V" -I 
 
 ill 
 
 asij 
 
 53
 
 wlr^^MM^ '^— r^ . w ,>>^J-^^> ^t^^^ '^' JS 
 
 »--^^> *^>fc 
 
 
 77/^5" COTTAGE NOME. 
 
 (^FT have I roam'd amid the bills 
 With sense of awe that inly thrills, 
 
 And listen d to each sound 
 Which gives so deep an emphasis 
 To silence, and makes loneliness 
 
 Seem only more profound. 
 
 I've pass'd through crowded street and mart, 
 With yet more solitude of heart 
 
 Than ever yet was mine 
 When, wandering "in untrodden Avays," 
 Wild Nature to my awe-struck gaze 
 
 Reveal' d her inner shrine. 
 
 Fitful of mood— by impulse sway'd, 
 How oft we make the sun and shade 
 
 Which lights or dims our way ! 
 Vigw'd through some medium of our own. 
 Now seems our path with weeds o'ergrown, 
 
 And now with roses gay. 
 
 But yesterday, at Fancy's call, 
 I sought the rushing waterfall. 
 
 The wild and lonely glen ; 
 To-morrow, it may be my mood 
 To mingle with the multitude. 
 
 And list " the hum of men." 
 
 Meanwhile, 'tis mine well-pleased to view 
 'Twixt both extremes a medium true. 
 In this low cottage home ; 
 
 1, 
 
 54
 
 The Cottage Home 
 
 For here I find society, 
 l'"iom noise, and strife, and tiinmlt free. 
 Seclusion without gloom. 
 
 Those little curly-patcd elves, 
 Hlest in each other and themselves, 
 
 Right pleasant 'tis to see, 
 ("dancing like sunbeams in and out 
 The lowly porch, and round about 
 
 The ancient household tree. 
 
 And pleasant 'tis to greet the smile 
 Of her who rules this domicile 
 
 With firm but gentle sway ; 
 To hear her busy step and tone, 
 Which tell of household cares begmi. 
 
 That cMul but with the day. 
 
 'Tis pleasant, too, to stroll around 
 The tiny plot of garden-ground, 
 
 Where all in gleaming row 
 Sweet primroses, the spring's delight. 
 And double daisies, red and while, 
 
 And yellow wallfloweis grow. 
 
 What if such homely view as this 
 Awaken not the high-wrought bliss 
 
 Which loftier scenes impart 
 To better feelings sure it leads, 
 If but to kindly thoughts and deeds 
 
 It prompt the feeling heart. 
 
 Kn/i 
 
 5» 
 
 
 55
 
 The J'illa:^i' Fhitksmith. 
 
 His hair is crisp, ami black, and Viw^, 
 
 His face is like the tan : 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat. 
 
 He earns whate'er he can. 
 And looks the whole world in I lie face. 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, (Voni morn till niglii, 
 Vou can hear his bellows blow ; 
 
 \'ou can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
 With measuretl beat and slow. 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village-bell 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school 
 
 Look in at the open door ; 
 They love to see the flaming forge, 
 
 .\w\ hoar ilie bellows roar. 
 And catch the burning sparks that lly 
 
 Like chalT from a threshing floor. 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boys ; 
 1 le hears the parson pray and preach. 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice 
 .•ringing in the village-choir, 
 
 .And ii makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 
 
 Singing in Paradise I 
 He needs must think of her once more. 
 
 How in the grave she lies ; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 .V tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toili 
 
 'til lejDicnig, ->i)rr<)wing, 
 
 ^^==^ 
 
 Onwaril ihrou^jh life he goes ; 
 I'^ach morning sees some txsk begin, 
 
 l".ach evening sees it close : 
 Something attempted, something done. 
 
 Has earn'tl a night's re|)ose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my wortlu hiend 
 For the lesson thou hast taught I 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of life 
 (3ur fortunes must be wrought ; 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Kach burning deed and thought I 
 
 LoNCI'KI.I.oW. 
 
 
 >>^'MVP>^"V*^ 
 
 
 57 
 
 I '
 
 Theodora was the cousin of the poet Cowper. In 
 early Hfe they were engaged ; but their attachment was 
 not coLintenanced by the lady's father, and the engage- 
 ment was broken off. The remainder of their story is 
 narrated in the following ballad : — 
 
 T^HEIRS was a love of early youtli, 
 
 Those fair, deceitful days, 
 When all our dreams are hope and truth, 
 
 And every dream betrays : 
 They knew not that life's radiant track 
 
 Shone but with seeming light. 
 From their own eyes reflected back, 
 
 As fleeting as 'twas bright I 
 
 His gift was genius ; fatal oft 
 
 When, as with him, it sways 
 A soul too sensitive and soft 
 
 For earth's bewildering ways. 
 And hers was beauty, that unblauid 
 
 Upon a throne might sit ; 
 And a meek, quiet spirit, framed 
 
 To suffer and submit. 
 
 The twilight cool of summer eves 
 
 In dark and dewy woods. 
 The music of the whispering leaves 
 
 And of the trickling floods ; 
 Discourse with many a lofty mind 
 
 In nobler ages born ; 
 These were the links their souls that twined : 
 
 Oh, how should such be torn ? 
 
 But they 7i)ere severed I Worldly arts 
 
 And worldly wisdom strove 
 To root up from those gentle hearts 
 
 The tender plant of love : 
 
 :iii'-'^'?'Tiiin-[rff*^l^'r^'"v** "^m 
 
 -- '- i iw ^•-■'r- , •■issiS=i^^j..i^^LXLLe^',.Mii~MM^ 
 
 5S
 
 ■r*f? 
 
 I ( 
 
 ? p 
 
 In vain I ihey could not overcome I 
 Crush'd, tortured, torn, and wriniL;, 
 
 Still to their laccratetl liome 
 The bleeding tendriU cluni;. 
 
 And then they parted : and o"er him 
 
 A dreamdike woniler came ; 
 All things seeni'd doubtful, changed, an 
 tlim, 
 
 And yet they wore the same ; 
 And wild and melancholy fits 
 
 His strength of soul o'erpower, 
 Like some dark shapeless bird that flii- 
 
 At twilight's ghostful hour. 
 
 Hut s/ii- .' Oh, dare not to intrude 
 
 Upon that place apart. 
 Where weeps in wordless solitude 
 
 Her meek and drooping heart I 
 ( irief is a holy thing, unmeet 
 
 For man's profaning eyes ; 
 //c-rs was loo deep for solace sweet 
 
 In kindliest sympathies. 
 
 NVithdrawn within her quiet home, 
 
 Obedient and alone, 
 The woe she might not overcome. 
 
 She still might keep unknown : 
 That stream of jiurest love but showM 
 
 Its passage underground, 
 l!y fertilising, as it flow'd, 
 
 The flowery earth around. 
 
 Kind deeds and calm benevolence. 
 These were her sole employ ; 
 
 Those blessings freely to dispense 
 Herself might not enjoy ; 
 
 \VIiilc still her spirit hover'd near 
 O/ii- well-remcmbcr'd doc^r. 
 
 '-^-du.-c 
 
 4M^h^«uu.. • t.Laaaa ^- 1 |. 
 
 9)
 
 
 ;:ti. 
 
 r ili^tf A^-^*^*- ■*   ^""^"^ - .A-?Yt- >-^-''Q**'- *-*:i I     ^ 1 1   rJNw ff V .tj'^ 
 
 "k 
 
 % 
 
 / "/■' 
 
 /:c. 
 
 fc^> 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 l^\ 
 
 Theodora. 
 
 And sought o;/^ hearth supremely dear ; 
 For he she loved was poor. 
 
 Hers was it to supply the want 
 
 His lips had ne'er express'd ; 
 Hers the unutter'd prayer to grant 
 
 That lurk'd within his breast. 
 He found, as by an angel's power, 
 
 His wishes all supplied, 
 Who, day by day, and hour by hour, 
 
 Unseen was at his side. 
 
 It was her joy, with labour mute. 
 
 Around his path to spread 
 Those comforts, nameless and minute, 
 
 Which only love can shed. 
 How should a stranger's hand impart 
 
 Gifts with such sweetness fraught ? 
 She dwelt within his inmost heart. 
 
 And watched its every thought I 
 
 So years wore on, till he forgot 
 
 Even that his love had been. 
 And sometimes, in his wayward lot, 
 
 Would almost feel serene ; 
 While still her spirit hover'd by 
 
 The lone spot where he dwelt, 
 And still she waited ministeringly 
 
 On all he thought and felt. 
 
 Was she not happy thus to feel 
 
 Her presence with him still ? 
 And thus, unknown, his wounds to heal, 
 
 His wishes to fulfil ? 
 Truly she had her own reward, 
 
 All meaner joys above, 
 Softening a lot so bitter, hard — 
 
 Oh, answer ! was tliis love ? 
 
 S. M. 
 
 yi 
 
 
 »JIStf^^s.*4^ <f? 
 
 60
 
 Of Al)ra firsl began the IcikIlt strain, 
 Wlio led licr yoiilli will) llocks npon llio plain : 
 At morn she came those wilhng flocks to Icatl, 
 Where lilies rear them in the watery mead ; 
 !• loni early dawn the livelong honrs she (old, 
 1 ill late at silent eve she pcnn'd the fold : 
 1 >Lx|i in the grove, beneath the secret shade, 
 A various wreath of (idorniis flowers she maile- 
 
 Ci 
 
 n 

 
 fil 
 
 or, the Georgian Sultana. 
 
 Gay motley'd pinks and sweet jonquils she chose ; 
 The violet blue that on the moss-bank grows ; 
 All sweet to sense, the flaunting rose was there ; 
 The finish'd chaplet well adorn'd her hair. 
 
 Great Abbas chanced that fated morn to stray, 
 P>y love conducted from the chase away ; 
 Among the vocal vales he heard her song, .^ 
 
 And sought the vales and echoing groves among ; 
 At length he found, and woo'd the rural maid ; 
 She knew the monarch, and with fear obey'd. 
 " Be every youth like royal Abbas moved, 
 And every Georgian maid like Abra loved 1" 
 
 The royal lover bore her from the plain ; 
 \'et still her crook and bleating flock remain : 
 Oft as she went she back^^■ard turn'd her view, 
 And bade that crook and l:>leating flock adieu. 
 Fair, happy maid ! to other scenes remove ; 
 To richer scenes of golden power and love ! 
 Go, leave the simple pipe and shepherd's strain ; 
 With love delight thee, and with Abbas reign 1 
 ' ' Be every youth like royal Abbas moved. 
 And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !"' 
 
 Vet, 'midst the blaze of courts, she fix'd her love 
 On the cool fountain, or the shady grove ; 
 Still, with the shepherd's innocence, her mind 
 To the sweet vale and flowery mead inclined ; 
 And oft as spring renew'd the plains with flowers, 
 lireath'd his soft gales, and led the fragrant hours. 
 With sure return she sought the sylvan scene, 
 The breezy mountains, and the forests green. 
 Her maids around her moved, a duteous band ; 
 Each bore a crook, all rural, in her hand : 
 Some simple lay, of flocks and herds, they sung ; 
 With joy the mountain and the forest rung. 
 "Be eveiy youth like royal Abbas moved. 
 And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !" 
 
 1// 
 
 3 
 
 ^^^^S^^^^^^^^^^J 
 
 62
 
 .//';-,/.• .>/-, the Gi.v>xiiiii Sn/t,utit. 
 And oft the royal lover left the care 
 And thorns of slate, attendant on the fair ; 
 Oft to the shades and low-roofd cots retired, 
 Or sought the vale where first his heart was fired 
 A russet mantle, like a swain, he wore. 
 And thought of crowns and busy courts no more. 
 " Be every youth like royal Abbas moved, 
 And every Georgian maid like Abra loved !" 
 
 
 Blest was the lite that royal Abbas let! : 
 Sweet was his love, and innocent his bed. 
 What if in wealth the noble maid excel? 
 The simple shepherd-girl can love as well. 
 Let tiiose w ho rule on Persia's jewell'd throne 
 Be fam'd for love, and gentlest love alone ; 
 ,^ ,, ., , ^ Or wreath, like Abbas, full of fair renown, 
 
 ;../ 1 .^^ ''!4iW^^*' ^^^^ lover's myrtle with the warrior's crown. 
 .',. .,..■-.■• ft'Hir ->. o].,^ happy days ! the maids around us say : 
 
 ( >h, haste, profuse of blessings, haste away ! 
 " Be every youtii like royal Abbas moved, 
 And every Georgian maid like Abra loved 
 
 Collins. 
 
 
 '"'^^St^^^'^^ 
 
 i^ 
 
 ixi^ 
 
 '^i ^- -^^r^ ii'^-
 
 £S 
 
 64
 
 r? 
 
 ^ 
 
 r>iit, Peggy dear, tlie evening's clear, 
 
 Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
 The sky is blue, the fieUls in view, 
 
 All failing green and yellow : 
 Come, let us stray our gladsome way, 
 
 And view the charms of Nature — 
 The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 
 
 And ev'ry happy creature. 
 
 IUkns. 
 
 r//£ FLAX SrLVJVE/^S' SONG. 
 
 SING AMONG THE PEASANTS OF WESTPHALIA. 
 
 'M'OW is the flax so fair and long ; 
 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 And now the poor man's heart is strong, 
 And now ascends his swelling song, 
 The grateful heart's o'erflow. 
 
 What torments must the flax endure !   
 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 They'll dig a pond, and heave it in. 
 Then beat and bruise it short and thin ; 
 
 Hallo! hallo! hallo! 
 
 The flayer he will break the straw ; 
 
 Rach ! rach I rach ! 
 The gleaner he will scrape and glean, 
 Till not a single sheaf is seen, 
 
 Then throw it on the pack. 
 
 The hatchcler then must make it fine ; 
 
 Hash ! hash ! hxsh ! 
 I le draws it out so fine and fair, 
 I Ic forms the woof with speed and care. 
 
 And lays it on the rash. 
 
 11 , And lays it on tl 
 j w-^ . 
 
 I j ii L ii I I   I I   n i III I 'l liW 
 
 And then, when winter comes along, 
 
 Groll ! groll ! groll ! 
 The woofs are set, and man and wife, 
 They spin as if they spun for life — 
 
 They spin full many a roll. 
 
 And now the bride will be so gay ; 
 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 She'll spin by night, she'll spin by dav 
 Her bridal dress she'll si)in away 
 
 Fine as her hair, I know. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the flax is good I 
 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 Who does his duty daily, he 
 Must always bright and happy be, 
 
 Whether in weal or woe. 
 
 The flax rewards our cheerful toil : 
 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 And many a mighty prince's son. 
 Who wears the linen we have spun, 
 
 Our joy may never know. 
 
 ^'5 
 
 I J 1
 
 
 POWER OF MATERNAL PIETY. 
 
 "VyHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs, 
 
 Ye children young and gay ? 
 Your locks, beneath the blast of 
 cares, 
 Will bleach as white as they. 
 
 I had a mother once, like you, 
 
 Who o'er my pillow hung, 
 Kiss'd from my cheek the briny dew. 
 
 And taught my fait' ring tongue. 
 
 She, when the nightly couch was spread, 
 
 W^ould bow my infant knee, 
 And place her hand upon my head, 
 
 And, kneeling, pray for me. 
 
 But then there came a fearful day : 
 
 I sought my mother's bed, 
 Till harsh hands tore me thence away, 
 . And told me she was dead. 
 
 I pluck'd a fair white rose, and stole 
 
 To lay it by her side. 
 And thought strange sleep enchain'd her 
 soul, 
 
 For no fond voice replied. 
 
 That eve I knelt me down in woe. 
 
 And said a lonely prayer ; 
 Yet still my temples seem'd to glow. 
 
 As if that hand were there. 
 
 Years fled, and left me childhood's joy. 
 Gay sports and pastimes dear ; 
 
 I rose a wild and wayward boy, 
 W'ho scorn' d the curb of fear. 
 
 Fierce passions shook me like a reed ; 
 
 Yet ere at night I slept. 
 That soft hand made my bosom bleed. 
 
 And down I fell and wept. 
 
 \ 
 
 66
 
 Miitcnial rir/y. 
 
 Vouth came— the props of virtue leel'il ; 
 
 lUit oft at clay's decline 
 A marble touch my brow congcal'd — 
 
 Bless'd mother, was it thine ? 
 
 In foreign lands I travcH'd wide. 
 My pulse was bounding high ; 
 
 Vice spread her meshes by my side. 
 And pleasure lured my eye ; 
 
 Vet still that hand, so soft and cold, 
 
 Maintain'd its mystic sway, 
 As when amid my curls of gold 
 
 With gentle force it lay. 
 
 And with it breathed a voice of care, 
 
 As from the lowly sod, 
 " My son — my only one — beware, 
 
 Nor sin against thy Clod ! " 
 
 Anon. 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 1;
 
 5 
 
 ON THE 
 
 (, lUmobal of some ©li» damilg |0ortrails. ' 
 
 «?, ^1 
 
 CI LENT friends, fare ye well! 
 
 Shadows, adieu! 
 Living friends long I've lost. 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Bitter tears many I've shed, 
 
 "^'ou've seen them flow ; 
 Dreary hours many I've spent. 
 
 Full well ye know. 
 
 Yet in my loneliness, 
 
 Kindly methought 
 Still ye look'd on me. 
 
 Mocking me not 
 
 With light speech and hollow words, 
 Grating so sore. 
 
 The sad heart with many ills 
 Sick to the core. 
 
 Then if my clouded skies 
 
 Brighten' d awhile, 
 
 Seem'd your soft serious eyes 
 Almost to smile. 
 
 .Silent friends, fare ye well ! 
 
 Shadows, adieu ! 
 Living friends long I've lost, 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Taken from hearth and board. 
 
 When all were gone, 
 
 I look'd up at you, and felt 
 
 Not quite alone ; 
 
 Not quite companionless. 
 
 While in each face 
 
 Met me, familiar. 
 
 The stamp of my race. 
 
 ^i^ 
 
 Thine, gentle ancestress, 
 
 Dove-eyed and fair. 
 
 Melting in sympathy 
 
 Oft for my care. 
 
 Grim knight and stern-visaged. 
 Yet could I see 
 
 (Smoothing that furrowed face) 
 Good will to me. 
 
 Bland looks were beaming 
 
 Upon me, I knew. 
 
 Fair sir, bonny lady, 
 
 From you and from you. 
 
 Little think happy ones. 
 
 Heart-circled round, 
 How fast to senseless things 
 
 Hearts may be bound; 
 
 How, when the living prop's 
 
 Moulder'd and gone. 
 
 Heart-strings low trailing left 
 
 Clasp the cold stone. 
 
 Silent friends, fare ye well ! 
 
 Shadows, adieu ! 
 Living friends long I've lost. 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Often when spirit-vex'd, 
 
 Weary and worn, 
 
 To your quiet faces, mute 
 
 Friends, would I turn. 
 
 a 
 
 ff J I I II   ■!■ it' '^'l 
 
 68
 
 G^^^-W 
 
 ^^^^SS^^:::^ 
 
 Famifv Portraits. 
 
 Soft as I gazed on them, 
 
 Soothing as bahn, 
 
 Lulling the passion -storm, 
 
 Stole your deep calm ; 
 
 Till, as I longer look'd, 
 
 Surely methought 
 \'e road and replied to 
 
 Chance and change manifold 
 Proving like thee ! 
 
 *• Hope-lifted — doubt-depressM — 
 Seeing in pari — 
 
 Tried — troubled — tempted — 
 
 Sustain'd as thou art. 
 
 (Lfr: 
 
 My questioning thought. ^^|^^^~^ 
 
 " Daughter," ye softly said, 
 
 " Peace to thine heart ! 
 We luo — yes, daughter — have 
 
 Been as thou art. 
 
 " Toss'd on the troubled waves, 
 Life's stormy sea. 
 
 " Our God is i/iy God. Wlial 
 Willclh is best : 
 Trust Ilim as \vc trusted ; then 
 Rest as we rest." 
 
 IK 
 
 Silent friends, fare yc well I 
 
 Shadows, adieu 1 
 
 One Friend abideth still. 
 
 All changes through. 
 
 BlackioooiVs Mtii-a: 
 
 ■lilt: 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY OX II ER WEDDING-DAY. 
 
 "\ VIIII-E youth's keen light is in thine eye, 
 While each new hour goes dancing by, 
 While girlish visions are not gone, 
 And sorrow is almost unknown, — 
 (Jo, dear one, go, and take with thee 
 Thy fresh-born thoughts and natural glee. 
 And keep them still, like flowers lo bloom, 
 luigarlanding thy now-found home. 
 The time may como when thou shall iiavo 
 More than enough to make thee grave ; 
 When worldly thoughts and common cares 
 Will touch with groy thy brightest hairs ; 
 And all too soon the matron's mien, 
 O'ercasting what the maid hath boon, 
 Will show thee good and wise of heart, - 
 Hut not, svvccl girl, what now thou art. 
 
 S. R. 
 
 ■^YI-^^A^l^^ii^^^r:^^-^ 
 
 hi)
 
 A ND hark ! the niglitingale begins its song 
 "Most musical, most melancholy" bud' 
 A melancholy bird ? Oh, idle thought ! 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 'Tis the merry nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburden his full soul 
 Of all its music I 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangled underwood, 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 
 70
 
 >-- 
 
 
 The Ni^htiitgak. 
 
 So m;uiy nightingales; and far and near. 
 
 In wood and tliickct, over the wide grove, 
 
 They answer anil provoke each otlier's songs, 
 
 With skirmish and capricious passogings. 
 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug-jug. 
 
 And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all — 
 
 Stirring the air with such an harmony 
 
 That, should you close your eyes, you miglit almost 
 
 Forget it was not day ! On moonlit bushes. 
 
 Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
 
 Vou may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both brigiil and full. 
 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle maid. 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a lady vowed and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their nt)les. 
 That gentle maid ! and oft a moment's space. 
 What time the moon was lost beliind a cloud, 
 Hath heard a pause of silence; till tlie moon 
 Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. 
 As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
 \\\ hundred aiiy harps ! 
 
 Coleridge, 
 
 
 ¥^.^ ,>' 
 
 r,,^rr^'
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER. 
 
 C\ THOU that swing'st upon the waving hah- 
 
 Of some well-filled oaten beard, 
 Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious tear 
 
 Dropp'd thee from heav'n, where now thou rt rear'd 
 The joys of earth and air are thine entire, 
 
 That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly ; 
 And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire 
 
 To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. 
 
 Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then. 
 
 Sport' st in the gilt-plats of his beams, 
 And all these merry days mak'st merry men, 
 
 Thyself, and melancholy streams. 
 But ah, the sickle ! golden ears are cropp'd ; 
 
 Ceres and Bacchus bid good night ! 
 Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topp'd ; 
 
 And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite. 
 
 Poor verdant fool ! and now, green ice, thy joys 
 
 Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass, 
 Bid us lay in 'gainst winter, rain, and poise 
 
 Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. 
 Thou best of men and friends ! we will create 
 
 A genuine summer in each other's breast ; 
 And spite of this cold time and frozen fate 
 
 Thaw us a wami seat to our rest. 
 
 Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally 
 
 As vestal flames ; the north-wind, he 
 Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve and fly 
 
 This /Etna in epitome ; 
 Dropping December shall come weeping in, 
 
 Bewail th' usui-ping of his reign ; 
 But when in show'rs of old Greek we begin, 
 
 Shall cry, he hath his crown again ! 
 
 Night, as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip, 
 
 From the light casements where we play, 
 And the dark hag from her black mantle strip, 
 
 And stick there everlasting day. 
 Thus richer than untempted kings are we, 
 
 That asking nothing, nothing need : 
 Though lord of all what seas embrace, yet he 
 
 That wants himself is poor indeed. 
 
 SOUTIIEY. 
 
 72
 
 t 
 
 
 JEAX/E MONK/SOX. 
 
 T'V'E wander'd east, I've waiulerM west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way ; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The hive o' Hfe's young day I 
 The fire that's Mawn on Beltane e'eii 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 The thoughts o' bygane years 
 
 Still fling their shadows ower my path. 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears ; 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 
 
 And sair and sick I pine, 
 As memoiy idly summons up 
 
 The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvt ilk itiier weel, 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part ; 
 Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart I 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigli bink, 
 
 To leir ilk ilher lear; 
 And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed 
 
 Remember'd cvermair. 
 
 1 wonder, Jeanie, aflen yet. 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 
 Cheek touchin' check, loof lock'd in loof, 
 What our wee heads could think ' 
 
 When baith bent down ower ae braid paije 
 Wi' ae buik on our knee. 
 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 Whene'er the scuie-weans laughin' said 
 
 TjX;' VC-i^V ^^''' ^'''-■'-■'^''' thcgilher ha:nj'' 
 
 A^tiW-^ 
 
 73
 
 :prr.7'5?~'' 
 
 -iSapiii^lJ:-*^' 
 
 ■j> i.KEjaa-f^ 
 
 Jeajiie Morrison. 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The scule then skail't at noon), 
 When we ran afF to speel the braes — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June ? 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea, 
 As ane by ane the thoughts rush back 
 
 O' scule-time and o' thee. 
 O mornin' life I O mornin' luve I 
 
 O lichtsome days and lang, 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 
 
 Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin', dinsome toun. 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its water croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung o'er our heads. 
 
 The flowers burst i-ound our feet, 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wood 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wood. 
 
 The burn sang to the trees. 
 And we, with Nature's heart in tune. 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe alnme the burn 
 
 For hours thegither sat. 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Tears trinkled doun your cheek, 
 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 Had ony power to speak I 
 
 m!iiiiigt,:iyj'"Tyw>-'^^^'^^-^'m3:^ 
 
 74
 
 'mrmJ" I ttx/yucJi 
 
 
 yi'.iiilc .Morrison. 
 
 That was a time, a blessed time, 
 
 When liearls were fiesli and y 
 When freely giish'd all feelings f< 
 
 I'nsyllabled — unsung I 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thoughts 
 
 As ye hac been to me ? 
 • >h, tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine? 
 Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' flreamings o' langsyne ! 
 
 I've wander'il east, I've wander'd west, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot; 
 Rut in my wand' rings, far or near, 
 
 Ve never were forgot. 
 The fount that fii-st burst frae this heart 
 
 Still travels on its way. 
 And channels deeper as it rins 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Since we were sinder'd young 
 I've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 liut I could liug all wretchedness, 
 
 And happy could I die. 
 Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 
 
 O' bygane days and me ! 
 
 MoriiKKwii 1 
 
 m .:# 
 
 cf-^ 
 
 75
 
 u 
 
 yi 
 
 A LITTLE man, who muffins soLl 
 When I was littb too, 
 Carried a face of giant mould, 
 But tall he never grew. 
 
 His arms were legs for length and size, 
 His coat-tail touch'd his heels ; 
 
 His brows were forests o'er his eyes, 
 His voice like waggon -wheels. 
 
 When fallen leaves together flock, 
 
 And gusts begin to squall, 
 And suns go down at six o'clock, 
 
 You heard his muffin-call. 
 
 Borne in the equinoctial blast. 
 He came and shook his bell ; 
 
 And with the equinox he pass'd, 
 But whither none could tell. 
 
 Some thought the monster turn'd to dew 
 When muffins ceased to reign. 
 
 And lay in buds the summer through, 
 Till muffin-time again ; 
 
 Or satyr, used the woods to rove, 
 , ^•.-^ Or even old Caliban, 
 
 ~>v,^' Drawn by the lure of oven-stove 
 /^ To be a muffin-man. 
 
 SNvv** ^ jy^ - ■> *"*■■ ".u^-'J* -— .>^-uv..»> - un' liiiiii. n i^^ivAiLuj^Zi:^. 
 
 76
 
 [^^^'^^^''Z 
 
 The Muffin-Man 
 
 1 he ihvarf was not a churlish elf, 
 Who thought folks starcil to scoff; 
 
 iUit used deformity itself 
 To set his niuflins off. 
 
 I le stood at doors and talk'd with cooks, 
 While strangers took his span ; 
 
 And grimly smiled at childhood's looks 
 (hi him, the muffin-man. 
 
 Wiien others fled from nipping frost. 
 And hid from drenching skies, 
 
 And when in fogs the street was lost, 
 Vou saw his figure rise. 
 
 One night his tinkle did not sound. 
 He failed each 'custom'd door; 
 Twas first of an eternal round 
 Of nights he walk'd no more. 
 
 When borne in arms, my infant eye 
 In restless search began ; 
 
 The niu'sery-maid was wont to cry, 
 "Sec, Jolni, the muffin-man." 
 
 My path with things familiar spread. 
 Death's foot had seldom cross'd ; 
 
 And when they said that Jolin was dead, 
 I stood in wonder lost. 
 
 New muffin-men, from lamp to lamp. 
 
 With careless glance I scan ; 
 For none can ever raze thy stamp, 
 
 O John, thou muffin-man ! 
 
 Thou standcst snatch'd from time and storm, 
 
 A statue of the soul ; 
 And round thy carved and goblin form. 
 
 Past days — past days unroll ! 
 
 We will not part — affection dim 
 
 This song shall help to fan, 
 And Memory, firmer bound to him, 
 
 Sliall keep her muffin-man. ,\. |. 
 
 1 
 
 A PO/rrs PLESSIA 
 
 
 A S I roam'd the fields along, 
 
 Listening to the linnet's song, 
 I beheld an old man there, 
 Toiling hard, with hoary hair. 
 
 "Blessings on this field," I cried, 
 "Such a faithful labourer's pri/le ! 
 Blessings on this wither'd hand, 
 Scattering ^•■•■•\ nlmig the land !" 
 
 Answer'd me his look severe : — 
 " I'oet's blessing boots not here ; 
 I -ike the wrath of Heaven it falls — 
 I'Mowers, not corn, to life it calls." 
 
 " I-'riend, these songs of lighter hours 
 Waken not too many flowers; 
 Just eiKuigh to deck the land 
 And fill 
 
 ugh to (leek tlie land, /Vi 
 
 thy little grandson's hand.' jC^'ct 
 
 I'l.I.AM.. W^ 
 
 77
 
 A SOXG FOR ST. CECILLVS DAY. 
 
 ROM harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
 
 This universal frame began. 
 
 When Nature underneath a heap 
 
 Of jarring atoms lay. 
 And could not heave her head. 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 Arise, ye more than dead ! 
 Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, 
 In order to their stations leap, 
 And music's power obey. 
 From liarmony, from heavenly harmony, 
 This universal frame began : 
 From harmony to harmony. 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
 The diapason closing full in man. 
 
 What passion cannot music raise and quell ? 
 
 When Jubal struck the corded shell. 
 
 His listening brethren stood around, 
 
 And wondering, on their faces fell 
 
 To worship that celestial sound. 
 
 Less than a god they thought there could not dwell 
 
 Within the hollow of that shell, 
 
 That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
 
 What passion cannot music raise and quell ? 
 
 The trumpet's loud clangour 
 Excites us to arms, 
 W^ith shrill notes of anger. 
 And mortal alarms ; 
 
 ^"*-^ ■(T/r'lnTe^?7n"-^Wi'^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 78 
 
 ■^^
 
 j^s^^y^Jrs-' y- i ■» i» » « wj ,. } i>' ;^M 'f f   « '■ Jc ^"*' 
 
 The double, double, double beat 
 Of the thundering drum. 
 Cries, Hark ! the foes come ; 
 Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat. 
 
 The soft complaining flute 
 
 In dying notes discovers 
 
 The woes of hopeless lovers, 
 
 Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling hue 
 
 Sharp violins proclaim 
 
 Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
 
 Fury, frantic indignation. 
 
 Depth of pains, and height of passion, 
 
 For the fair disdainful dame. 
 
 But, oh I what art can teach, 
 
 What human voice can reach, 
 
 The sacred organ's praise ? 
 
 Notes inspiring holy love. 
 
 Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
 
 To mend the choirs above. 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race. 
 And trees uprooted left their place. 
 Sequacious of the lyre ; 
 
 Hut bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher. 
 When to her organ vocal breath was given ; 
 An angel heard, and straight appear'd. 
 Mistaking earth for henven. 
 
 (;K.VNI) CHOKIS. 
 
 As from the power of sacreil lays 
 
 The spheres began to move. 
 
 And sung the great Creator's ])raise 
 
 To all the blest above ; 
 
 So when tlic last and dreadful hour 
 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour. 
 
 The trumjiet shall be heard on high. 
 
 The dead ^hall live, the living ilie. 
 
 And music shall untune the sky. 
 
 -r* all IIIUII*. 
 
 i^ix'" 
 
 IJkvki 
 
 --^■.^."----rnr— ^i^ 
 
 T)
 
 'f I iT "^"*^^ '^^^ Virgin-mother mild 
 ■' In their peaceful banner smiled. 
 Who could think such saintly band 
 Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand V 
 Such was the divine decree, 
 
 O iniscrcrc Doiiiinc! 
 
 Bands that masses only sung, 
 Hands that censers only swung, 
 Met the northern bow and bill. 
 Heard the war-cry, wild and shrill : 
 Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, 
 Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand. 
 Woe to Saxon cruelty, 
 
 O miserere Doitiiiie ! 
 
 fei 
 
 Weltering amid warriors slain, 
 SpurnVl liy steeds with bloody mane, 
 Slaugliter'd down by heathen blade, 
 Bangor's peaceful monks are laid. 
 Word of parting rest unspoke, 
 Mass unsung, and bread unbroke ; 
 For their souls, for charity, 
 
 .Sing miserere Domiiie '. 
 
 Bangor ! o'er the murder wail, 
 Long thy ruins told the tale ; 
 Shatter'd tower and broken arch 
 Long recall'd the woeful march. 
 On thy shrine no tapers burn, 
 Never shall thy priests return ; 
 l"he pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, 
 O miserere Domine ! 
 
 l-T'lf ...' 
 
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