THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 a7T- 
 
 OF PENZANCE. 
 
 in fhe Counfyof Cornwall.
 
 cS^ 
 
 5^ 
 
 (S 
 
 y
 
 1. J. Drvden Hosken. 
 
 2. LiNA Howell. 
 
 3. Annie e. argall. 
 
 4. F.MRA Holmes. 
 
 5. William lock. 
 
 6. j. g. ashworth. 
 
 7. Richard Blrrow. 
 
 8. J. HOWARD Harris. 
 
 9. \V. Herhi;rt Tho.mas. 
 
 10. Jennie Harry. 
 
 11. K. hewetl Thomas. 
 
 12. Richard H.^mbly. 
 
 13. G. Bown Millett. 
 
 14. Sam J. \ViLLi.\MS. 
 
 15. E. L. r. Harris-Bickford. 
 
 16. John Alfred Harris. 
 
 17. AMBROSE Taylor. 
 
 18. Charles Lawrence Ford.
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 CORNWALL 
 
 BY 
 
 THIRTY CORNISH AUTHORS; 
 
 EDITED BY 
 W. HERBERT THOMAS. 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 
 
 PENZANCE : 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISIIKIJ UV F. BODDA. 
 
 1892, 
 
 Price 1/. 6(/. net, Po$t Free 1/. 8'A
 
 THE CHANTRY OWL, 
 
 And other Poems, 
 
 By Henry Sewell Stokes. 
 
 Longmans, Green, & Co. 
 
 PHAON AND SAPPHO, and NIMROD ; 
 
 Two Dramas, 
 
 By James Dryden Hosken. 
 
 Macmillan & Co. Price 5/- 
 
 MORMON SAINTS; 
 
 An Outsider's Sketch of Polygamous Life in Salt Lake City, 
 
 By W. Herbert Thomas. 
 
 Houlston & Sons. Price 1/- 200 pages. 
 
 DEEP DOWN IN A MINE, 
 
 And other Sketches in Verse, 
 
 By Richard Hambly. 
 
 Heard & Sons, Truro. Price 1/6. 
 
 CORNISH FOLKLORE, 
 
 By Miss M. A. Courtney. 
 Price 7/6. 
 
 LYRA CHRISTI, 
 
 Sacred and other Poems, 
 
 By Charles Lawrence Ford, B.A. 
 
 Houlston & Sons. Price 3/6. 
 
 THE SOCIALIST'S LONGING, 
 
 And other Poems, 
 By W. Herbert Thomas. 
 F. Rodda, Penzance, Price 1/-
 
 
 IjHIS book is the result of a co-operative effort on 
 'J the part of the authors to issue a representative 
 JA^*^ volume of Cornish Poetry. 
 
 "We trust it will be deemed worthy of a wide circulation, 
 not only among Cornish people at home and abroad, but 
 among those of the British public who are familiar with 
 the " rocky land of strangers," and would like to carry 
 back to crowded cities something to x-emind them of our 
 hills and valleys and sunny shores, and the life of the 
 mining, seafaring, and other dwellers in " West Barbary." 
 
 We also hope a desire will be created for the publication 
 of some of the greater efforts of the authors in separate 
 volumes. 
 
 All we ask of the critic is, that he will deign to notice 
 us ; and of the public, that they will read the book through 
 rosy spectacles. 
 
 W. HERBERT THOMAS. 
 
 Penzance, 
 
 July, 1892. 
 
 077303
 
 THE HUTHOl^S. 
 
 Henry Sewell Stokes, the venerable ClerJ: of the Peace and 
 Clerk of the Cornwull County Coviiril, resides at Bodmin. Mr. Worth 
 piiblislies many of the poems of Mr. Stokes ; Longfellow still more 
 in his ^^ Poems of Places " (of which Messrs. Macmillan & Co. hold 
 the copyright) ; and Mr. Stokes has a new edition of some of his 
 pieces ready for publication by Longmans. He has kiiadly permitted 
 lis to give three of his short poems in this collection. His " Chantry 
 Owl,'' and other poems, are well-known outside of Cornwall. He 
 is a friend of the Laureate. 
 
 A. T. Quiller-Couch, so well, and favourably, known by his 
 initial " Q," comes of a prominent literary Cornish family. His 
 grandfather, Jonathan Couch, was the author of " A History of 
 British Fishes," which is still an authoritative work on the subject. 
 His father, Thomas Quiller-Couch, was an antiquary, and the 
 compiler of several valuable glossaries of the Cornish dialect ; while 
 his uncle, Richard Couch, achieved success in the same field. " Q " 
 was educated at Clifton, and Trinity College, Oxford, where he 
 wrote the poems we now pul)lish. He particularly excels in short, 
 quaint, dramatic and humoroiis stories; and has published '■^ Dead 
 Man's Rock " and several other popular books. 
 
 J- G-- Ashworth, Schoolmaster, Perranzabuloe, Truro, is also a 
 Wesleyan local preacher, and a contributor of poetry and prose to 
 " Great Thoughts. " and other periodicals. 
 
 Emra Holmes, F.R-H.S., Collector of Customs, Limerick, 
 was for several years stationed at Fowey, Cornwall, and has long 
 contributed poems to Cornish papers. He has also written stories 
 which have appeared in magazines. 
 
 W^illiam Dale, J. P., Draper, Helston, published a book of 
 poems when he was little more than a lad, fiom which the poems in 
 this book have been selected. Mr. Dale is an alderman of the 
 town council. 
 
 Miss M. A. Courtney, of Penzance, has published a book on 
 '' Cornish Folklore," which is a useful addition to the literature 
 of Cornwall. 
 
 John Harris, deceased, of Falmouth, was a Cornish miner, 
 known during the later years of his life (1820 to 1884) as " the Cornish 
 Poet." He published 17 volumes of his poems, of which several 
 thousand copies were sold. He became town missionary at 
 Falmouth. Longfellow wrote hun — " Your poems are hailed with 
 universal applause." In 1S64 he won a gold watch for his " Ode on 
 the Tercentenary of Shakespeare's Birthday." 
 
 James Howard Harris, eldest and only surviving son of 
 John Harris, is the Master of the Board School, Porthleven. He 
 has written a Memoir of his deceased fatlier ; is joint author of 
 " Porthleven," scenes from the history of a Cornish fishing village ;
 
 THE AUTHORS. 
 
 and has contributed to the "Review of Reviews" and other 
 periodicals. He was born at Troon, Camborne, in 1857. 
 
 John Alfred Harris (born 1859, died 1892) was the youngest 
 son of John Harris. He inherited some of his father's literary 
 gifts. He died soon after returning from America, and was buried 
 in his father's grave at Treslothan, Camborne. 
 
 Richard Hambly, Accountant with Messrs. Harvey & Co., 
 Hayle, has published a volume, " Deep Dotim in. a Mine," and other 
 poems ; some dealing with Cornish life and scenery, while others are 
 of a general character. Mr. Hambly is a prominent Wesleyau. 
 
 Miss Lina Ho'Well, Truro, has contributed short poems to 
 Cornish and other newspapers for several years. Miss Howell 
 intends publishing a volume of poems, illustrated with her own 
 sketches. 
 
 James Dryden Hosken, Poet- Postman, of Helston, has 
 astonished the literary world by his Greek dramas, " Phaon and 
 Sappho," and " Nimrod," and his lyrics. He is now only about 30 
 years of age, and has a number of other dramas ready for publica- 
 tion. Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Leonard Courtney, 
 and other eminent men, have acknowledged the great poetic gifts 
 of this self-taught Cornishman. 
 
 "William Cock, of Tuckingmill, Draughtsman with Messrs. 
 Holman Brothers, Camborne, has shown his versatility by his pencil 
 portraits, his pulpit ability, his prose writings, and his poetic con- 
 tributions to " Great Thoughts," and Cornish papers. He is the son 
 of a miner, and worked under-ground for a short time, until his 
 skill in drawing was recognised and encouraged by his present 
 employers. 
 
 W- Herbert Thomas, Journalist, Penzance, is the son of a 
 Cornish mine-smith of .St. Day. For seven years a mining clerk, 
 he was afterwards a reporter for two years on the San Francisco 
 "Examiner," and is now on the staff of " The Comishvian." He 
 has jjublished "Mormon Saints," " V^era Trdaicney," "The Tol- 
 scadlum Ciuh Lerlur'-s," etc., and is issuing a volume of poems. 
 
 "W- Ambrose Taylor is now the Clerk of the Madron Local 
 Board, ami was for many years Assistant Curator and Librarian of 
 the Royal Geological Society of Cornwall at Penzance. 
 
 Rev. Professor H. Gary Shuttleworth, M.A., is the 
 
 well-known Ciiristian Socialist, of St. Nicholas Cole-Abbey, Lambeth 
 Hill, London, who has published a little volume of his poems, 
 entitled " Songs." He is of Cornish parentage. 
 
 Richard BurrO'W, Bootseller, Lemon Street, Truro, is a member 
 of the Truio Fire-brigade, and a local preacher witli the Metliodist 
 body. He is a brother of Mr. .L C. Burrow, photographei', and 
 registrar of l)irtlis, dcatlis, and marriages, Camborne. 
 
 R. Hewett Thomas, Mnsic Master, son of Mr. R. H. Thomas, 
 Jeweller, St. Day, was for three years a student at the Royal 
 Academy of Music. He has written a comedy, " The Major's 
 Tactics," produced at Redruth.
 
 THE AUTHORS. 
 
 Charles L. Ford, B.A., now of Bath, was for 29 years 
 
 Master of Homefield House School at Camborne. His volume of 
 sacred and general poems, entitled " Lyra Christi," is in its second 
 edition. Mr. Ford has also been joint editor of some hymn books. 
 He is the son of a well-known artist at Bath. 
 
 Miss Annie E. Argall, daughter of Mr. Frederick Argall, 
 photographer, Truro, is still in her " teens," and her contributions 
 to the local press are read with interest and appreciation. 
 
 Sam J- Williams, of Penzance, is a Letter-carrier, and 
 received very little scholastic education. Rural walks have tended 
 to develop his love of Nature and poetry. 
 
 E. L- T. Harris-Bickford, of Bedford House, Camborne, is 
 the Editor of " Bickford's Magazine," and a prolific writer of prose 
 and poetry, which have appeared in scores of English magazines and 
 papers. He has been President of the International Literary 
 Association, of which he is now Secretary. 
 
 Miss Jennie Harry is the youngest daughter of Mr. John 
 Harry, Relieving Officer, Redruth. MrS- Kittle Juleff, now 
 resident in New Zealand, is an elder daughter of Mr. Harry. 
 
 John Pascoe, a self-cultured Cornish miner, was the author 
 of many beautiful lyrics. He became decrepit, and lived in the 
 Truro Workhouse, until taken out by Mrs. Smith, of the Star Hotel, 
 a short time before his death. 
 
 Sam Richards, formerly of Gwennap, now of Redruth, is a 
 young Cornish miner, who has gained a large number of science prizes. 
 
 H. D. LiOWry, son of Mr. T. S. Lowry, bank manager, Cam- 
 borne, has v/ritten several striking and dramatic Cornish stories, 
 published in " Chambers' Journal," "National Observer," and else- 
 where. 
 
 Miss Annie Trevithick is the daughter of Mr. William 
 Trevithick, St. Day. 
 
 Sir Humphry Davy, as everybody knows, was the great 
 Cornish scientist, who invented, among other things, the Davy 
 Safety-lamp, which has been a life-preserver to the coal miner. 
 
 Miss Lena Jory lives at Banner, near Redruth. 
 
 "W- p. W^oodfield, of Penzance, Serpentine Worker, is now in 
 Australia. 
 
 J. F. Tiddy, Commission Agent, of Gwinear, formerly of Truro 
 and St. Ives, is the author of " Echoes from the Book of Nature." 
 
 Miss Amy Owen Good, a visitor to the Lizard, wrote her 
 pretty sonnet at that picturesque health resort. 
 
 J. Jenkin, Stationer, Redruth, edited " The Cornubian" for 
 many years. 
 
 Rev. R. S. Hawker, Vicar of Morwenstow, is the author of 
 many fine poems. 
 
 Thomas Cornish, deceased, was a Lawyer, County Court 
 Registrar, President of Penzance Antiquarian Society, etc. 
 
 "William Quintrell is a Letter-carrier, of Camborne. 
 
 George Bown Millett, Surgeon, Penzance, holds important 
 offices, and has written valuable works.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 8 to 15 
 
 To my Child. 
 
 A Winter 
 
 
 Sabbath Eve. 
 
 . 
 
 16 to 24 
 
 PAGES. 
 
 Introductory : All Hail 1 Old Cornwall ! . . . 1 to 4 
 
 H. S. STOKES. The Response of Earth to Heaven. Life. The 
 
 Casts . . . . . . . . . 5 to 7 
 
 "Q." (A. T. QUILLER-COUCH). In a College Garden. The 
 
 Splendid Spur. Tim the Dragoon. Kenmare River. Titania. 
 
 Eetrospectoni 
 J. G. ASHWORTH. Men the Workers. 
 
 Scene. A Vision. The White Flag. 
 EMR A HOLMES In Youth and Age. Autumn Thoughts. "And 
 
 there shall be no more Sea." Petrarch and Laura. Cloudlancl. 
 
 Inconstant : A Retrospect . . . . . . 25 to 31 
 
 WILLIA5I DALE. Beauty. The Land's End. Rabbi Bonum Est. 
 
 The Wreck of " The Three Brathers." . . . . 32 to 38 
 
 Miss M. A. COURTNEY. The White Ladie. Three Days . . 39 to 46 
 
 JOHK HARBIS. An Ode to Shakspeare. My Last Lay. Monro . 47 to 50 
 
 J. HOWARD HARRIS. A Cornish Welcome. Woven Fancies . 60 & 61 
 
 JOHK ALFRED HARRIS. Lay of the Bereaved . . . 52 <t 53 
 
 RICHARD HAMBLY . Our Sand-hills. Mount's Bay. What the 
 
 Round Shell Says. Music. "The Next Thing." "God Bless 
 
 Yon." Love. I'm Tired . , . . . . 54 to 61 
 
 Miss LINA HOWELL. Canzonet. Told by the Bells. Tokens. 
 
 Miserere Domine . . . . . . . 62 to 68 
 
 JAMES DRYDEN HOSKEN. Phaon and Sappho. Song. Destiny. 
 
 A Day in Spring. The Order of the World. A Memory of Love. 
 
 Love and Earth's Echoes. A Lover's Meditation to his Lady. 
 
 Genius and Love . . . . . . . 09 to 75 
 
 WILLIAM COCK. Thoughts from the Birds. Failed. Summer. 
 
 The Swan Song. To Cornubia. "As Thou Wilt." Henry 
 
 Ward Beecher. In Longfellow's Garden. In Memoriam 76 to 83 
 
 W. HERBERT THO.MAS. The Two Wishes. The Heavenly 
 
 Messenger. A Song of Venice. Shadows. Battling with 
 
 Clouds. The Goddess ol Fashion, An Epitaph , . 84 to 91
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 AMBROSE TAYLOR. The Granite Clifis at the Land's End. 
 
 Tolling Out the Old Year and Ringing in the New. Little Nell . 
 H. GARY SHUTTLEWORTH. Christmas Dreams. Cradle Song. 
 
 My Love Loves Me. A Christmas Card. Poppies among the 
 
 Corn .... . , . . . 
 
 RICHARD BURROW. Wreckers and Rescuers. Voices 
 R. HEWETT THOMAS Music. The Savant. Love. Beauty. 
 
 Beethoven. The Tournament . . . . . 
 
 CHARLES LAWRENCE FORD. Resolution. The Iceberg. Pupilage 
 
 Souvenirs. Life ....... 
 
 Miss ANNIE E. ARGALL. Wild Flowers. The Flower-star of 
 
 the Spring. A Convict's Baby. Chrysanthemums. Our Sweet 
 
 English Rhine — The Fal. Our Rocky Cornish Coast 
 SAM J. WILLIAMS. Raise the Flag of Resolution. The GoMen 
 
 Age. The Blind Boy's Lament. A Song of Labour. Go Feed 
 
 the Birds. Through Meadows Green . . . . 
 
 E. L. T. HARRIS-BICKFORD. Lander's Grave. When Mother's 
 
 Smile was Lost to Me. Burns. When I No More. The Student's 
 
 Appeal to Art ...... 
 
 Miss JENNIE HARRY. Harvest Thanks. Hope 
 
 Mrs. KITTIE JULEFF. The Setting Sun, To my Friend. Child 
 
 hood ........ 
 
 JOHN PASCOE. Penseroso ..... 
 
 SAM RICHARDS. Footsteps of Spring 
 
 H. D. LOWRY. April Night. The Gorse 
 
 Miss ANNIE TREVITHICK. The Golden Rule. Love's Thought 
 
 Sir HUMPHRY DAVY. St. Michael's Mount 
 
 Miss LENA JORY. Sing, sing, ye Waves, a Requiem ! 
 
 W. F. WOODFIELD Money : the Modern Idol. The Emigrant's 
 
 Farewell to Mount's Bay ..... 
 
 J. F. TIDDY. The Lake of Killarney .... 
 
 Miss ABIY OWEN GOOD. The Lizard : an English Lane . 
 J. JENKIN. Gone ...... 
 
 Rev. R. S. HAWKER. The Silent Tower of Bottreaux 
 
 THOMAS CORNISH. Sing, Birdie, Sing 
 
 WILLIAM QUINTRELL. The Smiling Month of May 
 
 GEORGE B. MILLETT. The Mayor of Market Jew. The Zennor 
 
 Mermaid. Paul Churchtown .... 
 
 PAGES. 
 92 to 98 
 
 99 to 103 
 104 to 110 
 
 111 to 115 
 
 116 to 122 
 
 123 to 128 
 
 129 to 134 
 
 135 to 139 
 
 140 to 142 
 
 142 to 144 
 
 14.') to 147 
 
 148 & 149 
 
 149 & 150 
 
 s 150 & 151 
 
 152 
 
 . ■ 153 
 
 . 153 & 154 
 
 155 
 
 156 
 
 157 
 
 158 & 159 
 
 159 
 
 160 
 
 161 to 168
 
 
 ALL HAIL! OLD CORNWALL! 
 
 "The rocky land of strangers." — XORDEN. 
 
 Cornwall ! rocky land where "stransjers" dwell, 
 
 Thy scenes inspire and cheer thy favour'd sous, 
 From Land's End, where the echoing breakers swell. 
 
 To where the Tamar's placid river runs ; 
 And o'er wild oceans, in remotest lands, 
 
 The exiled ones who hold thy memory dear. 
 Would link with us in love, hy clasping hands, 
 
 And swell the chanting of thy praises here ! 
 
 Among thy verdant glens the winding streams 
 
 Dance joyously, with sunny smiles illum'd ; 
 And lovers wander, wrapp'd in fairy dreams, 
 
 Beneath the trees witli clust'ring foliage plumed : 
 The lark mounts high amid pellucid air, 
 
 O'er valleys nestling 'neath the tow'ring hills. 
 And pours aloft a flood of music rare, 
 
 As pure as pearly dew which earth distils.
 
 INTRODUCTORY 
 
 Around thy rocky shores the billoM^s break 
 
 111 gentle emerald curves on sand and shell ; 
 Or caverns' groans and muffled roar awake — 
 
 The sailors' requiem and funeral knell. 
 Along the beetling cliffs Time's fierce assaults 
 
 Have sear'd and hollow'd their resisting base ; 
 Bat till the circling world God's herald halts, 
 
 No power thy majesty shall dare efface ! 
 
 Cornwall ! On the scroll of history 
 
 Thy name is writ in ancient characters, 
 Until we reach the veil of mystery, 
 
 Where truth is hid, and speculation errs. 
 Aggressive nations cross'd the watery main 
 
 To claim thy min'ral treasure for their prize ; 
 And bloody battle-fields, and warriors slain, 
 
 Awoke exultant shouts and heart-wrung cries. 
 
 Trace back a thousand years — yea, thousands more, 
 
 And there we learn from legends that thy fame 
 Drew bold Phoenicians from the Spanish shore. 
 
 And warlike Greek and Roman later came. 
 Perchance the metals from thy murky mines 
 
 Adorn'd the temple rear'd by Solomon, — 
 That Eastern sage whose crystal wisdom shines. 
 
 Though crumbling ruins mark the glory gone ! 
 
 Still toil thy hardy miners for the tin 
 
 By Nature stor'd within her bowels deep ; 
 With rolling waves o'erhead,t and pent within 
 
 The heated ground, half-naked heroes creep. 
 Death's shadowy form stalks, silent, as they swing 
 
 The hewing pick, with arms like iron bars ; 
 To quiv'ring threads of life they fearless cling, 
 
 'Twixt hollow Earth and Heaven's eternal stars ! 
 
 t At Levant Mine, St. Just, the hot subterranean levels, with a temperature of 
 100 degrees, extend three-quarters of a mile from shore under the Atlantic ocean.
 
 POEM. iii 
 
 And gallant seamen skirt thy storm-swept shore, 
 
 Nor fear the tempest's wrath or lightning's flash, 
 As in their tiny barques they scud before 
 
 The sobbing wind, while waters fiercely dash. 
 Mark how the silver fishes writhe and gleam, 
 
 Within the meshes caught,— a harvest rare ] 
 Thy fisher sons, how joyous now they seem. 
 
 As shouts and merry laughter fill the air ! 
 
 In golden fields, where waves the ripen'd corn. 
 
 The husbandmen wield scythes or bind the sheaves : 
 How light their hearts when filling Plenty's horn ; 
 
 When crops are blighted, how each spirit grieves ! 
 Thy marts are throng'd, and Trade's deep hum is heard ; 
 
 Thy artisans ply busily their tools ; 
 Thy halls with learning and with work are stirr'd. 
 
 From council chambers to the children's schools. 
 
 And now, Cornwall, think of those bright names 
 
 In Science, Art, and Literature enrolled, — 
 Thy giants who, unmov'd by flood or flames, 
 
 Their life's work wrought, their stirring message told t 
 Fell Superstition fled before tiieir march ; 
 
 Light dawn'd, and stream'd into our waiting minds ; 
 They rear'd o'er Beauty's shrine a rainbow arch, 
 
 And fadeless laurel now each forehead binds ! 
 
 Look now, proud Cornwall, o'er the surging sea ! 
 
 Behold tlie footprints traced on foreign soil ! 
 In every land where thriveth Freedom's tree, 
 
 Thy wand'rmg sons still roam and bravely toil ! 
 They delve for gems to deck a monarch's crown ; 
 
 They strive for bread to feed their cherish'd ones ; 
 Pray God, they never may stoop basely down 
 
 To shame, wliich noble manhood ever shuns !
 
 iV 
 
 POEM. 
 
 Join hands, ye Cornish lads, across the main ! 
 
 Let Asia clasp Columbia's outstretch'd hand ! 
 Come forth, Australia ! Swell the glad refrain ! 
 
 And touch the fringe of Afric's golden strand ! 
 Swift o'er the boundless ocean rings the call ! 
 
 The mystic girdle round the world is cast ! 
 Shout now with thund'rous voices " One and All " ! 
 
 All liail ! Old Cornwall ! May thy glory last ! 
 
 W. HERBERT THOMAS.
 
 TOKEi 
 
 The Response of Earth to Heaven. 
 
 " Glory to God on liigh ! " 
 Pealed in the starry sky ; 
 
 In softer accents then, 
 While gleam'd the eternal fires, 
 Sang the angelic clioirs 
 
 " Peace, and goodwill to men ! " 
 
 And this the answer given 
 By the dark Earth to Heaven, 
 
 " To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! " 
 "Nor was it long defei-r'd, 
 And still each morn are heard 
 
 The trum{)et'a shrill alarms. 
 
 And to a merry tune, 
 As in a gay saloon. 
 
 Men lightly step to death ; 
 Some bound o'er yawning waves. 
 Some march to grassy graves, 
 
 And sing with their last breath.
 
 H. 8. STOKES. 
 
 But when the cannon booms 
 The ravens shake their plumes, 
 
 The ghoul-like vultures scream ; 
 And soon the crashing bonf:s, 
 The mortal shrieks and groans, 
 
 Pispel the soldier's dream. 
 
 Yet still the nations fight, 
 Heedless of wrong or right, 
 
 Willing, or blindly driven ; 
 Blood saturates the plain. 
 Blood dyes the azure main, 
 
 And almost sprinkles Heaven. 
 
 " Glory to Cxod on high ! " 
 Resounds the starry sky ; 
 
 " Peace on the earth ! " but when ? 
 !N^ot till the world grows wise, 
 And all the people rise 
 
 And say Amen ! Amen ! 
 
 Life. 
 
 I. 
 Describe me life. A blossom'd thorn, 
 A poppy waving in the corn, 
 Waiting the silent reaper's thrust, — • 
 A bubble's shadow, dreams and dust. 
 
 II. 
 Give me some other similes, 
 The thistle-down before the breeze, 
 A leaf, a flower, a bead of dew, 
 A gossamer — what more would yoii ? 
 
 in. 
 Your fancy's fertile — try again. 
 'Tis a steed bounding on the plain, 
 'Tis a sail scudding from the strand, 
 A biid, a wave, a drift of sand.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Can you no other symbols find ? 
 A cadence wafted on the wind, 
 The fitful breathing of a shell, 
 The echo of a plaintive bell. 
 
 The Casts. 
 
 I. 
 
 Casts were they of the features fine 
 Of wise and good and honour'd men; 
 But soon the damps efinccd each line, 
 And they were lumps of clay again. 
 So did the living forms decay, 
 And turn into their native clay ; 
 But why so much the Casts deplore, 
 If God will their lost moulds restore ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Will He ? You preach it, and believe, 
 And let my faith your creed sustain, 
 That the dear friends for whom we grieve 
 Still link'd with us by love remain : 
 The looks, the smiles, the tones we miss. 
 The hallow'd sweetness of the kiss, 
 The warmth of hand and heart 1 never 
 Can believe lost, and lost for ever. 
 
 III. 
 
 And thinking of their pains and cares, 
 So bravely met, so meekly borne. 
 Their tears and sighs, and secret prayers. 
 Their tenderness, did others mourn ; 
 Their patient toil, their earnest thought, 
 Their wisdom by hard lessons bought. 
 Their lofty hopes, their filial trust 
 In God — I feel thev are not dust.
 
 u 
 
 Q." 
 
 i^^^ (K.T.QaiiDiDER-eoaoi.) 
 
 In a College Garden. 
 
 The Seyiior Felloiv. 
 
 Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, 
 What ayles thee soe to pyne 1 
 Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ache 
 When dayes be fyne 
 And greene thynges twyne : 
 Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne ? 
 
 The Dove. 
 INaye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, 
 
 What ayles thee thus to chyde? 
 My love is fled by garden-gate ; 
 
 Since Lammas-tyde 
 
 I wayte my bryde : 
 Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde ? 
 
 The Senior Fellow. 
 
 Loe ! I am he, the Lonelie Man, 
 
 Of Time forgotten quite. 
 That no remember'd face may scanne — 
 
 Sadde eremyte, 
 
 I wayte to-nyghte, 
 Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.
 
 POEMS, 
 
 0, cushat, cushat, callynge lowe, 
 Goe waken Time from sleepe : 
 
 Goe whysper in liis ear, that soe 
 His besom sweepe 
 Me to that heape 
 
 Where all my recollections keepe. 
 
 Hath he forgott T Or did I viewe 
 
 A ghostlye compaoye 
 This even, by the dismalle yewe, 
 
 Of faces three 
 
 That beckoned me 
 To land where no repynynges be ? 
 
 0, Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke, 
 
 Each lost companion ! 
 Why loyter I among the quicke 
 
 When ye are gone ? 
 
 Shall I alone 
 Delay inge cry "Anon, Anon?" 
 
 Naye, let the spyder have my gowne, 
 To brayde therein her veste. 
 
 My cappe shal serve, now I goe down, 
 For mouse's nest. 
 Loe 1 this is best. 
 
 I care not, soe I gayne my reste. 
 
 The Splendid Spur. 
 
 Not on the neck of prince or hound, 
 
 Nor on a woman's finger twin'd, 
 May gold from the deriding ground 
 Keep sacred that we sacred bind : 
 Only the heel 
 Of splendid steel 
 Shall stand secure on sliding fate. 
 When golden navies weep their freight.
 
 10 A. T. QUILLER-COUGH. 
 
 The scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave 
 
 Are measures, not the springs, of worth ; 
 In a wife's lap as in a grave. 
 
 Men's airy notions mix with earth. 
 Seek other spur, 
 Bravely to stir 
 The dust in this loud world, and tread 
 A lord among the whisp'ring dead. 
 
 Trust in thyself — then spur amain ! 
 So shall Charybdis wear a grace. 
 Foul ^tna laugh, the Lybian plain 
 Take roses to her shrivell'd face. 
 This orb — this round 
 Of sight and sound — 
 Count it the lists that God hath built 
 For haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. 
 
 IRISH MELODIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tim the Dragoon. 
 
 (From " Troy Town." ) 
 
 Be aisy an' list to a chune 
 
 That's sung of bowld Tim the Dragoon — 
 
 Sure, 'twas he'd niver miss 
 
 To be stalin' a kiss, 
 Or a brace, by the light of the moon — 
 
 Aroon — 
 Wid a wink at the Man in the Moon ! 
 
 Rest his sowl where the daises grow thick ; 
 For he's gone from the land of the quick : 
 
 But he's still makin' love 
 
 To the leddies above, 
 An' be jabbers ! he'll tache 'em the thi'ick — 
 
 Avick — 
 Niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick !
 
 POEMS 11 
 
 'Tis by Tim the dear saints '11 set sthore, 
 And 'ull thrate hiiu to whisky galore : 
 
 For they've only to sip 
 
 But the tip of his lip 
 An' bedad ! they'll be askiri' for more — 
 
 Asthore — 
 By the powers, they'll be shoutin' " Ancore ! " 
 
 II. 
 Kenmare River. 
 
 'Tis pretty to be in Ballinderry, 
 
 'Tis pretty to be in Ballindoon, 
 But 'tis prettier far in County Kerry 
 
 Coortin' under the bran' new moon, 
 
 Aroon, Aroon ! 
 
 'Twas there by the bosom of blue Killarney 
 They came by the hundtiier' a-coortin' me ; 
 
 Sure I was the one to give back their blarney, 
 An' merry it was to be fancy-free. 
 
 But niver a ste[) in the lot was lighter, 
 An' divvle a boulder among the bhoys, 
 
 Than Phelim O'Sliea, me dynamither, 
 Me illigant arthist in clock-work toys. 
 
 'Twas all for love he would bring his figgers 
 Of irainent statesmen, in toy machine.s, 
 
 An' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers 
 An' blew the thraytors to smithereens. 
 
 An' to see the Queen in her Crystial Pallas, 
 Fly up to the roof, an' the windeys broke ! 
 
 And all with tlivvle a trace of malus, — 
 
 But he was the bhoy that enjoyed his joke ! 
 
 Then O, but his cheek would flush, an' " Bridget," 
 He'd say, " Will yez love me ? " But I'd be coy. 
 
 And answer him, "Arrah now, dear, don't fidget !' 
 Though at heart I loved him, me arthist blioy !
 
 12 A. T. QUILLER-COUCH. 
 
 One night we stood by tlie Kenmare river, 
 An' " Bridget, creina, now whist," said he, 
 
 " I'll be goin' to-night, an' may be for iver, 
 Open your arms at the last to me." 
 
 'Twas there by the banks of the Kenmare river 
 He took in his hands me white, white face, 
 
 An' we kissed our first an' our last for iver — 
 For Phelim Shea is disparsed in space. 
 
 'Twas pretty to be by blue Killarney, 
 'Twas pretty to hear the linnets' call, 
 
 But whist ! for I cannot attind their blarney, 
 Nor whistle in answer at all, at all. 
 
 For the voice that he swore 'ud out-call the linnet's 
 Is cracked intoirely, and out of chune, 
 
 Since the clock-work missed it by thirteen minutes 
 An' scattered me Phelim around the moon, 
 
 Aroon, Aroon ! 
 
 Titania. 
 
 By Lord T n. 
 
 So bluff Sir Leolin gave the bride away ; 
 
 And when they married her, the little church 
 
 Had seldom seen a costlier ritual. 
 
 The coach and pair alone were two-pound-ten, 
 
 And two-pound-ten apiece the wedding-cakes, — 
 
 Three wedding-cakes. A Cupid poised a-top 
 
 Of each hung shivering to the frosted loves 
 
 Of two fond cushats on a field of ice. 
 
 As who should say " / see you ! " — Such the joy 
 
 When English-hearted Edwin swore his faith 
 
 With Mariana of the Moated Grange. 
 
 For Edwin, plump head-waiter at The Cock,
 
 POEMS. 13 
 
 Grown sick of custom, spoilt of plenitude, 
 Lacking the finer wit that saith, " I wait, 
 They come ; and if I make them wait, they go," 
 Fell in a jaundiced humour, petulant^green. 
 Watched the dull clerk slow-rounding to his cheese, 
 Flicked a full dozen flies that flecked the pane — 
 All crystal-cheated of the fuller air. 
 Blurted a free " Good day t'ye," left and right, 
 And shaped his gathering choler to this end ; — 
 
 " Custom ! And yet what profit of it at all? 
 The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
 To me small change, and this the counter-change 
 Of custom beating on the self-same bar — 
 Change out of chop ! Ah me ! the talk, the tip. 
 The would-be-evening, should-be-mourning suit, 
 The forged solicitude for petty wants 
 More petty still than they, — all these I loathe, 
 Learning they lie who feign that all things come 
 To him that waiteth. I have waited long. 
 And now I go, to mate me with a bride 
 Who is a-weary waiting, even as I ! " 
 
 But when the amorous moon of honeycomb 
 
 Was over, ere the matron-flower of Love — 
 
 Step-sister of to-morrow's marmalade — 
 
 Swooned scentless, Mariana found her lord 
 
 Did something jar the nicer feminine sense 
 
 With usage, being all too fine and large. 
 
 Instinct of warmth and colour, with a trick 
 
 Of blunting " jNIariana's " keener edge 
 
 To '' Mary Ann " — the same, yet not the same : 
 
 Whereat she girded, tore her crisped hair. 
 
 Called him " Sir Churl," and ever calling " Churl ! " 
 
 Drave him to Science, then to Alcohol, 
 
 To forge a thousand theories of the rocks, 
 
 Then somewhat else for thousands dewy-cool 
 
 Wherewith he songiit a more Pacific isle. 
 
 And there found love, a darker love than hers.
 
 14 A. T. QUILLEE-COUCH. 
 
 Retrospection. 
 
 When the hunter-star Orion, 
 (Or, it may be, Charles his Wain), 
 Tempts the tiny elves to try on 
 All their little tricks again ; 
 When the earth is calmly breathing 
 Draughts of slumber undefiled, 
 And the sire (unused to teething) 
 Seeks, for errant pins, his child : 
 
 When the Moon is on the Ocean, 
 And our little sons and heirs, 
 From a natural emotion, 
 Wish the luminary theirs ; 
 Then a feeling, hard to stifle. 
 Even harder to define, 
 Makes me feel I'd give a trifle 
 For the days of Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 James, — for we have been as brothers, — 
 Are, to speak correctly, twins. 
 Went about in one another's 
 Clothing ; bore each other's sins ; 
 Rose together, ere the pearly 
 Tint of dawn had left the heaven ; 
 And retired (absurdly early) 
 Simultaneously at seven — 
 
 James, the days of yore were pleasant 1 
 Sweet to climb for alien pears 
 Till the irritated peasant 
 Came and took us unawares ; 
 Sweet to devastate his chickens 
 As the ambushed catapult 
 Scattered — and the very dickens 
 Was the natural result :
 
 POEMS 15 
 
 Sweet to snare the tlioncrbtlcss rabbit ; 
 Break the next-door-neighbour's pane ; 
 Cultivate the smoker's habit 
 On the not-innocuous cane ; 
 Leave the Exercise unwritten ; 
 Systematically cut 
 
 Morning school, to phinge the kitten 
 In liis bath, the water-butt. 
 
 Age, my James, that from the cheek of 
 Beauty steals its rosy hue, 
 Has not left us much to speak of ; 
 But 'tis not for this I rue. 
 Beauty with its thousand graces — 
 Hair and tints that will not fade, 
 You may get from m;iny places 
 Practically ready-made. 
 
 Ko. It is the evanescence 
 Of those ruddier tints of Hope, — 
 Bubbles, such as adolescence 
 Joys to win from melted soap — 
 Emphasising this conclusion, — 
 That the dreams of youth remain 
 Castl«-s that ate An delusion 
 (Castles, that's to say, in Spain). 
 
 Time thinks fit, and I say "Fiat." 
 Here I stand for Fortune's butt, 
 As for Sunday swair)S to shy at, 
 Stands the stoic cocoa-nut. 
 If you wish it put succinctly, 
 Gone are all our little games ; 
 But I thought I'd say distinctly 
 What I feel about it, James.
 
 cl. G, HSWWORTO, 
 
 Men the Workers. 
 
 Work, my brothers, dreams are naught. 
 Though with utmost splendour fraught. 
 If in actions ne'er out-wrought. 
 Those who more than others thrive 
 Drone not in life's busy hive, 
 But with giant effort strive. 
 Some may hold that honest trade, 
 Weft and shuttle, pick and spade, 
 And the humble plough, degrade; 
 Theirs alone to dine and dress — 
 Unambitious, purposeless — 
 Wasting life in idleness. 
 But your toil dishonours not ; 
 So you keep your souls from blot 
 Kings might envy ye your lot. 
 Did not Adam delve the soil 1 
 And his progeny must toil 
 Would they garner fiuitags-spoil. 
 What are 'scutcheons covered o'er 
 With a dread heraldic lore, 
 Dripping daggers, hands of gore 1 
 Your escutcheon is a shield
 
 POEMS. 17 
 
 Bright with mountain, shop, and field, 
 And the tools ye deftly wield. 
 Ships that plough the pathless main, 
 Snorting engine^, peopled train, 
 Whirling headlong o'er the plain — 
 Arches, bridges, churches tall, 
 Lordly castle, lordly hall, — 
 Humble workers made them all. 
 Work then, brothers ; horny hands 
 Shape the future, knit the lands 
 With the love-electric bands. 
 Work, for woi'k wrought honestly, 
 While it must ennoble ye, 
 Blesseth all huuiaiiity ! 
 
 To my Child, 
 
 I. 
 
 0, MY child, thy cheeks are fair ! 
 
 0, ni}' child, thy locks are bright ! 
 And thou knowest not the care 
 
 That is in my heart to-night ! 
 Blithe as bird on airy wing — 
 Pure thy soul as crystal spring — 
 Thou canst laugh and thou caust sinir- 
 
 Happy child ! 
 
 II. 
 
 O, my child, to be as thou, 
 
 I would gleefully forego 
 Hopes of laurel on my lirow — 
 
 And the little that I know ; 
 T would barter manhood's ))rime 
 For a day of thy glad time 
 On the verge of Heaven's cliiue — 
 
 Blessd'd child ! 
 
 V.
 
 18 J. O. ASHWORTH. 
 
 III. 
 
 0, my child, the thought is vain. 
 
 I have quaffed life's crystal draught, 
 T have sung my careless strain 
 
 Till the very echoes laughed ; 
 ^Now my songs are turned to sighs, 
 And a grave before me lies 
 Under barren, winter skies — 
 
 Ah, my child ! 
 
 A Winter Scene. 
 
 This morn the hills are white with snow, 
 
 And neighbouring trees, both branch and stem. 
 Wear many a pure and wondrous gem, 
 
 Whose facets sparkle in the glow 
 
 II. 
 
 Of golden sunshine. — Here and there, 
 A bright cloud, bark-like, trim and free, 
 Sails silent o'er its azure sea. 
 
 And all the out-look showeth fair. 
 
 III. 
 
 But beauty or of earth or sky 
 
 Has not the charm it had of yore, 
 When I could pace life's sunlit shore, 
 
 And see broad paths of splendour lie 
 
 IV. 
 
 To westward. — Glorious was it then 
 
 To buckle on day's burnished mail, 
 
 And forth, whatever might assail, 
 To play a manly part 'mong men.
 
 POEMS. 19 
 
 V. 
 
 But change came as it comes to all, 
 
 The broad-path ed splendours died away, 
 And o'er me hung a dismal grey. 
 
 That wrapped my spirit like a pall. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And thus I once struck notes of woe ; 
 Singing, that under " winter skies" 
 I saw a grave. — Ah, in it lies 
 
 Not, not the one I thought would go. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In sight of God's great rolling main. 
 My darling in his wee cot sleeps 
 Beside a swelling mound that keeps 
 
 It sheltered from the wind and rain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And on it now the white snow lies. 
 Soft as the down on birdie's bieast, 
 That hovers o'er my darling's nest, 
 
 And flings its music to the skies. 
 
 A Vision. 
 
 Methought that in my slumhers yesternight 
 This scene tremendous rose before my sight. 
 
 Four spirits stood in front of a Wliite Throne, 
 Which arcs of perfect beauty did enfold ; 
 " And who art thou ? " said lie who sat thereon, 
 Unto the foremost. " I'm a warrior bold. 
 
 And my full fame to the four winds is blown." 
 
 Swift o'er the Glory, as light cloud o'er sun, 
 
 A shadow swept. " Well, from tliy youth till now 
 
 What ha.st thou in the world's arena done? "
 
 20 J. G. ASHWORTH. 
 
 A sudden gleam lit up tbe warrior's brow, 
 
 " Led armies, taken cities, kingdoms won." 
 Sternly the Sceptred spake, " And hast thou then 
 Done naught but scourge thy helpless fellow men ? 
 Pass on ; thy deeds on earth may be rehearsed, 
 But here thou dwellest evermore accurst." 
 
 " And who art thou ? " the Presence once more said, — 
 
 "A scholar in all knowledge deeply read." 
 
 " All knowledge ! well in three score years and ten 
 
 What didst thou to uplift thy fellow men 1 " 
 ** Books were my fellows, and with them I spent 
 
 Life's sweet seclusion in most sweet content." 
 
 Again in sternest tones the Glory spake — 
 " And didst thou nought for thy sad kindred's sake ? 
 
 Know thou, one heart-begotten deed were more 
 
 Than all thy knowledge piled ten times o'er. 
 
 Pass on ; I gave thee life for noblest use, 
 
 And thou ignobly put it to abuse." 
 
 ** And who art thou ? " the dread Voice asked a sprite 
 
 That proudly stood upon the warrior's right. 
 "I am a merchant prince, a millionare ; 
 
 My white-winged argoises sail every sea ; 
 
 My sons are strong, my daughters they are fair. 
 And few on earth can be compared to me.'' 
 " Well," said th' Enthron'd, with look as grieved sore, 
 " In all that affluent timi^ which now is o'er, 
 
 What didst thou with thy wealth 1" "I made it more." 
 " Didst nothing for the waiit-beliveried throngs 
 
 Who near thee dwelt, crushed down by cruel wrongs ? " 
 " Not I forsooth ! what were such scum to me?" 
 " Man ! " spake the Voict;, and awful was its tone, 
 
 As thunder, crash on crash, in torrid zone. 
 
 Each seraph stood befoie his trembling lute 
 
 With nerveless fingers ; lips, though parted, mute. 
 " Man, pride-swolFn, vain, what were such scum to thee ?
 
 POEMS. 21 
 
 Such scum were dear as my own blood to me ; 
 And since thou hold'st my lov'd ones high in scorn, 
 Thou shalt be stripped, of all thy splendours shorn. 
 And when they lauj^h, thy doom shall be to mourn." 
 
 " And who art thou 1 " the Rainbowed sweetly said, 
 
 Unto the fourth, who stood with drooping head. 
 " An unknown dweller in an obscure fen, 
 
 The lowliest and unworthiest of men." 
 " And didst do aught in tliy brief span of years 
 
 To make thee meet for bright supernal spheres." 
 " My deeds were few and poor," the sprite replied, 
 '' I lived, I loved, I laboured, and then died." 
 '* You loved you say, and therefore, now behold !" 
 
 He looked and saw a wondrous scroll unrolled 
 
 Whereon was writ, in chai'acters of flame, 
 
 The acts of men against each several name ; 
 
 And there his own ; and how he'd spoke and wrought 
 
 Kind words, kind deeds, the fruits of generous thought ; 
 
 And how once when afield, the sun o'erhead. 
 
 He'd fasted that a beggar might be fed. 
 
 He saw and spake, — his cheeks of crimson hue, — 
 " Why these were nought ; what other could I do ? " 
 " Come hither," said the Voice in tenderest tone, 
 
 'Tis such as thou, the Father claims His own." 
 
 And clouds of glory and exceeding light 
 
 Rolled round the swain, and hid him from my sight. 
 
 The White Flag. 
 
 Down with the flag, the blood-red flag, 
 
 Of glory and of pride ! 
 Beneath whose shade unnumbered men 
 
 Like slaughtered brutes have died. 
 Oh ! it has waved too long, too long. 
 
 And we have loved too well. 
 Nor deemed that under it have marched 
 
 The sable hosts of hell.
 
 22 /. G. ASH WORTH. 
 
 Up with the fair, whiie flag of peace, 
 
 And let it blow afar, 
 Where'er great guns have bellowed doom, 
 
 Or howled the dogs of war. 
 Up with the glorious flag on high. 
 
 And let your shouts arise, 
 For under it are gathering now 
 
 The squadrons of the skies. 
 
 Down with the blood-red flag of war, 
 
 Up with the flag of peace ; 
 For as the rule of might grows less 
 
 Love's empire will increase. 
 Up with the streamer of the skies. 
 
 The snow-white flag I sing. 
 Till, aided by our bright allies. 
 
 The Christ, the Christ is King ! 
 
 Sabbath Eve. 
 
 Come, comrade, let us rest a while ; 
 
 Upon this grassy mound we'll sit. 
 And watch the daylight's parting smile 
 
 Fade in the spangled infinite ! 
 
 The week was wearisome and dull ; 
 
 The body worn, the brain o'erwrought ; 
 But here, amid the beautiful, 
 
 All pain is lost in raptured thought. 
 
 Rich in our minds, and free our souls, 
 Deep-quafiing God's exhaustless air, 
 
 We envy not the wight who rolls 
 
 In affluence which we may not share. 
 
 Who could behold this mountain's cope. 
 Sky-lifting, bathed in mellowest sheen. 
 
 Those white-washed walls, each graceful slope 
 That, wave-like, undulates between.
 
 POEMS. 23 
 
 Nor feel some tbi-ill, some mystic spell ; 
 
 Ay ! though the veriest earth-born clod, 
 Would make his inmost beinar swell. 
 
 Responsive to the present God ? 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the throstle's latest lay, 
 Low bi'ooding o'er its new built nest ; 
 
 Thus may we end life's latest day, 
 And singing, slumber into rest. 
 
 Come, comrade, chill dews fall apace. 
 
 And dense clouds wrap the mountains round ; 
 
 Gone is the grandeur and the grace, 
 And misty vapours hide the ground. 
 
 'Tis thus life's fairest visions afo. 
 Lost in the blinding mists of grief ; 
 
 And were it not for Hope's rare bow 
 
 Could we live out life's day, though brief ] 
 
 But come, for we from home are far, 
 
 And there's an aspect in yon sky. 
 That tells me many a crashing jar 
 
 Will shake heaven's concave by and by. 
 
 No doubt some will our walk condemn, 
 
 Say retribution's in the rain ; 
 But of God's robe we've touched the hem, 
 
 And strengthen'd feel in heart and brain. 
 
 We've sat with naturci's self to muse 
 
 On all things bright and beauteous given, 
 
 Till highest thoughts partook their hues, 
 And, rainbow-like, knit earth to heaven. 
 
 ! sure this glorious world we see. 
 And that blue arch that bends above. 
 
 Speak an unmeasured Deity, 
 
 Of boundless mercy, boundless love.
 
 24 /. G. ASH WORTH. 
 
 Regret. 
 
 Regret, like pale-faced nun in tears, 
 Has followed nie for many years; 
 On Alpine heights, where hue on hue — 
 Glory on glory, met my view ; 
 Beside the giant pyramids 
 Where morning opes her dainty lids ; 
 Or under far Hesperian skies 
 Where daylight softly, sweetly dies. 
 No matter whither I have gone 
 
 In all this beauteous world below. 
 That dark-robed shade has followed on 
 
 With large sad eyes and face of snow. 
 
 But wherefore ? wherefore ? soul, canst say 1 
 
 Alas ! it seems but yesterday 
 
 Hot anger seized his ready bow 
 
 And winged a shaft that laid love low. 
 
 'Twas in a moment, yet an age 
 
 Can ne'er atone that moment's rage ; 
 
 It swept like fierce Sirocco's breath. 
 
 And left behind a track of death ; 
 
 And do my best — go where I will — 
 
 In all this barren world below. 
 That gloomy shadow follows still 
 
 With large sad eyes and face of snow.
 
 KK MOkMEi 
 
 In Youth and Age. 
 
 All through the days of May, the cuckoo calling, 
 Reminds us that the Spring-tide now hath couie ; 
 
 And every song-biid sings, though showers are falling, 
 For nature, joyous, ceases to be dumb. 
 
 In youth how pensively we love the days. 
 When Autumn's sweet decay is over all ; 
 
 When woods are brown and golden, and the haze 
 Of dying summer seems o'er us to fall. 
 
 Though few the shadows that have crossed our path, 
 We love the long drawn sigh, the soft lament ; 
 
 Wliat wrongs we lack, imagination hath ; 
 With fancied sorrows we are well content. 
 
 With manhood still before us, in our prime. 
 We contemplate serenely Nature's death ; 
 
 And love the falling leaves in Autumn time. 
 Yet think but little what the preacher saith.
 
 26 JSMBA HOLMES. 
 
 But when the sorrows of our life ai'e come, 
 And all the ills to which our flesh is heir ; 
 
 When Azrael hath visited our home, 
 
 And we are tempted to a dark despair — 
 
 When age is creeping on, we pause to think ; 
 
 To Nature's resurrection now we cling ; 
 Of waters of Nepenthe fain would drink ; 
 
 We bless the rays of Hope which come with Spring. 
 
 Autumn Thoughts. 
 
 Leaves are lingering yet upon the trees, 
 The branches waving sadly in the breeze ; 
 Though glorious tints of autumn are on these, 
 The shadow of decay is over all. 
 
 Bright russet tinges in the wooded dells, 
 Gay crimson flushes where the squirrel dwells, 
 And in the darksome glen, where magic spells 
 Seem, like the night, on everything to fall. 
 
 Grim Winter threatens now to come apace, 
 And bleak East winds now do the dead leaves chase 
 November glooms are over every place, 
 The frosty rime is on the poplar tall. 
 
 Soon there will come the angry bitter wind, 
 Rifling the forests, — with its gusts unkind — 
 Of all their golden leaves, but ivy twined 
 O'er gnarled trunks lists never to the call. 
 
 The seasons come and go and all the leaves ; 
 The swallow gently twitters 'neath the eaves, 
 But Summer past, deserts us, never grieves : 
 The ivy clings for ever on our wall. 
 
 The old tree dies, but still the ivy clings. 
 As though it were amongst the sentient things ; 
 And o'er the crumbling ruin hidden springs. 
 Near holy wells, and where the cuckoos call.
 
 POEMS. 27 
 
 So steadfast friend will ever through the strife, 
 And turmoil of our constant changing life, 
 Cling to us always, like true wedded wife. 
 Though life be ending and all pleasures pall. 
 
 "And there shall be no more Sea." 
 
 I climbed the crest of a noble cliff that juts out into the sea 
 And lay me down to bask in the sun and wonder dreamily — 
 Why all this beautiful waste of waters, glittering in the 
 
 sheen 
 Of the summer sun, should cease to be, as though it had 
 
 never been. 
 
 The manifold changes over its face as it gleamed bright in 
 
 the sun, 
 Whilst glorious tints of opal and gold passed over one by one; 
 The monotonous roll of the heaving waves as they came in 
 
 from the west. 
 Each one with the white foam crowning it with a snowy, 
 
 shimmering crest. 
 
 And listening there to the dreamy moan of the brilliant, 
 
 restless sea, 
 Methought I heard a low sad voice speak out of its mystery : 
 '' I am the ocean vast " it said, " grand type of eternity ; 
 And yet as time itself shall end so shall I soon cease to be. 
 
 " And I shall give uj) my dead to Ilim who ruleth the 
 
 mighty deej) ; 
 They have lain on niy breast for centuries, I have rocked 
 
 thera ail to sleep : 
 I am the mighty mother and my children all come unto me, 
 And they are always hushed to rest by the monotone of the 
 
 sea.
 
 28 UMBA HOLMES. 
 
 "The poets call me beautiful, and the painters paint me so, 
 Yes, and the great philosophers measure my ebb and flow, 
 And wonder over my mystery and what is the moon to me : 
 But why we move together is the secret of the sea. 
 
 Aye, yes, ' the stately ships go on to their haven under the 
 
 hill,' 
 But no man knoweth whether my waves, that are flowing 
 
 cold and chill. 
 Shall cover him over, lull hi in to rest, far down in my depths 
 
 of gloom. 
 Where myriads of men have found before the dread of a 
 
 watery tomb. 
 
 " For the King hath said it, I know no more, only it is to 
 
 be ; 
 His mighty fiat hath long gone forth " And there shall be no 
 
 more sea ; " 
 Beautiful am I, passionless, yet there is no room in heaven: 
 To the grand majestic ocean there is no welcome given." 
 
 Petrarch and Laura. 
 
 ' The darkest hour is always before dawn," 
 So saith the olden proverb. Is it true 1 
 
 Ah ! love, dear love, bethink thee of this phrase. 
 Nor take a step that thou must ever rue. 
 
 Be patient, for the end will surely come ; 
 
 Such love as mine must some day have reward- 
 Thy knightly champion I shall ever be, 
 
 And only ask to live in thy regard. 
 
 Fate is against us now — ma) e'er be so ; 
 
 I dare not yet the future seek to trace ; 
 But whether we shall meet again, or no, 
 
 I never shall forget thy sweet, sad face.
 
 POEMS. 29 
 
 When gleams of silver come upon thy hair, 
 And trouble prematurely dims thine eye, 
 
 To me thou wilt be beautiful and fair 
 As lovely landscape, or soft summer sky. 
 
 Though I should live to be a hundred years, 
 And all my memories fade into the past ; 
 
 When the death-angel comes then through my tears 
 Thy name will be upon my lips the last. 
 
 " The darkest hour is always before dawn " — 
 Take comfort in adversity from this ; 
 If love shall never have requital here, 
 
 It may have place in realms of endless bliss. 
 
 The sea of sorrow, and the gloom of death, 
 May overwhelm us for a little space ; 
 
 Yet, if we may not meet on earth again, 
 
 We shall in Heaven, by Christ's saving grace. 
 
 Cloudland. 
 
 A BREAK in the clouds, and the distant sky 
 Shines soft and fair in the evening light ; 
 
 A glimpse of celestial reahns on high, 
 Seen through the canopy of night. 
 
 And they sweep along in their majesty, 
 
 And dash themselves 'gainst the great hill side. 
 
 Then drop in tears, for their destiny 
 Is only to fall in their fruitless pride. 
 
 The distant mountains aie white with snow, 
 Reflecting the sun's last beauteous gleam. 
 
 First burnished silver, and then with a glow 
 Of roseate hue, like some sweet dream. 
 
 Battalions of clouds, like angels bright. 
 Their snowy pinions and serried mass, 
 
 In the proud panoply of their might. 
 As in a vision, I see them pass.
 
 30 EMRA HOLMES. 
 
 There are spectre faces, and towering forms, 
 And endless shadowy shapes of fear ; 
 
 The ghastly portents of coming storms, 
 
 That come with the sobbing winds so drear. 
 
 And then the billowy oceuis vast, 
 Where ghostly ships are sailing o'er, 
 
 With freight of souls, all sorrow past, 
 Floating to rest on the heavenly shore. 
 
 And Alpine ranges, shadowy, dim, 
 I note them towering, lofty, grand. 
 
 With little cloudlets near each rim, 
 A line of light o'er a pearly strand. 
 
 And oh ! the castles high in the air ; 
 
 The vast cathedrals, Gothic spires ; 
 The palaces that are so fair ; 
 
 Methinks 1 hear the heavenly choirs. 
 
 A fairy vision, and wondrous sweet ; 
 
 A picture of Heaven so far away ; 
 Who cannot see, and with poets greet, 
 
 A gleam from the realm of deathless day 1 
 
 I note ye all as ye sweep along. 
 
 Or calmly rest at peace on high ; 
 Yet I yearn for the sapphire vault of Heaven, 
 
 For I love to gaze on a starlit sky. 
 
 Oh ! lovely cloudland, summer skies, 
 
 With your soft opalescent glow ; 
 Ye splendid wraiths in carmine dyes, 
 
 And tints not painter yet could show. 
 
 I love ye well, and I gladly praise 
 The great Creator who made ye all ; 
 
 The clouds and the hill, the sea and the land, 
 The sun to shine, and the rain to fall.
 
 POEMS. 31 
 
 Inconstant : A Retrospect. 
 
 The turbid stream flows swift and strong, 
 To pour its volume in the sea ; 
 
 And by its side I stroll along : 
 But what is that to you and me ? 
 
 From long lush grass the corncrake calls ; 
 
 I watch but fail its form to see : 
 Its harsh note on my memory falls : 
 
 But what is that to you and me ; 
 
 In hidden groves the sweet birds sing — 
 A year ago, down o'er the lea, 
 
 I mind me how the church bells rang : 
 But what is that to you and me 1 
 
 We sauntered happy, side by side ; 
 
 I spoke of love, and you were free ; 
 You would be mine, whate'er betide : 
 
 But what is that to vou and me ? 
 
 The corncrake calls again once more, 
 As then I heard it ; can it be 
 
 That there shall ring, for all is o'er. 
 No marriage bells for you and me 1
 
 WILklKM K. f)KhE, 
 
 Beauty. 
 
 She sits enthroned the stars amonw • 
 She dances in the moonlight beam ; 
 
 She trips the waving fields along, 
 
 And glides adown the silver stream ; 
 
 She sparkleth in the ocean spray, 
 
 And shineth in the morning ray ! 
 
 She gives the heavens their azure hue, 
 The clouds their gold and crimson dyes ; 
 
 She lieams in every drop of dew, 
 
 And throws her rainbow o'er the skies ; 
 
 On mount, wood, valley, river — all. 
 
 Her smiles of bright enchantment fall ! 
 
 Hers are the blossomings of Spring ; 
 
 And her's the golden Autumn fruit ; 
 We see her on the insect's wing. 
 
 And trace her in the tenderest shoot : — 
 She fires the thought, she thrills the soul, 
 And binds the heart with sweet control.
 
 POEMF. 33 
 
 She sporteth 'mid tlie .Vrctic snows, 
 
 And huildeth there her crystal towers ; 
 
 She roainetl) where the Indus Hows, 
 
 And scatteieth there her saffron flowers; 
 
 She showers her gifts with frolic hand 
 
 On flaming peak and flasliing strand. 
 
 Deep, deep in subterranean cave 
 She sleeps, unseen hy mortal eye ; 
 
 Beneath the blue, transparent wave, 
 Above the bright, unclouded sky ; 
 
 In olive gioves, and sapphire cells, — 
 
 In sea, sky, earth, and heaven, she dwells. 
 
 The Land's-End. 
 
 Battler with the fierce Atlantic, 
 
 Hail ! Britannia's Vanguard, hail ! 
 Tempests wild, and billows frantic. 
 
 O'er thee never shall prevail. 
 Thou art mighty ! tliou art peerless ! 
 
 Storm may howl, or ocean foam ; 
 Thou art steadfast ; thou art fearless ; 
 
 Firm in thy eternal home. 
 
 Thou hast waged the war of ages ; 
 
 Borne the fury of the Past ; 
 Still the ceaseless conflict rages, — 
 
 Thou defiest still the blast. 
 Still unvanquished, thou art braving 
 
 Every charge that thunders by ; 
 Vain the elemental raving, — 
 
 Vain the wrath of sea and sky !
 
 34- W. K. DALE. 
 
 Shipwrecks, deaths, and desolations, 
 
 Hurricanes have round thee rolled 
 Sti'ewed about thy dark foundations 
 
 Bales of silk and bars of gold. 
 Rocks majestic ! cliffs stupendous ! 
 
 Ye have heard the midnight cry ; 
 Hurled before the surge tremendous 
 
 Seen the struggling sailor die. 
 
 Burns the beacon ! Brightly, beacon, 
 
 Flash thy warning o'er the waves ; 
 For the mountain billows break on, 
 
 For the fearful tempest raves ! 
 There are brave ships on the ocean j 
 
 There are dear men on the deep : — 
 Save ! or else in mad commotion 
 
 Hearts will break and orphans weep. 
 
 In thy caves what spoils are lying, — 
 
 Persian pearl and Indian gem, 
 Bright as those that, price defying, 
 
 Shine in princely diadem. 
 Loved ones fondly, dearly cherished, 
 
 Rest beneath thy foaming wave ; 
 Here, a mother's hope hath perished, 
 
 There, a father's found a grave. 
 
 Sweeps the tempest, — they are quiet ; 
 
 Roar the billows, —calm they lie : 
 Hear they not the ocean's riot. 
 
 Heed they not the whirlwind's sigh. 
 Oh ! methinks those caves are holy ; 
 
 Sacred is that flinty bed ; 
 There they rest in slumbers lowly 
 
 Till the sea shall yield her dead.
 
 POEMS 35 
 
 Battler with the fierce Atlantic, 
 
 Hail ! Britannia's Vanguard, hail ! 
 Tempests wild, and billows frantic, 
 
 O'er thee never shall prevail. 
 Thou art glorious ! thou art fearless ! 
 
 Storm may howl, or ocean foam : 
 Thou art lone, and stern, and peerless. 
 
 Firm in thy eternal home ! 
 
 Rabbi bonum est. 
 
 " Master, it is good to be. 
 On the Holy Mount with Thee : 
 Here, Master, grant that we 
 Build Thee tabernacles three ; 
 One for Elias let there be. 
 For Moses one, and one for Thee." 
 
 Thus exclaimed the chosen Three ; — 
 Spake the sons of Zebedee ; 
 Ever leader of the van, 
 Spake the fiery fisherman ; — 
 " Here, Master, grant that we 
 Evermore abide with Thee." 
 
 But they knew not what they said — 
 Hark ! it thunders overhead ; 
 Lo ! the voice of Him who spoke 
 Shakes the mountain, rends the lock ; 
 While the saints, in clouds of light, 
 Vanish from their dazzled siglit. 
 
 Had they with a Seer's ken 
 Swept the wondrous Future thtui, 
 At their feet wliat scenes had lain ! 
 Steeps of glory, — deeps of pain ; 
 But their heavy eyes of clay 
 Flashed not with prophetic ray.
 
 36 W. K. DALE. 
 
 Saw they not their Lord and Head 
 Like a lamb to slaughter led ; 
 Saw Him not in triumph risen 
 From the Grave's demolished prison ; 
 Nor the cloven flame-tongues fall 
 On the Spirit's Festival. 
 
 Saw they not the rack, the wheel, 
 Scourging thong, and stabbing steel ; 
 Heard not the mad multitude 
 Fiercely clamouring for their blood ; 
 And the thronged arena ring 
 At the tiger's deadly spring. 
 
 Saw not Peter's death abhorred ; 
 Saw not Hell-doomed Herod's sword 
 Dripping with the blood of James ; 
 Saw they not the cauldron's flames, 
 Nor the island's visioned caves 
 Washed with wild ^gean waves. 
 
 As of old thy chosen Three, 
 
 So, Master, now are we ; 
 
 On the Mount, like them, we pray, 
 
 But we know not what we say ; 
 
 For through blood, and flame, and strife, 
 
 Lies the path that leads to life. 
 
 The Wreck of the " Three Brothers." 
 
 Leagues, leagues south-west of Scilly, 
 Drove the grtat Mackerel Fleet ; — 
 
 They drove from dusk to daybreak. 
 In spite of sea and sleet. 
 
 In spite of storm, and sea, and sleet. 
 
 Spite of the blinding hail ; 
 The wind grew to a hurricane 
 
 Before they hoisted sail.
 
 POEMS 37 
 
 Then rose the huge Atlantic waves ! 
 And the great fleet, shore- wards, 
 Storra-foresailed, flew through scud and drift, 
 
 Like flocks of frightened birds 
 
 a' 
 
 Some for St. Maiy's harbour ran, 
 Some for St. Michael's bay : — 
 
 desperate was that race for lite 
 That dreadful A|)ril day. 
 
 Three luggers sailed in company, 
 
 Three boats of equal speed ; 
 Sternmost the " Triumph " dashed along ; 
 
 The " Annie " had the lead. 
 
 Meanwhile three cables' lengths between 
 The good "Three Brothers" kept. 
 
 As for St. Mary's sheltered roads 
 League after league they swept. 
 
 Still louder roared the hurricane, 
 
 Still fiercer raged the sea ; 
 And one huge billow, topmast high, 
 
 Broke o'er the " Brothers Three ! " 
 
 A minute mors the " Triumph " passed 
 
 Some nets, a keg, an oar ; 
 Ahead, the " Annie," and a wild 
 
 White waste of foam, — no more ! 
 
 What ofi'udsre hadst thou against the boat? 
 
 Thou cruel, greedy Sea ! 
 Seven poor plain families stript of all, — 
 
 What gain was that to thee 1 
 
 For thee, dear friend of noble heart, 
 
 To a rough calling bred, 
 For thee I will not weep, — thou art 
 
 With the victorious dead.
 
 38- W. K. DALE. 
 
 Hurled by that mighty raonntain wave, 
 By that fierce tempest driven, 
 
 Through the black channel of the grave 
 Into the blaze of Heaven. 
 
 Snatched from the sinking lugger's deck, 
 
 Translated from the abyss ; 
 One moment — death, destruction, wreck 
 
 The next — God, glory, bliss ! 
 
 Memory. 
 
 The heart is like a church-yard ; thick and sad 
 The tombstones stand in melancholy rows ; 
 
 And 'mid the graves, in sable garments clad. 
 Pale Memory walks, still weeping as she goes. 
 
 There many a joy hath found an early tomb. 
 
 Departed hopes that once were bright and young, 
 
 Loves that were blasted in their tender bloom. 
 
 Sweet friendships poisoned by the slanderer's tongue. 
 
 Yea, they are gone ; those joys are dead and sere ; 
 
 Those cherished hopes and loves have passed away ; 
 Some have been wept for many a weary year. 
 
 And some were buried only yesterday. 
 
 There is a Resurrection from the tomb. 
 Its sleeping sons shall start to life again ; 
 
 But when, Heart, shall thy Revival come, 
 
 And all thy dead awake 1 Oh, When 1 Ah, When 1 
 
 The heart is like a church-yard ; thick and sad 
 The tombstones stand in melancholy rows ; 
 
 And 'mid its graves, in solemn mourning clad. 
 Pale Memory walks, still weeping as she goes.
 
 K, COURTNEY. 
 
 The White Ladie. 
 
 Now, fifty years ago, may be, 
 
 On a wild winter's night, 
 To the ceaseless moaning of the sea, 
 This legend of the " White Ladie," 
 
 Was told by firelight. 
 
 She was a proud and haughty dame 
 
 Of old Penkivell's race ; 
 He had no son to bear his name ; 
 He worshipped her, and who could blame, 
 
 In the old Squire's place 1 
 
 Though centuries have passed away, 
 
 Her home may still be seen, — 
 A granite building, low and grey. 
 Storm-beaten, often Hocked with spray, 
 In the parish of Pendeen.
 
 40 M. A. COURTNEY. 
 
 Her name was Avis ; there were few 
 
 In Cornwall fair as she, 
 Her eyes were a deep hyacinth blue, 
 Her cheeks had the pink creamy hue 
 
 We in the wild rose see. 
 
 Her hair was red, with gleams of gold, 
 
 And rippled round her head ; 
 But she was false, — her heart was cold ; 
 Her soul for money she'd have sold ; 
 
 Pride was her daily bread. 
 
 From all the parishes around 
 
 Brave suitors came to woo ; 
 But in her sight none favour found. 
 She cared more for her horse and hound 
 
 Than loyal hearts and true. 
 
 Would only no denial take 
 
 Her uncle Uther's son ; 
 He thought of her asleep, awake ; 
 He courted dangers for her sake. 
 
 And vowed she should be won. 
 
 For her he'd often crossed the sea 
 
 In search of laces rare, 
 Brocades and silks, that she might be 
 Decked out in all her bravery. 
 
 The fairest of the fair. 
 
 For Cornishmen, in days of yore. 
 
 Thought smuggling was no crime ; 
 And John Lenine, who knew the shore, 
 Had brought from France, like many more. 
 Rich ventures in his time. 
 
 A secret subterranean way 
 
 Ran 'twixt her house and beach ; 
 Through a dark cave the entrance lay. 
 Known to few dwellers in the bay, — 
 Most difficult to reach.
 
 POEMS. 41 
 
 But dangers never dauntpd John ; 
 
 By it one night he brought 
 Avis, when folks to rest had gone, 
 Some gauds she'd set her heart upon ; 
 
 To win her thus he thought. 
 
 She took his gifts, but mocked his woe : 
 
 Said, " Cousin, this I'll do, 
 When summer comes with frost and snow, 
 Or roses in mid-winter blow, 
 
 Why then — I'll marry you ! 
 
 " I swear I will. ]*^ext Christmas-day 
 
 A red rose to me bring. 
 My answer then shall not be nay, 
 And as a pledge for what I say, 
 
 You may — give me a ring." 
 
 In a few days the ring was sent, 
 
 And then John sail'd afar ; 
 In quest of the )-ed rose he went ; 
 To wed her still his soul was bent ; 
 
 Hope was his guiding star. 
 
 He had been gone three months or more ; 
 
 Christmas was drawing nigh ; 
 Slipped in, and anchored close to shore, 
 A man-of-war, that once before, 
 
 In Pendeen Bay did lie. 
 
 Of her were many stories told, — 
 
 How, under shade of night. 
 She'd sent forth men, like wolves on fold, 
 Who'd carried ofV tiie young and old. 
 
 For James, the King, to tight. 
 
 This dreadful ship returned again. 
 
 Made many women sad : 
 Some feared to lose their boys : with pain 
 Some wept for husbands " pressed " and slain ; 
 
 Avis alone was glad.
 
 42 M. A. COURTNEY. 
 
 She knew the captain, — thought that he 
 Could wealth and rank bestow ; 
 
 For them he might her husband be, 
 
 For never wed a man would she 
 Who could no rent-roll show. 
 
 He was not there to woo a bride. 
 
 For men alone he came ; 
 But still he flattered, fed her pride. 
 With honeyed words and gifts he plied 
 
 This most imperious dame. 
 
 Because through her he wished to learn 
 
 The secret hidden way. 
 From whence it ran, where made a turn, 
 When John was likely to return. 
 
 And why he'd gone away ? 
 
 The traitress told him all — The vow 
 She'd pledged herself to keep; 
 
 Said John at home would soon be now ; 
 
 Wished he would " press him," cared not how ; 
 If killed, she should not weep. 
 
 ; Meanwhile poor John, who'd sailed away, 
 The bright, red rose to find. 
 Had heard in Nice a sailor say 
 " That roses bloomed on Christmas-day," 
 And Fate to him was kind. 
 
 For, walking down a crooked street. 
 
 There in a house he spied 
 c A rose-tree bearing blossoms sweet ; 
 He entered in with eager feet, 
 
 Nor long did there abide 
 
 '» 
 
 Before 'twas his. Full many a crown 
 
 For that rose-bush he paid. 
 Quick to his ship he bore it down, 
 Again set sail for Penzance town. 
 And a prosperous voyage made.
 
 POEMS. 43 
 
 His tree he guarded with great care, 
 
 But the flowers faded fast ; 
 Its branches soon were nearly bare 
 Of all its blossoms late so fair, — 
 
 One rose remained — the last. 
 
 He reached his home on Christmas-day 
 
 As the joy-bells out did ring ; 
 Ked rose in hand, he went his way 
 To meet his cousin, blithe and gay ; 
 
 His heart did carols sing. 
 
 He bent his steps towards the shore 
 
 The hidden path to take. 
 But ere he reached the secret door, 
 Set on him ten stout men or more, 
 
 A captive him to make. 
 
 He fought for life, whilst holding still 
 
 The red rose in his hand ; 
 And many of his foes did kill, — 
 Was wounded oft, yet fought on, till 
 
 Lay stretched upon the sand 
 
 He and the Captain side by side. 
 
 Both bleeding unto death. 
 The treachery of his would-be bride 
 John heard, — spake not a word, and died ; 
 
 But with his dying breath 
 
 The Captain cursed her ; bade a lad 
 
 The rose to Avis bear, 
 Wet with his blood : " Tell her she had 
 Her wicked wish, might now be glad, 
 
 And it in triumph wear." 
 
 She lived till she was very old, 
 
 But never from that day 
 The sun shone on her ; slui was cold 
 In hottest June, for she had sold, 
 
 And sworn a life away.
 
 44 3f. A. COURTNEY. 
 
 No shadow from her body cast 
 E'er played upon the ground. 
 Shunned by all men, she lived alone, 
 And when death claimed her for his own, 
 Her soul no respite found. 
 
 Each Christmas morn she doth appear, 
 
 At the entrance o' the cave, 
 Holding her rose. She striketh fear : 
 Who sees her knows the coming year 
 Will find him in his grave. 
 
 Three Days. 
 
 FIRST DAY. 
 
 Life for me is full of gladness ! 
 
 One long holiday. 
 Other people talk of sadness ; 
 
 I am always gay. 
 Songs to my lips unbidden spring ; 
 I sing because I needs must sing. 
 
 Like as the birds, who, winter past, 
 
 Pour from bush and tree, 
 Forgetting its keen chilling blast, 
 
 Sweetest melody. 
 Blackbirds and thrushes all day sing ; 
 Flowers and love come with the Spring. 
 
 'Tis Spring with me ; the love have I 
 
 Of a good man and true ; 
 The paths of life I tread now lie 
 
 Through roses, fresh with dew ; 
 Blithe in my ears the old tune rings, — 
 A happy heart it always sings.
 
 POEMS. 45 
 
 But why should I not happy be 
 
 When I aui grey and okl 1 
 Flowers may fade, youth pass away, 
 
 But love can ne'er grow cold. 
 No, only death should sorrow bring ; 
 Till that comes, heart, cease not to sing. 
 
 NEXT YEAR. 
 
 A twelvemonth since and I was gay ; 
 
 Now I am sad. 
 For my lost joys I weep alway, — 
 
 Cannot be glad. 
 My songs are hushed ; the roses dead ; 
 Spring gone ; the singing birds have fled. 
 
 I thought that death alone could part 
 
 Those that were true. 
 That I should bear an aching heart 
 
 I little knew. 
 But idle words were lightly said, 
 And all mv hopes lay withered, — dead. 
 
 Since then for my dear love in vain 
 
 I've pined. It seems 
 I may not see his face again 
 
 Except in dreams. 
 Each night I long to make my bed 
 Where lie in heaps the brown leaves dead. 
 
 A month ago, in bitter scorn. 
 
 Will went from me; 
 A neighbour told me yester morn 
 
 He'd gone to sea. 
 My love yet lives. Can his be dead? 
 It may be bruised — not withered. 
 
 MANY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 I sat beside my fire, lived o'er again 
 My happy youth, now left so far behind ; 
 Outside i heard tlie splash of heavy rain, 
 The ceaseless soughing of the stormy wind,
 
 46 M. A. COURTNEY. 
 
 The melancholy moaning of the sea, 
 
 The rush of great waves, breaking on the shore ; 
 
 When suddenly a loved voice called on me, 
 
 A much loved voice I thought to hear no more. 
 
 I caught my breath and listened. Softly fell, 
 In pleading tones, my name upon mine ear ; 
 Then, like a sigh, was breathed the word " Farewell ;" 
 My sad heart failed me, my limbs shook with fear. 
 
 I hurried to the shore, — there, still afloat, 
 A noble vessel 'mongst the breakers lay ; 
 Our men were trying to push off their boat ; 
 "We women could do nought but watch and pray. 
 
 Three times the lifeboat launched. Alas, in vain ! 
 All hands were lost ! The ship became a wreck. 
 The face of one drowned man I saw again — 
 He wore my miniature around his neck !
 
 KHRRIS" FHMIbY. 
 
 JOHN HARRIS. 
 
 Selected verses from 
 
 An Ode 
 
 On the Tercentenary Anniversary of William Shakesperf-, 
 Apiil 2^rd, 1864. 
 
 PRIZE POEM. 
 
 Over the eax-th a glow, 
 
 Peak-point and plain below, 
 The red round sun sinks in the purple west ; 
 
 Lambs press their daisy bed, 
 
 The lark drops overhead, 
 And sings the labourer, hastening home to rest. 
 
 Bathed in the ruddy light. 
 
 Flooding his native height, 
 A youthful bard is stretched upon the moss ; 
 
 He heedeth not tlie eve 
 
 Whose locks the elfins weave, 
 Entranced with Shakespere near a Cornish cross.
 
 48 JOHN HARRIS. 
 
 Men pass him and repass ; 
 
 The hare is in the grass ; 
 The full moon stealeth o'er the hill of pines ; 
 
 Twilight is lingering dim ; 
 
 The village vesper hymn 
 Murmurs its music through the trembling vines. 
 
 * * * * fr 
 
 A spell is on his soul : 
 
 He scans the mystic scroll 
 Of human passions wakened by the wand 
 
 Of England's noblest seer, 
 
 Whom England holds so dear, — 
 Great, glorious Shakespere, loved in every land ! 
 « ♦ * * * 
 
 He solved the human heart 
 
 Like mariner his chart, 
 And Passion's every phase was known to him ; 
 
 And when the full time came, 
 
 Forth burst the mighty flame, 
 To blaze and brighten till the stars are dim. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 And so, great bard, to-day 
 
 We weave thy natal lay, 
 And cluster gratefully around tliy name : 
 
 England will ever be, 
 
 Dear Shakespere, pioud of thee, 
 And coming ages but augment thy fame. 
 
 My Last Lay. 
 
 (The last poem published in " Last Lays" the \7th and last 
 volume of JoJin Harris's poems.) 
 
 I STAND like one upon a reach of elms. 
 
 By the Great River's shore — 
 Listening for voices from untrodden realms, 
 
 Which thrill me evermore.
 
 POEMS. 49 
 
 My staff is lying by a mound of flowers, 
 
 My weary feet at rest, 
 And echoes haunt me in song-ringing showers 
 
 From regions of the blest. 
 
 A mystic Hand comes through the fading light, 
 
 Which I but dimly see, 
 And takes my lyre, and bears it out of sight, — 
 
 The Hand that gave it me. 
 
 The sky-taught bird, and lesser shining shapes 
 
 That in the hedgerows dwell. 
 Or gather to the concert of the capes, 
 
 Breathe forth their sad farewell. 
 
 My Last I-ay holds a benediction bright 
 
 For friends and patrons kind, 
 Who filled my hemisphere with purer light, 
 
 Which leaves a glow behind. 
 
 Selection from 
 " Monro." 
 
 (A Biographic Sketch of the Poet's life.) 
 
 And when the pulse of life shall throb no more 
 
 At His command, and its red currents freeze, 
 When silence comes, and busy day is o'er, 
 
 Monro would sleep beneath her whispering trees, 
 Where sing the birds, and hum the homeward bees, 
 
 And blush the flowers when Spring is passing by, 
 As notes unnumbered float upon the breeze, 
 
 And he will watch her from the upper sky. 
 And at eve's musing hour will sometimes near her fly. 
 
 P
 
 50 JOHN HARRIS. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! A voice is in his ear, 
 
 That Time's fleet hour-glass is expending fast, 
 The glittering grains run faster year by year. 
 
 With soundless drop, and soon will fall the last. 
 O Thou, who through the gloomy grave hast past, 
 
 Send Thy good Spirit to renew our own ! 
 May doubt and fear for ever be outcast. 
 
 And then uplift us to Thy glorious throne, 
 Where faith expands no more, and perfect love is known I 
 
 His task is ended, and he feels like one 
 
 Whose boat is rocking 'neath the island trees. 
 
 Where gorgeous birds are fluttering in the sun, 
 
 And harps ring sweetness on the sauntering breeze. 
 
 The hills and vales, where hum the honey bees, 
 Are those he laboured to discover long. 
 
 Sailing, hope-beckoned, over unknown seas, 
 
 Though tierce winds blew, and beat the billows strong. 
 
 Once more farewell ! farewell ! Thus closeth Monx'o's song. 
 
 J. HOWARD HARRIS. 
 
 A Cornish Welcome. 
 
 (Inscribed to F. C.) 
 
 A WANDERER comes in summer time. 
 From distant London's din. 
 
 To visit haunts of boyhood days, — 
 The " Land of Fish and Tin." 
 
 We'll tune for him a homely lay 
 
 And wish him health for many a day. 
 
 The sea, the sky, the home-bound boat, 
 
 The ocean's solemn roar, 
 Bring fancies dear of other days : 
 
 He loves them more and more. 
 Thus in our path from youth to age 
 There's many a line on Memory's page.
 
 POEMS. 51 
 
 The " hueva's " cry, the " seiner's " shout, 
 
 Ring in his ears to-day, 
 While glittering sunlight tij)S the waves 
 
 Of ever-dear Mount's Bay. 
 Far from these scenes his steps may roam, 
 But loving still are thoughts of home. 
 
 Time's chariot wheels turn round and round 
 
 With loail of joy or pain ; 
 The winter o'er, — the summer come, — 
 
 We'll welcome him again. 
 May Cornish hearts and hands be true. 
 And friendship's faith be ever new. 
 
 Woven Fancies. 
 
 The gossamers swing in the summer light 
 From leaflets all covered with dew ; 
 
 The pearl drops gleam with their fairy spells 
 In crimson and golden hue. 
 
 The threads fly fast in the fact'ry high, 
 
 Weaving the fabric rare. 
 To gladden the cottager's sunburnt child. 
 
 Or brighten the lady fair. 
 
 The whirring wheels whirl round and round, 
 
 As in the rope-walk low 
 The hempen strands weave mighty bands, 
 
 While the spinners backward go. 
 
 So love weaves sure from day to day 
 
 A sweet and shadowy cliain ; 
 Its gossamer links are small and thin 
 
 For bearing the world's cold strain. 
 
 Though light as air that woven chain 
 
 Each thread is tried arid true; 
 Old Time is strengtirniiig the tiny cords, 
 
 And drawing my love to you.
 
 52 J. ALFRED HARRIS. 
 
 JOHN ALFRED HARRIS. 
 
 Lay of the Bereaved. 
 
 And art thou gone from us, my father dear, 
 And is thy gentle, loving spirit fled 1 
 
 ! thou in life we loved so well 
 
 Art resting in thy lowly, silent bed ! 
 
 And never shall we hear asjain 
 Thy welcomed tread. 
 
 Thy chair is vacant by our lonely hearth ; 
 
 Thy staff's at rest behind the study door ; 
 Thy quill and ink are on the mantel-shelf ; 
 
 But now thine earthly lays are o'er. 
 For thou art gone with saints to sing 
 
 On Zion's golden shore. 
 
 My pen grows feeble, father mine, 
 
 Thy quiet, cheering deeds to write : 
 To tell of all thy lasting, loving worth ; 
 
 But thine example bright 
 Shall cheer us daily on life's pilgrim road, 
 
 And guide our steps aright. 
 
 The world, perchance, will miss thee not, 
 
 Nor heed thy simple minsti'el lays; 
 But He who knows the smallest sparrow's fall 
 
 Did heed thine unobtrusive ways : 
 "Well pleased His child should sow the precious seed, 
 
 And scatter Gospel rays. 
 
 Thy pen at all times thou didst M'ield 
 
 In cause of Truth and Right, 
 Instead of lauding feats of wrong 
 
 And warlike deeds of might : 
 But for the sinner sighed and prayed 
 
 And led to Calvary's Height,
 
 POEMS. 63 
 
 Hushed is thy lyre, its cords are mute ; 
 
 But still we feel thee nigh, 
 Though days are dark and drear to us, — 
 
 My mother dear and I. 
 O Father ! take our hands and onward lead 
 
 To be with thee on high. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! and once again farewell ! 
 
 My gentle, gifted, loving sire 1 
 Safe in that heavenly city bright, 
 
 Among the white-robed choir. 
 Thy songs are raised to Christ alone, 
 
 From off thy golden lyre.
 
 RICWT^RD WKMBIf^Y. 
 
 Our Sand-hills. 
 
 \^Church Tradition.'\ 
 
 We love our Cornish land — 
 
 For aught its hills of sand, 
 Mines unromantic, and its stormy coasts — 
 
 For in the barren mound 
 
 Are richer memories found, 
 Than many a ruin of famed castle boasts. 
 
 No gilded mausoleum, 
 
 Or strains of rich Te Deum, 
 Allure the traveller where these heroes lie; 
 
 In life, by precept holy, 
 
 They sought the poor and lowly, 
 And hoped in death no tribute 'neath the sky. 
 
 Honour those men of old. 
 
 Whose faith and courage bold, 
 In the first ardour of the church's youth, 
 
 Transplanted to our shores. 
 
 Far richer than its ores. 
 The quenchless fibres of a heaven-born Truth !
 
 POEMS. 55 
 
 'Tis said from Ei'in's Isle — 
 
 Ere war, and priestly ^uile, 
 Had dulled the brightness of its emerald green — 
 
 They crossed in open boat, 
 
 And raade the cheery note 
 Lighten the horrors of the voyage between. 
 
 They found our altars red 
 
 With blood of human dead, 
 From the crushed victims of an iron spell ; 
 
 They told of Him who died — 
 
 And soon at eventide 
 Was heard the music of the church-going bell. 
 
 And still these churches stand, 
 
 Part hidden in the sand 
 Raised by the fury of Atlanta's wave ; 
 
 And there these heroes sleep — 
 
 Come, let us reverent seek, 
 Nor heedless trample on, their honoured graves. 
 
 Mount's Bay. 
 
 How fine the out-look on a summer's day, 
 From open window near thy shores, Penzance ! 
 Or seated on thy well-kept promenade. 
 The eyes set free from page of old romance, 
 To gaze far out upon the sea and sky. 
 Now, turn delighted to yon noble Mount — 
 Home of St. Aubyn, crowned with costly pile- 
 To which tradition, with its gilded pen. 
 Gives angel visit, hence St. Michael named : 
 More veritable fact and glorious still, 
 Trod by Victoria, our gracious Queen. 
 Nor wearied yet, trace out those farther shores, 
 Where hides Porthleven, 'neath the bluH' headland, 
 Its busy trade, its sliips and pleasant walks ; 
 And onward still, nigh lost in purple haze. 
 See the tall cliffs of far-famed I.izard rise !
 
 56 RICHARD HAM ELY. 
 
 These on the left : to right, with less expanse, 
 
 The verdurous slopes of Paul and Mousehole stretch, 
 
 With Newlyn nestled in the seaward curve ; 
 
 Homes of the fishermen, whose gallant craft 
 
 Dot the blue waters of the tranquil bay. 
 
 These are thy glories. Town and Bay and Mount — 
 
 Sketched with but hasty and deficient hand — 
 
 That bring the tourist to thy pleasant homes, 
 
 To fish, to bathe, to roam along thy coasts : 
 
 These breathe new life into the jaded mind, 
 
 And charm the feverish into rest and peace. 
 
 What the Round Shell says. 
 
 I PICKED up a shell, which the ocean 
 Had dropped on the sounding shore, 
 
 And bore it away to the inland, 
 A hundred good miles or more. 
 
 And long it has lain on the mantel — 
 Away from the sounding shore. 
 
 Away from the scream of the sea-bird, 
 Away from the ocean's roar — 
 
 Yet whenever I stoop to listen 
 To what the round shell will say, 
 
 There comes from its heart a low murmur, 
 As of waves breaking far away ; 
 
 A murmur of billows and seaweed, 
 Of wind thro' the ocean caves. 
 
 Of laughter and voices— which mem'ry 
 Calls back from their far-off graves. 
 
 And oft, now I'm sick and weary, 
 And life is sure passing away, 
 
 I take the round shell from the mantel, 
 To catch what it still would say ;
 
 POEMS. 67 
 
 For Diy heart seems to join in its echo, 
 And to lie, as a sliell, on life's shore, 
 
 From which the blue waters are ebbing, 
 To return and wrap round me no more. 
 
 And I'm waiting till one of God's angels, 
 Who visit this sea-girt strand, 
 
 Siiall take me —a shell of life's ocean — 
 To a place in the Better Land. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Methinks the noblest form of song 
 
 Is music of the mind, 
 Which only thought can formulate, 
 
 And waken'd fancy find. 
 
 Such music as the poet feels, 
 
 When deep in mystic .scroll, 
 He enters, with a noiseless step, 
 
 The temple of the soul ; 
 
 And hears, along its shadowy aisles, 
 
 The secret whis[)er creep, 
 And melodies, of -wondrous power. 
 
 Among its arches sweep. 
 
 Scarce less is he who music hears 
 
 In nature everywhere, 
 A solo in the running brook, 
 
 And concerts in the air ; 
 
 Rich movements in the waving pines. 
 
 Mixed voices in the deep — 
 Now raging as in angry mood, 
 
 Now gentle as in sleep. 
 
 But men are few whose souls are moved 
 
 By nature's myriad strains. 
 Which thunder from her mountain tops, 
 
 And murmur o'er her plains ;
 
 58 RICHARD HAM ELY. 
 
 And fewer still who, seeking, find 
 The springs of human thought, 
 
 And enter on the poet's land, 
 Where music comes unsought. 
 
 Still, to rejoice the hearts of men 
 'Mid earth's engrossing care, 
 
 God, in the garden of each soul. 
 Hath placed this seedling rare. 
 
 This inborn sense of harmony — 
 "Which rising through the soul, 
 
 Can fill each part with melody, 
 And happiness the whole. 
 
 And he who, glad acknowledging 
 Its high and heavenly birth. 
 
 Shall set to themes ennobling 
 Its music here on eai'th ; 
 
 Shall, when a general death has hushed 
 
 All harmony below, 
 "With soul attuned to nobler strains 
 
 On high for ever glow. 
 
 "The Next Thing." 
 
 Not what inclination 
 Or fashion would suggest, 
 
 Not that situation 
 More lofty than the rest, 
 Not the goal that's nearest, 
 Not the path that's clearest. 
 
 But the next thing. 
 Not where skies are bluest. 
 And the storms are fewest, 
 Not the word that easeth, 
 Not the task that pleaseth, 
 
 But the next thing.
 
 POEMS 59 
 
 That which duty prompteth, 
 That which love sug,2;ests, 
 That which makes thee happier 
 
 In thyself and guests. 
 The word that is the truest, 
 
 The song that is the best, 
 The pathway that is purest. 
 
 More useful than the rest ; 
 The place that e'en if dying, 
 
 Thou would'st not fear to be ; 
 The work that most is needed 
 
 For God, the world and thee. 
 
 " God Bless You." 
 
 A FAITH, a prayer, it cometli oft 
 From aged lips, while on the soft. 
 Waved hair of youth, that rev'rent stands. 
 Are placed the hands. 
 
 Love's fervent wish, it falleth warm 
 From trembling lips —true Christian charm ! 
 Uttered when near, if distant, then 
 By speech of pen. 
 
 It glistens bright on history's scroll, 
 A phrase of light ! making the soul 
 Of the far past give utterance true. 
 Heathen and Jew. 
 
 Not obsolete ! Tt floweth still 
 From life's full spring — perennial rill, 
 That murmurs soft where'er we plod. 
 Of love and God.
 
 60 RICHARD HAM ELY. 
 
 Love. 
 
 Love is the ocean, when it swells 
 
 And flows upon the land, 
 Caressing with its waves and shells 
 
 The dull forsaken strand. 
 
 Love is the carol of the bird. 
 
 The light of summer's sun, 
 The calm of twilight softly stirred 
 
 By symphonies of home. 
 
 Love is the sweetest scent of flower, 
 
 The ripest taste of fruit, 
 The soft-descending vernal shower, 
 
 That laves the tender shoot. 
 
 Love is the brightly glistening tear 
 Of heart that, joyous, weeps ; 
 
 An angel-form, that hovers near 
 
 Where childhood dreams and sleeps. 
 
 Love is the firmament of blue, 
 
 The stars on stillest night. 
 The blessed name of God most true — 
 
 Author of Love and Light. 
 
 " I'm Tired." 
 
 So lisps the child, whose tiny feet 
 Have pattered long o'er mazy street, 
 Or country lane ; as now it rests, 
 
 With crumpled cap, 
 
 On nurse's lap. 
 
 So yawns the worker, as the round 
 Of arduous tasks, at length has found 
 A welcome end ; and sitting now 
 
 To think or read. 
 
 Makes little speed !
 
 POEMS. 61 
 
 Thus murmurs age, whose lengthened race 
 Is well-nigh run, and soon a place 
 Will lose on earth — but not in heaven ! 
 
 So will we pray 
 
 For hair of grey. 
 
 Thus sighs the snfF'rer, as the night 
 Drags weary on ; yet Iiope turns bright 
 To that Far Land, where none are sick, 
 
 Nor ever say, 
 
 " Ah ! weary day.'
 
 
 
 kIJ<IK WOWELk 
 
 Canzonet. 
 
 " Marguerite ! Marguerite ! " call the lilies 
 
 Across the dewy lawn, — 
 " Come with thy smile to welcome 
 The flush of laughing Dawn. 
 
 " Come, we are weary waiting ; 
 Already Dawn has passed. 
 And o'er our sleeping petals 
 A flood of dewdrops cast. 
 
 " We were dreaming when she woke us, 
 As she cried — ' Awake ! 'tis day ! ' 
 And we heard her call the song-birds 
 As she passed along her way. 
 
 " Marguerite ! Marguerite ! " call the roses, 
 " Come, with thy face so fair, — 
 Come with the golden sunrays, 
 Agleamjng on thy hair,
 
 POEMS. 63 
 
 The clematis bells are ringing 
 Beneath the sheltered eaves, — 
 " Come, with thine eyes like violets, 
 Dew-steeped beneath their leaves. 
 
 ** Come, with thy fairy footsteps, — 
 O'er the modest daisies ti'ip ; 
 Come, with thy sweet face blushing, 
 Tinged like each daisy lip." 
 
 " Marguerite ! Marguerite ! " calls the streamlet, 
 
 As it runs towards the sea, 
 " In the mirror of my shining depths 
 The Nereides wait for thee." 
 
 The song-birds sing " She is coming 
 
 Over the meadow way ; 
 We can hear her fresh voice singing 
 Some chanson bright and gay." 
 
 " We can see her," sing the roses, — 
 " Her head with its sunny sheen ; " 
 And one tall lily murmurs 
 " She is coming — My queen, my queen ! " 
 
 Told by the Bells. 
 
 TJp to my window floating, from the busy city street, 
 I hear the hum of voices and the tread of many feet — 
 Fresh young children's voices, and footsteps bright and glad, 
 Voices worn by sorrow, and footsteps slow and sad — 
 Faces sweet and gentle, and faces lined witli care. 
 Gleaming golden tresses, and locks of silvery hair. 
 What message do ye bring, oh, bells, across the snow. 
 To this poor tide of human life, so rapid in its flow ? 
 Perchance in many hearts ye stir old memories once again ; 
 Peighi^nce to many eyes ^Q bring swift tears of silent pain.;
 
 64 LIN A HO WELL. 
 
 Perchance some hearts are dead to heed the story in thy 
 
 chimes — 
 The story angel voices told back in the olden times, 
 When, bending o'er the snow-clad hills, their radiant wings 
 
 unfurled, 
 And they sung their heavenly carol above a sleeping world. 
 
 To-day 'tis the same old story the angels told of then, 
 Bringing the same old message to the changing hearts of 
 
 men : 
 Striking again the same old chord upon the harp of life, 
 Until its ringing echoes float above all earthly strife. 
 Oh, bells, ye bi-ing me a picture, as if the unseen hand 
 Of some strange and mystic artist had strayed from the 
 
 Spirit Land, 
 And painted in darkened shadows a garret cold and bare. 
 Surely ye cannot bring a dream of gladness there. 
 Where the cold pale light of a candle its ghostly glimmers 
 
 shed 
 Upon a worn and pallid face and o'er a drooping head ; 
 And slowly fall the blinding tears upon her dreary work, 
 The ceaseless stitch and endless toil she knows she dare not 
 
 shirk. 
 
 Peace to that weary heart ! — oh, bells, it cannot be — 
 
 And her tired lips gave answer — " There is no peace for me. 
 
 My only guest is Want — 'tis Want that grimly stands, 
 
 Guarding my lonely threshold, and pointing, with bony 
 hands, 
 
 To my hearth, where no embers flicker and no cheery fire- 
 light falls 
 
 With warm and friendly greeting upon the cold blank walls. 
 
 Why do ye come to taunt me, oh, bells, with your dreams of 
 peace 1 
 
 Would I might still your echoes and bid your voices cease. 
 
 Yet once I loved your music— before the dazzling gleams 
 
 Of the city's light fell on me, and broke my childish (ireams. 
 
 Those dreams and vanished faces — oh, brlls, ye rouse them 
 now, 
 
 Their memories hang like fetters around my aching bro\v,"
 
 POEMS. 65 
 
 " List to the King's own message, His promise shall not fail ; 
 Be still, poor tired heart, there's peace behind the veil." 
 
 The picture has changed ; and another, as bright as that 
 
 was sad, 
 Shines on me through the shadows : there all is gay and glad. 
 Gathered around the hearth where the ruddy firelight glows, 
 And o'er bright merry faces its dancing flameliglit throws ; 
 Falling across the dim old room, and o'er each childish head, 
 Lighting up beneath their leaves the berries white and i-ed — - 
 I hear their joyful voices in some ballad quaint and sweet, 
 And their merry-hearted laughter and little dancing feet; 
 Surely ye bring, oh, bells, a peaceful message there 1 
 Ah, yes, but on that hearth there stands a vacant chair. 
 
 When yester year we chimed, another little voice 
 Echoed across the threshold, and bade all hearts rejoice. 
 On the hearth a little form lingered to watch the bright logs 
 
 roar. 
 And the music of other footsteps echoed across the floor. 
 A little face watched at the window the feathery snowflakes 
 
 fall; 
 A little hand wreathed the berries upon the old oak wall. 
 Only a .speaking silence sits in her vacant chair ; 
 Only the snow-drifts cover her crown of golden hair. 
 Yet close again to the threshold, with angel wings of light, 
 Her unseen presence lingers upon that hearth to-night. 
 " The broken links on earth " — they hear her softly sing — 
 "Shall be bound again in Heaven, is the message of the King." 
 
 Tokens. 
 
 Only some scentless blossoms, 
 
 Once sweet and passing fair. 
 Only a few old letters. 
 
 Hound with a tress of hair ; 
 Only a knot of ribbon 
 
 And a glove half torn in two. 
 Only a satin slipper 
 
 And a ring of turquoise blue. 
 £
 
 66 LIN A HOWELL. 
 
 Only some rusty needles, 
 
 And silken thread flung by, 
 Only a palette laden 
 
 With colours hard and dry ; 
 Only a picture lying 
 
 Half finished in the shade, 
 Only a jewelled hand-screen, 
 
 Upon the table laid. 
 
 Only a book with pages 
 
 Turned down just here and there, 
 Only a " Strad " with broken strings 
 
 Upon a favourite chair ; 
 Only a bowl of rose leaves. 
 
 In the dusk of the silent room, 
 Only a song once echoed 
 
 In the hush of the twilight gloom. 
 
 Only a moon-lit garden, 
 
 With rows of lily sheaves, 
 Only instead of footsteps 
 
 The sigh of falling leaves ; 
 Only a window opened 
 
 To the balmy evening air, 
 Only a wistful yearning 
 
 For a face no longer there. 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 It stood without a convent gate, an old cross worn and grey, 
 And 'neath it, sobbing in the mist, the wild sea rolled away ; 
 Across the weather-beaten stone sweet passion flowers clung, 
 And 'round the letters quaintly carved their clinging tendrils 
 
 hung. 
 Yearshad comeand years had gone, yet still the children play'd 
 With laughing lips and sunny eyes beneath the convent's 
 
 shade ; 
 And when the vesper chimes rang out upon the balmy air. 
 With solemn eyes and voices hushed they breathed the cross's 
 
 prayer, Miserere Domine.
 
 POEMS 67 
 
 As each life holds its story, so the old cross held its own, 
 A stoiy known to the flowers and the restless waves alone ; 
 Some strange romantic halo still linked it to the jDast, 
 And ghosts of unforgotten years their shadows o'er it cast. 
 There many a tired wanderer would rest beside the way, 
 "Where hot andfierce the noondaysun across tlielandscape lay, 
 Old men with careworn faces and silvery sprinkled liair 
 In faltering tones gave echo to the cross's silent prayer, 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The soft winds crept across it in the fleeting summer hours, 
 And the gleams of sunset lingered amid the passion flowers ; 
 There life within the liigh stone walls was perfect in its rest, 
 A tranquil stream with heaven's light upon its quiet breast. 
 Oft-times some sad-eyed girl recluse, alone with sea and sky, 
 Would linger there to whisper to the world a last good-bye. 
 Ere the convent gate behind her closed, and rang her parting 
 
 knell. 
 In the wailing chant that followed the Ave the old prayer 
 
 rose and fell. 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 She came when the shadows were falling adown the convent 
 
 wall. 
 And o'er the mountains floated the tinkling sheep bells' call. 
 Her feet were worn and weary, and her eyes were dim with 
 
 tears, 
 As she gazed upon her old home, her home of bye-gone years. 
 When her dauntless soul had hungered and yeai-ned for 
 
 light afar, 
 And fled away like a captive bird freed from its prison I)ar. 
 She'd left the path l)eliin(l her to tread the path before, 
 Though angel hands had held her back and breathed tlie 
 
 prayer of yore. 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 With ruthless hands shed scattered the lilies of her youth, 
 To gather Pleasure's roses before the l)looiiis of Truth ; 
 She'd trod a flowery pathway in one brief golden morn, 
 Yet knew not 'neath each l)lossom there lurked a cruel thorn ; 
 Her hollow eyes and tliin wan face all told a tale of woe,
 
 ()8 LIN A HO WELL. 
 
 And l>er childlike trust had vanished like her rich warm 
 
 southern glow. 
 Adown the hillside falling, a darker shadow swept, 
 And a crown of glory glistened where the passion flowers 
 
 slept ; 
 But lo ! the flowers faded, and a tender face instead 
 Shone out with eyes of pity beneath a thorn-crowned head. 
 At the foot of the cross, in shadow, a wild white face had 
 
 grown, 
 The face of a miserable sinner, and she knew it for her own, 
 She knew it, and in her dreaming tlie past was swept away, 
 Behind her lay the darkness and before a shining way, — 
 'Twas only the moonbeams flooding the sea with a mystic 
 
 glow, 
 While the lips of the dreamer murmured in broken tones and 
 
 low, 
 
 Miserere Domiue.
 
 J, DR.YDEJ<I WOgKEJ<[, 
 
 Selections from 
 
 " Phaon and Sappho," 
 and short Poems. 
 
 [ Included by kind permission of Messrs Macmillan and Co., and 
 the Author, who hold the Copyright.] 
 
 " Phaon and Sappho " is a Greek Drama, the scene of 
 which is laid in ^Mytjlene, in Lesbos. 
 
 A confession of love : — 
 
 Phaon. Sweet excellence, scorn not at Nature's tongue; 
 The deepest chords within me you have stirred ; 
 As though the wing of some air-travelling God 
 Had touched the strings of some disused lyre ; 
 As I an instantaneous change do feel, 
 And my old nature turns away from me. 
 So will I tie description of my state 
 In one sweet word, list ! — luce ! 
 
 Phaon vows constancy : — 
 
 I will attend on you 
 
 As constant us tlie shadow of the world 
 
 Thrown on the orb-paved heaven.
 
 70 J. D. HOSKEX. 
 
 And Sappho says : — 
 
 O Phaon, "we must part. 
 The day hath spent its fury out, and light 
 Dies slowly upward from the valley's depths 
 Along the mountain side, until its peak 
 Retains the last gold spark of hurrying day, 
 Flung like a fair memorial of his love 
 Back to the grieving earth ; but he will rise 
 And with him our new life of happiness. 
 
 Phaon. Now, Brassidas, comes on my flood of joy ; 
 I hold this breath while thinking of my love, 
 Lest the keen sense of pleasure strike me dead. 
 ! that I were as rich as my desire, 
 That I might coin the very horn of fortune 
 Into some sign of wealth, to shew my Love 
 The manifested estimation 
 
 In which I hold her worth : but could that do it ? 
 No ! nor all earth beside — I am a fool 
 From sheer excess of joy. 
 
 Sappho. Rest there, fair Goblet. ! my joy in death, 
 Not all the winds of heaven lend thee one breath 
 To speak one word in Sappho's hungry ear, — 
 No life for thee, tho' life for all beside ! 
 And still a smile upon those lips of thine— 
 ! mockery of life ! — I read the thought 
 That fluttered from thee vvith thy last drawn breath, 
 And hangs even now on heaven. O ! Phaon ! Phaon ! 
 To meet like this ! that this should be the end. 
 Of Love's fair promise ! ! my breathless love ! 
 Can I not coax thee back to life again 1 
 List ! 'tis thy Sappho speaking unto thee — 
 O foolish grief ! — come resolution — come ! 
 Give me strength to enact my dreaded part : —
 
 POEMS. 71 
 
 All other thought be gone ! — within this Goblet 
 
 There is ca poison death doth smile to own. 
 
 I am a priestess still unto Revenge, 
 
 And here I pour libations to that Power, 
 
 And now do give myself a sacrifice 
 
 To api)ease the Manes of my lover dead 
 
 Whose death I helped apace. [Drinks from Goblet). 
 
 Now do I sleep 
 To waken by my love. (Dies). 
 
 Song. 
 
 Sink gently in the silent sea, 
 Die slowly, slowly in the west ; 
 
 LuU'd by the winds sweet minstrelsy 
 To ijolden rest. 
 
 o^ 
 
 Thy wak'ning I shall view no more 
 
 Behind the east's pale shimmering hills ; 
 
 Ere thou dost rise the tale is o'er 
 Of earthly ills. 
 
 Destiny. 
 
 Where heaven, bright flashing thro' the deeps 
 
 Of this enduring universe, 
 Gleams brilliant witli its massy steeps, 
 
 There sits a power to m m averse, 
 Which ever hurls him to and fro. 
 Bound with its ciiains where'er he go. 
 
 'Tis Destiny, tliat through our life 
 To tempt us, drops its golden ball. 
 
 When we are anxious in the strife 
 That should secure for us our all. 
 
 Comes Destiny to thwart our aim, 
 
 And leave us nothing but a name.
 
 72 /. D. HOSKEN. 
 
 Fell power ! at war for aye with man, 
 
 Why liauntest thou his game of chance 1- 
 
 Himself a strange imperfect plan, 
 His life a bauble. Cast thy glance 
 
 And shake thy awful brow again. 
 
 Thou can'st not add another pain. 
 
 A Day in Spring. 
 
 Hail ! season of delight and sons:, 
 Once more you tint the glowing skies, 
 And wake the busy insect throng 
 While strewing earth with thousand dyes : 
 The pirmtose and anemones, 
 The daisy prim and violet blue 
 In clustering colonies arise 
 Where'er I turn my raptured view. 
 Still speaking to the heart of things for ever new. 
 
 And now the sun is high o'erhead, 
 The noontide silence reigns around. 
 The floweret droops its weary head, 
 And echo listens for a sound. 
 Now far away I catch the bound 
 Of sea-waves, and the distant splash 
 Within the forest shades has found 
 An answering voice, the whirring dash 
 Of startled bird resounds from yonder moss-grown ash. 
 
 Here I, at large, could moralize 
 Upon the mis-spent life of man, 
 Comparing him to that which lies 
 For GUI' good heed thro' Nature's plan. 
 But lo ! an end to day's bright span, 
 The sun is drooping in the main. 
 The evening breeze begins to fan 
 The sleeping woods, while his last strain 
 The song-bird pours away upon the dark'ning plain.
 
 POEMS. 73 
 
 ! Spring-time, passing fast away, 
 Would I could live witli thee for ever, 
 Where never sorrow, age, deca}'' 
 The spirit from its joy could sever ; 
 But thou art passing, passing, never 
 Again to render up the past, 
 And hours spent with thee, down Time's river 
 Remorselessly thy hands have cast — 
 Will they ne'er live again? only in memory last? 
 
 The Order of the World. 
 
 My heart sinks when I look upon the world 
 
 And see the wronger cased in evil might ; 
 The bloody flag of hell at large unfurled. 
 
 While vice and misery clothe themselves in night ; 
 The cry of innocence, the growl of lust, 
 
 Fair claims despised, and unjust avarice, 
 Merit and honour trampled in the dust. 
 
 While sin and virtue are made casting dice, 
 Shook in the cup of Custom, held by Time, 
 
 With all humanity to watch the game. 
 Time was when all injustice, woe and crime 
 
 Were straight redressed by heroes of fair fame. 
 ! that we had those old knights' chivalry. 
 The wronged to succour, and the slave to free. 
 
 A Memory of Love. 
 
 How sweet the transient dream and reverie, 
 fjike twilight's ])urple wing, sank on my heart 
 
 In that fair season when \ sat by Thee 
 
 List'ning thy song that shamed Apollo's art. 
 
 Love breathes upon my memor}^ and T see 
 The scene within my mind lost in time past. 
 
 The ceaseless sun descending in the sea,
 
 J. D. HOSKEN. 
 
 The hugh dark waves against the boulders cast, 
 The solitude of nature, if such be, 
 
 The momentary lull, broke by the roar 
 Of billows, or tlie sea-birds' noisy glee 
 
 Around tlie tiiiie-sapp'd crags and gully's hoar, 
 While thou wert by me : still in these I find 
 A shadow of tliy presence left behind. 
 
 Love and Earth's Echoes. 
 
 1 Lover 
 Love that is spoken often dies, 
 Quick as the light in evening skies. 
 Or as a song upon the year, 
 
 And leaves no answering spirit near : 
 Wilt thou be true 1 Shall I ne'er rue 
 My plighted faith 1 Wilt thou be true 1 
 
 Echo. 
 Wilt thou be true 1 
 
 2 Lover. 
 
 That doubt, O ! maiden, do not name, — 
 
 Changeless as you eternal flame 
 
 My spirit evermore shall be 
 
 In its full worshipping of thee. 
 
 I will be true ! Thou shalt not rue 
 
 Thy plighted faith ! I will be true ! 
 
 Echo. 
 I will be true. 
 
 1 Lover. 
 ! Love, I mourned thy broken faith. 
 And now I livn to mourn thy death, 
 And, like the echo ringing clear, 
 Thy voice was false within my ear. 
 " I will be true." ! echo earth 
 Are these things only for your mirth 1 
 
 Echo. 
 Only for — mirth.
 
 POEMS, 75 
 
 A Lover's Meditation on his Lady. 
 
 The lonely thoughts that issue from my mind, 
 
 Fill this small room with shadows of the world, 
 Where the unstable state of all mankind 
 
 Before reflection's eye is strangely hurled. 
 ! foolish man to reckon on a joy. 
 
 Thy trust is founded in uncertainty ; 
 Our hopes do make us fools, a cherished toy 
 
 Shews us but children still — -yet but for Thee 
 This life were valueless. Thou art a gem 
 
 Set on the wrinkled forehead of wide death, 
 Whose wide diftusive splendour doth condemn 
 
 All thought that undervalues human breath. 
 Indebted unto fortune least of all, 
 Yet having Thee, still rich, though fortunes thrall. 
 
 Genius and Love. 
 
 I AM so desolate. 
 
 Genius sighs — 
 Come, Love, and be my mate. 
 
 Give me thine eyes. 
 
 I am aweary. 
 
 Love, give me rest ; 
 Leave me not dreary. 
 
 Give me tliy breast. 
 
 The laik looks to heaven. 
 The tlower to the sun ; 
 
 But my heart is sore riven 
 For thy beauty, sweet one. 
 
 Give me thy presence. 
 
 My life to enfold ; 
 Then care and sorrow hence, 
 
 My life thou shalt hold.
 
 wiidLit^m eocK. 
 
 Thoughts from the Birds. 
 
 In a smiling field lay a number of birds, 
 Their colours were rare to behold ; 
 
 They struck the eye of the passer-by, 
 With their touches of amber and eold. 
 
 But among them I noticed some one or two 
 Whose colours were ashy and grey ; 
 
 They struck not the eye of the passer-by — 
 They lacked the outside display. 
 
 But suddenly up from the ground there arose 
 
 One of the ashy and grey ; 
 It soared in the sky till dazed vvas the eye, 
 
 And oh ! the rich melody ! 
 
 Its liquid notes rang over them all 
 And were wafted far and wide ; 
 
 The passers-by heard the notes from on high, 
 And they thought of nought beside.
 
 POEMS. 7J 
 
 And T thought — Ah nie! — the world is a field, 
 Tliere are men with the outside display ; 
 
 But tlie men who inspire and till us with fire, 
 Are oft-times the ashy and grey. 
 
 Failed. 
 
 Courage ! my brother ! say not that thou hast " failed ! " 
 Thou wilt yet safely reach the farther shore ; 
 
 Vainly the tempests hath thy bai-que assailed, — 
 
 Steer on, brave struggler, 'mid the maddening roar ! 
 
 Heed not the thunderings of the sullen deep, — 
 Fear not the billows that around thee roll ; 
 
 Vainly the blinding foam doth o'er thee sweep — 
 Held are the forces that would harm thy soul ! 
 
 Steer thro' the perilous seas ! the day will break, 
 
 Which thou hast looked for long, but looked in vain. 
 
 Let not grim doubt sui>plant thy regal faith ; 
 Cast forth thy Truths upon the roaring main. 
 
 Oft have I watched thee from the distant shore, 
 When nobly thou hast ventured on thy way : 
 
 Have heard thy voice above the breakers roar. 
 Cheering thy soul with its own melody. 
 
 Take heart, my brother ! the world defeats thee now ; 
 
 No sunlit sea awaits such barques as thine ; 
 'Twas ever thus — but cool thy fevered brow, 
 
 It yet will wake to such a soul as thine ! 
 
 Lift up thine head, thou child of tlie Immortal ! 
 
 Stern will the voyage be thou hast begun ; 
 What if thy barque should never reach yon portal 1 
 
 Angels will welcome thee, thou noble son ! 
 
 Dare then the storm, though high the billows roll, 
 Tliou wilt yet safely reach the farther shore ; 
 
 Tho' all Hell's hosts may terrify thy soul ! 
 
 Go forth ! brave struggler, till the confiict's o'er.
 
 WILLIAM COCK. 
 
 Summer. 
 
 Awake, my soul ! shake off thy shroud of darkness ! 
 
 A voice within desires thee awake ; 
 While earth, with her innumerable voices. 
 
 Chants forth her praises at thy golden gate. 
 
 Behold the pine trees, waving in the distance ! 
 
 The corn-fields smile beneath the ripening sun ; 
 The meadows and the hedges teem with gladness ; 
 
 And yet thy praises hath not yet begun. 
 
 The feathery songsters are alive with music ! 
 
 Triumphant notes are warbled all around, 
 Tuning with joy their offsprings' tender voices, 
 
 In unison with all harmonious sound. 
 
 The labourer's voice is one sweet rythmic ppean, 
 He goes his round with quick and vigorous tread ; 
 
 The task is light because the heart is lighter, 
 His labour smiles to him of daily bread. 
 
 The garden's fragrance fills the breeze with odour, 
 The redolence of flowers is grandly thine ; 
 
 And lovely are the colours, strangely blending, 
 Touched with the power of master-hand. Divine ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! and join the song exultant, — 
 Awake ! shine forth ! dispel the gathered gloom ! 
 
 Let my glad voice join in the blessed chorus. 
 And dreary musings for thy joy make room. 
 
 Awake ! awake ! God's presence fills the heavens, 
 The i-adiaiat earth, the sunset's sapphire throne ! 
 
 The supernatural in nature flameth ! — 
 Symbol sublime of thy eternal home !
 
 POEMS. 79 
 
 The Swan Song. 
 [ John Pascoe, The Truro Bard.] 
 
 " My throbbing heart ! be still ! be still ! 
 
 And bear thy lot below ! 
 And trust thy God whate'er His will 
 
 To send thee bliss or woe ; 
 The evening shades are gathering round, 
 
 And soon the night will come ; 
 Oh, may my spirit then be found, 
 
 Among the blest at home." 
 
 [ Extract from his last Poem. ] 
 
 Prophetic lines ! — sung by the dying bard, 
 
 Who oft-times charmed us with his potent song ; 
 
 Whose high immortal outbursts oft-times poured 
 A liquid ditty on our feverish tongue. 
 
 Still is the Poet now ! — he'll sing no more ; 
 
 No more shall pang or pain enwrap that brow ; 
 Gathered with singers on the radiant shore, 
 
 Oh ! for the song that he could sing us now ! 
 
 No more shall that poor heart with lonely throb 
 Burden his being with unrest and pain, 
 
 Or cause a Poet's tears to bathe the sod. 
 
 Like the fierce storm-clouds' tempest-driven rain ! 
 
 Ascended now, in realms of light and love, 
 He's with a royal company, serene and vast ; 
 
 No longer lonely, for in tliat haven above 
 All singers meet from the eternal past. 
 
 No night there ! Enrobed, ensphered, he walks 
 In li^ht — light from the Eternal throne ! 
 
 All barHeis smashed, far, far, above earth's shocks 
 Our I'oet dwells—" among the blest at Home."
 
 80 WILLIAM COCK. 
 
 To Cornubia. 
 
 [ After reading "Phaon and Sappho," by J. Dry den HoskenJ\ 
 
 Awake ! Cornubia ! rouse thy slumb'rous frame ! 
 
 Tell Albion's sons thou liast a mighty bard ! 
 Make thou a way for his melodious strain, 
 
 Whose song-wrapt soul the mystic muse doth guard. 
 
 Wake ! awake ! and let thy hills and dales 
 Echo the praises that should burst from thee ! 
 
 Let thy glad voice ring through the silent vales, 
 Waking thy sons to his rare melody. 
 
 Oh ! one will yet arise to gild thy name, 
 Will weave a garland for thy rugged brow, 
 
 W^ill light thy beacons with a quenchless flame. 
 
 And thy proud form shall 'neath its radiance glow. 
 
 Thou shouldst be proud of such a child as this ! 
 
 Should hasten now to grasp his proffered hand ! 
 Plant on his noble brow a welcome kiss, 
 
 As thy first-born fit for the classic band. 
 
 Wake ! then, awake ! a glorious hope is thine, 
 
 Peal it afar, and let the world regard ; 
 Soon will it rise, beneath the strains sublime. 
 
 And hasten to applaud Cornubia's bard. 
 
 " As Thou Wilt. " 
 
 " Thy will be done "! 
 
 How hard at times to pray — 
 Yet prayed the Chosen Son ! 
 
 When His great heart with lonely anguish throbbed 
 
 In dark Gethsemane, 
 O'erwhelmed with sorrow 'neath the will of God, 
 
 Yet could that dear voice say — 
 
 " Thy will be done."
 
 POEMS. 81 
 
 My brother, canst thou pray- 
 When wreathed in agony, 
 As did this radiant son ? 
 
 When 'neath the blasts of some destroying storm — 
 
 Some dark Gethseraane, — 
 Canst thou above it I'aise thy prostrate form, 
 
 And like thy Master say — 
 
 " Thy will be done ? " 
 
 Aye, brother, canst thou pray 
 In thy Gethseraane, 
 
 Like a submissive son ? 
 
 Oh ! safe art thou if thou hast learned that prayer, 
 Disaster cannot harm thee nor aflrisrht. 
 
 Vainly will shriek the minions of despair. 
 
 If, like Him, thou canst say in life's dark night — 
 
 " Thy will be done." 
 
 Henry Ward Beecher, 
 
 On visiting his old hattle-gi-ound, riyinouth Church, 
 
 Brooklyn. 
 
 Oh ! thou great Spirit, now enthroned in Light, 
 
 Here may I muse on thee, with throbbing brain — 
 How o'er the foam-fleck'd waves of Time thy name 
 
 Pealed forth its thunder and its matchless luiglit — 
 Avenger of the wrong and champion of the right ! 
 
 Thou heaven-born warrior, here would I I'eraain 
 Till my frail Spirit catch thy hallowed flame, 
 
 And revel in the glow of thy God-Light. 
 Immortal Field ! wliere thou hast nobly trod, 
 
 Freeing the sin-chained slave, mid hostile spears : 
 Thy quenchless power here thrilled the sin-shook spheres 
 
 And ransomed thousands through thee worshipped God! 
 Fade may thy veteran form in yonder grove, 
 But in our hearts thy name's embalmed in Love. 
 
 P
 
 82 WILLIAM COCK. 
 
 In Longfellow's Garden. 
 
 Chief of New England's bowers ! to thee I'm drawn 
 
 By some mysterious power that haunts this place ; 
 Some strange enchantment hangs ai'ound this lawn, 
 
 Shedding a mystic glow o'er Nature's face — 
 And with a subtle flame 
 Kindles the musing brain ! 
 Why should this scene entrance the gazing eye 1 
 
 Where lies the spell that chains me to this gi'ove 1 
 Why doth the soul leap forth in ecstasy — 
 
 Like a young spirit o'er the fronds of Love ? 
 
 Ah ! in these realms a mighty spirit dwelt, 
 
 Who swept with subtle touch a matchless lyre, 
 Till from its wondrous chords the cold earth felt 
 The thrilling music of that ransomed choir 
 Who, with melodious voice. 
 Once made a world rejoice ! 
 Oh ! thou sweet singer, o'er yon foaming sea 
 
 Thy song oft soothed the old world's wearied brain : 
 Its mighty heart swelled neath thy minstrelsy : 
 In every land was heard thy wondrous strain. 
 Till Heaven's serenest ray 
 Shone o'er its dark-lit way. 
 Well might Columbia guard this sacred shrine, 
 
 And keep in fadeless splendour thy dear name ; 
 Well might her laurels round thy brow entwine, — 
 A worthier son ne'er wore the robes of fame. 
 
 Chief of New England's bards ! — Immortal son ! 
 
 Still dost thou breathe in fragrance o'er this place ; 
 Thy presence still doth haunt this sacred lawn, 
 
 Shedding a mystic light o'er Nature's face — 
 And with a subtle flame 
 ■ Kindles the musing brain ! 
 Here lies the secret of thy potency, — 
 
 This the strange spell that chains me to this grove ; 
 And thus the soul leaps forth in ecstasy — 
 
 Like a young spirit o'er the fronds of Love.
 
 POEMS. 83 
 
 In Memoriam. 
 A. H., Born, 1863; Died, 188G. 
 
 " Dead ! " Avaunt the thought ! Thou art not dead ! 
 
 It is not death when the frail form gives way — 
 
 So that the struggling spirit might have sway 
 
 In its own freedom ! 
 
 The fleshy barriers that entombed thy spirit 
 
 Are for ever shattered ! — and now, lit 
 
 For the celestial bodies, thou art made 
 
 A son of Light and Liberty. 
 
 Let us rejoice ! 
 On the Eternal Shores, with all the good and great 
 Of all the ages, thou art now encompassed ! 
 
 Life's broadest gate 
 Hath opened on thy vision, and, long ere this, 
 Thy spirit hath begun the immortal bliss 
 Of that vast company, who, in light serene, 
 Develop their great forces. Heaven's brightest sheen 
 O'ermantles them ; empannelled and empalled 
 By the Great Spirit who them hath called 
 Into that higher state, thou 
 Art now the scholar, where discipline and rule 
 Are unheard-of things : for in that wondrous school 
 They need no more correction. 
 While here on earth they felt the rod ; but de^th 
 Proved their gradation-day, and now, on fuller breadth, 
 Unhindered by the achings of dull clay, 
 With them tliou flashest in the immortal day 
 Of Heaven's eternal Light. No night, 
 No pain, no earth-born gloom 
 
 Shall evermore fall on thee ; but in the radiant noon 
 Of that empyreal sphere thou dvvellest in peace. 
 
 Awhile farewell ! We leave thee in thy glory, 
 And pray that we again shall meet 
 Within the vale. Ah ! when again we meet 
 Each other, we shall part no more.
 
 W. HERBERT THOMK. 
 
 The Two Wishes. 
 
 A ROSE in my garden is nodding its head, 
 
 And the sun's crimson glow fills the petals with flame 
 
 As their fragrance is borne on the breeze, 
 
 As aroma floats far on the breeze ; 
 And breathing the perfume so lavishly shed, 
 I blush like the rose, but with sorrow and shame, 
 
 At the blots on the book of my Past, 
 
 At the guilt and the ghosts of my Past ; 
 And I would that the rays which the heavens o'erspread, 
 Might burn every leaf of the days that are dead. 
 
 A lily is swaying above the dark earth, 
 A stately white flower as pure as snow 
 
 Or the pendulous clouds in the sky. 
 
 The soft fleecy clouds in the sky ; 
 And my soul is athirst for a holier birth, 
 For the rapture and peace that the Seraphim know, 
 
 And a heart that is purged of its sin, 
 
 That is free from its passion and sin ; 
 That is chaste as the lily and stainless as snow. 
 Yet with Love's crimson roses is warmly aglow,
 
 POEMS. 85 
 
 The Heavenly Messenger. 
 
 As the s;lorified angels were sin^ins: a sonsr 
 
 Of rapture and peace in the skies, 
 God beckoned a cherub from out the clad throng 
 
 And gazed in his innocent eyes. 
 " Go forth," said the King, " with a message to Earth, 
 
 A message of pity and love ; 
 Be mortal, that souls, through the pangs of thy birth, 
 
 May mount to the star-worlds above." 
 
 The harp-strings were swept till the quivering notes 
 
 Burst forth in a psean of praise 
 And blended with anthems from millions of throats, 
 
 And the heavens with light were ablaze. 
 Then the cherub knelt down and was blessed by the King, 
 
 And tenderly bidding adieu 
 To the choir of seraphs, on wide-spreading wing 
 
 Through the clouds the sweet messenger flew. 
 
 My heart was elate with ecstatic delight 
 
 As I held a wee babe to my breast — 
 A cherub, — the fairest that e'er met my sight. 
 
 Or that loving arms ever cai'essed. 
 Like a sunbeam from Heaven, that radiant boy 
 
 Through the windows of Home softly stole. 
 Dispelling my sorrow and scattering joy 
 
 In the depths of m}"^ innermost soul. 
 
 Oh God ! how I worshipped that beautiful flower — 
 
 That blossom from Paradise blown — 
 Nor divined that for only a swift-passing hour 
 
 Were its beauty and perfume n)y own. 
 My vision saw naught of the cherubic band, 
 
 No harp-notes were borne from the spheres, 
 Idolatry Vjanished the far spirit-land — 
 
 A baby voice deafen(jd my ears.
 
 86 W. HERBERT THOMAS. 
 
 1 fed on the rippling laughter that broke 
 
 O'er his cheeks like a sparkling wave ; 
 It was ever of him that I lovingly spoke, 
 
 To him every thought fondly gave. 
 I bent o'er his cradle when Angels of Sleep 
 
 Kissed his eyelids with tremulous breath ; 
 Nor knew that above him would stealthily creep 
 
 The sable-hued Angel of Death. 
 
 But a trumpet soon rang in the darkness of night, 
 
 And the cherub was summoned away, 
 While a torrent of tears fell and blinded my sight. 
 
 And writhing in anguish I lay. 
 In vain I implored my sweet babe to return 
 
 To my arras and his cradle again ; 
 In vain for his presence my spirit might yearn, 
 
 And my heart feel its horrible pain ! 
 
 Oh, the deep desolation, the silence and grief ! 
 
 How it humbled my pride to the dust ! 
 How I prayed to a merciful God for relief. 
 
 Though the punishment meted was just. 
 Then the message of peace was revealed to ray soul. 
 
 And I knelt at the footstool divine, 
 And back from the glory I saw the clouds roll. 
 
 And the joy of the pardoned was mine. 
 
 When I gaze at the gems that besprinkle the skies 
 
 An angel comes fluttering down, 
 And tenderly wipes every tear from my eyes 
 
 And shows me his star-jewelled crown. 
 'Tis my baby, immortal, eternally blest. 
 
 Who comes the glad message to tell — 
 That when 'neath the turf my frail body shall rest 
 
 My soul with the angels shall dwell.
 
 POEMS. 87 
 
 A Song of Venice. 
 
 List ! list, to the sound of the music 
 
 Whispering low to the murmuring sea, 
 List to the thrill of the quivering harp-strings, 
 
 List to their ravishing melody. 
 Gaze on the flushes of crimson and purple, 
 
 Watch the red sim as it passes from sight. 
 See the gay nobles in gliding gondolas, 
 
 Bathed in the softness and beauty of night ! 
 
 Stand to your oars, O ye brave gondoliers. 
 Silent, that sweetly may fall on our ears 
 Music like warbles from nightingales' throats. 
 Or echoes of (Jrpheus' rapturous notes ! 
 
 Hark ! O hark, to the voice of the singer ! 
 
 Catch the grand strain that is pealing aloft ! 
 Hark ! how it rises ! — a prayer to the heavens ! — 
 
 List ! How it dies away tremblingly soft ! 
 How the dark eyes of the ladies are flashing ! 
 
 How the stars burn as the music ascends ! 
 See the lights dance as we flit by the palaces ! 
 
 How the rich voice with the throbbing harp blends ! 
 
 Know ye the cliarm of the soft Southern starlight 1 
 
 Know the delight of Venetian song ? 
 Can ye recall the romance and the beauty 
 
 As in gondolas ye glided along 1 
 Still in my fancy I pass 'neath the arches. 
 
 Still hear the chords from the harp's mellow strings ; 
 Glide once again o'er the blue Adriatic, 
 
 List'ning entranced as the strange minstrel sings ! 
 
 Stand to your oars, ye brave gondoliers, 
 Silent, that sweetly may fall on our cars 
 Music like warbles from nightingales' throats, 
 Or echoes of Orpheus' rapturous notes !
 
 88 W. HERBERT THOMAS. 
 
 Shadows. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 As the twilight shadows gather 
 
 And the earth in slumber lies, 
 I gaze into memory's mirror 
 
 With eager, longing eyes. 
 And I see the vanished faces 
 
 Come trooping back again, 
 And a throb of joy is blended 
 
 With a touch of softened pain. 
 
 REFRAIN. 
 
 Shadows of gladness, shadows of care, 
 Visions of beauty wondrously fair. 
 Glimpses of moments golden and bright, 
 Shadows of sadness, shadows of night. 
 
 From the mist there comes the vision 
 
 Of a little dimpled face, 
 And my tears fall soft, like dew-drops. 
 
 As the memory I embrace : 
 I hear the tender echoes 
 
 Of a baby's voice again. 
 And his breath falls like a zephyr 
 
 As it kisses summer rain. 
 
 And now I see in the mirror 
 
 A form I loved too well. 
 Of a maiden -who in spring-time 
 
 Had bound me with a spell. 
 When the winter winds blew coldly 
 
 She join'd the angel band, 
 Yet her spirit comes to cheer me 
 
 From the distant shadow-laud. 
 
 O ! the precious twilight shadows 
 
 Of the days of long ago ; 
 We would linger with thy visions, 
 
 But on vapour-clouds they go !
 
 POEMS. 
 
 When our soulless dust is wafted 
 O'er the earth where now we stand, 
 
 Shall we dwell with those who wander 
 In the mystic shadow-land ? 
 
 Battling with Clouds. 
 
 Sinks now the sun beyond the distant hill 
 As daylight melts and merges into night ; 
 
 His crimson glory streaming brightly still 
 
 Though gloomy storm-clouds gather for the fight. 
 
 How fierce upon the glowing disc they crowd, — 
 The sombre legions Avho would slay his beams. 
 
 Yet bursting through the dark and stifling shroud, 
 With triumph quivering, shine the conquering beams. 
 
 Like Hercules beset with armed foes. 
 
 The Day -god shoots his streaks of living fire, 
 
 Defiant as at dawn when he arose 
 
 And up the sapphire pathway mounted higher. 
 
 But now the giant meets his final doom, — 
 
 Fresh hosts of niglit come forth and vengeance claim, 
 
 And dying Sol, enwrapped in hideous gloom, 
 Sinks lifeless as he breathes one lurid flame. 
 
 So struggles man when clouds of Sin and Doubt 
 His mind assail and blot his life's fair page, — 
 
 The warring legions faced and put to rout. 
 Another enemy his wa,ning powers engage : 
 
 That foe is Death, who rides a ghostly horse. 
 And breathes his deadly vapours on mankind 
 
 Till each frail mortal is a silent corse 
 
 And wreaths of tears the victor's forehead bind. 
 
 But Sol with undimm'd splendour will arise. 
 His golden briglitness once more we shall see; 
 
 So man shall rise and wear in yonder skies 
 A crown of light and immortality !
 
 90 W. HERBERT -.THOMAS. 
 
 The Goddess of Fashion. 
 
 Great Goddess ! In thy courts I fearless stand, 
 
 And face a tyrant ruling every land ; 
 
 In thee behold a despot whose dark sway 
 
 Moulds human lives as potters mould their clay. 
 
 No monarch seated on his regal throne 
 
 Dare give thee battle, or thy claims disown ; 
 
 More potent than barbaric rulers, thou, 
 
 Feai'ed more than Western King with crowned brow ; 
 
 Served by the savage and the civilized — 
 
 Thy sentence dreaded, and thy favour prized ! 
 
 Foul deity ! Thy cheeks should burn with shame, 
 
 Thy glory perish by consuming flame ! 
 
 The tyrant Nero's hands were steeped in crime. 
 
 But thou shedd'st human blood in every clime ; 
 
 Inflictest torture, exquisitely Veen, 
 
 And forgest chains for peasant, lord and queen. 
 
 At thy command the mother slays her child ; 
 
 For thee God's sacred image is defiled — 
 
 The body mutilated, and the soul 
 
 Severed from hope of its eternal goal ! 
 
 Accursed Goddess ! Lo, thy subjects kneel 
 And kiss thy feet, and for thy smile appeal. 
 There bends the Indian, with his flatten'd brow, 
 And there wasp-waisted English matrons bow : 
 And Chinese dame with " golden lily foot," 
 On which Deformity her stamp has put. 
 The proud Maori chief, with tattoed face. 
 And South Sea cannibal, have found a place ; 
 Yet still the hosts of slaves and martyrs come, 
 Who at thy word would be maim'd, deaf and dumb ! 
 
 How varied, and how hideous, is thy train 
 Of willing sufferers of horrid })ain ! 
 Blinded by Folly, and by Custom bound ; 
 By fear and envy swayed and hemmed around ! 
 Here the Ascetic shows his lengthened nails
 
 POEMS. 91 
 
 To Turkish ladies wrapped iu muffling veils ; 
 
 There the stern Judge struts forth with wig and gown, 
 
 And sceptered Monarch with his golden crown ; 
 
 While near, a fair Maganya woman goes, 
 
 Who boasts a huge ring pendant from her nose ! 
 
 For thee, Fashion, maidens are confined 
 By harem's walls, to Nature's wonders blind ; 
 For thee poor babes are wedded ere they grow 
 To think and love, and Life's great duties know ; 
 For thee the flesh is jnere'd, and fair cheeks scarred, 
 Art is outrag'd, and Nature's image marred. 
 Base Fashion ! Fiend incarnate ! iu thy name 
 The funeral pyre shoots forth its fatal llauie ; 
 And there the Indian squaw laments her chief, — 
 Compelled to die, forsooth, to prove her grief ! 
 
 Atrocious folly ! shameful sin and crime. 
 
 That ]\Ian should crawl wjien God would have him climb ! 
 
 Are we but brainless apes that we should heed 
 
 The lav/s that thou, vile Fashion, hast decreed % 
 
 Learn from thee what to do, and eat, and wear 1 
 
 Borrow our faith, our action, and our prayer 1 
 
 Be other's echoes 1 Ne'er use Will or Brain % 
 
 Be shackled fools, deform'd and rack'd with pain 1 
 
 Nay, Goddess ! bold and strong in wisdom grown. 
 
 We curse thy name, and kneel at Reason's throne ! 
 
 An Epitaph. 
 
 Like flaming comet on a darkened sky, 
 
 A God-sent ray 
 Streamed through the depths of forest gloom where I 
 
 Groped on Life's way. 
 
 I loved the warmth and kissed the golden glow, 
 
 I cried " Oh, stay ! " 
 The sunbeam lied, and left me blackness, woo 
 
 And lifeless clay !
 
 KMBROSE THYkOK. 
 
 The Granite Cliffs at the Land's-End. 
 
 Hail, wild Bolerium ! where the unceasing shocks 
 
 Of earth and ocean clash ; where roar and moan 
 
 Of furious winds affright the ear ! Hail ! igneous rocks I 
 
 Whose weight would make the fabled Atlas groan ; 
 
 Whose dormant power would mock at Hercules ! Your tops, 
 
 Hoar with the age of countless centuries, ye proudly bear 
 
 With awing majesty and lofty mien ! The grim Cyclops 
 
 Ne'er built such walls impregnable as ye uprear 
 
 In mighty soaring grandeur ! On your highest crests 
 
 Those birds of Jupiter, the royal eagles, built their nests ! 
 
 Your beetling sides give bounds to Neptune's sway ; 
 
 Your bases are the world's foundation stones ; 
 
 Your fallen bowlders, bathed in foaming spray, 
 
 The stateliest frigates wreck, and strew the bones 
 
 Of bravest mariners along the yellow sand 
 
 Which sun and shower and frost have crumbled down 
 
 From your storm-beaten sides ! Your mighty strand 
 
 Spurns back the wave's white rage and billow's surge, while 
 
 down 
 From dizzy heights ye frown in silent eloquence ! Your towers 
 By Nature shaped and built, heed not Time's fleeting hours !
 
 POEMS. 93 
 
 Ye'U lift your peaks while ages pass away, 
 
 And we are traced by relics delved from down 
 
 Beneath earth's surface ; just as we to-day 
 
 Trace Pompeii's courts, and Herculaneum's town ; 
 
 Till that " last day " with mighty noise shall come, 
 
 "When elements shall melt with fervent heat, 
 
 And Earth and all its works receive their doom : 
 
 Here will ye stand on adamantine feet ! 
 
 And when the avenging flames have onward passed, 
 
 May help to form another Earth at last ! 
 
 Tolling out the Old Year and Ringing in 
 the New, 1878—79. 
 
 High up in the dim church tower, 
 At solemn midnight hour, 
 Tolls forth with startling power 
 Loud tenor bell. 
 
 As to and fro is swung 
 Its heavy rolling tongue, 
 Wherewith is ever rung 
 Funereal knell, 
 
 From its deep-sounding throat 
 Booms out a sullen note, 
 Whose wandering echoes float 
 O'er hill and dell. 
 
 " Gone," the bell sternly says, 
 " Gone are Spring's brightest sprays, 
 Gone is proud Summer's blaze, — 
 Each of them gone ! 
 
 '* Gone are leaves, buds, and flowers ; 
 Gone are weeks, days, and hours ; 
 Gone, friends that erst were yours, — 
 Dear friends are gone !
 
 94 AMBROSE TAYLOR. 
 
 " Gone, eyes whose radiant beams, 
 Flashing love's witching gleams, 
 Conjured wild waking dreams, — 
 These, too, are gone ! " 
 
 " Cease, cease, thou maddening bell. 
 
 Thy hideous sobs. 
 That leap out in the stillness of the night 
 Like demons loosed from hell ; 
 
 Thy awful throbs 
 Fill my whole being with a grim affright ! 
 
 " Is there no word to yell 
 
 Save that of " gone ; " 
 
 Ko hopeful message sent by kindly fate ; 
 
 No gentle, soothing swell 
 
 To cheer me on ; 
 
 No joyful news to sonorously relate ? " 
 
 " Alas ! " gasped out the bell, 
 
 With quivering surge, 
 " Not now speak I of any mortal's fate ; 
 Far weightier tale I tell — 
 
 I chant the dirge 
 Of dying Time, — poor Eighteen Seventy Eight ! " 
 
 Ringing in the New. 
 
 Once more with sounding strain 
 The bell peals out again. 
 But not in tones of pain 
 As heretofore ; 
 
 Nor does it sound alone, 
 For with its own deep tone 
 Four other bells make known 
 With differing power
 
 POEMS. 95 
 
 That in the early morn 
 Another year is boni, 
 For happy and forlorn, 
 
 For rich and poor. 
 
 Pour'd from their ringing throats, 
 In wild, exulting notes, 
 Out on the night-wind floats 
 To listening ear — 
 
 " For high, low, great, and small, 
 In cot or princely hall, 
 New Year is come for all — 
 
 All hail, New Year!" 
 
 Glad tidings such as these, 
 In changing harmonies, 
 And swelling symphonies. 
 
 These joy-bells bear. 
 
 " Let all the earth be glad ; 
 With smiles each visage clad ; 
 Nor man nor woman sad. 
 Nor child repine ; 
 
 " But Hope fill every breast. 
 And Faith give Hope deep zest, 
 And Charity thrice blest 
 
 With Love combine ; 
 
 " And, with one wide consent, 
 From earth to heaven be sent 
 Deep joy at the advent 
 
 Of Seventy Nine ! 
 
 " What though Old Year is dead ; 
 What thougli his summer's fled ; 
 What tliougli his llowers have laid 
 Their Ijlossorus down ! 
 
 " We ring of New-born Year ; 
 Sweet Spring will soon be liere, 
 And in her arujs slui'U bear 
 
 Flowers newly blown.
 
 96 AMBROSE TAYLOR. 
 
 " April shall smile through tears; 
 May laugh at April's fears, 
 Till ruddy June appears 
 
 And takes AFay's crown ! 
 
 " What though chill north-wind blows ; 
 Wliat though cold Winter's snows 
 Earth's dimpled cheeks enclose 
 With spotless veil ! 
 
 " Soon the chill north-wind's doom 
 From sunny south shall come, 
 And Earth's pale cheeks shall bloom 
 At Summer's tale. 
 
 " Then, smiling, she will pour 
 From her warm bosom's store 
 Gifts bright as those of yore 
 O'er hill and dale ! " 
 
 " Oh what a joyous strain 
 
 Your cadence tells ! 
 Sweet harbingers, ring on your melody, 
 I pray, ring on again, 
 
 And, 'mid your swells, 
 Hint what my individual fate shall be. 
 
 " Say, shall my house be rear'd 
 
 On shifting sands ; 
 On vapoury clouds shall my life's ladder lean ; 
 And shall my goals when near'd 
 
 Prove shadow-lands ; 
 My retrospect, not Was, but Might have been ? " 
 
 " These, mortal, rest with you 
 
 To great extent : 
 Act well your part — therein all honour lies — 
 And to all trusts be true ; 
 
 A life well spent 
 Shines here on earth — hereafter in the skies."
 
 POEMS. 97 
 
 " Stay, stay, truth-telling bells, 
 
 A moment stay ! 
 I pray you murmur in my listening ear 
 Low, gentle canticles, 
 
 Wherein convey 
 Some mention of a maiden very dear. 
 
 " Oh ! will she ever place 
 
 Her hand in mine, 
 And with Love's trembling lips say, 'Yes, I will !' 
 Then, with sweet smiling face, 
 
 Our paths combine. 
 And by my side climb Life's steep rugged hill?" 
 
 " Oh ! this we do not know ; 
 And if we did 
 We would not tell you such a secret thing : 
 Love on, and time will show 
 
 What now is hid ; 
 And if Love wins, we'll make the welkin ring ! " 
 
 Little Nell : An Idyl of Castle Horneck. 
 
 One summer's day, with Little Nell, 
 
 I wandered in this ferny dell 
 
 To where a sparkling cascade fell. 
 
 There we sat upon a stone 
 
 With moss and ivy overgrown. 
 
 And talke 1 and laughed and loved unknowji; 
 
 And watched the merry sunbeams flash 
 And dance upon the brooklet's splash. 
 As down it fell with scattering dash ; 
 
 And then ran tortuous in and out — 
 Here and there and round about — 
 Toying with its speckled trout ; 
 
 Who, as the silvery .stream .sped by, 
 Deftly caught the venturous lly, 
 Or wanton, gambolled lazily. 
 G
 
 98 AMBROSE TAYLOR. 
 
 In this dell we'd often been — 
 
 Nelly called it " a fairy scene," 
 
 And her I named "The Fairies' Queen." 
 
 We had beguiled the fleeting hours 
 
 Idly culling pretty flowers 
 
 From hedges, nooks, and silvan bowers. 
 
 Nelly spread them on the stone, 
 Then arranged them one by one 
 In tasteful manner quite her own. 
 
 Then she took the sweet woodbine, 
 Its tendril ends she did entwine, 
 And wreathed thereon wild eglantine. 
 
 " For whom weave you that wreath so fair ? " 
 I asked svveet Nell with careless air. 
 As though for whom I did not care. 
 
 And then with playful coquetry 
 And laughing eyes thus answered she, 
 " Watch and wait and you will see ! " 
 
 The beauteous garland soon was made, 
 And toyed about in mock parade, 
 And all its various hues displayed ; 
 
 Held aloft and tossed in air ; 
 Placed upon her auburn hair — 
 And kissed at last, I do declare ! 
 
 " Tis for one who loves me true ; 
 One whom I love dearly too — 
 Don't look jealous, — 'Tis for you ! " 
 
 Too like her were those flowers, 
 Cradled in Nature's bowers, 
 Gathered in sunny hours — 
 
 Alas ! they soon did fade ; 
 Like them, my Nell is dead, 
 And in the grave is laid.
 
 W. e. SWaTTIf.EWOR.TW. 
 
 Christmas Dreams. 
 
 When earth was bright with the mystic liglit 
 
 That on cliildhood's morning gleams, 
 And Christmas l)ells were voices of spells 
 
 Tliat touched into life our dreams, — 
 My fancy would paint that kindly Saint 
 
 Who on wings of the midniglit flew, 
 His gifts to shed round the children's bed, — 
 
 And the dream, tho' a ib-e.im, was true. 
 
 When youth was sped, and fantasy fled 
 
 In the glare of manhood's noon. 
 Still my heart would greet one vision sweet, 
 
 Thro' the mist of the Christmas moon ; 
 Down a shining stair cttme a maiden fair, 
 
 O fond was the joy wa knew ! 
 It faded away witli the waking day, — 
 
 But my glad love-dream was true.
 
 100 H. C. SHUTTLEWORTH. 
 
 And now T have dreamed of a world redeemed 
 
 From povei-ty, pain and ill ; 
 Of peace on earth thro' the Blessed Birth, 
 
 For struggle and strife, good-will ; — 
 Though sadly and slow our world doth grow 
 
 Toward the morning where all is new — 
 God send us heart still to bear our part 
 
 In making the bright dream true ! 
 
 Cradle Song. 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ; — 
 The day is worn to rest ; 
 The sun is faiTit and low ; 
 Silently over the snow 
 Night comes out of the West ; 
 And the cahn-eyed Angels of eventide 
 Gather about thy cradle-side ; 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ; 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ; — 
 Father is far away, 
 The fields are misty and cold, 
 The year grows faded and old, 
 All wan is the world and grey ; — 
 But he comes in sleep-time to hstby and me. 
 For the veiled Dream- Angels set all hearts free ; 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ; 
 
 Sleep, darling, sleep ;- - 
 Joy shall awake with day, 
 And the year be young again ; 
 From hearts of sorrowing men 
 Shadows shall flee away, 
 
 When the gold-haired Angel of morn shall come, 
 And over the bright hills bring him home. 
 Sleep, darling, sleep.
 
 POEMS, 101 
 
 My Love Loves Me. 
 
 'Tis the last bright hour of a magic time, 
 
 The waking close of a summer dream ; 
 I shall soon be far from the ocean chime, 
 
 From the sleeping hills and the sunlit stream : 
 And I ever have lingered, loth to ])art, 
 
 sweetest of western vales, from thee ; 
 But I leave thee now with a bounding heart, 
 
 For I know today that my love loves me. 
 
 From the cornfields, glowing with August bloom, 
 
 From the sea's soft blue, from the wind-swept down, 
 I go to my lonely London room. 
 
 To the dust and din of the work-worn town : 
 But a gay farewell to the golden fields. 
 
 And a light adieu to the laughing sea ! 
 All longing to linger passes, and yields 
 
 To the thrill of the thought that my love loves me. 
 
 So I cheerly turn me to work again, 
 
 Life runs in its daily round once more ; 
 But the stress of thought and the sweat of brain 
 
 Have lost the hardness that erst they wore : 
 For with strange new glory the world is bright, 
 
 That never before was on land or sea ; 
 And all things move in a mist of light. 
 
 For joy that I know that my love loves me. 
 
 I know by the touch of her tell-tale hand, 
 
 I read in the rose-blush bloom of her cheek, 
 The lore that a lover can understand, 
 
 The wordless language that hearts can speak — 
 Yet I hunger to hear it in accMits low, 
 
 And I look and long for the day to be, — 
 The golden day when I sure shall know 
 
 From her own true lips that my love loves me.
 
 102 H. C. 8HUTTLEW0RTH. 
 
 A Christmas Card. 
 
 Where Cornwall's cliffs breast the Atlantic wave, 
 Lies an old kingdom, deep in surge-swept grave : 
 A land of wonder, sunk in a sea-sleep, 
 One day to rise, King Arthur's state to keep. 
 
 Still on the mystic marge of that drown'd land 
 Strange flowers lonely bloom, strange ruins stand ; 
 And boatmen hear, borne on the calm tide's flow, 
 Bells of old towers chime faintly far below. 
 
 So, deep beneath our stir of workaday strife, 
 Lie wrecked ideals of diviner life ; 
 Old hopes, May-promise, faded soon as seen. 
 The buried Eden-world that might have been. 
 
 Buried, not dead : for still in golden hours, 
 
 We liiiht on some rare rose of that land's flowers ; 
 
 A face, a dream, a song, a hallowed time, 
 
 Kings throua:h life's weed and wave a sad glad chime. 
 
 Through the sweet visions of this Holy Tide 
 
 God send His dearest angel to thy side. 
 
 Some leaf from thy lost Paradise to bring, 
 
 So touch thy Christmas with the breath of Spring : 
 
 Thy dead shall live ! Eden is yet to be : 
 Faith finds hope's surest pledge in memory ; 
 The Age of Gold, that o'er earth's morning smiled. 
 Is no embalmed corpse ; 'tis an Eternal Child. 
 
 Poppies among the Corn. 
 
 They meri'ily dance and gaily jaunt 
 
 Their scarlet in saucy scorn. 
 Heedless of sickle and sc}th<" they flaunt, 
 
 The poppies among the corn.
 
 POEMS. 103 
 
 Alas for tlie doom that awaits their pride ! 
 
 Laid low on the harvest-morn 
 All withered and dead they are tossed aside, 
 
 Cast out from among the corn. 
 
 Little maid of the mill, thou art fresh and fair 
 
 As though of the August born ; 
 With a ribbon of red in thy gold-bright hair, 
 
 Like poppies among the corn. 
 
 Don't liv-e like the poppies, sweet maid of the mill. 
 
 Their day has a close forlorn ; 
 For all their scarlet array, sweet maid, 
 
 They are weeds among the corn. 
 
 So live in the light of Eternal Day, 
 
 That on God's great Harvest morn 
 The Angel-reapers may bear thee away 
 
 To be garnei'ed among His corn.
 
 RieWHRD BURROW. 
 
 Wreckers and Rescuers. 
 
 'TwAS evening, and the setting sun sank slowly o'er the 
 
 main, 
 The twilight deepened into night, the stars shone out again, 
 The mighty waves were surging high, then dashed with 
 
 sullen roar 
 Upon the sharp and rugged rocks which gird the Cornish 
 
 shore. 
 
 Who has not stood high on the cliff and caught the cooling 
 
 breeze, 
 Looking with wonder and delight across the rolling seas 1 
 Who has not wished that rocks and caves with cliffs and 
 
 sands could tell 
 Of deeds there done in days of yore, and what brave men 
 
 befell ?
 
 POEMS. 105 
 
 'Twas thus I mused one summer night, and spake the 
 
 thought aloud — 
 Ye rocks that stand lirm and unuioved amid tiie waters 
 
 proud, 
 Will ye not say what men catue here two hundred 3'ears ago, 
 And what they thought, and said, and did, whether lor weal 
 
 or woe 1 
 
 These words I spoke — then paused awhile and listened for 
 
 reply. 
 Then up the cliffs from far below came on the breeze a sigh. 
 Which seemed to tell of evil done, and then a voice at last 
 Said — Listen ! look around, and see the Spirit of the Past. 
 
 The scene was changed. Again 'twas night ; no stars were 
 
 to be seen, 
 The sky with cloud was overcast, no lii^lithouse sent its 
 
 gleam 
 Across the restless ocean wave the mariner to cheer. 
 And warn him by its friendly light that rocks and slioals 
 
 were near. 
 
 But hark ! the stillness of the night was broken by the 
 
 sound 
 Of human voices loud and high, and looking quickly round, 
 A band of dusky forms I saw, while, with a straining ear, 
 I listened for the i-eason why they were gathered here. 
 
 And one was saying how a ship with cargo rich and rare 
 Was soon expected in the bay about ten miles from there, 
 And how as evenino; shades came on he saw the distant sail 
 That soon would near this rocky point, helped by the 
 favourinjc cale. 
 
 Then spake the leader of the band to one close standing by, 
 "Go down the cliff, just half-way down, and swing the 
 
 lantern high. 
 Just as a light would look aloft on a vessel under weigh ; 
 We'll grind her timbers ou the rocks, then claim her for 
 
 our prey."
 
 106 RICHARD BURROW. 
 
 The deed is done ; the lantern high is rocking to and fro, 
 The watcher on tlie merchant ship, he sees it come and go ; 
 With full sail set, no danger fears, he steers the vessel on 
 Till close before him breakers roar, and then all hope is gone. 
 
 " Down with the helm, bring her about ! " the frantic 
 
 captain's cry ; 
 Too late, too late ! she strikes the rocks, the wooden 
 
 splinters fly ; 
 Crash ! and her timbers, mast and ropes, with sails, complete 
 
 the wreck ; 
 Wave after wave all pitiless has swept them from her deck. 
 
 At dawn next day the coast is strewed with wreckage fai* 
 
 and near ; 
 The murderous band with busy hands are all exultant here. 
 But God is just, and verily they shall have their reward ; 
 Transgressors shall find out this truth — transgressors way 
 
 are hard. 
 
 Oh ! Spirit of the mighty Past, are these the deeds of yore ? 
 Did men destroy their fellow men, and by false lights allure? 
 Oh ! rocks and caves, and sands and cliffs, — oh, be for ever 
 
 dumb 
 Unless of nobler deeds ye tell in days that are to come I 
 
 The wheels of Time had swiftly run two hundred years or 
 
 more. 
 And in a little seaport town on this our Cornish shore 
 Another scene : — 'Twas winter now, — the blinding hail and 
 
 sleet 
 Before the wind in fitful gusts came sweeping through the 
 
 street. 
 
 The sea-foam flew like flakes of snow before the gathering 
 gale. 
 
 The sea-gull's scream was heard on high, a solemn dirge-like 
 wail, 
 
 Yet on the beach, drenched through with spray, some fisher- 
 men appear, 
 
 And, looking seaward, watch a ship with mingled hope and 
 fear.
 
 POEMS. 107 
 
 Some three miles off, a gallant barque, by wind and tempest 
 
 tossed, 
 Is drifting fast with broken mast ; all hope is well nigh 
 
 lost, 
 For sunken rocks lie in her course, and in a moment more 
 The signals of distress go np, — they seek help from the 
 
 shoie. 
 
 "Lads, shall we try it?" spake their chief. "Yes ! yes !" 
 
 was their reply. 
 Then turning to their weeping wives, they gently said 
 
 good-bye,— 
 For God and for humanity, at Duty's trumpet call, 
 Resolved to save the perishing or at their post to fall. 
 
 Launch, launch the lifeboat !— lend a hand, — heave-to, my 
 
 lads, — give way ! 
 And soon the boat like a thina; of life is dashins; through 
 
 the spray ; 
 Stout arms are there, brave hearts beat high ; they grasp 
 
 the straining oar, 
 And then through billows white with foam they leave the 
 
 rugged shore. 
 
 Would ye see heroes ? Here they are, not in their coats of 
 
 mail, 
 No bloody sword is in their hand, no record tells a tale 
 Of thousands slain upon the firki, of widows left to moan, 
 Of orphans cast upon the world without a friend or home. 
 
 God's heroes these — in dangers tried, to bless the world 
 
 they go,— 
 To lighten human suflTering, to lessen human woe. 
 Their work is done, tlie boat returns, — " How many saved ?" 
 
 we cry. 
 " Why all on board ; of all that crew not one is left to die ! " 
 
 " Whence comes this change 1 no wreckers here ! Oh ! boat- 
 men, tell us why 
 You left your homes and little ones, and anxious wives, to try 
 To save those men upon the deep, to bring them safe to land 1 
 What hope of a reward had you, pray tell us, gallant band ? "
 
 1 08 RICH A RD B URRO W. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; you know when we were lads, our mothers, good, 
 
 kind dames, 
 They taught us to be brave and true, and that's how comes 
 
 the change. 
 " All men are brothers," and the Book contains these good 
 
 words too — 
 " Do unto others as ye would that they should do to you." 
 
 Men, fathers, friends, there's work for all upon life's troubled 
 
 sea, 
 For moral wreckers still abound, cursing humanity ; 
 The world wants men to lend a hand, some shipwrecked 
 
 ones to save ; 
 Go do your best, 'twill not be lost, for God rewards the 
 
 brave ! 
 
 Voices. 
 
 On Cornubia's heath-clothed hills. 
 When the sun is setting low. 
 Bathing woodland, field, and sea 
 In a glorious golden glow. 
 Nature, clad in Beauty's garb. 
 Fair and wonderful to see, 
 Speaks with no uncertain sound 
 Of its Maker's majesty. 
 
 When the day its course has run. 
 And the lengthening shadows lie 
 In the valley," — while the bird 
 Nightly pours its melody; 
 When the sparkling star-lamps hang. 
 Diamond-like, from Heaven above, 
 Speak they not to those who hear 
 Of their Maker's pledge of love 1 
 
 When the waving fields of grain. 
 Bow beneath the whispering breeze. 
 When the ripening fruits of earth, 
 Hide amidst the clustering leaves,
 
 POEMS. 109 
 
 When the dews and rain descend 
 Heaven's pearl-drops to dispense, 
 Hear the voice to all the earth 
 Of the Maker's providence. 
 
 Wondrous earth and sea and sky, 
 Sprano; from chaos ; strange the birth. 
 Order, beauty, harmony — - 
 Heaven's lavvs designed for earth. 
 Mighty Power spake — 'twas done ; 
 " Good " declared Eternal Mind. 
 Flowers, trees, and rolling sun, 
 Speak His power to mankind. 
 
 Yet how heavy are our ears 
 
 To these voices as they tell 
 
 Of His mind and power and mi^jht, 
 
 Wisdom vast, unsearchable. 
 
 Oh ! how darkened are our eyes 
 
 To the beaming rays of light. 
 
 Heed we not the voice of Truth, 
 
 Care not for extended sight ? 
 
 Why should human spirits dwell 
 In the caves of fear and doubt. 
 Cold and lifeless reasoning, 
 Keeping hope and light without? 
 Burst the 1)arriers ! Look around, 
 Hear the voice of Faith and Love, — 
 Beauty, Heaven, and peaceful Hope 
 Meets the vision. Look above ! 
 
 Soaring Thought in ages past 
 TjHft tlie sordid p^iths liolow, 
 Hose by Faith's inspiring power, 
 Caught the truths which angels know, 
 Tuned the lyre at Heaven's ^ate. 
 Brought the strains to earth again, — 
 Ivirtii yet vibrates with the sound. 
 Hear we now t-I^e sweet refrain,
 
 110 RICHARD BURROW. 
 
 Mighty voices of the Past 
 Come from prophet, priest, and seer, 
 From the holy martyr'd dead, 
 Ringins; through the ages clear. 
 Work and wait, — let Duty's call 
 Evermore your watchword be ; 
 He who knows the sparrow's fall 
 Cares most surely, man, for thee. 
 
 Though discordant tones surround, 
 Creeds and doctrines formed by men, 
 Truth perverted, error found. 
 Wrongs triumphant now and then, — 
 Though the times seem out of joint, 
 And the world looks all awry. 
 Truth shall conquer ! Hear the voice — 
 " Right shall triumph hy-and-bye ! "
 
 
 R. WEWETT TWOMT^g. 
 
 Music. 
 
 Words woven into frenzied fantasies 
 Strain fiercely to reveal the inner sense 
 Of all the vast soul feels, in the intense 
 Strong surging rhythms Mud deep pulsings, miss 
 Of all the me ming wrapped in one mute kiss : 
 Ten thousand songs gain not the recompense 
 Of hands pressed softly sweet, conveying thence 
 A world of love surged in a world of bliss. 
 
 Until I heard mysterious mutterings 
 Throb tenderly from 'plaining instruments 
 Strange mediums from tlu; f;ir spiiit world 
 Hope lured from soul to soul on trembling wings. 
 When music speaks then love's sweet ravishments 
 Lie all before us as a scroll unfurled.
 
 112 B. HEWETT THOMAS. 
 
 The Savant. 
 
 As experts tasked to read a written page 
 
 Torn in a thousand shreds, with eager care 
 
 Collect and re-arrange nntil the bare 
 
 Truth stands revealed, — even so the sage 
 
 Of Nature cons eacli sign though bleared with age 
 
 He gathers all earth's mysteries to compare 
 
 Her foul contortions with her beauteous fair, 
 
 And thereby doth a sajnent thirst assuage 
 
 To test the written Truth with Truth revealed 
 
 In God's own sure handwriting, words direct, 
 
 Freed from mediums of man's misgiving tongue, 
 
 And when the glorious record all unsealed 
 
 Spi'eads out a fair and noble retrospect 
 
 Not vain have savants probed and poets sung. 
 
 Love. 
 
 The sweet embodiment of an ideal, 
 
 Of vague desires and hazed unconscious yearnings 
 
 Suddenly shapened, the soul's inconstant turnings 
 
 At once transfixed ; of all that sense doth feel 
 
 In mute mysterious glimmerings, nor reveal 
 
 By any mode of thought's constrained discernings 
 
 In channels of wrought words, and mystic burnings 
 
 Imaged and transfused to form's semblative seal : 
 
 Nay, these poor similies strained to construe 
 
 The soul's fine sense that will not brook expression, 
 
 A sense that will not mate with reasoned sense, 
 
 And that of truth's proud utt'rance pj'oved untrue 
 
 By utterings of the soul's unheard confession — 
 
 Love-speech impelling we kiiow not where nor whence,
 
 POEMS 113 
 
 Beauty. 
 
 Great nature is a mirror tliat reflects 
 
 The mind within : all shapes of loveliness 
 
 Answer but faintly to the inward stress 
 
 Of that high sense of beauty that directs 
 
 Our wandering thoughts to pure and sweet effects ; 
 
 And thus she dangles with a sweet caress 
 
 The tender flowers, fondlings that gently press 
 
 Against our bus}'- pondering, that rejects 
 
 All gracious forms until grace thus reminds, 
 
 Only the sensual lust of greed and gain 
 
 Blossom uncultured in our hearts, exempt 
 
 Of beauty's imaa;e, that but seldom finds 
 
 A place where grosser musings flow amain 
 
 And where unlovely thoughts are free to tempt. 
 
 Beethoven. 
 
 He breathed into his art the living soul 
 
 Of a true sympathy, that quick impelled 
 
 The utterance of ennobled thoughts that swelled 
 
 In mystic harmonies. The thunder-roll 
 
 Of proud defiance scoi-ned the control 
 
 Of any fate that fought in vain. Love swelled 
 
 From out his heart in melodies that held 
 
 The ear in strained desire to sip the whole 
 
 Of life and love. Reason is here subdued 
 
 By that fine inner instinct that explains 
 
 The wondrous meanings that the worlds include 
 
 Of heie and the hereafter, and regains 
 
 The vigour of a lapsing life renewed, 
 
 And all the vrorth of all worth's power attains. 
 
 U
 
 114 R. HE WET T THOMAS. 
 
 Opening Chorus from 
 "The Tournament," 
 
 A Comic Opera, by R. Hewett Thomas. 
 [Chorus of Soldiers.] 
 
 We are warriors bold and daring, 
 
 Fierce our faces, fierce our actions ; 
 Without any malice bearing 
 In a manner most unsparing 
 
 We reduce our foes to fractions 
 With a reckless, restless raging 
 Fearless fury fuming, waging 
 Bleared blood broadcast, thus engaging 
 
 Custom smooths these grim transactions, 
 Only gore our thirst assuaging — 
 
 Peace for us has no attractions. 
 
 [Solo Voice (BassJ] To a pulp we soon construe them 
 Merely for the sake of fighting. 
 Though our hearts may yearn unto them 
 In good fellowship we strew them 
 In a mincemeat uninviting 
 On the plain, without exciting 
 Any low or angry feeling; 
 'Tis bad form to be revealing 
 Any low, revengeful feeling. 
 
 [Chorus of Girls.'\ We are maidens prim and prude, 0, 
 
 Phosy priestesses and pensive ; 
 Wanton wiles shall ne'er intrude, O, 
 In our bosoms all subdued, O, 
 
 In our bosoms apprehensive ; 
 
 Yet our yearnings are extensive 
 
 For the vast incomprehensive — 
 That's the reason we're endued, O, 
 
 With these feelings apprehensive. 
 Lest perchance in amorous mood, O, 
 Wanton whispers might intrude, O, 
 In our bosoms unsubded, 0.
 
 POEMS. J15 
 
 \Solo Voice (Soprano )'\ So when gallants come a-wooing 
 
 With their leering and their sighing, 
 We their passions soon construing 
 Bind us not to our undoing. 
 
 Nay, our hearts are not complying 
 
 To love's pretty prattling lying, 
 Nor quaint rhymes shall ever win us, 
 Nor the stories that ye spin us, 
 Senile sonnets shall not win us, 
 
 We are learned and aesthetic 
 And we hate war's vulgar glory : 
 
 We are only sympathetic 
 
 With the humidly pathetic, — 
 We abhor your battles gory. 
 
 \Chorus of Soldiers.'\ Stout and valiant, quick and furious, 
 Stirring peace should she be napping, 
 
 Quiet times are most injurious. 
 
 For a sense unique and curious 
 To our hearts comes tipping, ta])ping, 
 
 Rough and rushing, fierce and furious ; 
 Still we hear the restless rapping 
 Like a flag's continuous flapping, 
 Tis only love that comes a-tapping 
 
 Though we hoped it might prove spurious ; 
 
 'Tis vexatious and most curious 
 
 Loud the rapping grows and furious. 
 
 [Chorus of Girls.'] Well, we might concede your passion 
 In a mild platonic fashion 
 
 If you would forsake your fighting 
 
 For a pastime less exciting. 
 Such as, when the evening closes, 
 Twine us eglantine and roses ; 
 
 When the evening calm and still is 
 
 Worship sun flowers and fair lilies.
 
 CWKRbES k FORD. 
 
 Resolution. 
 
 Take thy side ! around thee raging 
 Rolls the battle through the land ; 
 
 All thy comrades are engaging : 
 Who art thou, aloof to stand 1 
 
 Take thy side ! the world's whole story 
 Is the strife of man with man ; 
 
 Strive thine utmost, best, and glory 
 To be called a partisan. 
 
 Take thy side ! and, having taken, 
 Play thy part, erect and brave ; 
 
 Like the steadfast oak unshaken, 
 
 Though the tempest round thee rave. 
 
 Act the good thy thought conceiveth ; 
 
 "What though some should misconstrue? 
 To the spirit that achieveth 
 
 Highest honour is to do. 
 
 Leave to meaner minds the wooing 
 
 Of the multitude's applause ; 
 Glory crowns the glorious doing 
 
 By irrevocable laws,
 
 POEMS. 117 
 
 Shrink not if thy feebler brothers 
 
 Shout, " What will this dreamer say V 
 
 Nor, to keep the smile of others, 
 Fling thine own esteem away. 
 
 For the honour or disfavour 
 
 Swerve not ; count not loss or gain ; 
 
 'Till the pliant herd that waver 
 Turn and follow in thy train. 
 
 Bear a dauntless heart ; inherit 
 
 All that to this right doth cling ; 
 For the resolute of spirit 
 
 Is alone both lord and king. 
 
 Therefore let no light thought move thee 
 From the deed thy soul hath planned ; 
 
 Forward in thy might, and prove thee 
 Of the nobles of the land. 
 
 The Iceberg. 
 
 Far from the land where the north-winds blow, 
 From the cities of ice and the fields of snow, 
 I float and drift with the ocean's flow. 
 
 From the sunny south the warm winds play, 
 And my heart it wasteth day by day, 
 And melts in tears on its joyless way ; 
 
 For I pass the liills where the pine-woods cling, 
 Aiid I scent the breath of the budding spring, 
 But my bosom is bare of the tiniest thing 
 
 That hath colour or life ; and the little bird blest 
 That lishteth a moment her wmgs to rest 
 Bringeth no mate, and buildeth no nest. 
 
 I glide by the huts whore the fishers dwell, 
 But they curse my steps, for tiiey know full well 
 How keen are the airs that round me swell.
 
 118 CHARLES L. FORD. 
 
 And the mai-iner steers his craft with care, 
 
 Nor seeketh a port in my island fair. 
 
 For he whispers, " The angel of death is there." 
 
 All rosy bright are the hues that show 
 On my topmost peak in the sunrise glow — 
 But the heat ne'er causeth the corn to grow. 
 
 And my crystal walls their lustre fling 
 Like a palace of gems for a fairy king — 
 But a blade of grass were a brighter thing. 
 
 And fearful and grand is the long rebound 
 
 Of the thunder-crash when the ice splits round — 
 
 But the song of a bii-d were a sweeter sound. 
 
 So I journey on, through sun or cloud. 
 Silent and cold, and lofty and proud, 
 Like a lonely heart in a loveless crowd ; 
 
 And I weep, I weep, in my yearning vain 
 For warmth and life, as in mist and rain 
 I float and drift o'er the widening main ; 
 
 Till I find the path of the warm wide stream 
 That glows in the kiss of the tropic beam, 
 And melt and fade like a baseless dream. 
 
 Pupilage. 
 
 O CHILD as yet, who canst not read 
 The record by thy Father penned. 
 
 Forbear to shout thy hasty creed, 
 Till thou canst further comprehend \ 
 
 The book lies open, but the whole 
 
 Eludes thy search, while, one by one, 
 
 Leaf after leaf the mighty scroll 
 Unfolds, till all is done.
 
 POEMS. 119 
 
 Hear, but with reverence ; voices fall 
 Around thee from the eternal sliore ; 
 
 Some thou mayst reach — thou canst not all, 
 Though fain, and ponderincj more and more 
 
 Yet hoard them in thy secret heart, 
 As children grasp whate'er they can, 
 
 Till twilight pass, and knowledge start 
 To broad noon in the man. 
 
 Teach, but with meekness, as a child 
 Leading his brother by the hand 
 
 To their far home across the wild 
 By starlight, in a wintry land : 
 
 Learn still from whom thou teachest ; give, 
 And, giving, ever more receive ; 
 
 Scorn not the meanest ; lowly live, 
 And loftiest things achieve. 
 
 Think life is larger than the bound 
 Of fourscore years ; death but a stone 
 
 That marks thy travel ; heaven the round 
 Of glorious deeds when thou art grown 
 
 Beyond thy tasks and ])laythings ; fame 
 A higher meed than men's applause ; 
 
 Evil, good's foil and shadow : shame 
 Nought, save for broken laws. 
 
 Love, or thou liv'st not ; life is more 
 Than counts by pulses : make thy gain 
 
 Thy brother's welfare, so thy store 
 Sliall prosper, nor thy work be vain : 
 
 Walk where thy Master bids tliee ; shun 
 No rough path, or descirved rod : 
 
 Right up the sunbeam se(;k the sun, — 
 God's light must lead to God.
 
 120 CHARLES LA WRENCE FORD. 
 
 Souvenirs. 
 
 Thy light-brown hair before me lies, 
 
 But thou art far away, 
 In the calm bowers of Paradise, 
 
 Where sainted spirits stray ; 
 And richer curls adorn thy brow, 
 
 And stars bestrew thy hair ; 
 And angels are thy comrades now. 
 
 Thyself an angel there. 
 
 I touch the faded cypress leaf. 
 
 And back returns again 
 The hovir of pain, the night of grief 
 
 When thou didst pass from men ; 
 I see the gi'ave's new-opened mould. 
 
 The path by mourners trod ; 
 But life's full joys for thee unfold 
 
 In the bright land of God. 
 
 Come down to-night — the hour is thine,— 
 
 And sit some while with me, 
 And sing me some sweet song divine 
 
 That angels sing to thee ; 
 And tell me all — how saintly fair 
 
 Thy ordered home on high ; 
 Life's burden teach like thee to bear, 
 
 And teach like thee to die. 
 
 Pass quickly on, ye lingering years 
 
 As the swift shuttle, flee ! 
 Bring the long rest from griefs and fears. 
 
 The grave's sweet sleep to me ! 
 Sleep to my dust, but life and light 
 
 To my glad soul above, 
 With her, the good, the fair, the bright, 
 
 The maiden of my love.
 
 POEMS. 121 
 
 Life. 
 
 We blow away rose petals with light breath 
 
 'Mid funeral knells ; 
 We stand upon the shore of the ocean, death, 
 
 And gather shells. 
 
 Wave after wave rolls in, and sweeps away 
 
 Sister and brother ; 
 We miss their smiles, yet cease not from our play, 
 
 Choosing another. 
 
 One hour the homely task, the vulgar round 
 
 Of loss and winning ; 
 The next, God's light, the prospect without bound, 
 
 New life's beginning. 
 
 Prisoned we lie in this Circean cell, 
 
 Our true selves loathing, 
 Till Death strikes o'er us, by his heaven-taught spell, 
 
 Right mind and clothing. 
 
 As children ne'er outside their native sod 
 
 Dream not of ocean. 
 We reck not of the far off hills of God, 
 
 At ease in Gosheu. 
 
 A light has shone amidst our darker ways, 
 
 A voice has spoken ; 
 And lo ! the long unchanging round of days 
 
 Sudden is broken. 
 
 In the smooth chain of life one flaw appears, 
 
 Spoiling succession ; 
 The wise men listen, but their baffled ears 
 
 Boast not possession 
 
 Of this one secret — binding all beside 
 
 jjy weight and measure. 
 Searching all mysteries else, till nature hide 
 
 Nought from their pleasure.
 
 122 CHARLES LAWRENCE FORD. 
 
 Yet this, earth's riddle evermore unguessed, 
 
 On order jarring, 
 This, the one chord untuned amid the rest. 
 
 Earth's music marring, — 
 
 This is the hand let down, the unclosed door, 
 The whispered warning ; 
 
 This is the light that shines our feet before 
 Unto the morning. 
 
 And so we walk as princes in disguise. 
 
 Mean of condition. 
 The everlasting hidden from our eyes 
 
 By thin partition, 
 
 Ready each moment at some weaker seam 
 
 To burst asunder, — 
 Till all eternity across our dream 
 
 Roll as the thunder.
 
 HJ^J<IIE E. KRGHIdId. 
 
 Wild Flowers. 
 
 A LOVELY bouquet of wild treasures they brought me, 
 Fresh and sweet from the hedgerow, the marsh, and the brake, 
 AVhich lavish such fragrance and brightness around me 
 That I cannot but love them for fair Beauty's sake. 
 
 Osmunda ! thou king of all ferns, celebrated 
 And long-honoured by minstrel in ballad and rhyme, 
 How welcome thy shade near the cool, rippling streamlet, 
 'Neath the tall leafy trees in the warm summer-time. 
 
 Not less art thou welcome 'mid orchis and iris. 
 Brilliant blossoms, thy emerald beauty to grace ; 
 And with more of thy kin, though none like thee so royal, 
 Is the tall, stately foxglove in dignity's place. 
 
 Fair starred marguerita and sweet honeysuckle 
 Nestle closely together in mutual bliss, 
 And the frail briar-roses with pure perfumed petals 
 To my fancy seem fit for an angel's soft kiss. 
 
 Yet far more do I love them, the sweet silent flow'rets, 
 For the message of patience and love which they bear, 
 A God-given example of trust in His mercy, 
 A full proof that our Father for all things doth care.
 
 124 ANmE E. ARGALL. 
 
 The Flower-Star of Spring. 
 
 Oh ! why do they call thee the emblem of sadness, 
 Pale, sweet, modest primrose, ah ! canst thou say why ? 
 When our eager glance rests on thy fair soothing beauty, 
 And we willingly gather thy morsels of fragrance ; 
 Is aught in that beauty to sadden the eye. 
 Or cast down our spirits, or call forth a sigh ? 
 
 No, not when we plucked thee, as free and light-hearted 
 
 We joyously rambled through woodland and dell ; 
 
 Quite content to exist in the joy of the moment. 
 
 All enrapt with our simple discernment of nature, 
 
 Uncritical, pleasing, heigho ! we know well 
 
 The pleasures of childhood we grasped ere they fell. 
 
 Is part of thy mission, fair primrose, beloved, 
 To bring to remembrance the days of lost youth 1 
 Oh, is this the lone cause of the mist o'er our vision, 
 And the tear trembling oyer the sad drooping eyelash 1 
 Aye, utter it softly, but whisper the truth, 
 If grace may incline to a thing so uncouth. 
 
 But, blossom, we miss now the pride of thy beauty ; 
 
 As resting in state on the diiis of green, 
 
 Thou hast budded and bloomed in thy fair woodland palace 
 
 While distributing gifts in a measui'e unbounded. 
 
 Sweet miniature sovereign, thy kingdom we ween 
 
 Is spacious to boast such a shy little queen. 
 
 To-day we admire, although in thy dominion 
 
 To trace willing footsteps falls not to our share ; 
 
 It may be that we traverse the streets of a city, 
 
 'Mid the whirl of its turmoil and business-like pressure, 
 
 And read thy sweet message displayed even there ; 
 
 What wonder, that reading, a sigh moves the air 1 
 
 The sadness is transient, a fleeting emotion. 
 
 But not the less truly a genuine regret ; 
 
 Those the brightest and best of the days of our spring-time, 
 
 With the years are now passing for once and for ever; 
 
 Ah ! primrose, their memory we would not forget. 
 
 And thus for remembrance, fair flow'r, we have met.
 
 POEMS. 125 
 
 A Convict's Baby. 
 
 " He's dying ! " then shortly they add, " He is dead ! " 
 But never a tear o'er the still form is shed. 
 And why 1 It were folly to grieve at his gain, 
 The poor child who had borne such a life of pain, 
 And well do they know it, those folks Ave terra " hard," 
 As they calmly discuss " the poor little card." 
 
 Yes, dead ! Of neglect and starvation he died. 
 For want of the care which we Christians denied. 
 " We never refused ! " do I hear all around 1 
 No; we only pass heedless where sorrows abound, 
 Reproachiug the poor who lack leisure to weep 
 O'er the baby who rests in his last sweet sleep. 
 
 But wan faces light up as the words pass on — 
 " He died of starvation, — the baby has gone ! " 
 Bleared eyes grow more fiery, i^ough tones become loud, 
 Till it ends in an angry, riotous crowd. 
 All fiercely demanding redress of their wrongs, 
 Asserting the right which to England belongs. 
 
 There are cries of " A riot ! " policemen march out, 
 
 And speedily put the insurgents to rout. 
 
 The leaders are led to the gaol one by one, 
 
 A result of the death of the factory-tjirl's son ; 
 
 The police do their duty, receive their reward, 
 
 But, ah ! can that baby's frail life be restored ? 
 
 His father ? a felon of noted ill-fame ; 
 
 Yet should the child starve for his [)arents' bad name ? 
 
 His motlier is only a convict's young wife. 
 
 Who once helped h^r husband to save his weak life. 
 
 An "accomplice " finds work so Jiard to procure ; 
 
 How great is the struggle to live and endure ! 
 
 So th' baby was starved, while our guardians stand by 
 And proclaim that the workhouse is always nigh. 
 That wife was a mother with fond loving heart, 
 Who felt that she could not so readily part 
 With hor only child. But, alas ! for her grief, 
 Her babe has now passed beyond earthly relief..
 
 126 ANNIE E ARGALL. 
 
 She was willing to toil, and did her work well, 
 
 But her wage was a fraud, her workroom a hell ; 
 
 The girl-wife and mother Avas honest and brave, 
 
 Yet her baby now lies in a starveling's grave ; 
 
 She carries a grief-stricken heart in her breast, 
 
 But her toil must go on without change, without rest. 
 
 The sigh of that mother, the wail of her boy. 
 Shall mingle for ever with anthems of joy. 
 May they reach every heart, that we all may hear, 
 From the tradesman's lad to the cynical peer, — 
 That desolate sigh, and the starving child's moan, 
 As they blend with the rioters' sullen groan. 
 
 Till all, moved by pity and love, are impelled 
 
 To stop the oppression and tyranny held 
 
 Over workmen by masters, by rich over poor. 
 
 To grant bread to the wee hungry babes who implore 
 
 By their weak, feeble cries, the succour and aid 
 
 Of every true parent our Maker hath made. 
 
 Chrysanthemums. 
 
 t 
 
 Chrysanthemum 
 The season's latest trophy, thee we hail 
 With rapturous ecstasy. Thy many tints 
 Are varied as the rainbow's beauteous hues ; 
 Or, as the glowing sky at bi eak of day, 
 In morning splendour wrapt. Can aught excel 
 Thy pure and snowy blossoms, wondrous fair. 
 And those bright golden gems so freely poured 
 Upon us by the Autumn's brilliant sun, 
 Assisted by a frequent copious shower 
 Of soft refreshing rain 1 Thy purple blooms 
 Could vie with any ancient regal robes 
 Of solemn grandeur and of sumptuous state ; 
 Or with the vaporous mantle which enfolds 
 The hills when morning dawns. Thy crimson flowers
 
 POEMS. 127 
 
 Can only be compared with sunset's glow 
 
 And the deep lustre of the ruby fair 
 
 Caught by a passing ray of glittering light 
 
 Or golden sunbeam. All our flowers are sweet, 
 
 But none more dear than thee, Chrysanthemum, 
 
 Blooming when they are faded, when the wind 
 
 Plays ruthlessly among the coloured balls, 
 
 Tossing them here and there with fierce, rough glee, 
 
 Yet adding to their strength. P)ut words are vain 
 
 To speak of all thy brilliant lights and shades. 
 
 The glowing picture of the garden, gay 
 
 "With thy bright blossoms, numberless and rare, 
 
 Is ever better seen than thus described. 
 
 Farewell, we whisper. While the wild wind blows 
 
 Bloom on in hardy beauty, lovely strength, 
 
 Our latest autumn star, Chrysanthemum. 
 
 Our sweet English Rhine -the Fal. 
 
 O, LOVELY Fal, whose wooded banks 
 To thy fair self give wondrous grace, 
 Of thee, loved stream, I fain would speak, 
 And having power, thy path would trace. 
 As flowing onward day by day. 
 Gently thou glidest on thy way. 
 
 Thou, changing ever, yet the same 
 To me, whose memory loves to rove 
 Along thy winding silvery course ; 
 Around thy path 1 oft have wove 
 Sweet thoughts of pleasures past and gone, 
 When Love's fair sunlight o'er me shone. 
 
 As T, in frail and simple craft, 
 Down on thy heaving liHiast did glide ; 
 In the glad transport of those hours 
 I dreamt not of what might betide, — 
 1 had no thought for care; or grief. 
 Or that life's joys would bo but brief.
 
 128 ANNIE E. ARGALL. 
 
 But those were days that now are past, 
 Tliough ling'ring in my memory yet, 
 Sweet joyous hours of honeyed bliss 
 That could I, I would ne'er forget, 
 For they are graven on my heart, 
 And in my dreams still bear a part. 
 
 List ! gentle river, to my song, 
 And bear it onward to the sea ; 
 Accept the tribute I would bring, 
 The meed of praise I grant to thee. 
 Flow on, O Fal, with this refrain, 
 Ye rippling waves, take up the strain. 
 
 Our Rocky Cornish Coast. 
 
 Loudly sounds the breakers' roar, 
 Dashing 'gainst the rocky shore. 
 Whirling eddies to the fore, 
 Backed by rolling surge. 
 
 Rising, falling, wreathed in white, 
 Swelling, foaming, as with spite, 
 On they rush with awful might. 
 To the cliffs' steep verge ; 
 
 Overwhelming with their spray, 
 Precipice so rough and grey. 
 Then receding, mocking, gay, 
 Toward the open sea.
 
 KM, J. WIIfilfilHM, 
 
 Raise the Flag of Resolution. 
 
 When the fair winds of Life's morning 
 
 Waft the fragrance of its flowers 
 From the fields with bloom adorning, 
 
 All to beautify bright hours, 
 Raise the flag of resolution 
 
 On the road of Truth and Right, 
 Till the sun of evolution 
 
 Banish doubt with new-born light. 
 
 Raise the standard high, ye people, 
 Impregnated with its fire — 
 
 Like the vane on yonder steeple — 
 In the vanguard of desire ; 
 
 Pressing forward, never yielding. 
 
 Though the strife rage loud and long, 
 
 Still the weaker brother sliieldinij 
 
 o 
 
 From the cruel and the wrons.
 
 130 SAM. J. WILLAMS. 
 
 Raise the royal banner ever, 
 
 'Tis a forecast of the free, 
 Weaved with cords we dare not sever 
 
 From the heart's sincerity ; 
 Wave it wide o'er paths of glory, 
 
 Where determined men pursue, 
 Tell it out in song and story 
 
 Resolution is to do. 
 
 Bear the banner long and lasting 
 
 Till the clarion notes of praise 
 Throucrh Time's arches ever casting 
 
 Mould its truths for future days ; 
 With resolve stamped on the features 
 
 Carry out each noble theme, 
 And remember we are creatures 
 
 Born to do, not vainly dream. 
 
 The Golden Age. 
 
 If each his destined duty did 
 
 In sunshine and in shower. 
 This world would be a blest abode, 
 
 And life a golden hour. 
 
 The land would lose its idle drones, 
 
 The soul forget its sorrow, 
 Toiling in tranquil hope to-day 
 
 To realise to-morrow. 
 
 Then helping hands would be out-held 
 
 By willing sons of labour 
 To smooth the rude and rugged path 
 
 Of every needy neighbour. 
 
 The prison-house would shattered fall, 
 The workhouse lose its paupers. 
 
 While homes would boast of noble sons 
 And lowly Virtue's daughters.
 
 POEMS. 131 
 
 Then mighty minds, all shaped in trutli, 
 Would guide the people ever, 
 
 Leading to light beyond the gloom, 
 To drudge in darkness never. 
 
 The reaper's song at harvest time, 
 Like peals of laughter ringing, 
 
 Would echo through the vernal vales 
 While sheaves were homeward bringing 
 
 Country with country would combine, 
 
 And prove by arbitration 
 The human throng one brotherhood, 
 
 One people, and one nation. 
 
 The Blind Boy's Lament. 
 
 O TELL me not the lovely light 
 
 No more my eyes shall greet 
 From distant hills when day awakes 
 
 Life's story to repeat ; 
 And as it spreads its golden path 
 
 Across the waters blue. 
 Must I, all sightless, sit me still. 
 
 And miss that radiance too 1 
 
 tell me not my days must be 
 
 As dense as darkest night, 
 To hear glad sounds and not to see 
 
 The source of their delight, — 
 To hear my old com[)anions tell 
 
 Of pleasures on the wing. 
 And not to see each happy face 
 
 Aglow with joys they bring.
 
 132 SA3f. J. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Shall I not see the flowers that bloom, 
 
 The blossoms on the thorn, 
 With fragrance rich and juicy sweet, 
 
 With dewdrops of the morn ? 
 Shall I not see the lark again 
 
 Rise from his lowly bed, 
 Trilling a carol to the sky 
 
 With little wings outspread 1 
 
 tell me not my books must be 
 
 Unopened in the case, 
 That I no more at eventide 
 
 Their flowing lines shall trace ; 
 tell me rather, like yon glow, 
 
 The light of my dear eyes 
 But for awhile in darkness sets 
 
 In glorious dawn to rise. 
 
 A Song of Labour. 
 
 We want not leaders insincere, 
 Whose schemes abortive cast. 
 
 Change fruitful fields to barren wastes, 
 Like Autumn's dreary blast. 
 
 Men of heroic heart we want 
 
 To stand on Discord's tomb. 
 And plant the true Sincerity 
 
 In all its lovely bloom. ' 
 
 We want the energetic tact. 
 
 The inward breathing fire, 
 The pluck and push which makes a man 
 
 Upraise his morals higher. 
 
 We want the soul-ennobling themes. 
 The cream of manly thought, 
 
 The architecture of design 
 In all its cunning taught.
 
 POEMS. 133 
 
 We want the sure progi'essive art, 
 The hope-inspiring song, 
 
 The ever practical and right 
 To overcome the wrong. 
 
 We want the sympathetic word, 
 With Mercy's gentle hand. 
 
 To pioneer the people's cause 
 Throughout the English land. 
 
 Go Feed the Birds. 
 
 Go feed the birds, my brothers, go, — 
 
 They perish by the way ; 
 The winds are keen and they are weak ; 
 
 O feed them now, I pray, 
 And scatter broadcast on the ground 
 
 In wood and meadow there 
 The little crumbs of charity 
 
 With tenderness and care. 
 
 Go feed the birds, my brothers, now, 
 
 Out through the snow and sleet. 
 With mercy in thy heart and hand, 
 
 Strew wide the welcome meat ; 
 They twitter as they hop along, 
 
 Poor little homeless things. 
 With strength near gone they scarce can fly, 
 
 Or use their puny wings. 
 
 Go feed the little feathered flocks. 
 
 They're tamed by want and frost, — 
 strew the fragments ye may have, 
 
 Nor let a crumb be lost ; 
 Go with a loving mind each morn 
 
 Till wintry days are done. 
 When their glad notes shall tell of praise 
 
 Beneath a summer sun.
 
 134 SAM. J. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Through Meadows Green. 
 
 How sweet to roam through meadows green, 
 
 Above the sun a-shining, 
 To tread the lovely flowery sheen, 
 
 Within glad thoughts divining ; 
 To wander on without a care. 
 
 Or hate or harm the heart to share. 
 
 To see the river orliding on, 
 
 Gurgling, tinkling by the way, 
 As if a-hasting to be gone 
 
 Where briny ocean holds the sway, 
 Whose foaming white doth fringe the land 
 
 Along the coast from strand to strand. 
 
 To watch the bee go humming by. 
 Made joyous from the juicy herb ; 
 
 To hear the lark up to the sky 
 Go winging with his song superb. 
 
 Till thought and feeling in their flight 
 With brighter natures do unite. 
 
 To hear the chorus of the birds 
 Burst forth in answer to the song. 
 
 Which tells of nature without words 
 Polluted by the human throng. 
 
 Till valley, meadow, from above 
 Seem like the very haunts of love.
 
 E. kT. WT^RRIg-BieKFORD. 
 
 Lander's Grave. 
 
 " English people in general, and Cornish and Truro people in 
 particular, will be grieved and surprised to learn that the precise 
 spot in which the great African Explorer, LANDER, lies buried at 
 Fernando Po, cannot be identified. A short inscribed tombstone 
 was erected to his memory, but it apjiears to have been uncared for, 
 and the result is that the tropical vegetation, in the midst of which 
 it was placed, has completely overgrown it." 
 
 An'd is thy grave with jungle overgrown ? 
 
 And may no eye detect thy place of rest ? 
 Canst thou not call some sheltered spot thine own, 
 
 With flowers bright blooming o'er thy dauntless breast ? 
 
 Martyr ! I marvel as I think of thee, 
 
 Kemoved from loving kindred and from home, 
 
 And wonder greatly how such thing can be, 
 j\far, afar, across the whitening foam ! 
 
 And must it thus continue ? Dearth be tliine 1 
 Are there no hearts that beat to make the spot 
 
 That holds thee beautiful ? no thought benign 
 Yet to be born to crown thy hapless lot?
 
 136 E. L. T. HARRIS-BICKFORD. 
 
 Chief of thy time ! of valorous enterprise ! 
 
 Much gentle kindness should be shown to thee ; 
 Dear should thy grave be to all English eyes, 
 
 And Cornish hearts, alive to chivalry ! 
 
 Thy life vv^as lost, investigation-led , 
 
 Thy brave heart burned to open up new ways ; 
 
 Death only claimed thy clay, — thou art not dead, 
 Though closed on earth the sunshine of thy days. 
 
 And those who cherish men like Davy, Drake, 
 Drew, Howe, and Raleigh, should not let thee lie 
 
 Supinely comfortless, but thought awake 
 How best to draw to thee the passing eye. 
 
 Though sleeping far from Cornwall, Cornwall's son. 
 In History's page thy name is graven deep. 
 
 Not midst thine own, but foes amid, were won 
 
 Those laurels bright 'twas thine to form and keep ! 
 
 And I I trust such feeling yet will stir 
 
 In Cornish hearts as shall re-echo wide. 
 And prove that thou hast many a worshipper 
 
 Whose heart, at thought of thee, doth swell with pride. 
 
 God guard thee, Lander ! in thy slumber lone, 
 And breed the wish to re-invest thy grave 
 
 With fitting monument of carven stone. 
 Near Santa Isabel — across the wave ! 
 
 When Mother's Smile was Lost to Me. 
 
 When mother's smile was lost to me 
 
 I cared not for the sun ; 
 When mother's love was lost to me 
 
 Then hopes died one by one ; 
 I felt within a world of thorns, 
 
 No flowers to greet tht; sight ; 
 The heart that once a mother mourns 
 
 Beats sadder in its might.
 
 POEMS. 137 
 
 Hei's was the gentle voice that spake 
 
 Like music to my soul, 
 Hers, tenderest words that keep awake 
 
 Best thoughts oa Memory's scroll ; 
 Her cheerful spirit made more glad 
 
 The home she used to queen 
 Ere bitter sorrow made her sad 
 
 Amid a blighted scene. 
 
 How much I miss her tender care 
 
 No pen of mine can say ; 
 Her image haunts me everwhere, 
 
 By night as well as day, 
 Just as she used to be she seems 
 
 In memory to me now, 
 Presiding over all my dreams, 
 
 And kissing my sad brow. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Poet-Magician, who, with marvellous hand, 
 Taught Scotland's sons the witchery of song, 
 Whose tongue — the outlet for a spirit strong — 
 
 Sung rapturously of love and native land 
 
 In numbers wild, inspiriting, and grand ; 
 Thy native hills re-echo still thy strain. 
 Resounding loud o'er ceaseless, moving main 
 
 To wheresoe'er a Scottish son doth stand ! 
 
 Ah ! matchless prince of northern minstrelsy, 
 Whose bosom heaved with ecstasy divine, 
 
 O that more bards could strike the lyre like thee, 
 Or that one half thy priceless gift were mine : 
 
 Then might I trust with some just hope to be 
 Far nearer that deep pulsing thrill of thine.
 
 138 E. L. T. HARRIS-BIGKFORD. 
 
 When I No More. 
 
 When I no more on earth shall sigh and shiver 
 
 Beneath the chill that coldly sweepeth there ; 
 When lo ! my spirit shall have crossed the river 
 
 To breathe the balsam of a purer air : 
 Will no one tread where green the grass grows o'er me, 
 
 And some dear bi rd its requiem sings close by 1 
 When earth, that once so glowing spread before me, 
 
 No more hath magic for my curtained eye ? 
 
 Will any tender thought be cast upon me ? 
 
 Will any loving hand bedeck my bed 1 
 Will any misty eye look earthward on me. 
 
 And think of songs and words I've sung and said ? 
 Will little daises peep and peer above me ? 
 
 And grass-blades (sheathless swords) protect my I'est ? 
 Will leafy boughs seem bending o'er to love me, 
 
 And look down calmly on my silent breast 1 
 
 Ah ! yes, I know that Nature still will lend me 
 
 Those fair sweet things that cheered my path on earth ; 
 And kindly boughs lean o'er me and defend me, 
 
 And streams have courses round me, — flowers have birth; 
 And I will see them from a higher station. 
 
 And chant their praises from a higher world ; 
 And spend my time in hymning God's creation, 
 
 A new sphere opened, and woe's standard furled ! 
 
 The Student's Appeal to Art. 
 
 Transcendent, seated on her sapphire throne. 
 
 Gleams Art, resplendent o'er a conquered world ; 
 She spells mankind and calls them all her own. 
 
 And wide beneath the sun her flag's unfurled ; 
 
 Her eyes stream starry light, her brow is pearled 
 And garlanded with wreath of myrtle green, 
 
 And at her shapely feet lies Love, close-curled, 
 Whilst beauty all around illumes the scene, 
 And sheds connecting lights her glinting locks between !
 
 POEMS. 139 
 
 glorious \vt ! expressive as the skies 
 
 When kingly Sun with potent force appears ; 
 
 Spelled by the lustre of thy speaking eyes — 
 Supreme the memory that thy glory X'ears, 
 Thy brow will ne'er be dulled by flight of years, 
 
 But ever beam as beaming now, benign ! 
 
 And be thou kissed by Joy, or bathed in tears. 
 
 Proud is the heart that aye can beat with thine. 
 
 And paint, and carve, and sing, and raptured call thee "fine !" 
 
 Thus would I crave one boon, one little boon 
 
 Transcendent Art, give heed unto my prayer ; 
 And though thou see not fit to grant it soon, 
 
 Till I still further climb thy golden stair. 
 
 If thou but smile on me, I'll not despair, 
 Not though sad troubles congregate around. 
 
 But dream and do, and do and dream, and dare, 
 And be when wrapped by thee, by bravery bound, 
 Nor shall a truer heart than mine to thee be found. 
 
 And this is all I ask : wilt give me " nay " % 
 
 Ah ' no, I feel thy answer, ere thy tongue 
 Soft syllables the all-creating " aye," 
 
 Thou wouldst not that my knell of death were rung ; 
 
 And I will sing again as I have sung. 
 Though strengthened by the faith I have in thee. 
 
 And through the bee-cares that have seized and stung, 
 I — I will forward go, — go forward, free, 
 And front the frowning height, and dare thy brave son be. 
 
 And thus, fair goddess ! lay I at thy feet 
 
 My strict allegiance, and my sacred trust ; 
 And pray thee make in me thy powers complete. 
 
 Ere heart shall cease to beat and brain be dust ; 
 
 Somehow I feel within this much I must, 
 Though fait' ring, feeble, child-like, iniinature ; 
 
 And ere old age shall clothe me in its rust. 
 Be mine to breed some thoughts that shall endure, 
 Some tlioughts that, born of thee, shall make Fame's tlirone 
 secure !
 
 JEJ^J^IE MKRR.Y. 
 
 Harvest Thanks. 
 
 Heavenly Father listen now, 
 From Thy throne above, 
 
 To the praises sung below 
 Of thy tender love. 
 
 Love for us in all things good 
 Thou hast shown again : 
 
 Fields are bright with golden corn 
 For the wants of men. 
 
 Reapers, with their sickles bright. 
 
 In the harvest fields, 
 Gather in the waving grain 
 
 Which the kind earth yields. 
 
 We had doubted when the rain 
 
 Ceaselessly did fall, 
 Thinking not that One above 
 
 Careth for us all.
 
 POEMS 141 
 
 O forgive our doubting hearts ; 
 
 Give us faitli to see 
 Thou art wise, and true, and good ; 
 
 May we trustful be. 
 
 Man may work from morn till night, 
 
 Scattering tiny seed ; 
 Yet if Thou withhold Thv hand 
 
 Sore would be man's need ! 
 
 Then let praises fill the earth 
 
 And the skies ascend, 
 Till to catch the reaper's song, 
 
 Angels listening bend ; 
 
 Bend, as if the earth-struck lyre 
 Found in heaven a chord ; 
 
 While the myriad hosts proclaim 
 Praise unto the Lord ! 
 
 Hope. 
 
 I SIT by the restless ocean 
 
 And watch the dasliing waves, 
 
 As they chase each other madly 
 And break in the open caves. 
 
 The bold cliffs are high and rugged, 
 Each side of the little bay ; 
 
 Where I saw from a Cornish headland 
 My lover's ship sail away. 
 
 I fancy T still can see him. 
 With his eyes of deepest blue. 
 
 And hear him say — " Farewell, lassie, 
 I'll soon return to you." 
 
 That would-be " soon" seems a lifetime, 
 Two years have passed away. 
 
 But my boy has sent no missives 
 To cheer me day by day.
 
 142 JENNIE HARRY. 
 
 But something my heart is thi'illing 
 When thinking of the past, 
 
 'Tis the hope that springs eternal 
 When the die of love is cast. 
 
 That fond hope nerves my spirit 
 And lightens all my way ; 
 
 When despair my path would darken 
 Hope makes it bright as day. 
 
 And I'll sit and watch the billows 
 
 Until my eyes shall fail, 
 Gazing across the ocean 
 
 At each vessel's fluttering sail. 
 
 KITTIE JUkEFF. 
 
 The Setting Sun. 
 
 I STOOD at the door one evening, 
 
 Watching the setting sun 
 As it passed away in glory. 
 
 After its work was done. 
 
 Its glorious rays were shedding 
 
 A glow o'er hill and dale, 
 Caressing the mountains lofty. 
 
 Kissing the lowest vale. 
 
 Lower and lower 'twas sinking 
 
 Into the crimson west. 
 And methought 'twas like the Christian 
 
 Going to eternal rest. 
 
 Thus would I go into glory, 
 
 Into the realms of day ; 
 Where Christ is the bright sun shining, 
 
 Whose rays ne'er pass away.
 
 POEMS. 143 
 
 The Bride. 
 
 To my Friend on the occasion of her Marriage. 
 
 I CANNOT let thee leave to-day 
 
 Thy childhood's happy home, 
 Without a prayer that peace and love 
 
 May ever with thee roam. 
 
 I see thee in thy shining robes 
 
 Bright as the morning sun, 
 About, to take the solemn vows 
 
 That bind two hearts as one. 
 
 What future has in store for thee 
 
 Thou surely canst not tell, 
 But if love reigns within thy heart 
 
 Thou wilt be guarded well 
 
 ^3^ 
 
 For she will soften ev'ry care. 
 And scatter fragrance sweet 
 
 Upon the stormy waves of life 
 Which thou, dear, mayest meet. 
 
 May Peace in all her beauty spread 
 
 A calm on ev'ry strife, 
 And make thee bear with fortitude 
 
 The holy name of wife. 
 
 And when the sunshine of thy youth 
 Falls gently on the wane, 
 
 May he who calls thee his to-day 
 Renew his vows again ; 
 
 Whilst thou, with ev'ry wifely art. 
 
 Wilt evermore devise 
 Some litth; plan for making home 
 
 A second Paradise,
 
 144 KITTIE JULEFF. 
 
 Childhood. 
 
 Oh ! the happy days of childhood, 
 
 How I wish them back again ; 
 Free from sorrow, care and trial. 
 
 Knowing naught of grief or pain. 
 Like a calm and happy valley, 
 
 Where the crystal waters flow. 
 In a soft perpetual motion, 
 
 Making music here below. 
 
 Loving mem'ries sweep now o'er me, 
 
 Bringing back those days of yore ; 
 Making me forget my sadness, 
 
 And I seem at home once more ; 
 Yes ! at home 'mid all the dear ones, 
 
 Underneath a mother's care. 
 Taking to her all our trials, 
 
 Sure of finding solace there. 
 
 Peaceful, happy vale of childhood, 
 
 Angels surely lingered there. 
 Watching o'er each tiny flower 
 
 With such tender, zealous care : 
 Oh ! ye angels of the children, 
 
 Will ye not pass here to-day ? 
 And forgetting I'm a woman 
 
 Drop a blessing on the way.
 
 JO>iJ<I PT^geOE. 
 
 Those tender ties are sundered now, — 
 
 This heart is doomed to die ; 
 Vain is the oft-repeated vow, 
 
 And vain the pensive sigh ; 
 The morning breaks so lone and sad 
 
 Ul)on my wakeful eye. 
 And I have none to make me glad 
 
 Beneath the sunlit sky. 
 
 ! tell me where sweet comfort flows, 
 
 And where the clieering beams 1 
 Sweet solace for these latent woes, 
 
 And living crystal screams ? 
 And where is love, unchanging love, 
 
 Love that can nev(u- die ? 
 Not on this earth ; 'tis formed above, 
 
 In fairer climes on high ! 
 
 K
 
 146 JOHN PASCOE. 
 
 Once I had love, so pure and fair, 
 
 With all its blissful charms, 
 A youthful heart mine own to share, 
 
 And soft enfolding arms. 
 And ruby lips, and flashing eyes, 
 
 And light and nectar flowed 
 Whene'er we met beneath those skies 
 
 Which o'er us brightly glowed. 
 
 In sheltered nook, in balmy grove, 
 
 At noon or eve v/e met, 
 And revelled there in bliss of love 
 
 With evening dewdrops wet ; 
 Beneath the spreading chestnut tree. 
 
 Or where the beech ran high. 
 With foliage gay, so dear to me. 
 
 Fraught with the wild wind's sigh. 
 
 And near us flowed a crystal stream. 
 
 Which murmured music sweet. 
 And foaming cascade 'neath the beam 
 
 Of sunset, near our feet ; 
 And when the moon's pale lustre shone 
 
 The shadows flitted by 
 Of those whose day of toil was done. 
 
 Who passed with pensive sigh. 
 
 And near us lay the sleeping dead 
 
 Tn graveyard fresh and green. 
 The stalwart form, the weary head, 
 
 The clay-cold sod between : 
 The old church clock oft told the hour 
 
 With half a parting knell, 
 While Love, with its own magic power. 
 
 Fast bound us with its spell !
 
 POEMS. 147 
 
 And in that grand old church our vow 
 
 Was heard and firuily sealed 
 One Sabbath morn, as fair as now, 
 
 And mutual love revealed ! 
 Nor years which passed e'er broke the charm 
 
 Which bound us tiriu through life. 
 Till chilly Death with potent arm 
 
 Cut short the mortal strife ! 
 
 Those tender ties are sundered now. 
 
 Though love can never die ; 
 Cold are those lips and placid brow, 
 
 And ceased that pensive sigh : 
 They tell me I shall live again 
 
 In union sweet and blest. 
 Far from the reach of toil and pain, 
 
 Where weary spirits rest ! 
 
 But rest, alas ! can ne'er be mine 
 
 Whilst storms and tempests blow, 
 Save when the love and peace divine 
 
 Into this lieart shall How, — 
 When Hope blooms fair and sheds its ray 
 
 Beyond the silent tomb, 
 And cloud and mist are chased away, 
 
 And banished far this gloom. 
 
 My treasure lies in Heaven above. 
 
 Beyond this changeful sky, 
 Where eveiy heart beats warm with love. 
 
 And bliss can never die : 
 When weary is thought's wing for flight 
 
 Through circumaml)ient air, 
 I look for rest where ail is Light, 
 
 And never shadow there !
 
 MlgCELkKJ^EOU; 
 
 The Footsteps of Spring. 
 
 Swept by au angry gale, 
 Torn by the lightning's stroke, 
 With arms all weary, bent and frail, 
 Deep in a coppice down the vale 
 There stands an aged oak. 
 
 But Spring now chains the wind 
 And calms the torrent's roar ; 
 The track that Winter leaves behind 
 She razes with soft hands and kind, 
 And lifts the oak once more. 
 
 Hard-by a tuneful stream 
 Outpours its rippling song. 
 And lightened gaily by a gleam 
 Of soft and silvery sunlight beam. 
 It swirls and trips along. 
 
 Here 'neath a spreading tree 
 From out a moss-clad mound, 
 A pale bud, longing to be free, 
 Has pushed its head in springtide glee 
 Above the silent ground. 
 
 There on a leafless limb 
 
 A wee bird twitters low, 
 Her cup of love full to the brim, 
 She is not now so shy of him 
 
 Who would a mating go.
 
 POEMS. 149 
 
 And cheered by warmth and light 
 
 The woodlark soars and sings, 
 As sk^^ward floating, dim to sight, 
 A speck outpours its song of might, 
 
 And welkin sweetly rings. 
 
 Now soothing showers descend 
 
 To kiss the blushing land, 
 While crystal tears and sunlight blend 
 That brilliant bows may earthward bend, 
 
 All wrought by subtle hand. 
 
 See, as her steps advance, 
 
 In earth and air above, 
 A thousand pulses lightly dance, 
 And tones grow soft and soft the glance, — 
 
 She fills the earth with love ! 
 
 Sam Richards. 
 
 April Night. 
 
 All the town is sleeping 
 Underneath the hill ; 
 
 Only I am keeping 
 Restless vigil still. 
 
 Through the day I've waited, 
 Still I watch at night : 
 
 Who can tell the fated 
 Hour of love-delight 1 
 
 All the world is sleeping, 
 Fain would I sleep too : 
 
 But my heart wakes, keeping 
 Vigil here for you. 
 
 H. D. LowRY.
 
 150 MISCELLA NEO US 
 
 The Gorse. 
 
 Upon tlie lonely moorland, 
 Ab, what a weary day ! 
 
 The stream was loud and turbid, 
 The sombre sky was grey ; 
 
 And though the gorse was golden, 
 My love was far away. 
 
 Upon the lonely moorland, 
 Ah, what a weary day ! 
 
 The town was grey below me, 
 Beyond, the sea was grey ; 
 
 And though the gorse was golden. 
 My love was far away. 
 
 Over the lonely moorland 
 There stole at last a ray 
 
 Of sunlight through the rifting 
 Of sombre clouds and grey : 
 
 Though sun and gorse were golden, 
 My love was far away. 
 
 Across the barren moorland 
 A wandering gleam did play 
 
 Upon a cloak of scarlet 
 That ever moved my way : 
 
 How quick my world grew golden - 
 My world that was so grey ! 
 
 H. D. LowRY. 
 
 The Golden Rule. 
 
 Love is the fairest of flowers ; 
 
 Touch it with tenderest hand ; 
 Nourish its petals with showers 
 
 Till all its beauties expand ; 
 Breathe its aroma and glory ; 
 
 Scatter its perfume around ; 
 Sprinkle the locks that are hoary — 
 
 Hearts that with trouble abound.
 
 POEMS. 151 
 
 Learn from Love liow to be clieery, 
 
 Guileless, and thinking no ill, 
 Then, when thy heart is aweary, 
 
 Patience will dwell with thee still ; 
 Comfort the heart in its sorrow ; 
 
 Work through Life's vanishing day ; 
 Give, when the needy would borrow, — 
 
 Thou passest but once this way. 
 
 Ere thou dost mete condemnation, 
 
 When others' faults are unveil'd, 
 Banish thy self-adoration, — 
 
 Hast thou not fallen and failed 1 
 Cast out the beam from thy vision ; 
 
 Sweeten with honey thy voice ; 
 Speak not with scorn and derision, 
 
 Then will the angels rejoice. 
 
 Annie Trevithick. 
 
 Love's Thoughts. 
 I think of thee 
 
 As niglit's soft, filmy veil is drawn aside 
 
 And sunbeams ope day's crimson portals wide ; 
 
 In fancy thy fair form is by my side. 
 
 Thy smile is beaming bright, clear as the light, 
 
 Thy face is ever near at early morn. 
 
 I think of thee 
 
 When Sol has bathed the earth with golden rays, 
 Winning from feather'd choirs their songs of praise ; 
 Oh, light is labour, — swiftly pass the days ; 
 With me thou dost abide, tho' seas divide ; 
 Thinking of thee the hours glide smoothly on. 
 
 I think of thee 
 
 When purple .shadows creep from out the West, 
 And flooding hills and vales. Sol sinks to rest 
 As falls a weary child on mother's breast ; 
 O'er rippling sea thy voice comes back to me 
 Through the sweet stillness of calm eventide. 
 
 Annie TiiKvrniicK.
 
 152 
 
 MISCELLA NEO US 
 
 St. Michael's Mount. 
 
 Majestic Michael rises — he whose brow 
 
 Is crown'd with castles ; and whose rocky sides 
 
 Ai^e clad with dusky ivy : he whose base, 
 
 Beat by the storms of ages, stands nnmov'd 
 
 Amidst the wreck of things — the change of time. 
 
 That base, encircled by the azure waves, 
 
 Was once with verduie clad : the towering oaks 
 
 Here waved their branches green : the sacred oaks, 
 
 Whose awful shades among the Druids stay'd 
 
 To cut the hallowed mistletoe, and hold 
 
 High converse with their gods. 
 
 SiE Humphry Davy.
 
 POEMS. 153 
 
 Sing, sing, ye Waves, a Requiem ! 
 
 'TwAS a lonely spot, a lonely grave, 
 With waving palm trees overhead, — 
 
 No sound but the wailing of the wave 
 Swept o'er the hapless sleeping dead ; 
 
 None but the sobbing, sorrowing sea 
 Where the wild waves roll eternally. 
 
 Sadly and gently they bore him there, 
 His mourning comrades rough and brave, 
 
 And laid him down with tenderest care 
 To rest in that lone foreign grave, 
 
 Near the sobbing, sighing, mournful sea 
 Where the wild waves roll eternally. 
 
 Then back they went to their floating home 
 And steered across the treacherous deep, 
 
 And left their comrade there alone 
 So calmly wra))ped in peaceful sleep. 
 
 By the sobbing, sighing, mournful sea 
 Where the wild waves roll eternally. 
 
 No stone doth mark where the sailor lies. 
 No teardrops kiss the lonely grave, 
 
 But the bending palm there droops and sighs 
 And salt tears fall from every wave ; 
 
 The requiem of a sounding sea 
 Is sung by the waves eternally. 
 
 Lena Jory. 
 
 Money: the Modern Idol. 
 
 Money ! thou god of wondrous power- 
 Adored in palace, cot, and tower, 
 
 In ships on briny main ; 
 On lofty hills, on fertile lands. 
 On frozen steppes, on desert sands. 
 
 On mountain and on plain :
 
 1 54 MISCELLA NEO US 
 
 Thy worshippers by far exceed 
 All those of any other creed ; 
 
 Thy power none can define; 
 For Christians, Turks, and Parsees bow 
 With Buddhists at thy altar low. 
 
 And worship at thy shrine. 
 
 Thou nervest for stupendous fight 
 
 The strength of Europe's armed might ; 
 
 Thou sett'st the war-fiends free ; 
 The monster gun thy might proclaims 
 With crashing shock, with smoke and flames 
 
 Hell's demons laugh with glee. 
 
 For love of thee, with bated breath. 
 The murderer plans his victim's death. 
 
 And strikes the fatal blow ; 
 For love of thee full oft have wed 
 Youth's downy cheek with hoary head, 
 
 And lived a life of woe. 
 
 In deep devotion to thy name 
 The miser suffers every shame, 
 
 Yet gladdens at thy sight. 
 By flickering lamp, with bolted door, 
 He scans thy golden visage o'er 
 
 And chuckles with delight. 
 
 He clasps thy form with bony hands ; 
 With joy he kneels, he sits, he stands, 
 
 And capers like a child ; 
 With thee at hand he wants no more : 
 His lifeless corpse falls to the floor, 
 
 All grim and stark and wild. 
 
 Thy magic wand with subtle power 
 Makes bishops e'en before thee cower, 
 
 With peers and judges grave : 
 But when stern Peath knocks at the door 
 Thou'rt impotent ! Thy power is o'er ! 
 
 Thou'rt helpless then to save ! 
 
 W. F. WOODFIELD.
 
 POEMS. 155 
 
 The Emigrant's Farewell to Mount's Bay. 
 
 FAREWELr-, ^Mount's ISay ! A long farewell 
 
 I bid thy rock-bound shore ; 
 My heart nigh breaks with grief to think 
 
 I ne'er may see thee more. 
 
 From infancy I've watclied thy waves, 
 And roanii'd thy rocks and sands ; 
 
 But T must leave thee, beauteous bay, 
 To toil in other lands. 
 
 My heart grows faint — tears blind me so. 
 
 Words fail my love to tell ; 
 My very soul so yearns for thee 
 
 I scarce can say — farewell. 
 
 But Manhood bids me dry my tears 
 
 And brace me for the hght ; 
 Adieu, adieu, beloved bay ! 
 
 Farewell, my heart's delight ! 
 
 W. F. WOODFIELD. 
 
 The Lake of Killarney. 
 
 Oh ! let me wander by the lake, 
 Killarney's sylvan shores • 
 When warbling high the minstrels wake. 
 And 8ol the heaven soars. 
 
 Lo ! from the east a glowing light, — 
 Aurora gilds the main, 
 While on the hills and rugged height, 
 The sunbeams dance again. 
 
 I've roami'd across the mountains, 
 And through the vernal woods, 
 I've watch(!d the boiling fountains, 
 Close by the swelling Hoods,
 
 1 56 MISCELLA NEO US 
 
 Yet I prefer the crystal lake, 
 With waters ever clear, 
 And would my native land forsake, 
 To dwell for ever there. 
 
 Yon azure cliffs, majestic high, 
 Where sea-birds gather round 
 Beneath a bright autumnal sky, 
 In echoes now resound. 
 
 The startled air and hollow caves 
 With vocal music ring, — ■ 
 Born on the breeze across the waves, 
 Sing on, sweet songsters, sing ! 
 
 J. F. TiDDY. 
 
 The Lizard : An English Lane. 
 
 Dear English lane ! I love thy bramble walls ; 
 
 O'er thee full many a hawthorn flings its shade, 
 Rolls many a varied leaf that droops and falls 
 
 Across the path by travellers' footsteps made ; 
 Ever the changing winds lift up the boughs 
 
 Made tuneful by the sound of wild bird's trill ; 
 In evening twilight come the gentle cows. 
 
 Long-breathed from panting on the far-off hill. 
 Yonder the stars of celandine peep out ; 
 
 Sweet smiles the pale-eyed primrose on the way ; 
 Hardly the echo brings the distant shout. 
 
 And timid dormice in the hollow play. 
 Dear lonely lane ! who can thy beauties tell 
 
 By morning sun or evening's azure sky ? 
 Or who describe the memories that steal 
 
 Long-rising tears from a late laughing eye. 
 
 To weep for thee and happy days gone by 1 
 
 Amy Owen Good.
 
 POEMS. 157 
 
 Gone. 
 
 Written in 1858. 
 
 Mid scenes and haunts of childhood no longer may I tarry, 
 Nor joy, nor mirth, can find there any more ; 
 
 The charm of life is gone, 
 
 I'm lone though crowds among, 
 And waves a dirge are chanting near the shore. 
 
 With spirits blithe and gleesome in youth's heyda^ we 
 sauntered, 
 The songs of warblers fill'd the perfum'd air ; 
 Sweetly I pass'd the hours. 
 Among the moss and flowers, 
 Entwining garlands round her forehead fair. 
 
 There's beauty in the flowers, and stars the heavens bespangle, 
 Bath'd are the clouds in charming golden sheen ; 
 
 But she was better far 
 
 Than flower, or sun, or star, 
 Or brightest galaxy — an angel queen. 
 
 When Summer's glow had vanished, and flow'rets fair were 
 faded, 
 And snow and hail fell, cov'ring all the plain, 
 The music of her voice. 
 Made my lov'd home rejoice, 
 And seem'd to haste sweet Spring's return again. 
 
 But when the days grew longer, and woodlands rang with 
 gladness, 
 Into my home came pain and grief and woe ; 
 As mists rise from the sod, 
 So rose her soul to God, 
 And I was left alone to bear the blow. 
 
 But still 1 know her spirit my footste[)S e'er is guiding, 
 And that both night and day she's always nigh ; 
 And ere long I shall be, 
 From mundane sori'ovv.s free, 
 And share her home eternal in the sky. 
 
 J. Jenkin.
 
 158 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 The Silent Tower of Bottreaux. 
 
 (A few of the Stanzas.) 
 
 The ship rode down, with courses free, 
 The daughter of a distant sea, 
 Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored. 
 The merry Bottreaux bells on board, — 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 Rung out Tintagel's chime, — 
 " Youth, manhood, old age, past. 
 Come to thy God at last ! " 
 
 The pilot heard his native bells 
 Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ; 
 " Thank God ! " with reverent brow he cried, 
 •' We make the shore with evenincr's tide." 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 It was his marriage chime ; 
 Youth, manhood, old age, past, 
 His bell must ring at last ! 
 
 " Thank God, thou whining knave, on land. 
 But thank at sea the steersman's hand," — 
 The captain's voice above the gale — 
 " Thank the good ship and ready sail." 
 " Come to thy God in time !" 
 Sad grew the boding chime ; 
 " Come to thy God at last ! " 
 Boom'd heavy on the blast. 
 
 Up rose that sea, as if it heard 
 The mighty master's signal word ; 
 What tlirills the captain's wliitening lip? 
 The d(-ath-groans of his sinking ship. 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 
 Swun<jf deep the funeral chime — ■ 
 " Grace ! Mercy ! Kindness past, 
 Come to thy God at last ! "
 
 POEMS. 159 
 
 Still when the storm of Bottreaux's waves 
 Is waking in his weedy caves, 
 Those bells, that sullen surges hide. 
 Peal their deep tones beneatli the tide ; — 
 " Come to thy God in time ! " 
 Thus saith the ocean chime ; 
 Storm, billow, whirlwind, past, 
 " Come to thy God at last ! ' " 
 
 Rev. R. S. Hawker. 
 
 Sing ! Birdie, Sing ! 
 
 Sing ! Birdie sing ! your playmate's abed, 
 
 Sing as you ever have sung ; 
 Little list you he is lying there dead, 
 
 The string o£ his life unstrung ! 
 
 Never again will he welcome your trill 
 
 As you wake with the rising sun ; 
 Sing as you may, he for ever is still, 
 
 The days of his life are done. 
 
 Waits for him only the cold, dark place, 
 
 For him waits the massive stone. 
 How will you fill up his vacant space 1 
 
 You, in the world, alone ! 
 
 Sing ! liirdie, sing ! sing loud and true, 
 
 There are others as good as he ; 
 One cloud must not darken the sun for you — 
 
 Yours is life ; his the grave must be. 
 
 There are yet those will love you for his lost sake, 
 
 And you, when your race is run, 
 May-ha|) with him will your own place take 
 
 In the land of the endless sun. 
 
 TUOMAS COUNISH.
 
 160 POEMS. 
 
 The Smiling' Month of May. 
 
 Treading softly o'er the mountains, 
 
 Leaping, dancing on the lea, 
 Conies the Queen of Months, bestowing 
 Blessings bounteous and free ; 
 
 School-boys frolic, lambkins play, 
 In the smiling month of May. 
 
 Like a damsel, decked with jewels, 
 
 Ready for her bridal hour ; 
 Like an angel, clad in brightness, 
 Welcomed by each tree and flower, 
 Queen of beauty, blithe and gay, 
 Comes the smiling month of May. 
 
 Lark and linnet haste to meet her ; 
 Hills and dales rejoice and sing ; 
 Nature chants in adoration ; 
 Valleys with sweet echoes ring ; 
 
 Cuckoo's bell sounds night and day 
 In the smiling month of May. 
 
 Spring has spread her fresh green mantle ; 
 
 Hedges bloom with flowerets wild ; 
 Daisies smile and cowslijDS ponder. 
 As they watch Dame Nature's child : 
 Maypole dancei-s lead the way, 
 Welcoming the month of May. 
 
 William Quintrell.
 
 =K.;"^ 
 
 £!0RN13H JlTTIE^ 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE B. MILLETT. 
 
 " The Mayor of Market-Jew." 
 
 INTRODUCTORY REMARKS. 
 
 MARAZION, or ^larket-.Tew, as it is also commonly called, is a 
 pleasant little town on the northern shore of Mount's Bay, near 
 St. Michael's Mount. No less than seventy different ways of spelling 
 the name occur in various documents. * ^Slarazion was anciently a 
 place of considerable importance, and until as recently as the year 
 1786 it was the most westerly post town in Cornwall. In very early 
 times much traffic in tin with the l^hd-nicians was probably carried 
 on here. Hals says that in the time of Henry II. this town was 
 privileged with sending two memljers to sit in the Commons House 
 of Parliament. Queen Elizabeth granted it a Charter, 13th June, 1705. 
 
 After having existed as a Borough for nearly 300 years, Marazion 
 may now no longer claim the privilege, which is swept away under 
 the Municipal Coporations Act, its Corporation being dis.solved in 
 1880. This ditty was written— without the two additional verses — in 
 1880. " One and All " is the Cornish Motto. 
 
 The ordinary Avhite turnips grown in the vicinity are much 
 esteemed for tlieir excellence. Market-Jew turnips are well known. 
 In speaking of fair maids of Market-Jew one is also reminded <jf 
 " Fumados "— tlie name given to them by Italians— locally called 
 ' Fair Maids," being pres.sed and salted pilchaids, for the preparation 
 of which tlie fishing towns on tlie shoies of Mounfs Hay are noted, 
 large quantities being annually exported to Italy and .S2Jain. 
 
 The saying, " standing in his own light, like the Mayor of Market- 
 Jew," is proverbial in the West, having its origin in the fact that 
 in the old chapel (which has given place to the present church), 
 tlie mayor's .seat had a window directly behind it. It is almost 
 unnecessary to state that tliere is no authority whatever for the 
 assertion that any Mayor of Market-Jew ever so far forgot himself 
 as even to clo.se his eyes in church ! 
 
 • See " Giuiio" by'K. X. Wortli. Trans. I'cuzaucc Nat. Hist, aud Autlq. Soc. Kew 
 Series. Vol. II. p. IHT.
 
 162 
 
 THE MAYOR OF MARKET-JEW. 
 
 Written aud Cumpose d by Ge obge Bown MuiETT. 
 
 
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 163 
 
 " The Mayor of Market- Jew." 
 
 There's not a town in all the west 
 
 That slopes from waters blue, 
 By Providence more fully blest, 
 
 Than that of Market-Jew. 
 For though Penzance I dearly love 
 
 As a Penzance man true, 
 I'll not forget, where'er I rove, 
 
 I hail from Market- Jew. 
 
 For Michael's Mount the place is famed, 
 
 For tin and turnips too, 
 But greater praise is rightly claimed 
 
 For maids of Market-Jew, 
 So notable, so good, so fair, 
 
 I'd scarce know wliere to sue 
 Had I the chance, yet would I were 
 
 The Mayor of Market-Jew. 
 
 A happy man, a rare good man. 
 
 Who nothing has to do, 
 So right his rule and plain his plan. 
 
 As Mayor of Market-Jew. 
 Except on Sunday, as is right, 
 
 In church to be on view, 
 And there he stands in his own light, 
 
 As Mayor of Market-Jew. 
 
 And there he sometimes, people tell, 
 
 In state in his own pew, 
 Sedately sleeps and snores as well. 
 
 As Mayor of Market-Jew. 
 But worse may ne'er his town befall. 
 
 Nor worse may he do too, 
 God bless his townsfolk " One and All,"' 
 
 And the Mayor of Market-Jew. 
 
 The statement often has been made 
 
 " Corporations do not die," 
 But now indeed I'm mucli afraid 
 
 Its truth we must deny. 
 Deprived of state, bereft of power, 
 
 Dissolved his council too. 
 No longer may he strut his hour 
 
 As Mayor of Market- Jew. 
 
 So we must bow to powers that be, 
 
 And stifle our regret ; 
 With otlier's eyes we'll never see, 
 
 Nor all we wish for get ; 
 But Market- Jew will still be fair. 
 
 Be loyal, good and true ; 
 God speed thee, then, without a Mayor, 
 
 Sweet town of Market-Jew,
 
 164 
 
 THE ZEISWOR MERMAID. 
 
 Written and Composed by Geobge Bown .Mili,ktt. 
 
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 165 
 
 so 
 
 "[The Zennor Mermaid." 
 
 'TwA.s once on a time, ah long ago, 
 
 A youth he loved a maiden so : 
 
 .She was fair as the day, and -with golden liair, 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 But nobody knew from whence slie came, 
 Or where she lived, or what was her name : 
 They only perceived her divinely fair, 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 
 ^^5z^' The gossips declared she had ill-shapen feet, 
 
 ^^^^J^ She wore such long dresses they could not be 
 
 :^-^-*^=— neat. 
 
 • Like a vision she came, and would 
 disappear. 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 Her rich sunny locks were " too golden," they cried, — 
 E'en the bloom on her cheeks was carefully eyed : 
 There was something uncanny about her 'twas clear. 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 
 'Twas on Sundays alone she ever was seen. 
 At Zennor Clmrch duly, at morn and at e'en : 
 Whene'er the bell tolled she was sure to be there, 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 Like an angel siie looked, like a nightingale sang, 
 Tlirough the church the sweet notes of her melody rang. 
 In exquisite cadence, — 'twas music most rare, 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 
 Now the son of the squire was handsome and tall, 
 And he long watched the maiden so noticed by all ; 
 But to liim she seemed truly like one from above, 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 He oft tried to follow, and find where siie went, 
 But never succeeded, — she foiled his intent ; 
 So he, mutely admiring, fell madly in love. 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 
 One Sunday it happened she signed to the lad 
 
 Ere leaving tlie cliurch, and it made liis iieart glad. 
 
 He followed, and still slie but just kept in sight. 
 
 Long, ah long ago. 
 Then down to the cove slie so quickly repaired, 
 Wliilst he hurried after as quick as lie dared, 
 1'ill he reached iier at last )jy foaming waves white. 
 
 Long, ail long ago. 
 
 'Twas then that she tunu<], and smiling, said she, 
 " Come l)e my dear love, and dwell 'neath Ihc sea, 
 I've pleasures and liciies in deep coial caves." 
 Long, all long ago. 
 " I'm yours," cried the lad " for ever and aye — 
 I'll follow wherever you point out tlie way : " 
 Then embraced l)y tlu; Mermaid he ))biiigi(l in (lie waves, 
 Long, ah long ago.
 
 166 
 
 PAUL CHURCH TOWN. 
 
 Allegretto moderato. 
 
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 Written and Composed by George Bown Mhj-ett. 
 
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 maia.-iul r.ray th^re. Oue mouient.ob.stay thee.Canst tell mo the way now to Paul Church Town? I'm 
 
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 Paul Church Town. 
 
 
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 167 
 
 "Paul Church Town." 
 
 Sweet maiden, I pray thee, 
 
 One moment oh stay thee, 
 Canst tell me the way now to Paul Church Town ? 
 
 I"m listless and drearj^ 
 
 Foot-sore and wearj% 
 And gladly to-night shall I lay me down : 
 
 From trade, streets, and building, 
 
 From shops, gas, and gilding, 
 I seek for seclusion in Paul Church To^'^^l. 
 
 Keep right up the hill, sir, 
 
 But walk with a will, sir, 
 Lest night should o'ertake you near Paul Church Town, 
 
 For such folks as you, sir. 
 
 May hap this to rue, sir. 
 Where pixies in plenty and small folks brown 
 
 May lead you astray, sir, 
 
 Deceive you till day, sir. 
 So beware of the pixies near Paul Church Town. 
 
 Sweet maid, I beseech thee. 
 
 Oh tell me, oh teach me 
 How best to shun pixies near Paul Church Town. 
 
 I'm fearful of danger 
 
 Unkno\^^l to a stranger, 
 I've doubts of lone places of such renown. 
 
 But if thou would"st guide nie 
 
 I'd feel safe beside thee, 
 I'd love tiiee, I'd wed thee, at Paul Churcli Town. 
 
 You're too fast by half, sir, 
 
 I'm not caught with chaff, sir. 
 Not thus is love made, sir, at Paul Church Town. 
 
 I've a husband already 
 
 W lie's loving and steady — 
 He's coming I see, sir, the hill-side down. 
 
 So quicken your pace, sir. 
 
 You can't miss the place, sir. 
 But beware of the pixies near Paul Church Town.
 
 ^ ^' 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY F. RODDA, PENZANCE.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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 Poems of Corn- 
 
 
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