> . Ex Libris • ; C. K. ogden ; • THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE TALK OF THE HOUSEHOLD. The Talk of the Houfehold POEMS BY MARIAN RICHARDSON. LONDON: S. STRAKER & SONS, 26, LEADENHALL STREET. 1865. 6t P ED I CAT ION o whom ^hall this small tribute dedicated be? so many loves within my heart hold sway : First thou, my other self, whose strong true heart Has been my Pilot oyer all the way; Then ye, dear honored guides of early years — Father and Mother — thro' whose love were shed The seeds which springing into light have strewn These lowly blossoms o'er the path I tread; And ye, my Children, who in after years May dearly prize these records of our day When they have sunk to silence in the Past, And she who wrote them may have passed away. Lancajler Houfe, Peckham Rxr. July, 1865. 105113? NDEX. • 1 ».r,p. . Heroes 1 Common Things s Woman's Duties — Woman's Million S Charing Crofs 1 r Dead Flowers on a Grave 15 Cobden's Return iS The Sons of Toil 21 Lancashire 24 Earlfwood 27 Kind Words 30 After the Peftilence, 1849 *» 1$ Look on the Sunny Side 35 The Voice of the Fallen 3~ A Temperance Song 41 The City Millionary 44 The Exile's Grave 46 Stanzas 47 In Memory of the late S. Gregfon, Esq. , M.P. for La n- carter 48 Comforted 51 Wrecked 56 The Parting Crowd 59 City Graves 61 City Trees 63 The Poor Man to his Richer Brother 66 V1U INDEX. PAGE. America in the Midft of War . . . . • ■ ■ ■ 69 Poland in 1862-3 7 2 The Cry from Circaflia 75 Italy and its Liberator . . . . . . . . . . 79 Anita . . . . . . . . . . ■ ■ • • 82 Afpromonte .. .. .. .. •• •■ 8<; A Welcome to Garibaldi . . . . . . . . . 88 Farewell to Garibaldi . . . . . . . . . . 91 To His Royal Highnefs the Prince of Wales . . . . 94 England's Welcome to Her Royal Highnefs the Princefs Alexandra of Denmark . . . . . . . . 97 Addrefs to our beloved Q ueen on the Marriage of the Prince of Wales . . . . . . . . . . 99 In Memory of Mrs. Mary Wood, Chicago, America . . 10 1 "Not Dead, but Gone Before" .. .. .. .. 103 Confolation . . . . . . . . . . • • 105 To the Queen, on the Death of Her late Royal Highneis the Duchefs of Kent . . . . . . . . 108 A Nation's Wail on the Death of Albert, the Confort of the Queen .. .. .. .. .. .. 110 The Children's Appeal . . . . . . . . . . 112 The City Hofpital . . .. .. .. .. .. 114 A Plea for Ragged Schools . . . . . . . . 117 The Power of Small Things .. .. .. .. 119 The Fir ft Decade . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 Parting Words to a Dear Brother . . . . . . . . 124 Reminifcences . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Richard Cobden .. .. .. .. .. .. 130 Abraham Lincoln .. .. .. .. .. .. 133 imroes. The World is proud to trace their names Upon her itoried page, They are the ftars whole glowing light Illumine every age. 4 Bright from the buried pall: their deeds In undimmed luftre fhine, And fhining on, fiiall ftill endure, Remembered thro' all Time. Who are they ? Lo ! a iblemn crowd Comes to the mental gaze Of Mighty Ones ; from Time's young years, E'en to thefe later days : i: HEROES. Some who have ftrode with conquering feet Through a deep crimibn flood, And worn at laft a Victor's crown Bought with the price of blood. Some who have given Youth's fair hopes, And Manhood's golden prime, And all life's lateft years to win Some treafures for their time. And fome who fearlefs dared to raife Truth's ltandard proud and high In thofe dark times, when Truth conk-fled But led them forth to die. Thefe on the mountain's gilded creft- But, lo ! the vales below Bear imprefs of heroic feet The World may never know. For many hidden lives of Toil, Obfcure, unfung, unknown, Shine radiant in the narrow fphere, Content, they call their own. HEROES. Some who have learned in darkeft hours To work, and wait for day With patient hope — tho' clouds and florins Hung over all the way ; Some who have reckoned Duty done An all-sufficient price — Some who have triumphed over Self, Nor called it facrifice. For needs it not a hero's heart To chain Ambitions down To the flow wheels of dull routine, And patiently work on? To fee Youth's glittering rainbow dreams Fade filently away, And yet be thankful for the gifts Still flrewn upon the way. To bear through weary days and nights, A bofom's load of grief, To crufh the forrow down, and find In Work its bell: relief; V. 2 4 HEROES. And even fpare a tender hand To clear the thorny way, For bleeding feet, and breaking hearts Of wanderers gone affray. So — tho' to Fame's bright mufter-roll We lift a reverent eye, And hope to catch fome golden gleams To light our footfteps by ; Yet humbler lives perchance fulfil The fame divine behelt, And he a Hero too may be Who nobly does his beft. (teuton Shinjgs. Full oft the Poet's ftar-tuned harp To noble themes has fwept the firings, But mine {hall take a lowlier ilrain, And fing the worth of Common Things. Yes ; common things : the daily round Of Life's fmall duties nobly done, May fhed more brightnefs o'er the path Than ever Poet harped or lung. Ye who mull toil, flay not to grieve That Labour is your daily lot, But know your toil-ilained hands may hold Gifts that the rich man knoweth not. For common toil, well done, may bring Reft fweeter than might elfe be known ; And forrow lofcs half its fling When men mull work the heart-throbs down. COMMON THINGS. Though far beyond our reach may rife Summits we may not hope to gain ; The common path is bright with flowers, And Beauty fmiles upon the plain. For lo ! ten thoufand glorious things To hearts that feel, and eyes that fee, Are woven in that wondrous web — A Human Life's grand myftery. For us the funlit morning hours, The gold filed o'er the death of day, The hufh of eve, the filent night, The placid moonlight's filver ray. And radiant ftars, whole holy eyes, Like angel-watchers of the night, Look down alike on hut and hall, And fhed their calm and peaceful light. And nearer yet, the lowlieft life Some dear heart-treafures may enfold Tho' common things ; Hearth, Home, and Love More precious are than gems or gold. COMMON THINGS. If not for all, for moll there beams The brightnefs of fome baby-face ; For moft there waits fome kindly fmiles, Some loving words, fome fond embrace. We will be thankful then for all, And feize the bleffings each day brings, For fure life's happinefs diftils Its fweeteft drops from Common Things. tuiloman's lute. — Wtovxattt's Mission. Woman ! thou needeft no glory-wreaths To glitter o'er thy name ; 'Tis not for thee to hurry on In mad puriuit of Fame ; For lo ! thou haft a nobler fphere In that bright fpot called Home, Where thou may'ft reign, and hold fupreme A Queendom all thine own. What need Ambition be to thee, Whole tafks, not light or few, Embrace ambitions high enough For thee to battle through ; Not trifling things are Faith and Love And felf-denying zeal, And Woman's pride of lofing felf In other's woe or weal WOMAN'S DUTIES. WOMAN S MISSION. And not ignoble is thy lot ; E'en in the daily round Of petty cares and common things Some glory may be found. For duties met and well-fulfilled, Bring to a loving heart A iweeter fenfe of happinefs Than aught elie can impart. 'Tis thine to cheer the weary one When Heart and Hope caft down, He turns his fainting heart away From Life's unpitying frown. And mould the ftronger fpirit fail Of its belt inward light, Thy quick perception, all in love, Should gently point The Right. A thoufand-ftringed harp is thine To wake the firft sweet chords, When childhood fmiles upon thy life, And lifps its fnnple words; IO WOMAN S DUTIES. WOMAN S MISSION. 'Tis thine to catch the firft lit {mile, To mark each baby-grace, And gently lead the tottering fteps Life's after-path to trace. No lot fo lonely, but thou may'lt An influence impart; The pulfe of Man's more ftirring life If not the Head — the Heart ; In deeds of kindnefs, works of good, A helper firm to Hand ; For Life's fweet charities to ftretch A ready, willing hand. This much, and more, is thine ; fo let The outfide world in vain Allure thee from thy fheltered path With Plea lure, or with Fame. Hold faft thy filken reins aright, Thy quiet life fhall be A fource of blefling widely fpread, A crown of light for thee. 1 1 0!harinig (Cross. JRJJTH ; ours are bufy ftirring times — A itirring, working age — Scant room there'll be for Soft Romance Upon our Hirtorv's page. So mufed I, as with lightning fpeed I on my way was borne, And through the City's mighty midll With multitudes fwept on. On, pall: a world of wondrous things My curious, gazing eye Looked on with wonder, almolt awe, The fcenes that parted me by. Not glories of a bygone age, But piles of princely grace, Where mighty Commerce fits enthroned Grand monarch of the place. 1 2 CHARING CROSS. The miles of itreets, all canopied With interlacing wire, Where the trained lightning waits to work At mortal man's delire; And the broad river, bridged, and ipanned, Begirt, and overhung, With wondrous works of ftrength and fkill Acrofs its pathway flung. An iron age — all work and noise. Yet does my heart not own, Some glory in thefe fame great works Which crowd our bufy Town ? And feel a throb of grateful pride For all the patient toil Of head, and hand, which thus has reared Such trophies on our foil. But 'midit the wonders — what is this ? The gazing eye may trace A It r uft ure not ordained for use — This croft of antique grace. CHARING CROSS. 1 3 Antique, yet frefh and fair it ftands. In the bright iuniet glow, To tell the paffing crowd a tale Of many a year ago. Of how in ages rough and rude True love fo bright could ftiine, That its warm glow has even reached Unto this later time. And lo ! the buiy world has paufed Upon its ftern career, To mark where wept the Soldier King Befide the " dear Queen's " bier. O let the fweet tradition ftill Its pleafant fragrance fling, And let us feel that faithful love Is ftill a cherifhed thing ; Not only for the paft held dear, Is this memorial ftone, Our thoughts fly to our own dear Queen Who fits in grief alone. CHARING CROSS. And as its filent fhadow falls Acrofs the crowded way, The ancient ftory comes again Lit by a brighter ray ; For fhrined in our heart of hearts Is Albert's memory ; And now, as then, we foftcned feel True love can never die. •5 lead Jftottr^s mi a ^TO- Ah! ye were bright, when loving hands Beitowed ye on the tomb, Frefh from the garden's ftarry hoil, With fummer on your bloom ; And mourning hearts and weeping eyes With fond and gentle care, Laid the lalt offering of their love To fade, and perilh there. They came with memories of a form, A loved and cherifhed one ; A funny fmile for ever patted, A voice of mulic gone. Methinks I fee their wiftful gaze Bent o'er the hallowed fpot, And catch the broken whifpered words- " She ne'er fliall be forgot." l6 DEAD FLOWERS ON A GRAVE. But now, fair flowers, in your dead bloom I read a filent tale, How deareft memories rauft fade, And deepeft love mull fail ; A bitter thought might whilper now, It is the common lot To live, to love, and then to die, And be at laft — forgot. But no ! tho' on the crefted waves Of for row fome are borne, A voice Divine hath fpoken it, " Man fhall not always mourn ; " Hands muft not ever folded be In mute and paffive woe ; The funfhine cometh after rain, And God hath willed it fo. Still muft Life's common road be trod Tho' faireft things have fled, And we muft live, and care for ftill The Living, not the Dead. DEAD FLOWERS ON A GRAVE. I J Well that 'tis fo; for One who lulled The fleepers to their reft, Has loved them more than we can love, Therefore, it mull be heft. And lo ! for us a fdver ftar Pierces the midnight gloom ; E'en Immortality which mines Triumphant o'er the tomb. i8 dlobden's ilciurn. (After the Ratification of the French Treaty.) Rise, Men of Britain — ye who boaft Your Country fair and free, — The land that reigns in regal pride, Crowned Emprefs of the Sea ! Firft among nations in her power, Her liberty, her lore, — Shout welcome as her Patriot Son Regains his native more. Ye proudly count the noble names Of England's Hero-Sons, Placed high upon the mufter-roll Of Earth's exalted ones. Full oft your thoufand fpires have pealed A Nation's glad acclaim To thofe, who, on the field of blood Have earned a victor's name : COBDEN S RETURN. I 9 We honour, too, the true and brave, Who, fbremoft in the ftrife, For Hearth, and Home, and Liberty, Have freely ventured life ; But o'er their glory comes a cloud, Their laurels, — bathed in blood, — Shine dimly, gliftening through the tears Of ltricken Orphan-hood. But now no plumed Warrior comes, No laurels crown the brow Of Him — before whofe fense of right Have Empires deigned to bow. A man of peace, yet one who dared To hurl his gauntlet down, And ftand the "Champion of Free Trade," Fearlefs of fcorn or frown ! Then welcome him, this earneft man, Whofe powers of heart and brain, Whofe life-long hope has been to this Great triumph, to attain — This "Victor" of a bloodiefs ftrife Who aflcs no nobler gain Than that his "Brother Men" fhould say, " He has not toiled in vain." c 2 20 COBDEN S RETURN. His deeds let "Trade and Commerce" tell, Whofe flood-gates, opened wide, For future years rich fpoils fhall bear Upon their mighty tide. His deeds, the League of years gone by, Our cheapened daily food; — Ah ! men unborn fhall truly say " He worked his country's good." 21 She ^om of Soil. Ye working men, I hold your name A title proud to bear, As his who claims to be the Lord Of acres broad and fair. Your place may be in Life's dim ways, Your work obfcure, unknown, While often clouded o'er with care The toiling years pafs on. What matter tho' the world of wealth May never hear your name, Each working man may hold a place The rich can never claim. Monarchs of toil, whofe ftrength of arm And wondrous fkill of hand, Have crowned with mighty monuments Your own beloved land. THE SONS OF TOIL. Your hearts may glow with honeft pride, To feel that Britifh foil Owes all its glory and its wealth To Britifh Sons of Toil. Hard work, hard fare, may be your lot ; But patience to endure And courage in the hour of pain Are learned through being poor. The hard-earned cruft, the lowly roof, Great bleffings though they be, Are not enough for all your need, Nor all that you shall see : As ye have fkilful hands to work, So ye have hearts to feel, And heads to think what moft will make Your future woe or weal. Only to Him who gave you these, And to yourfelves be true, And ye (hall find what mighty things United ftrength can do. United ftriving to feek out, For all that's pure and good, Helping each other on the way In loving brotherhood. THE SONS OF TOIL. -i S Riiing above life's meaner things To feek a higher goal, Since ye have learned the deepeit grave Can not entomb the foul. Onlv have faith — faith in your God, And faith in fellow-man, Faith in vour own itrong earneit will To do the belt vou can. 24 Sanrasluvc. Thou haft thy rivers broad and bright Thy rugged, gorfe-clad fells ; Thy fhady nooks, thy murmuring ftreams, Thy fun-lit flowery dells. And round thee ftand, like fentinels, Thy mountains grand and hoar ; While ocean's billows foam, and break Upon thy pebbly fhore. And in thy midft, like Ethiop-Queens, Are cities, fwarth and grand ; Whofe work achieves, whole wealth upholds, The glory of the land. " Time-honoured Lancafter," too, holds Her "Gaunt's embattled pile," Which, grey and grand, ftill rears its creft, In ancient kingly ftyle. LANCASHIRE. 2^ But thou hail more, O Lancafhirc ! A tale can now be told, Of greater glory than belongs To memories of old. The times of knightly chivalry Have ages palled away, But thou of nobler courage tell'st In this our modern day : A tale of brave men nerved to bear The bitterer* weight of woe, With hearts as patient to endure, As mortal man may know. God grant the clouds are palling now, Which wrapt thee in their gloom ; That never more ftrong men may ftarve Befide the filent loom. Thine was the pain, O Lancashire ! Thy country's was the pride ! That Faith and Hope were not o'erwhelmed In fuch a fearful tide. 26 LANCASHIRE. The nation laid her offering down, As friend beffows on friend ; The nation thanks the patient hearts Which differed to the end. If haply, never more for us The ihow-white crops fhall wave; If peaceful fields and happy homes, Become one mighty grave ; Still o'er the fea from other lands, We hope the welcome itore, And trust that thou, brave Lancafhire, Shall pine in want no more. Orarlstuood. I s ! OT loft! tho' forth from thole dull eyt No foul may feem to fhinc, And though a dark myfterious veil Obfcures the light divine; We must not queftion Him who made His creatures fo forlorn, But only ufe love's power to prove Not loft the Idiot-born. Not loft ! but won to life and hope, By patient, gentle care, z^lthough it be but one fair flower The poor blank life may bear. One thought, that God is great and good, One hope to gild its way, — Though but a finglc ipark gleams forth, 'Twill that kind care repay. 2 8 EARLSWOOD. So thought a noble toiling man, Whofe chofen pathway led 'Midft thofe dark ways where deepeft want And darkeft woe are fpread. He thought, and lo ! the princely front Of Earlfwood towered to heaven, Home of as regal charity As e'er to woe was given. He watched it while his life's laft fands Were palling one by one, Then gently laid him down to die Ere yet the taik was done ; A monument moll coveted, A good man's legacy, Left for his country to maintain, And, reader, left to thee. Man ! Handing proud in giant ftrength Of intellect and brain, O pafs not thefe poor idiots by, In all their hclplefs pain, EARLSWOOD. 2 9 Without a thought, a paufe, a prayer, On humble bended knees, That, but for God's great gift to thee, Thou might be fuch as thefe. Mother ! who know'st the heart's deep thrill Of grateful, warm delight, When little eyes beam on thine own, Intelligent and bright ; O feel for thefe poor human waifs, Caft on life's ftormy tide, And help the hands which thus have fought This fhelter to provide. This home for which, in earneft voice, 'Tis charity that pleads, Sons ! Daughters ! from your happier fpheres, Come, help us in our needs ; That Heaven will fend you recompenfe, From whence nor flight nor fcorn, Nor aught but gentleft pitying love. Beholds the Idiot-born. 3° land fiords. THEY arc gifts of little coil, But yet of pricclcfs worth ! Kind words — I count their tones among The precious things of Earth. Theirs is the Mufic of the Hearth ; Mufic, whole gentle tone Hath mighty power to make the charm Of happinefs at home. Kind, gentle words ! Who hath not felt What balm of healing power Diftils from their foft influence, In Sorrow's darkened hour? Low whifpering to the poor, crufhed heart, Hope's precious angel-ilrain, That through its tears it may look up To Joy, and Peace, again. KIND WORDS. 3 1 Kind Words ! Oh ufe them ! Thou shah find Them weapons, strong and true, For work, which Force, and angry threats, Perchance, have failed to do. For they have melted itubborn hearts ; And many a wandering one Has turned upon the downward path, By power of kindnefs won. Great gifts are those of wealth and power ; But cold and drear 'twould be, Were they our only drifting ipars Upon Life's troubled fea ; For mining gold doth often fail True comfort to impart ; And burning eloquence doth fall Coldly upon the heart. Poor human nature ever craves Its meed of human love ; " Love one another," fpake the lips Of Him who dwells above. 3 2 KIND WORDS. So let that teaching be our guide : And when all elie doth fail In woe, or sicknefs — we shall find The power of Love prevail ! ^af.c*sx 33 3>pR fy gptUfut, 1849. J H E (hade has fallen on many a hearth, And dimm'd the funlight there ; And hearts which once with joy were full, Are breaking in defpair. Voices are hufh'd which late had borne Life's mufic on their tone ; And darling ones have pafs'd away For ever from their home. Ye, on whofe hearts no fick'ning pang Has come from Death's fwift hands ; Around whofe hearth no vacant place In defolation Hands ; No mufic hufhed, no glad fmile pafs'd, No love and beauty gone — No tomb fprung up amid your joys For you to weep upon. D 34- AFTER THE PESTILENCE. O from the homes lb richly bleffed Let fongs of praife rife up In gratitude to Him who fpares The bitter from the cup ; And 'midft your yet unwither'd joys, Look round on thofe lefs bleft ; And learn, oh, deeply learn to feel Pity for thofe diftrefs'd. Ye may not fill the aching void Of for row in the heart ; But gentle words of fympathy At leaft fome joys impart. Tho' myriad gifts are o'er ye flung, The beft that Heaven beftows Is that blefs'd power of fympathy For other's joys or woes. 3 5 Xoo\\ on the Sfotmn Side. ^TAY ; yc who tread Life's chequered path With murmuring on the lip, Who graip the thorns of every flower, Nor flop the fweets to iip, Grieve not o'er trifles ; this world holds Enough of grief befide, And ye are bleft compared to fome— Look on the Sunnv Side. Stay; ye fo ready to believe 111 of your fellow men ; Are ye then faulflefs, that ye fit In judgment over them ? None in perfection walk the Earth, And faults oft virtues hide ; Then judge them lightly, if at all, And choofe the Sunny Side. d z 36 LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE. The Sunny Side ; ah me ! to fome Poor forrow-ftricken ones The words feem fhadows of a time Whofe brightnefs never comes ; Or memories of years gone by, A glad and blitheibme ftrain Of mufic which has blefs'd them once, But ne'er may wake again. But, though 'tis fo — though o'er your path Sorrows fall thick and fart — Though love has chilled, and many joys Are buried in your paft — Though fad, and lone, and defolate, You think e'en Hope denied ; Look up for help, for every life Muft have a Sunny Side ! 37 I£hc Do ire of the fallen. Our Sisters! even ye who fweep In lofty virtue by, The curl of fcorn upon your lip, And cold, averted eye ; And Brothers, too ! whofc mocking jeft Is all we dare to claim, Tho' from your midft one firft laid out Our wretched path of fhame. Oh paufe, and pity ; woe is ours ! Woe, dark, abiding, deep, Though ours are hearts that may not break, And eyes which may not weep ; Think not that all our hiftory Lies in the praftifed wile, The tinfel garb, the painted cheek, The heartleis, hollow fmile ! 3 8 THE VOICE OF THE FALLEN. Ah no ! for even us there comes Dark flooding o'er the foul, A tide of mortal agonies, Refistlefs, paft control, Upon whole waves no glancing light Of hope may kindled be, Nought but the blacknefs of defpair And untold mifery. Yet 'twas not ever thus ! far back The buried Paft could fhow Fair budding hopes, too bright, too pure To linger with us now ; When joy and innocence, and love, And Home's bleft houfehold fhrine, Bedeck'd with faireft bloflbmings, Were ours, as well as thine. But now, our eyes may never meet Affection's anfwering gaze — No hallowed love may crown our life Or weep upon our graves — THE VOICE OF THE FALLEN. 39 No hope, no light for fuch as wc Sin-itaincd and forrow-crufhed — The hard world's unforgiving fcorn Will keep us in the dull. Is there no kindly voice to plead In Charity's blelt name, No hand itretched forth in fuch a caufe To fave, to win, reclaim ? No tongue to tell that fin like this May hope to be forgiven, And whifper, " E'en for fuch as thefe There may be Peace and Heaven ? " For, with fome far-off memories Of ftainlefs, happy years, There comes a ftory lingering ltill E'en in our deafened ears, Of One who raifed a Magdalene, Nor fpurned her from His door, But in His holy Temple laid — " Go forth ! and fin no more." 40 THE VOICE OF THE FALLEN. O point the path! fome hearts might turn To feek the better way, And live to blefs the hand which ftrove To turn their night to day. Faint not. tho' hopelefs feem the tafk ; Thrice bleft fhall be that hand, Whole ftrength was given to wipe away A foul ftain from the land. K--»^,e*^- 4i 31 Sempcranqe £ong. Shout, Britain's fons, your Britifh fong, Ring forth the noble Haves, And found the joyful promife forth, Ye never will be flavcs. For though ye fear no foreign foe, And own no defpot's thrall, Ye have a tyrant in your mid it More cruel than them all. 'Tis Drink, that fierce rclentlefs foe, Who, in his greed of gain, Takes youth, and hope, and happinefs, And itrength of arm and brain. He robs your manhood ol its pride ; Your childhood of it's grace ; And womanhood at his command Forgets all plcaiant trace. 4 z A TEMPERANCE SONG. All gentle love, all tender care, All peace of hearth and home, Are trampled out, defied, forgot, Where this fell-fiend has come, The lives which elfe had fhone fo fair, Are withered by his breath, And know no other end than thcfe : Madnefs, defpair, and death. O, fee the ruin of his fway ! See all the woe, and pain, In places which were happy homes, Till Drink, the tyrant, came, And ftripped the hearth, once bright and warm, The board with plenty fpread, And clutched with cruel grafping handj, The ftarving children's bread. This is the defpot, brother men, O fpurn his cruel chain, Sure honelt brows will ("corn to bear, His burning brand of fhame. A TEMPERANCE SONG. 4 ■} Your fk.il! of hand, your itrength of arm, Your need of honeft toil, God gives you for a noble life, Not for this demon's fpoil. Then by all happy memories, All hopes of joys to come, Pledge honeft vows that ne'er again, His brutifh fway you'll own. And fing again your noble fong, In glad and joyful Haves, Happy, and Free ; God helping us, " We never will be Slaves !" 44 $hc <£it]i Iflissionarn. To fome t'is given to tread the path, Of Glory, and of Fame, To die ere yet the viftor's wreath, May blofiom o'er their name. And when t'is gained, alas ! the meed Of long, and toiling years So longed for, and fo hardly won, Is ftained with blood, and tears. A different ftruggle thine ; the fight, 'Gainit ignorance, and fin, In life's dark ways, unfung, unknown, Is yet as hard to win. The weary days, and anxious nights, The efforts oft in vain, When drear, and hopelefs feems the tafk, The loft ones to reclaim, THE CITY MISSIONARY. 4> Are nobler conqueft; and a Crown, Whole glory fhall not die, Thou, Soldier of the Crofs may'ft win, For all Eternity. 4 6 Win Chile's (Srave. ' "Pis part, thy time of ftrife and pain, Thy life's long agony, And thou art gone where ftrife fhall ceafe, And tears be wiped away. At Reft — in peace — we leave thee here Beneath our Englifh Ikies, No longer Exile, in that Heaven, Where thy brave foul fhall rife : Son of that noble Land, for whom Thou would'ft have died to fave, Her tyrants cannot reach thee here, Within thy quiet grave. Our tears avail thee nothing now, This fhall thy requiem be — The Patriots' fpirit cannot die, And " Poland fhall be Freer 47 Sffetraas, ^RT thou ever the fame, with the jeft on thy lip, And the light laughter Rung on thy mirth-loving brow ? Are thy joys, and thy forrows all thofe of the furface, Art thou ever as carelefs, as mirthful as now ? I would not thou wert like the Summer-winged rover, That lightly from bloffom to bloffom e'er flies ; Tho' its track be the Sunbeam, its flight ever glowing, There's no one to weep when the butterfly dies. Is the light laugh of pleafure enough to entrance thee ? Does Life yield thee no deeper bleflings than mirth? Haft thou never yet lived thro' thofe thought-hallowed moments, Which will raife thee far higher than virions of Earth. Pafs on in thy path ; may it ever be fhining, For fmiles are the Heaven-fent charters of youth ; Cut Oh ! may'ft thou too learn to feel, the deep gladncfs That wells pure and fwcct from the fountain of Truth. 4 8 Jit Pemonj of thi* late £. (Sr^son, <8sq., $R.f). foi; Lancaster. Toll deep, toll How, ye folemn hells ! Grief's faddell mufic learn, For one has journeyed from your midft, To never more return. Full oft and loud ye've welcomed him In peals of glad acclaim, But now ftrike low, and foft, and fad, He will not come again. What tho' he bore the honoured weight Of man's allotted years, His vacant place muft here be marked With forrow and with tears. Miffed in yon bufy world where late With his compeers he flood, Spoke his laft words, ufed his laft powers, To labour on for good. IN MEMORY OF THE LATE S. GRECSON. 49 Milled there : but thou, oh Lancafter ! Tenfold the mils will prove, For, tho' afar, he may have (hone Thou had'ft his heart of love. And moft to thee was that kind voice, That pleafant, kindling eye ; That " good, grey head," which never parted Unmarked, unhonoured, by. How oft, when wearied with the itrife, He came for peace and reft, And found them in the quiet fcenes He ever loved the belt. — Thy moor, thy river, and thy hills, Thy crag-encircled fea, And far beyond, thy filent peaks Rifing in majeily. Thefe loved he — but not only thele, His kind and generous heart Turned to the people of the place, And filled a brother's part. E $0 IN MEMORY OF THE LATE S. GREGSON. No grander monument can be Than that railed by his hands, The fane which on yon moorland-fide, In facred beauty Hands. And many another work of love Will long his worth proclaim, And wreath with greatful memories His loved and honoured name. 5' o f om foiled. /tLONE, alone, e'en in the midil, J Of yonder glittering throng ; Where every lip bore Plea lure's fmile, And every voice her fong : Tho' youth was her's, and all her path With gems, and flowers feemed bright, And fhe upon the fhining way, Shone as a peerlels light. Young, rich, and beautiful, and yet The world's gay thoughtlefs round Of wit and mirth, bore to her heart A weary, empty found ; One voice was hufhed, one heart was cold, One dear loved fmile was gone, And all the reft feemed nothingneis — ■ Alas ! fhe was alone. E 1 5 2 COMFORTED. Where might fhe flee ? where find the reft Her young heart fought in vain ? Where nurfe the grief, which now muft fhroud All future years in pain ? That memory of him fo loved, So loving, and fo brave, Sleeping beneath a far-off fky, Within a foldier's grave. O fhould fhe, wandering 'neath the fhade Of her anceftral trees, Find comfort in the tears, and fighs Breathed on each pafling breeze ; Or loving fun, and filent ftars, And gentle filvery moon, Only becauie their light was fhed Upon that far-off tomb ! Not fo ! thofe fame bright fun and ftars, Brought to her drooping heart, Some thoughts of Him who bade them fhine ; And gave to each his part COMFORTED. 53 Of light, and labour in the world, Nor had withheld her own, Henceforth fhe too would venture forth, Nor mourn flic was alone. And He who ruled the waters wild, And bade the tempeft ceaie, Looked down upon His weary child, And foftly whiipercd "Peace:" Taught her to find in life's dark ways, Grief deeper than her own, And learn to feel in healing it, She need not be alone. And fo her youthful years went by, When o'er our ftartled land, Came tales of forrow from afar, Tales of our hero-band, Who went to battle for th' oppreiTed On the Crimean plains, Dving in bitter cold, neglect, With none to foothe their pains. r^. COMFORTED. Thither flic went, where men's ilrong hearts Had fickened, fhrunk, and quailed, Her woman's fpirit fainted not, Her woman's heart ne'er failed : Within Scutari's 'leagured walls, Where victims of the war Lay ftretched in life's laft agony From Home, and friends afar. What wonder that to them fhe feemed An angel from above, Whofe white hands fmoothed their dying beds- Whofe lips breathed words of love ; Who pointed up to Heav'n their eyes And bade them learn in death, To bear their pain unmurmuring, And peaceful yield their breath. What wonder, too, that brighten 1 far All other names befide, We Englifh women count her name Moll worthy of our pride ; COMFORTED. ■» ■> And write for her — whole heart leaped up — At fuch a noble call, " Many have wifely done, and well, But thou cxcelleft rf//." 56 out re cited ! In a lonely corner of the quiet churchyard of the once fecluded, but now popular watering-place of Walton-on-the-Naze, apart from other graves, may be leen a imall monumental stone — namelefs ; but bearing the word " Misf.rare," with two appropriate texts. This was erecled by fubfcription among fome of the vifitors who were enjoying the fea-breezes in that locality during the iummer of 1856, and whofe fympathies were arouied by the fad incident which the following lines will tell : — PoOF^ broken heart! above thy grave, Unhonoured and unknown, Shall no relentlefs words be breathed, No item rebukings come ; But tears of pity fhed their dew Upon that namelefs grave, Whofe only requiem has been, The wailing of the wave. No heart can tell the agony Thy quivering fpirit bore, Ere its fierce madnefs drove thee on To feek th' eternal fhore, WRECKED. 57 And filenced c'cn the Mother's voice In thy grief-ftricken breaft, Or, for thy Babe thou might'ft have lived, And left to God the reft. Oh ! that fome voice of love had breathed, In that laft dreadful hour, And poured into thy weary heart The balm of healing power, — Had told of Hope, and Peace, and Heaven, And matched thee from thy fate, — For there was even peace for thee, Tho' more than defolate. We weep for thee, unhappy child Of forrow and of fhamc, Thv Beauty's fun, gone down for aye, Behind a clouded name ; But moil we weep the wafted wealth Of Woman's faith and truft, The treafure of affection poured To mingle with the duft. 5« WRECKED. But there is one, upon whofe heart A weary weight will dwell, And in whofe ears, through life, fliall ring The echo of thy knell, — In brightcft fcencs and happieft hours, A gloomy fhade fliall fall, (Tho' faireft flowers his path may ftrew,) Dark as funereal pall. The afhes of thy blafled peace Shall rife in forms of ftrife, And dafh with bittereft memories His fweeteft cup of life. Though far away may be his home The voices of the fea Shall haunt his dreams with one lad fong- The memory of Thee. *~ziP* 59 c£he fjasshuj (Troird. Jt furges on — fwccps paft my gazing eye, I, but an unit on the billows borne, Of this great torrent of humanity, Amid its thoufands, friendlefs, and alone. On with the bufy crowd, yet as I go, With curious intereft I ftrive to trace, Some glimpfes of the hidden heart and life, Written upon each filent unknown face. Here youth's bright eyes and fair unfurrowed brow, Tell their own tale of Hope i and light within, Undimmed as yet by touch of pain or care, Unmarred by the yet deeper ftain of fin. Hard faces meet me — ftern-fet, brooding brow, With lines of Beauty long fince clouded o'er, And lips comprefTed with weight of anxious care, As if the fmile might never part them more. 6o THE PASSING CROWD. Here Iweeps along — kid-gloved Profperity, In fpecklefs broad-cloth, or in filken fheen, While Poverty in Rags, cold, gaunt, and pale, In miferable contrail fteps between. And fo it rolls, this mighty tide of life, Each by a feparate impulfe fwept along, Each heart's own purpofes, and cares, and joys, Borne filently, and veiled from the throng. Whither, or to what goal each footftep bends In Joy, or Sorrow, that I may not know, Some o'er Life's flowery ways of pleafant cafe, Some o'er the thorny path of Want and Woe. Nought to the Multitude ; yet each a part Of fome loved circle where they reign lupreme, Each dear and beautiful to fome fond heart, Where tears, and fmiles may find their anfwering gleam. And each one guided on the bufy way, Watched over by the fame unfleeping eye, Cared for by One — The One who bade them live, And traced each path beneath his own broad iky. 6i (llitn <5rauhome. While yet thofe eyes which wept lb long, Their yearning gaze may turn, Where Tank the fun-light of their- lives To never more return. To ev'ry name which love has traced, Above the burial fpot, The fweep of Time and Change mall come, And write its doom " Forgot." Yet for awhile let reverent^ hands The fpoiler's talk delay, At leait till thofe who loved them once, Shall all have paft away. 63 (L f i(n Srm* jBright Tp^ees! ye're always beautiful, Dreffed in your living green, Flinging your pleafant fliadows down, With funlit fpots between. By homes that neftle in your fhade, O'er landfcapes imiling fair, O precious gifts, ye ihine, and wave A bleffing everywhere. But here a tenfold charm ye have, Here, in the throbbing heart Of London ; claiming even there For nature ftill a part, And Ringing o'er the bufy way Where rolls that mighty tide Of eager, reftlefs human life, Some pleafant thought befide. 64 CITY TREES. For though fome eyes may be too dim, Some hearts too hard, or cold, To mark your beauty where ye fhed Your glorious green and gold. To many another weary one That beauty mining fair May bring ibme hopes of happy things- Some little reft from care. T he ftranger, lonely 'midft the throng, Afar from friends and home, May catch a glimpfe of leaf and bough, And feel not quite alone. His fainting heart bowed down beneath A weight of anxious fear, May courage take, and feeing you Feel that God too is here. Then fpare the City Trees — ye men Whole eager footfteps prefs, To fpan with works of giant might This crowded wildernefs. CITY TREES. No voice here fpeaks to ftay the courfc Of Great Improvement's plan, But when ye fee a pleafant tree, Oh! fpare it, if ye can. — "*^»csf ? 66 £The §0011 gttan Jo his Richer brother, Sifter a long Sea/on of Di/irefs in the Winter of 1 86 1 -2. Thank pOD ! 'tis paft — the hitter hour Of keeneft want and woe. How bitter only thofe can tell Who the fierce cravings know Of Poverty in all its pain — Food, light, and warmth denied ; When other men, more fortunate, Enjoy their (hug firefide. Ye felt the blaft whole icy breath Bound as with iron bands Alike the currents and the foil, And flopped the willing hands, Which elfe in honeft toil had wrought To earn their daily bread, And keep the fhelter of a roof Above each weary head. THE POOR MAN TO HIS RICHER BROTHER. 67 Ye felt it, tho' well clad and filled, Soft laid, and warmly houfed. Pain, — almoft death it feemed to us, Which but your flumber rouled. O, did your thankful hearts then turn To help a brother's need ? And open wide a generous hand The hclplefs ones to feed ? Ye did, and may a bleffing reft — The bleffing of the Poor — Upon each kindly heart who gave, From its more liberal ftorc ; That charity, whole rich full ftreams, Unchecked, have thus been poured, In the dark hour of bitter need, God furelv will reward. If there's a bond 'twixt man and man More noble and more good Than all the reft, 'tis, when clofe linked In Holv Brotherhood, f 2 68 THE POOR MAN TO HIS RICHER BROTHER. They look abroad, and feck to fhcd A little gleam of light Upon the path which elfe would be Black, piercing, ftarlefs night. And if a recompenfe is gained Sweeter than all the reft, It waits upon that toil of love Which, blejfing, fhall be bleft ; There flows acrofs the large, warm heart Which felt a Brother's woes — A deep, full tide of happinefs That nothing elfe beftows. 69 Jlmcrica in tin* midst of lilar. /imerica! thou Sifter-land Bound by no common ties To Britifh hearts who link thy name With facred memories ; We cannot watch with carelefs eyes Or Hand indifferent by While throbs thine heart's core in the throes Of" War's great agony. And yet, 'tis not for North or South We, looking from afar, Can take the part. We only pray One iffue from this war : And that, thou glorious Weltern World So proudly called " The Free," O'er all thy vaft expanlc may know The truth of Libcrtv. 70 AMERICA IN THE MIDST OK WAR. We watch and pray, that through thy land The ftrife oi" blood may ceafe, That once again ferene mall rile The Holy Star of Peace. That, where thy fwords are laid to relt Within a blood-ftained grave, There, too, may lie as ufelefs things The fetters of the Slave ! For we remember 'twas thy foil Our Pilgrim Fathers trod When firft they wandered forth to find Freedom, to worfhip God. For ever muft their memory Unite our fouls to thee, And by that memory we pray Thou may'ft again be free. O North ! with all thy wealth and ftrengtli, Can nothing now erafe This fierce and bitter ftrife which burns In bofoms of one race r AMERICA IN THE MIDST OF WAR. J \ O South ! with all thine ancient love Of noble chivalry, Can'ft thou not take thy brother's hand And fling thy weapons by ? Not gralping take, not craven yield. But each in forrow meet To own ye've much to be forgiven, And each much to forget. Then, from thy ftormy night may rife A brighter, clearer day, And its fair dawn behold thy curse Of Slavery fwept away. 72 Roland in 1862=3. The years which brought to other lands New hopes, new liberty, Have darkly broken on thy fhores, And borne no joys for thee. Poor Poland ! yet no falt'ring hands, No craven hearts were thine, 'Midit thole who've learned to bear and wait Until th' appointed time — The time when all thy Ions might rife Bound in one brotherhood, To win the freedom of their foil E'en with their heart's life-blood. And lo, 'tib come! the burning wrongs Long Hern and filent borne, The pent-up pafion breaks at length — One fierce and mighty ftorm. POLAND IN 1862-3. 73 One common vengeance fires each heart, One hope burns in each breaft, To break the Mufcovite's Item yoke, And truft God for the reft. No thirft of conqueft or of gain Has borne them thro' this ftrife, Who only afk — our human right — Sweet Liberty ! dear lire ! But courage, Poland ! that deep wail Wrung from thy heart's deipair, Has thrill'd earth's nations and awoke Refponfive echoes there. They watch'd thy throes with bated breath : Oh ! could they bear to fee Thee fall, when one ftrong helping arm Had made thee bleft and free ? But thou haft hoped and waited long, And in thy night of woe — Pale — weary-eyed thou wandereft forth Thy bittereft fate to know, 74 POLAND IN 1862-3. And on the heart of Europe laid Thy hand in trembling quell: — To find it pulielefs, cold and Hill For all thou loveft belt.. Then fadly turned thee back to feek Thy defolated throne To bravely ftrive and fuffer ft ill Unaided and alone. Alas ! 'tis now a martyr's crown That mines upon thy brow, And God, who fee'ft all thy pain, Alone can help thee now. 75 $k 34 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Laid in his laft long fleep, methinks 'Tis nothing to him now, That Death came in fuch awful guife, To fmooth his care-worn brow ; And fold the wings of heavenly Peace Around that honeft breait, Which burdened with it's country's woe Might well have longed for reft. 'Tis nothing now, what blame or praife The voice of man bellowed, He trod a ftraight and honeft path And left the reft with God. And tho' his iilent death-fealed lips Will never fpeak again, The mighty echo of his voice For ever will remain. That voice, which rifing 'mid the ftorm, Calm, refolute and brave, Dared to proclaim' thro' blood and fcorn The freedom of the Slave ! AliRAH-WI LINCOLN. »35 The preient, blind, and deaf and dumb, It'? beft things may not lee, But future years will blefs his name, Who {lamped that future free. He is avenged — not by the blood Of yon poor wailed life — Avenged by purer, nobler things, Than thefe fad {cenes of ftrife ; Avenged by all the manhood won From Slavery and Chain, By all the joy that has eclipfed The memory of pain. Avenged by all the blifs that thrills The mother's grateful heart, Who knows that now fhe need not fear From home and babes to part. Avenged by every bright young life To hope and gladnefs given, By every foul of these redeemed To (hare the joys of heaven. L37 List of (Subscribers, The Authoress has much pleasure in thanking her Friends for then- kind and prompt Subscription to her little Volume, and ventures to hope that " The Talk of the Household" will he a fresh link in the chain of Friendship thus formed, and, therefore, considers it only due to them that their names should be associated with her humble efforts. Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Sutherland (0' copies). The Right Hon. the Karl of Shaftesbury, K.G. (2 copies). Lord Gage (2 copies i. 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