THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES DREAMS AND REALITIES. DREAMS AND EEALITIES; IN VERSE AND PEOSE. BY JOHN CRITCHLEY PHINCE, AUTHOK OF "HOUaS WITH THE MUSES." " I've written, not forgetting the great end Of Poesy, tliat it should he a friend To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man," Keats. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY H. G. COLLINS, 22, PATERNOSTER ROW. UDCCCIi. PREFACE. In explanation of my motives for issuing this little volume, a few words only are necessary. • Having a number of poems, and a few prose trifles, floating about in the hands of friends, and in some of the respectable Periodicals, I was desirous of collecting and preserving them in this shape. The indulgence which was extended to my former effu- sions, both in this country and America, inspired me with the hope that these, also, might meet with a portion of the like favour. Those poems herein which are occasional, and those which were written Avith a definite purpose, the reader will readily discover. They are such, perhaps, as, from their spirit, a poor man may be pardoned for putting into print. (li)ii'Jb7 Viu PBEPACE. The power to think and alter great things belongs to few, and I am not of them ; but I trust I may be recognised as one of those Voices from the Crowds — a humble but sincere one — which are every day gaining strength, and which must, ere long, it is hopeful to believe, command a wide and intelligent audience. THE AUTHOR. Ashtoti'imder-Lyne, iSeptemler 21th, 1850. TO THE CHAIRMAN, SECRETARY, AND COMMITTEE OP THE "PRINCE TESTIMONIAL," AMD TO ALL WHO HAVE IN ANY WAY CONTRIBUTED THERETO, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BT THEIB QBAIEPUL SERVANT, CONTENTS. PAGE. Tributary Stanzas to J. C. Prince 11 The Pen and the Sword ... 13 The Press and the Cannon 20 A Winter Sketch from Oldermann ... 22 Hymn to the Creator 24 The Queen's Question ... 26 A Lay for the Printer 29 A Rhyme for the Time ... 32 Poetry in Common Things 36 Passion and Penitence : a Tale ... 41 The Seaside Sojourn 66 Come to my Home ... 72 A Summer's Evening Sketch ... 74 The Wanderer ... 76 War 80 Winter Musings ... 84 The Partition of the Earth ... 88 The Patriot's Battle Prayer ... 89 Lines on the Death of Robert Sou they 91 A Familiar Epistle to my Friend John Ball ... 93 The Power of Pleasant Memories 98 New Year's Day Aspirations ... 100 To a Young Poetess 102 CONTENTS. PAGE. A Stray Leaf 103 The Well-Spring 104 The Woodland Well ... 117 January 120 April 122 July 126 October 129 Autumn 131 North Wales 135 The Merchant and the Mourner 139 Vindicatory Stanzas ... 145 Contrition 148 KouGH Notes of a Hambler :— Reverence for the Dead : a Komantic Thought 151 A Thought in Coventry 154 A Keflection near Kenilworth 155 Approach to Shakespear's Birth' place 150 The Grave of Shakespcar 157 My last Sigh for the Past 159 An Evening in Conway, North Wales ... 161 A Thunder Storm 163 A South of England Village Hi5 The Poets 168 Snowdon 169 The Poet's Welcome ... 173 The " Temptation," and the " Expulsion" 174 Sabbath Evening Thoughts 176 On the Death of two Infant Children 177 Lines written in Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales 179 TRIBUTARY STANZAS TO J. C. PRINCE. BT JOHN BOLTON R0GER80N. When first I saw thy sweet and polished lines, Though they were penn'd not by a scholar'd hand, Even as the sun through mist of morning shines, I knew that they were destined to command The praise and wonder of thy native land ; And on the banner of wide-circling fame Inscribe, in dazzling hues, thy then unhonoured name ! And so it is !— thy aspirations high, Thy powerful pleadings for a suffering race ; Thy ardent love for heavenly Poesy, — The feelings pure which in each line we trace, — Have for thee gained a proud and envied place Among the bards, who heavenwards cleave their way, And gain by strength of wing, a bright immortal day. •4 Thou need'st not now, a wretched outcast, tread With slow and weary steps a foreign shore ; — England will find a bhelter for thy head, And thou shalt know the want of food no more : Be true unto thyself — there is in store A future, rich in many happy days. And thou shalt find the bard treasured as are his lays. xii TRIBUTARY STANZAS. Walk forth and worship. Nature as thou hast, — Drink in the beauty of her vales and streams ; Wander again, as when, in days long past, Thy soul, enwrapt in its poetic dreams, Became instinct with holy Sabbath themes ; And then, in thoughts majestic and sublime. Poured forth the noble strain which shall contend with time. Give us thy songs of freedom once again — Kaise high thy voice for liberty and love ; Tell to the world the woes of toiling men. And thou their dearest champion wilt prove — Perchance the great and mighty thou may'st move ; Speak in thy wonted tones aloud of wrong — Who may divine the power and influence of song ? Hang not thy harp upon the willows now — Be not with what thou'st won alone content ; A wreath more glorious yet may grace thy brow — On high achievement be thy mind still bent ; Gifts like to thine were surely never meant To be unused or thrown neglected by — Well is he paid whose dower is immortality ! Mancheeter, May 1842. DEEAMS AND REALITIES. THE PEN AND THE SWORD. One murder makes a villain — millions a hero." PORTEUS. Creative Pen, destructive Sword — dread powers ! How strongly ye have stirred this world of ours ! By different means, to different ends ye sway, One with delight, the other with dismay — Homes, cities, nations, climes, religions, kings, And all the boundless range of human things. One, proud of Peace and her great gifts, aspires To aid progression in its vast desires : One, prone to waste, disorder, spoil, and pride. Would turn the course of onward thought aside : One lifts, enlightens, purifies, and saves ; One smites, degrades, contaminates, enslaves ; One hath a baneful, one a blest employ, — One labours to create, one leapeth to destroy ! Giant opponents ! leagued with peace and gtrife,- One blights, one beautifies, the forms of life ; One leads to pleasures, lofty and refined. One, while it darkens, tortures human kind. Stupendous twain ! great ministers on earth Of good and ill, of plentitude and dearth, — B 14 THE PEN AND TUE SWORD. One is the storm, the pestilence, the grief, One the mind's health, calm, solace, and relief; One is the hope, the majesty, the dower Of man, still striving for a wiser power ; And one — dark game, whicli false ambition plays ! A fierce, but fading, error of old days. The Avorld grows weary of this sad unrest. This night-mare of its myriad-hearted breast, — This monster, breathing horror in its path. This hideous thing of recklessness and wrath : New thoughts, new deeds, more kindred to the skies, Pregnant with better destinies, arise. And 'mong the old iniquities of men. The mighty Sword shall fall before the mightier Pen ! Ye worshippers of Warfare, can ye tell "Where are the right, the beauty, and the spell, The glory, the morality, the gain. Of the disastrous system ye maintain ? When ye have paved the battle-ground with bones, To the sad music of a people's groans ; Wakened the cries of multitudinous woe, — Done all ye can to slaughter and o'erthrow ; Brought JMan's and Nature's fairest doings down, — Bold hearts and bloody hands ! how holy your renown ! Holy ? Dear God ! War in his whole career Is rife with lawless force and hopeless fear ; And, spite of gorgeous garniture and forms. With inward "agonies and outward storms; Lust, riot, ruin hang upon his breath. Tumultuous conflict, and dishonoured death ! Let not the youth whose spirit pants to win By lofty labours, fame unsoiled with sin, Seek it amid those desolating hordes That gird Ambition with embattled swords ; Nor desecrate his soul — which God has made For nobler things — in War's unhallowed trade. But let him serve his country as he can, With pen, tongue, action, as becomes a man THE PEN AND THE SWORD. 15 Bent upon tolls that dignify and grace, And bring somo blessing to the human race. See the poor soldier — no unworthy name "When wielding moral weapons 'gainst the shame Born of a thousand social ills and wrongs. Which dash with bitterness the Poet's songs ; — See the poor soldier, from less guilty life Coaxed or coerced to tread the fields of strife, Caught in a tavern ; in a barrack bred To things that blight his heart and cloud his head; Shut up his sympathies, enslave his soul. Hold natural impulse in a stern control : Ploodwink his reason, paralyse his speech. Uproot his virtues — all that's good unteach, — Till he becomes, — oh ! man thrice brave and blest ! — In war a terror, and in peace a pest ! And if he dare — for manhood sometimes will Break through its bondage, spite of every ill, — If be but dare by look, word, act, or flaw, ]\Iark his impatience of the iron law, The Lash^ laid ready for the needful hour, — 1\\^ijust and gentle instrument of power, That man-degrading, man-upbraiding thing. Bearing at every point a scorpion's sting, — Tears up the quivering flesh, extorts the groan. Rouses to vengeance, or subdues to stone, Making the being it pretends to win A restless, reckless follower of sin ; Or a machine, now dead to fear and shame, Whereby the well-born coward climbs to fame ! Fame, did I say ? Caai that enchanting thing. For whose great guerdon Genius strains his wing. Bedim htr lustrous records with the tale Of deeds, whereat the harassed world turns pale ? They write \ifame ; but Reason, Truth, and Song, Must find a darker word to designate the wrons ! But, hark ! your country calls ! up valiant sons ! Gird on your swords, prepare your murderous gnus ; 16 THE FEN AND THE SWOKD. Some new aggression, grand in its design, Strikes the wise rulers of your land and mine ; — Your country calls, and her strong law and voice Admit no conscience, and allow no choice : Ye wear "War's gaudy badge, ye willing braves, — Ask not the why and where, go at it, slaves ! rientv may fail, and Commerce droop the while, And Peace, for lack of light, refuse to smile ; The Arts may sicken, Science cease his toils, And a sad people tremble at your broils. "What boots it if a wilderness be won, Or a pacific nation half undone ? Go forth, nor let the hostile flag be furled Till ye have cursed and conquered half tlie world ! But ere ye go, the Servant of the Lord Must bless the banner, consecrate the sword ; Must pray the God of Battles — impious prayer ! To make your cohorts His especial care ; And, with a mock solemnity of mien, — Ah ! how unworthy of tlie sacred scene ! — Ask blessings on a bloody crowd that goes To fetter human wills, and feast on human woes I Dear Christ ! commissioned from the Eternal Throne To touch our hearts, and claim them for thine own ; JNlan of humility and patient pain, "Word without error, life without a stain ; Teacher of truths reflected from above, — Pure type of Peace, and miracle of Love ! It sliocks the soul, it makes the spirit sad. To hear these men, in robes of meekness clad. Beside the altars hallowed in thy name. Sanction a giant sin, should brand their cheeks with shame ! It is the day of battle ; morn's sweet light Comes surging o'er the lingering shades of night, And Nature, fresh as in her newest hour. Looks up with calm and renovated power ; But hostile hosts, impatient for the day. Panting like hungry tigers for the fray :— THE PEX AND THE SWORD. 17 For slauglitcr eager, and for conquest keen, Crowd and encumber the enchanting scene ; Preparing to pollute, with gloom and glare, What God has made so holy and so fair ; And with the life-blood of each others' veins, Curse and incarnadine the peaceful plains. Tlie mournful bugle sings a startling note; The cannon opes its fulminating throat ; Gleams thequick sword; upstartsthe bristling lance, — A thousand files with deadly strength advance. And with a wild tornado-shock of strife. Each bosom burning with delirious life — Meet midway ; and the tumult rising high Shakes the ensanguined ground, and troubles all the sky. Fiercer and fiercer, till the noon is past, Rages the battle's desolating blast ; Closer and closer, with unbated breath, The martial multitudes contend with death, Till the insulted sun, adown the skies, Sinks in an ocean of resplendent dyes. And pensive twilight, clothed in dewy grey, Drops her dim curtain o'er the fitful fray ; Till baftlcd, bleeding, filled with pride and spleen. Foe shrinks from foe, and darkness steals between. But not in silence reigns the fearful night. For muffled sounds denote the hurried flight ; And groans, upheaved from ebbing hearts, ascend And shriek, and prayer, and malediction blend ; And ruffian violence, and frantic fear. Strike with abrupt alarm the enquiring ear ; And reckless revel in the camp is heard. And angry cries at victory deferred, — And the mixed mockery of laugh and song, From men that glory in gigantic wrong ; Till a new morning, lovely as before. Smiles on the field that reeks with human gore, — "Wakes the rough soldier from his haunted sleep, ^ And gilds a scene " that makes the angels weep 1" 18 THE PEN AND THE 8W0ED. For many a day tlic dread Colgotlia lies Hideous and bare to the upbraiding skies ; The gentle flowers, tlie yet surviving few, Droop witli tlie burden of unhallowed dew : The lark, returning thither, soars and sings '^Vith man's last life-blood on his buoyant wings ! The vagrant butterfly drops down to bear The stains of slaughter through the summer air: The quiet cattle startle, as they stray, At ghastly fiices festering into clay ; The stream runs red ; the bare and blackened trees Have ceased to wanton with the wayward breeze ; But the gaunt wolf and hungry vulture, led By tainted gales that blow athwart the dead, Hold loathsome banquet : till some friendly hand Digs a great grave, and clears the cumbered land, And pleasant winds, and purifying rains. Sweep out at last the horrors of the plains !'•' Thought sickens o'er the scene ; — come back, sweet Muse ! Nor soil thy sunny garments with the hues Gathered from gory battle-grounds, and graves Upheaped with warfare's immolated slaves, Lest gentle bosoms, and disdainful tongues, Tire of thy truths, and rail against thy songs. THE STUDENT. Lo ! in that quiet and contracted room, Where the lone lamp just mitigates the gloom, Sits a pale student, stirred witli high desires, "With lofty principles and gifted fires. From time to time. Avith calm inquiring looks, He culls the ore of wisdom from his books; Clears it, sublimes it, till it flows refined From his alchymic crucible of mind ; • I find that this passage is an unintentional imitation of a beautiful one in " The Battle of Life," by Charles Dickens. THE PEN AND THE SWORD. 19 And as the mighty thoughts spring out complete, How the quill travels o'er the snowy sheet ! Till signs of glorious import crown the page, Destined to raise and rectify the age ; For every drop from that soul-guided pen Shall fall a blessing on the hearts of men, — Shall rouse the listless to triumphant toils, Wean the unruly from their sins and broils ; Teach the grown man, and in the growing child Transfuse a power to keep it undefiled ; Solace the weary, animate the sad, Restrain the reckless, make the dullest glad, Sow in the bosoms of our rising youth The seed of unadulterated truth ; Uproot the lingering errors of the throng. Break down the barriers of remorseless Wrong; Direct Mind's onward march, and in the van Send back electric thought from man to man : This is the Pen's high purpose — Can it fail ? Soul ! scorn the shameful doubt ! press forward and prevail ! Oh ! for a day of that triumphant time, That universal jubilee sublime ; When Marlboroughs shall be useless, and the name Of Miltons travel through a wider fame ; When other Nelsons shall be out of place, While other Newtons pierce the depths of space ; _ When other Wellingtons ! — proud name ! — shall yield To mightier Watts, in a far mightier field ! When other Shakespears shall direct the mind To Hero-worship of a purer kind ; When War's red banner shall, for aye, be furled, And Peace embrace all climes, all children of the world. ! 20 THE PRESS AND THE CANNON. The Cannon and Press ! how they ban, how they bless This beautiful planet of ours ; The first by the length of its terrible strength, The other by holier powers. More and more they are foes as the new spirit growi "Will their struggles bring joy to the free ? For the wrongful and right — for the darkness and light— Oh, which shall the conqueror be ? With a war-waking note from its sulphurous throat The Cannon insulteth the day, And flingeth about, Avith a flasli and a shout, The death-bolts tliat deepen the fray : " Give me slaughter," it cries, as it booms to the skies, And men turn to fiends at the sound; Till the sun droppeth dun, till tlie battle is won, And carnage encumbers the ground. Then the reveller reels, then the plunderer steals Like a snake, through the horrible gloom ; Then the maid is defiled, then the widow is wild, As she fathoms the depths of her doom ; Fierce fires glare aloof, till the night's starry roof Seems to blush at the doings of wrong ; Sounds of t( rror and woe through the dark comeand go, With fury, and laughter, and song ! THE PRESS AND THE CANNON, 21 "When tlie morrow's fair face looketh down on the place, All trodden and sodden with strife, The grass and the grain are empurpled with rain From the fountains of desperate life ; The stream runneth red, and the green leaves are shed, That o'ershadowed its waters so clear — For the bale-fire hath been on the desolate scene, And hath cursed it for many a year ! Recking ruins abound on the war- withered ground, In whoso ashes sit shapes of despair, And the voices of wail tloat afar on the gale. Till the brute is appalled in his lair: On the broad battle-floor, in their cerements of gore. Lie thousands whose conflicts are past, To furnish a feast for the bird and the beast — To fester and bleach iu the blast. But the tears of the sad, and the cries of the mad. And the blood that poUuteth the sod. And the prayers of the crowd — solemn, earnest and loud — Together go up unto God ! Jsor in vain do they rise — for the good and the wise, And the gifted of spirit and speech. Are waking the lands to more holy commands, Yov pence is the lesson they teach. Behold the proud Press ! how it labours to bless, By the numberless tones of its voice ! To lofty and low its grand harmonies flow. And the multitudes hear and rejoice ; Scarce an ally of gloom, scarce an artisan's room, Scarce a heart iu the mill or the mine. Scarce a soul that is dark, but receiveth a spark Of its spirit, so vast and divine ! B J 22 A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANX. Tlie Cannon lays -waste, but tlic Press is in baste To enlipbtcn, upbft, and renew ; And tbe life of its lore — can we langiiisb for more ? — Is the beautiful, peaceful, and true. 3Ian bringeth bis thougbt, in calm solitude wrought, To be multiplied, scattered, and sown ; And tbe seed that to-day droppeth down by tbe way, Is to-morrow fair, fruitful, and grown, Joy, joy to tbe world ! Press and People have burled Their slings 'gainst the errors of old ; One by one, as they fall, the poor children of thrall Grow dignified, gladsome, and bold. The Cannon and Sword — cruel, cursed, and abhorred, Cannot stay the proud march of the free ; Tliev may ban and heguile the rude nations awdiile, But the Press will the conqueror be ! A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN.* Fair are tbe Springtide features of tbe bills — Glorious their Summer aspect of repose — Calm in Autumnal hues their shadowy forms — But not less beautiful when Winter fills Their wild xmtrodden solitudes, and throws Around them all the grandeur of its storms ! Such are my musings on the craggy crown Of Oldermann, the sterile, stern and cold. As days sink sloping to the evening hour; Round my proud centre mountain regions frown, Abrupt and lone, wherein my eyes behold Gigantic proofs of God's unmeasured power, "Which wake mute worship in the eloquent heart, And lift the aspiring soul from common things apart. * .\ bold, precipitous hill in the lomantic valley of Saddleworth, • few miles from Ashton -under Lyne, A WINTER SKETCH FROM OLDERMANN. 23 Wliat a religious silence is outspread O'er all the rude and solitary scene — So cold, so pure, so solemn, so serene — From the deep valley to the mountain's head ! Ice- roofed, the stream runs mutely o'er its bed; The torrent lingers in its mid\Yay leap ; The firs, in all their branches, are asleep ; The bird is absent, and the bee is fled ; From moss-frin'Ted fountains not a tear is shed ; Of human life no sliape or voice is near ; And tlie sole sound that greets my passive ear Is the crisp snow-floor yielding to my tread : Dumb seems the earth, and rifled of her bloom, Like breathless Beauty shrouded for the tomb. Dear Heaven ! it is a blessed thing to feel ]\Iy heart unwithered by the world, my mind Wakeful as ever, and as glad to steal Into the realms of wonder, unconfined, As round me drops the drapery of night. With the delicious dimness of a dream, While the one herald-star, of restless beam, Climbs, with the rj^uiet moon, the etherial height. Winter is Nature's Sabbath-time ; and now, With all her energies within her breast. She folds her matron garments round her brow, Sits down in peace, and takes her holy rest : For wave, wood, mountain, star, moon, cloud, and sky, In deep-adoring stillness, prove that God is nigh ! 24 HYMN TO THE CREATOR. Praise unto God ! whose single will and might Upreared tlie boundless roof of day and night, Witli suns, and stars, and glorious cloud- wreaths hung ; The 'blazoned veil that hides the Eternal's throne, The glorious pavement of a world unknown, By angels trodden, and by mortals sung. To God ! who fixed old Ocean's utmost bounds. And bade tlie Moon, in her harmonious rounds. Govern its waters with her (piict smiles ; Bade the obedient winds, though seeming free. Walk the tumultous surface of the sea, And place man's daring foot upon a thousand isles ! Praise unto God ! who thrust the rifted hills, "With all their golden veins and gushing rills, Up from the burning centre, long ago ; Who spread the deserts, verdureless and dun. And those stern realms, forsaken of the sun, AV'herc Frost hath built his palace-halls of snow ! To God ! whose hand hath anchored in the ground The forest-growth of ages, the profound Green hearts of solitude, unsought of men ! God ! who suspends the avalanche, who dips The Alpine hollows in a cold eclipse. And hurls the headlong torrent shivering down the glen ! HYMN TO THE CREATOR. 25 Praise unto God ! who speeds tlic lightning's wing To fearCul flight, making the thunder spring Ahrupt and awful from its sultry lair, To rouse some latent function of the earth. To bring some natural blessing into birth, And sweep disorder from the troubled air ! To God ! who bids the hurricane awake. The firm rock shudder, and tlie mountain quake Witli deep and inextinguishable fires ; Who ur^es 'diastlv Pestilence to wrath, Sends withering Famine on his silent path. The holy purpose hid from our profane desires. Praise unto God ! who fills the fruitful soil "With wealth awaking to the hand of toil. With germs of beauty, and abundance, too; Who bends athwart the footstool of the skies His braided sun-bow of resplendent dyes, JMelting in rain-drops from the shadowy blue ! To God ! who sends the seasons, " dark or bright," Spring's frequent resurrection of delight ; Summer's mature tranquillity of mien ; The generous flush of the Autumnal time, The ever-changing spectacle sublime Of purgatorial Winter, savage or serene. Praise unto God ! whose wisdom placed me here, A lowly dweller on this lovely sphere — This temporary home to mortals given ; Which holds its silent and unerring way Among the innumerable worlds that stray. Singing and burning through the halls of heaven ! To God ! who sent me hither to prepare. By wordless worship, and by uttered prayer, By suttering, humility, and love. By sympathies and deeds, from self apart. Nursed in the inmost chambers of the heart, For that transcendent life of purity above. 26 THE QUEEN'S QUESTION ; OR, THE RIVAL FLOWERS. Ladirs, — who linger o'er this page, Witli pure and tranquil pleasure, Moved by the words of AVit and Sage, Or Bard's romantic measure, — Deign to receive this random rhyme, This brief and simple story, Of Solomon's transcendent time Of grandeur and of glory. Fired at the splendour of his fame, A proud and regal maiden To Israel's distant kingdom came With costly presents laden. She brought bright gold from Ophir's mine. Rich gems of mighty prices, Raiment of colours half divine. With perfumes and with spices. With mingled majesty and grace, A gorgeous crowd attending. She met the monarch face to face, In silent homage bending. Witli dignified, but gentle, tone, His eye with kindness beaming, The good king placed her on his throne, Jn posture more beseeming. THE QUEEN 8 QUESTION. The feast was spread, tlie hymn was sung, The dancers bounded lightly ; Rare music through the palace rung, And scented lamps burnt brightly, Meanwhile the monarch urged liis guest To pleasure's sweet employment ; And both, by radiant looks, confess'd The depth of their enjoyment. With questions, subtle, deep, refined, In changing conversation, The maiden tasked the monarch's mind With skilful penetration : But still, like gold thrice tried by fire. Wit, wisdom, lore and learning Came from the king, the sage, the sire, With richer lustre burning. The baffled queen was sorely tried. And dumb with pleasing wonder ; But what can quell a woman's pride, Or keep her spirit under ? Sheba, with persevering pains, Assumes a modest meekness. For one last question still remains To prove her strength or weakness. With quick and cunning hand she cull'd A mass of seeming flowers. And one of real sweetness pull'd From lavish Nature's bowers. In equal parts, with silken tie, She bound the blushing roses, Till each appear'd, to casual eye, Twin pyramids of posies. Within the spacious palace hall, A fair mischievous thing ; She stood apart from each and all, And thus address'd the king : — 27 28 THE queen's question. " Pray tell me, tliou of high command, To whom great thoughts are civen, — AVliich is the work of human hand — "Which drank the dews of heaven ?" He jjazcd with earnest look and long — Tlie question was repeated ; But still he held a silent tongue. Half angry, half defeated. The pleas'd spectators cluster'd nigh, And whisper'd — almost loudly, — "While Sheba, with inquiring eye, Stood patiently and proudly. 'Twas summer, and some bees had stray'd Away from fields and bowers; They hovered round the royal maid, And round the rival flowers : To one gay group they clung at last, — Their own strange instinct guiding; But careless o'er the other pass'd, Not one lone wing abiding. " Fair queen ! those floral gems of thine, Where yet the wild bee lingers, Where all the rainbow hues combine, Were train'd by Nature's fingers!" Thus spoke old Israel's king, aloud, And every bosom started ; — The vanquish'd maiden blush'd and bow'd, Then gracefully departed. Of Solomon's exalted soul. Of Sheba's mental merit, A portion of the glorious whole, 'Tis well, if we inherit ; With sight to see, desire to know, And reason our adviser. Better and happier we may grow, And surely something wiser. A LAY FOE THE PRINTER. 29 Fair female flowers, which breatlie and bloom Where'er our lot hath bound us ; Flinging Aft'ection's dear perfume Delightfully around us : Born with a beauty all your own, In proud and pure completeness, May well-deserving bees alone Enjoy your summer sweetness ! A LAY FOR THE PRINTER. Wno will deny the dignity of that enduring toil That penetrates earth's treasure-glooms, and ploughs lier sunny soil ! That flings the shutter, plies the hammer, guides the spinning wheel, Moulds into shape the rugged ore, and bends the stub- born steel ? That hews the mountain's rocky heart, piles the patrician dome ? Leans to some lone anil lowly craft beneath a lowlier home ? And who shall say that my employ hath not tlw power to bless, Or scorn tlie honest hand that wields the wonder- working Press ? With ready finger, skilful eye, and proudly-cheerful heart, I link those potent signs that make the magic of my art ; Till word by word, and line by line, expands the goodly book, Whoi in a miriad eyes, ere long, with eager souls will look. 30 A LAY FOR THE PEINTEE. The lightninfT wit, the thunder-truth, the tempest- passion there, The touching tones of poesy, the lesson pure and fair. Come forth upon the virgin page, receive their out- ward dress, And, to inspire an anxious world, teem glowing from the Press ! What were the Poet's vision-life, his rapture moods of mind, His heavenward aspirations, and his yearnings unde- fined ? His thoughts tliat drop like precious balm in many a kindred breast. His gorgeous fancies, and his feelings gloriously cx- press'd ? What were his sentiments that make the hopeful spirit strong, His fervent language for the right, his fearless 'gainst the wrong ? Wliat were they to the multitudes — a nation's strength — imless They sprang in thrice ten thousand streams triumphant from the Press ? The star-seer — honour to his name — with art-assisted sight May travel 'midst the pathless heavens, and trace their founts of light ; !May weigh the planet, watch the comet, pierce those realms that be Of suns that cluster thick as sands by Wonder's boundless sea ; May mark, witli mute exalted joy, some nameless orb arise To shine a lawful denizen of earth's familiar skies ; — But these sublime and silent toils how few could know or guess, Save tlirougli tlie tongue that failcth not, the ever- voiceful Press ! A LAY FOn THE PRINTEE. 31 The student of the universe, the searcher of its laws, Wliose soul mounts, link by link, the chain that leads to God, the cause ; Who reads the old world's history in wondrous things that lay Tombed in the rock-voins and the seas, ere man as- sumed his sway ; Who grasps the subtile elements and bows them to his will. Tracks the deep mysteries of IMind, a nobler know- ledge still ; Who adds to human peace and power, makes human darkness less, What warms, applauds, and cheers him on ? His own inspiring Press ! A prnud preserver of the past, it gives us o'er again A Tully's golden tide of speech, a Homer's stirring strain ; Reflects the glory of old Greece, Rome's stern heroic state. And tells us how they sank beneath the shocks of Time and Fate : Horatian wit, Yirgilian grace, it keeps for us in store, And every classic dream is fresh and lovely as of yore : — ITow had these treasures been conai";n'd to "dumb forgetfulness," But for the mirror of great things, the re-creating Press ! The Press ! 'tis Freedom's myriad-voice, re-echoed loud and long. The Poet's world-wide utterance of high and hopeful song ; A trump that blows the barriers down where fear and falsehood lie, A lever lifting yearning hearts still nearer to the sky ! 32 A RIITME FOR THE TIME. In good men's hands it multiplies God's Oracles of Grace, And puts them in a hundred tongues to glad the human race : Oh ! Christian truth ! oh ! Cliristian love ! twin fires that burn to bless, — "What holier spirit than your own to purify the Press ? And yet it is an evil thing, when wicked men combine To use it for some selfish end, some fierce or dark design ; Who through it pour their poison-creeds, their principles of strife. To cripple, darken, and degrade the social forms of life. Oh! ye of strong and upright minds, from such unhallowed things Defend the miglity instrument Avhencc peaceful knowledge springs ; Make it the bulwark of all right, the engine of redress. The altar of our country's hopes — a chainless, stainless Press ! A RHYME FOR THE TIME. On ! ye have glorious duties to fulfil, Nor fear nor falter on the weary way ; Ye, who with earnest rectitude of will, Marshal the millions for the moral fray ; Ye, who with voUicd speech and volant lay, 'Gainst the dark crowd of social ills encage, ' Jjead us from out the darkness to the day "We languisli to behold ; exalt the age, And write your names in fire on Truth's unspotted page ! A RHYME FOR THE TIME. 33 "With hopeful heart, and faith-uplifted brow Press on, Crusaders, for the goal is near ; Desert and danger are behind, and now Sweet winds and waters murmur in our ear ; And plenteous signs of peaceful life appear, And songs of solace greet us as we go : And o'er the horizon's rim, not broad, but clear, The light of a new morning seems to flow, — We journey sunwards ! on, and hail the uprising glow! In the sad wilderness we've wandered long. Thirsting amid the inhospitable sand, Clieer'd by that burden of prophetic song, — " The clime, the time of freedom is at hand !" And, lo ! upon the threshold of tlie land AVe strive and hope, keep patient watch, and wait ; And few and feeble are tlie foes that stand Between us and our guerdon : — back, proud gate, That opes into the realm of Freedom's high estate ! Not ours, perchance, the destiny to see The unveiled glories of her inner bower, But myriads following in our steps shall be Equal partakers of the coming hour ; The unencumbered heritage, the dower "With its full fruits is theirs, with all its store Of fine fruition and exalted power : And Truth shall teach them her transcendent lore — *' Man towards the perfect good advanceth evermore !'' And in our upward progress through the past, What giant evils have been trodden down ! Dread deeds which struck the shrinking soul aghast. Branding the doer with unblest renown : The Inquisitor's harsh face and gloomy gown, Girt with a thousand torture- tools ; the flame In whose fierce folds the martyr won his crown, — Are gone into the darkness whence they came, — There let them rust and rot, in God's insulted name ! 34 A EHYME FOR THE TIME. Knowledge liatli left tlie hermit's ruined cell, The narrow convent and tlie cloister's gloom, "NVith world-erabracinfj win^s to soar and dwell ]n ampler ether, and sublimer room ; The voUied lightnings of her Press consume The tyrant's strength, and smite the bigot blind ; Day after day its thunders sound the doom Of some old wrong, too hideous for the mind Which reason hath illumed, which knowledge hath refined. Knowledge hath dignified the sons of toil. And taught where purest pleasures may be won ; The peasant leaves his ploughshare in the soil For mental pastime when the day is done ; The swart-faced miner, shut from breeze and sun, While Nature reigns in beauty unsubdued, Creeps from his cavern'd workshop, deep and dun. And in his hovel's fire-lit solitude Storeth his craving mind with not unwholesome food. 'IMid the harsh clangor of incessant wheels, Beside the stithy and the furnace blaze, Some soul, still hungcrinof and enlarginsf, feels The silent impulse of her quickening rays ; In the lone loom-cell, where for weary days, And weary nights, the shuttle flies amain. With his white web the weaver weaveth lays To speed his labour, or beguile his pain. Lays which the world shall hear, and murmur o'er again. Proud halls re-echo with exalted song. With calm mstruction, or impassioned speech ; And who stands foremost in the listening throng? The artisan, who learns that he may teach : A BnYME FOR THE TIME. 35 Longing, acqxiiring, holding, like the leech, lie cries, " Give, give !" with imallayed desire ; No point of knovi'ledge seems beyond his reach : Effort begets success, and higher, higher, Like eagles towards the sun, his full-fledged thoughts aspire ! Nor is there danger in the liberal gift Of soul-seed, cast abroad by Genius' hand, Not weeds, but flowers and fruitful stems shall lift Their forms of grace and grandeur o'er the land. Like that proud tree by eastern breezes fanned, From kindred roots a mighty forest made — A brotherhood of branches shall expand- From the great myriad mind, afibrding shade. Strength, shelter, and supply, when outer storms invade. And by this patient gathering of thought, — And by this peaceful exercise of will, "What wonders have been nursed, matured, and wrought ! What other wonders will they not fulfil ? Upheaves the valley, yawns the opposing hill, ]Man and his hand- work sweep triumphant through ; Time swells, space, narrows, prejudice stands still And dwindles in the distance; high and new Are all our dreams and deeds:' — but much remains to do. But "War, that tawdry yet terrific thing. The Ethiop's brand and bondage, the vile show Of God's frail image from the gallows string Danslins: and heavinw with convulsive throe : — • • TIT These man-made ministers of death and woe. Shall we not crush them — Reason, Mercy, say ? Shall we not fling behind us, as we go, These ancient errors ? Reason answers " Yea ! Pure hearts and earnest souls will clear the encum- bered way.'' 36 rOETBY IN COMMON THINGS. Ilail to the lofty minds, tlie truthful tongues Linked in an universal cause, as nowj "Which break no rights, which advocate no -wTongs, Firm to the loom, and faithful to the plough ! Commerce, send out thy multifarious prow- Laden with goodly things for every land ; Labour, uplift thy sorrow-shaded brow, Put forth thy strength of intellect and hand. And plenty, peace, and joy may round thy homes expand. Hail ! mighty Science, Nature's conquering lord ! Thou star-crowned, steam-winged, fiery-footed power ! Hail ! gentle Arts, whose hues and forms afford Refined enchantments for the tranquil hour ! Hail ! tolerant teachers of the world, whose dower Of spirit-wealth outweighs the monarch's might ! Blest be your holy mission, may it shower Blessings like rain, and bring, by human right. To all our hearts and hearths, love, liberty, and light ! POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. 'Twas Saturn's night, dark silent, chill, and late, !My exhausted fire was dying in tlie grate ; My taper's wick was waxing large and long. While I sat musing on the gift of song, With all its soul-born influences, and power To soothe or strengthen in the varying hour, Upon my table, in promiscuous crowd. Lay the great minds to whom my spirit bowed ;- POETRY IN COMMOX THINGS. 3( Shakespear, that universal, and the bard Who Gloriana sang without reward, Save that which Fame accorded him for ever ; — Dryden, the child of change, whose best endeavour Was aye beset with troubles, though his string Rang out in praise of Commonwealth and King ; Milton the mighty, dignified, and pure, Born with a soul to battle or endure : Pope, the euphoneous, whose every theme Is smooth and flowing as the summer stream ; The cold and caustic Swift, whose loveless heart Knew not the pangs he laboured to impart ; Goldsmith, whose muse is ever undefiled, " In wit a man — simplicity a child !" The grave sarcastic Cowper, best of men ! And Crabbe, the moral Hogarth of the pen ; Calm Campbell, dazzling Moore, to fancy dear; The erratic ploughman, and the wayward peer ; Southey, the sorcerer, whose Avizard strain, Alas ! is silent, ne'er to sound again ; Wordsworth, now full of honourable years, Whose thoughts do often lie " too deep for tears ;" Coleridge, of dreamy lore, (who shall excel His wild and wondrous fragment, '' Christabel ?") Baronial Scott, the heir of deathless glory, And him who sang Kilmeny's fairy story; Ideal Shelley, and ethereal Keats, With their fine gathering of luxurious sweets ; Leigh Hunt, who loves a quaint, but cheerful lore, And Lamb, as gentle as the name he bore ; Elliott the iron-like, but sweetly strong, And the Montgomery of sacred song; The fervid Hemans of the magic shell. And that lorn nightingale, sweet L, E. L, These are a glorious number, yet not all Whose words have held me in delicious thrall. Weary with many thoughts, I went to sleep, (Mysterious mute existence !) calm and deep 8S POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. My slumbers came upon me, while my dreams, Tinged with the beauty of a thousand themes From childhood cherished, crowded through ray brain, Bright things a waking eye might seek in -vain. — Freed from its daily struggles with the real. My spirit sought the infinite ideal, And revelled in its regions for a time, V/hcrc all is pure, extatic, and sublime. With clear, unbounded intellect, and tongue To utter at my will imdying song. My lips dropped poesy, like flakes of light, As though some wandering angel, in his flight, Had waved his radiant pinions o'er my head, And shaken plumage ofl'. Forth from my bed, "When tlic spring morning shed its lustrous rain, J leapt in joy, and seized my pen to chain A thousand splendid visions which had crept Through my delighted being as I slept ; But like a breath upon a mirror's face, They lapsed away, nor left a lingering ti'ace. Finding my muse had crippled both her wings, And fluttered earthward, back to common things, I went to breakfast, wrapt in thoughtful gloom, While Sabbath sunshine pouring in my room, Hung brightly upon ceiling, wall, and floor, And laid a golden bar across my door; I could not choose but own its silent power, And feel in calm accordance with the hour. The scribbling fit was on me, but in lieu Of soaring into regions high and new Of perfect Poesy, I strove to climb The little mole-hill of imperfect Khyme. The ample table-cover drooped adown In graceful folds, white as a bridal gown, Or childhood's ahroud, or vestal-maid's array, Or blossoms breathing on the lap of May, Or cygnct'.i breast, or those fair clouda that lie HovcriDg in beauty ia a summer sky ; POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. 30> Or snow on Alpine summits, (thus you see We get at poesy by simile.) The bread suggested corn-fields broad and yellow, Touched by the autumn sunbeams mild and mellow; The rustle of full sheaves, the laugh and song Of jolly reapers, sickle-armed and strong, And all the loud hilarities that come To swell the triumph of a harvest home. And then the restless and secluded mill, ]\Ioved by the gushings of a mountain rill. With its moss-grown and ever- dripping wheel, Churning the waters till they flash and reel, Came up distinct before my mental gaze, — A well-remembered picture of old days, The unctuovis butter and the cooling cream. Though simple in themselves, inspired a dream Of quiet granges seated far away From towns and cities, and of meadows gay With spring's innumerable flowers ; of kine Feeding in healthful pastures, (how I pine To rush into the fields !) of dairies sweet. Where buxom-damsels, rosy-Hpp'd and neat, Have pleasant toils ; and last, the ingle side, Scene of the farmer's solacement and pride. The juicy lettuce and the pungent cress, At least in fancy's hearing, spoke no les8 Of trim-laid gardens, and complaining brooks, Winding away through green romantic nooks, To schoolboys and to lovers only known, Or Poets wandering in their joy alone ; And then the coffee, with its amber shine, In aromatic richness half divine — Brought Araby, and Araby the " Nights," Which in ray boyhood filled me with delights That linger yet. To memory how dear The generous Caliph, and the good Vizier : The silent city with its forms of stone, Ita crowded streets so wonderfully lon« :■ — 40 POETRY IN COMMON THINGS. Sinbad, of eastern travellers the great ; Aladdin's potent lamp, and splendid state, And all that dreamy mystery whose power Hath kept one wakeful till the morning hour. Alas ! that time's remorseless hand should raze Those magic mansions of our early daysj Wherein we dwell in quietude and joy, As yet unconscious of the world's annoy ; But still, though time, and even truth, be stem, 'Tis well if we can meditate, and learn To gather solace from the meanest springs ; And see some beauty in the humblest things ; For to the willing heart and thoughtful mind, To eyes with pride and prejudice unblind, Germs of enjoyment are for ever rife, E'en on the waste of unromantic life. 41 PASSION AND PENITENCE: A TALE. In the heart of the fair and fertile county of Kent, not without reason called the garden of England, stands the village of Mayburn ; and if the rapid and gigantic changes of the last twelve years have not in- vaded its peace, and disturbed its whereabouts, it is as lovely a spot as any one, weary of the busy world's din, heartlessness, and misery, could wish to make a refuge and a sanctuary of holy and ennobling thoughts. Swerving a little from the great highway to Dover, it nestles down in a warm and narrow valley, shut ia by wooded slopes and cultivated uplands. On the surrounding level of its fields the hop, the grape of Kent, grows luxuriantly; and a stream, bright as the face of childhood, with a voice as silvery sweet, with a course as wayward and pleasant, winds through and about the separate and mingled beauties of the scene. JMayburn possesses all the characteristics of an English village of the best class. Its group of white dwellinofs, their well-thatched roofs streaked with moss ; their latticed windows glistening in the sun- light, and gay with flowering plants ; their strips of garden neatly trimmed and productive, present to the stranger's eye something which satisfies and delights. Its one inn, with its pendant sign standing apart be- tween two old sentinel trees, and swinging lazily and audibly to the wind, seems to invite one into its snug recesses, there to forget one's cares in the truly Eng- 42 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. lish comforts it affords. Its old church, with its low square tower, whose dim dial plate thrusts its admoni- tory face through the clusteriug ivy, stands on a neighbouring eminence, a holy and necessary feature of the place. Beneath, where " the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep," lies tlie green grave-yard, rife with solemn lessons of mortality, and which tlie hand of vulvar taste has not dared to desecrate. Within a rood's length, under the shadow and protection of the church, is the anciently endowed school-house, whence issues the daily hum of embryo scholars labouring at the irksome task, or the sharp authoritative voice of the schoolmaster, which for a moment sub- dues the murmur, as a clap of thunder seems to silence the audacious chidings of tlie sea. Contiguous, dropped as it were by chance in a sheltering dell, the rectorage lifts its pointed and fantastic gables, its turret chimneys and broad bay windows. Its sharp angles, shady corners, and pendant caves, with the swallows twittering about them ; its tasteful grounds, where the wildness of nature is chastened, not checked, and all its comfortable and becoming ap- pliances, make it a most comfortable and picturesque abode, in perfect keeping with the whole scene. A little way from the village, seated on the stream, is an old mill, which to look upon from a sliort distance, when the motion of its wheel flings off its spray to sparkle in the sun, is a precious morsel for the painter. Here and thei'e may be discerned a few residences of the gentry looking down from the wooded hills, or glancing from quiet nooks in remote corners of the valley. Then tliere are scattered farms, and romantic wood-patlis, and Itranching bowery lanes, whicli lead to rural haunts as pleasant as our imaginations. Hucli is the picture of Mayburn, as we beheld it some twelve years ago ; and such is the principal scene of our story. In the spring of the year 1 8 1 G, the curiosity of the PASSION AKD penitence: A TALE. 43 good people of Mayburn was excited by the circum- stance of a strange lady appearing among them, accompanied by a female of matronly deportment and maturer years. The lady, who was young and eminently beautiful, wandered for two or three days about the village and its vicinity, evidently taking a pleasurable interest in all she saw. At length she took a small unoccupied cottage which stood apart, surrounded by a still healthy looking garden, in a re- tiring nook of the village. In a few days simple but elegant furniture was brought from a neighbouring town, and the strange lady, with her elder com- panion, and an interesting boy of three or four years of age, were duly installed in their new residence. On the following Sunday the strange lady, with her little household, appeared at church. Every eye was upon her ; but any eye, however quickened by curi- osity, envy, or prejudice, could see nothing in that beautiful, serene, and melancholy face, but what awakened sympathy and respect. To this feeling we must attribute the silence, the kind but enquiring looks of the rustics of Mayburn, as the strange lady and her solitary family left God's house on the even- ing of her first Sabbath among them. In a few days the lady was discovered to be a fo- reigner, but of what land remained to be known. She appeared to understand our tongue but very im- perfectly ; but the lisping, broken, and gentle idiom in which she expressed her wants, and her frank, liberal, and modest demeanour, had a charm which could not be withstood, so that she gained the tacit affections of her neighbours before she was prepared to receive or appreciate them. By degrees she insi- nuated herself into the good graces of the inhabitants of Mayburn, individually and collectively. She would take daily rounds among the people she had adopted ; pause at one door to converse, in her pleasing hesitating way, with some housewife, pat- 44 PASSION AXD PENITENCE : A TALE. ting the while the rosy cheeks of wondering children ; enter another, where the aspect of poverty seemed to invite her and drop her lieart-giving mite into the palm of its needy and grateful occupant, hurrying away from the sound of blessings called down upon her head. Madame Santerre, for such was the superscription of the few letters she received, was understood to be the widow of a French officer who fell in the wars of the Peninsula ; but why she chose to estrange herself from her own country and seek seclusion in an English village, could not be ascertained. Tiiat she had some deep-seated cause for sorrow was evident to all who observed her. She was habitually thouglitful, and absorbed in some feeling too great or too sacrcni to be breathed in the car of the common world. She was sometimes, by the few considerate and respectable people privileged to visit her, surprised in her tears ; but the loss of a brave and beloved husband, and .anxiety for the vi'elfare of an orphan child, was deemed to be a sufficient reason for the solitary indulgence of her grief. Iler time seemed almost exclusively de- "voted to her household duties, the education of her son, and frequent visits to the sick and indigent of the village. In these last good offices she was guided and often accompanied by the venerable rector. He seemed to be the only one who possessed her confi- dence, and if her secret was confided to him (for she had a secret) it was kept inviolate, fur not a word was dropped which pointed to the truth, till a combi- nation of unexpected circumstances unravelled the mystery, and brought to the heart of the fair foreigner a joy for which sho was unprepared. Ten years had elapsed since she took up her abode in the village of ^layburn, with whose unsophisticated sons and daughters she had become an established favourite. Curiosity had subsided : her son was grown up into an intelligent youth : and she, though PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 45 still beautiful, liad a somewhat pale check, and a more matronly deportment. Her venerable and pious pastor was gathered to the grave, and one much younger succeeded him ; but every one soon found cause to rejoice in so worthy a successor. He was a man yet on the sunny side of forty years, of a com- manding figure, with a grave, benevolent, and intel- lectual countenance, and a voice singularly impressive. In his duties, both in and out of the church, he was assiduous, earnest, and charitable. Wherever there was an error to be rectified, a soul to be instructed, a mind to be consoled, there, for the pure love of God and man, was the rector to be found. His exhorta- tions were characterized by a simple and natural eloquence, which appealed at once to the understand- ing, riveting the attention, and gently opening the lieart for the reception of those pure and sublime truths it was his sacred office to expound. He was a scholar, and a man of considerable scientific know- iedwe : and the rectorase became the resort of simi- larly constituted minds. The good and the great were often his guests, and save that, nor wife nor child hallowed his household by their loving and delightful presence, his home might be deemed one of all but perfect happiness. To his duty as a Gospel teacher, every other pursuit, as being of secondary importance, was properly subservient; but he nevertheless enjoyed the world as a rational and responsible being, for whom Providence had abundantly provided, and to whom had been entrusted the means of dispensing blessings to others. To his equals he was courteous, communicative, and hospitable ; to the poor, kind, considerate, and parental in his generosity; but his hospitality was neither ostentatious nor unwisely lavish, nor his religion austere or affected. He was all that could be desired of a man in so onerous a situation ; he felt its full importance, performed his duties in a meek spirit, and was, in consequence, 46 PASSION AND PENITENCE ; A TALE. revered and beloved by his flock and all who knew him. Such was the unexaggerated character of the Rev. Edward Morland, the new rector of ]Mayburn. To such a man JMadame de Santerre could not remain long unknown. The fact of her being a foreign lady, respectable in station, and popular because of her many charitable acts, could not fail to lead to such an event. It was, however, brouglit about much sooner than she expected, in a singular manner, and with results that gave a new and interesting aspect to her hitherto solitary and mysterious existence. Pro- ceeding to the church, one beautiful spring morning, she took her accustomed seat near and in front of the pulpit. The solemn service, the sweet and voluble tones of the organ, the liarmonious and reverberated chaunt of the choir, the hallowed and venerable features of tlie place, altogether prepared the mind for deep and serious impressions, and this morning Madame Santerre felt unusually disposed to the indul- gence of tender feelings ; in spite of herself, a few tears, stin-ed by recollections of tlio past, trickled from her pensive eyes, and fell on her folded hands, and a melancholy serenity of thought succeeded. In a few minutes the rector entered the pulpit, and as he uplifted his face after a brief but silent prayer, Madame Santerre was struck with its resemblance to one she had looked upon long ago, and which still haunted her daily memories and nightly dreams. Could it be that face, that tongue, just reading a fer- vent passage from the divine book, which had be- guiled her youth and embittered half her life ? Xo ! his grave and earnest countenance, pale with lioly musings; his sacred office ; his position in the church, all forbade it. She dismissed the thought. The good rector had given his text and entered considerably into his discourse before the attention of Madame Santerre became fixed on the subject. By a natural digression PASSION AND PENITENCE: A TALE. 47 he commenced a description of the horrors of war. He pictured the dazzling and imposing pageantry of armies proceeding to and gathering on the scene of action, tlie din and awful collision in the onset, the subsequent carnage and confusion, the exulting shouts of the victorious, and panic of the defeated ; the gra- dual subsidence of the clash of arms and the thunder of the cannon; the following comparative and mourn- ful silence, broken only by the groans of the dying, and the stealthy steps and compressed curses of the prowling plunderer, who under the shadow of the night, and with the horrid license of his trade, stalked among the fallen to quench the remaining sparks of life, and insult the stiifening corse by rifling it of rai- ment, or of those little mementos of aftection Avhich a wife, lover, sister, or parent, bedewed with their tears, had consigned to its keeping in the last parting and bitter hour. He went on to describe a town in a state of siege ; the alternate attack and stratagem of the besieger ; the terror, physical suftering and resolute defence of the besieged ; the final entrance of the foe ; the tide of reckless and merciless soldiery rolling in, and sweeping all before it. Madame Santerre's heart beat violently, and a sicken- ing sense of mental bewilderment came over her ; but she kept her eyes riveted on the speaker's face. He proceeded to complete his description. He spoke of God's temples being entered and wantonly desecrated ; of the pavement of the streets slippery with gore ; of the terrible glare of fired houses light- ing the mass of men, transformed for a time into devils incarnate, to their noisy and beastly orgies ; of the sanctuaries of home being invaded, and wives and daughters being openly and shamelessly violated in the compelled presence of husbands and fathers; of every species of outrage being committed which force could accomplish, or cruel and lawless passion suggest. He concluded by condemning, in forcible, eloquent, 48 PASSION AND PENITENCE. A TALE. and convincing language, all warfare as deplorable, iniquitous, and altogether unchristian, of incalculable mischief to man, and eminently sinful in the sight of God. lie would rejoice to see the civilized nations lay down the sword and take up the olive branch, and by their united influence aimihilate, then and for ever, so destructive, so universal a calamity. It was indeed a glowing and truthful picture the pastor drew, and, as if overpowered by the vividness of his own description, he paused from excess of emotion, bowed his face iu his hands and was sileut. ^Madame Santerre had fainted and fallen from her seat, and, amid tlie surprise of the rector, the tem- porary confusion of all, and the tears of many, she was borne out of the church and conveyed hnme. This was but the re-awakening of her secret sorrows to enhance the sudden joy, and the long and tranquil happiness which were yet in store for her. On the morning following a Sabbath so eventful to 3Iadarae Santerre, she beheld from her wmdow the rector passing through the wicket-gate of her garden, iu his approach to the cottage. With an iudescril)- able feeling she met him at the door, and ushered him into her neat parlour. " I call, as in duty bound," said he, " being witness of your indisposition at church, yesterday, to offer such assistance and con- solation as I can give, to alleviate, if possible, your distresses, let them arise from what causes they may." Madame Santerre replied, that " his discourse relative to the miseries of war had merely awakened certain painful recollections, which had for a moment over- powered her ; but assured him that she was now quite well." They now sat down, and, to set the lady more at ease, the rector conversed in French, which he spoke gracefully and fluently. He entered upon general topics with an acuteness of remark, and a propriety of language, which at once interested and charmed. "When he spoke PASSIOM AXD rENITEKCE : A TALE. 49 Upon serious subjects with an earnest but sudden voice, Madame Santcrre listened to liim with the most profound attention, hanging upon the tones in which he delivered his sentiments with a fondness which surprised her, they were so unaccountably familiar to her ear ; and as she stealthily scrutinized the face of the speaker, its features and expression answered to the strange fancy her memory had conjured up. As, however, he never alluded in the slightest degree to times and circumstances of which she wished to hear, and on which half of her past life had depended, she again dismissed her newly formed hopes, with the conclusion that human faces and voices might be so alike as to deceive an anxious and sensitive imagination like her own. In half-an-hour the good pastor took his leave, pleased with his new friend, and the feeling was reciprocal. lie called again and again upon jMadame Santerre, every time showing new proofs of his regard, and the interest he took in her welfare. lie undertook to superintend the education of her son, and according to iier express wish, to prepare him for college or some respectable profession. He now lengthened his frequent evening visits, and beguiled the hours so pleasantly and profitably with her and her little household, that his unexpected absence was felt as a disappointment. Gradually a warm and serious sen- timent, which she strove in vain to control, arose in the breast of Madame Santerre. The feeling could not be mistaken — she had felt it before ; and though less passionate and romantic than in her youthful days, she knew that it was love — love for her pastor, Edward ]\[orland. The discovery gave her infinite pain ; but she locked up the secret in her heart, although she yearned to expand its treasury of aftec- tions upon one so worthy to receive them, and patiently waited the unfolding of events. Six months passed away in this delightful inter- 50 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. course ; but nothing had transpired, nothing had fallen from the lips of the rector to fan the fair widow's un- fortunate but virtuous passion. lie was respectful as ever, frank, ardent, and disinterested in his friendship for her, but nothing more. At length, however, when ]\[adanic Santorre sat one evening in company with her faithful domestic, plying her needle in silence, and brooding over the melancholy events of her past life, the rector made his customary call. He did not enter the apartment with his old cheerful smile, but with a mild reservf-d air, saying, " JMadame Santerre, can we be alone ? I have something to communicate." The domestic witlidrew. After a brief embarrassing silence, he said, " Yic- torine," — he paused. This was the fii'st^tlme he had addressed her thus familiarly, and it had the eflfect of bringing the warm blood into her face, to which a deadly paleness instantly succeeded. " Yictorine," be resumed, " I come to speak to you on a subject wliich lies very near my heart, and which I have well considered, it rests with you whether it be favour- able or not to my future happiness. Since the simple event which led to our first acquaintance, I have had numberless opportunities of judging of your general temper, prudence, and virtue. The mental scrutiny has resulted to your credit and my own satisfaction. I know you are amiable and discreet ; I know you arc intelligent and yet beautiful ; I be- lieve you are pious and above worldly reproach; I take your word that you are of good family, and thougli delicacy forbade enquiring into your youthful history, I doubt not it was equally pure with the maturer portion of your life. Such being my con- viction, you have my esteem, and, need I say it, Yictorine ? a more exalted and warmer feeling even than that." Madame Santerre sat drooping in her chair, trem- bling violently, but endeavoured in a scarcely audible PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 51 voice to express her thanks for his good opinion. Emotions, explicable only to herself, shook her whole being. Mr. Morland went on — " In my quiet musings, after those brief intervals of enjoyment in your society, I have looked round my abode, and, spite of its many comforts, fancied that it looked lonely and cheerless. Though I had never observed it before, the enlivening presence of a faitliful and confiding Avoman seemed wanting. I looked about me for the desirable object of n)y household, and my choice — could it miss ? — rested upon you. I felt the hold you had taken of my affections, but forbore to explain my sentiments, from a fear of being too premature, till now. I am now decided ; and if a man who had seen enow of the world's vanities to despise their false glitter — if a heart which has been chastened, and, I trust, purified by early mental suf- fering, but which is still capable of loving, be worthy your acceptance, I here offer them in exchange for youi'self and your esteem. 1 cannot woo with the romantic ardour of a youthful lover, but your good sense will not expect it. If none more favoured has forestalled me in your affections, may I bog to know if your heart can respond to my own ? May T hope that the coming winter will see you the presiding mistress of my house? God has been pleased to surround me with worldly comforts, and by the con- tinuance of his blessing 1 can be a guide and father to your son, a devoted companion to yourself, and we can share the joy of doing good among our fellow- creatures, keeping in view the teachings and example of Him in whose service I am engaged, and to whose glory every deed of my life, I hope, will be dedicated. I wait for your decision. Take time to examine your heart, and if its pleadings arc in my favour my happiness is complete." With calm but desperate courage INIadame Santerre replied to the good rector ; she fully appreciated the 52 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. honour conferred upon her by the unqualified offer of his heart and hand, and confessed with diffidence and delicacy that she felt far from indifferent towards him ; but argued the necessity of a little time for consideration on so important a step as marriage, fraught as it would be with misery or happiness to both. Jn a week she would be prepared to enter into the details of her life previous to her coming to ^layburn, with a full trust in his integrity, and leave him to renew or withdraw the generous advances he had made, as a knowledge of her history might prompt him to act. 3Ir. 3Iorland was pleased with her candour, and acknowledged the reasonableness of her proposition. lie would wait Avith patience, though not without anxiety, the appointed time, and leave her till then in the care of her cood an^el. At partuig he took her extended hand, kissed it respect- fully and affectionately, and quitted the house. The widow sought her chamber, full of bewildering: tliought and misgivings as to the effect of her promised disclosure. Her prayers were not unavail- ing that night in Heaven. Having asked counsel of God, she resolved what course to pursue before slumber closed her eyes. " For fourteen years," she mused, " have I estranged myself from my own land, pursuing a shadow which eludes my grasp, nursing a foolish love and a vain resret, mournina: over the commission of a guilty act to which cruel circum- stances, in some measure, compelled me, keeping my secret with unshrinking firmness, bearing up against my grief with unwearied fortitude, and finding, at last, in tliis sweet retirement something like returning peace and tranquillity, when this good man, this Edward ]\Iorland, comes to change the whole current of my feelings, and to offer me happiness I am not prepared to accept. If I tell him the whole truth, he knows my shame, and will, I fear, reject and despise me. If I disguise it, I retain him by a life-long PASSION AXD PENITENCE : A TALE. 53 deception, which my soul abhors, — a deception which wouhl prey upon my heart, and dash my cup of happiness with gall. No ; I cannot dissemble to liini as I have done to the world. In justice to a kind and honourable man, and for the sake of that peace of conscience which hypocrisy cannot purchase, 1 will reveal my misfortunes, and trust to Heaven for the result. AVith him, I doubt not, my secret will be in safe keeping, and if I sacrifice my hopes, it shall, at least, be at the shrine of truth." With this determination ]\Iadame Santerre went about her duties with cheerfulness and alacrity. A burden and a shadow seemed to have passed from her mind ; and when on the appointed evening Mr. Mor- land made his appearance, she felt confident in her power to bear the approaching trial. " Well, Yictorine," he said, as he entered, " I hope your good angel, under whose guardianship I left you, has dictated a favourable response to my Avishes." The widow smiled faintly and sat down pale and composed. " Mr. Morland," she began, " T have considered your generous and honourable offer. I have done considerable violence to my feelings in preparing my- self for this, to me, important meeting. Though I claim your friendship, I feel I am not worthy of your love. I cannot to you dissimulate. With reverence for your sacred character as a minister of the Gospel, with respect for yourself as a man, I cannot go to the altar with premeditated duplicity — with a lie lurking and rankling in my heart. I have committed a grievous sin, which will set a barrier between us, — a sin in expiation of wliich I have shed many bitter tears. I trust that my God, against whom I have chiefly oftended, has forgiven nie ; and shall I not expect pity from a fellow-creature ? In divulging the particulars of my early life, I throw myself on your compassion. I ask your syrapatliy, and place implicit 54 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. faith in yoursecresy. More than this I dare not hope for. To begin the history of my misfortunes, I have, contrary to your belief, never been married." " Never married, Madame Santerre?" exclaimed the rector, q^uite astounded and incredulous, "but your son" — " Is the child of guilt and dishonour." " Guilt and dishonour, Victorine !" muttered he, paralysed and bewildered, " then, alas for thee and me !'' " Alas, indeed ! Hear my story, and judge be- tween my culpability and misfortunes. My parents ■were French protestants ; I was their only child, and along with an education suitable to my station, I received their religious opinions. My father made some successful mercantile speculations in Spain, and, for the sake of convenience, removed his family thither, where he shortly afterwards died. The loss of my father, shook my mother's delicate frame almost to dissolution, but recovering slowly, she resolved to return to France, Mvhen the British troops laid seige to tlie town in which we lived, and effectually pre- vented our removal. In common with others we shared all the doubt, fear and suspense of that terrible time. At length the town surrendered, and the out- rages of a victorious, licentious, and infuriated soldiery commenced. Deaf to the voice of command, the ap- pealings of reason, and the cries of innocence, nothing could restrain them. Frenzy of the most diabolical kind took possession of them, and at this moment I shudder at the recollection of reports that hourly shocked our ears. For a whole week they held the ascendancy, till the excess of their own fierce in- dulgences overmastered them. It was night, on the first day of these horrors ; I had just seen my mother to bed, feeble from sickness and terror, when a party of soldiers, reckless from drunkenness, forced the door, and entered the apartment where I sat with two PASSION AND penitence: A TALE. 55 or throe domestics. The servants fled, and left me to the fury of the intruders. The men seemed to demand money, and while some ransacked the house in search of it, others pulled me rudely about and ottered re- volting indignities. 1 was speechless with dismay, and though endowed with more than ordinary strength, I was near becoming the victim of their brutal passions, when one in the garb of a British ofticer entered, and confronting the men, commanded them to desist. They refused, but drawing his sword and shielding me with his person he kept them at bay. Seeing him resolute, and beholding in him their own officer, they at length with loud and angry voices, reluctantly quitted the house. When they were gone I fell on my knees before my deliverer, and thanked him in French for his generous and timely interference. He addressed me in the same language, and leading me to a seat, assured me of his protection. I now saw that he was yoimg and handsome, of polished address and winning manners. After some conversation he left me with a promise to keep watch over the house. That night, though I could not sleep for the alarming sounds in the streets, I had no further molestation. On the next day he called again, renewed his assurances of pro- tection, and stayed a considerable time. Grateful for his kindness, and glad to have a protector near me, I could not urge his departure. He talked warmly and eloquently on various subjects, and as he withdrew, expressed a hope that he might claim the privilege of a friend, and visit me as often as his duties would permit. I know not how I answered, for his eyes and his tenderness said more than his tonwue, and I felt his meaning. I must confess that I was pleased with him, and during his absence had a desire for his return. To my mother, who was confined to her room, I had related my danger and delivery, and she bade me give such reception to 56 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALB. the stranger as the merit of his act demanded, but cautioned me against overstepping the bounds of a proper and polite decorum. For two days he came not again ; and as the tumult of the town had not subsided, I was both alarmed and disappointed. — When he came it was nightfall ; to his hurried knock, and request to be admitted, as more than common danger was abroad, 1 answered precipitately. He entered and secured the door, and to his desire that he might stay all night to guard the house, I offered no opposition, but leaving him with two male domestics, retired to my mother's apartment. But you are indisposed, Mr. JNIorland. Pray let me waive the rest till you are better." " Go on, J\Iadame Santerre — for heaven's sake go on ! I must hear you to the end." Surprised and startled by the rector's singular and impressive manner, INIadame Santerre proceeded: " Next morning, with considerable trepidation, I sat down to breakfast with my protector, who was cheerful and even gay, and exerted all his powers of plcasinc At length he ventured to talk of love, and, encouraged by my silence, he declared his passion for me in the most earnest but respectful language, soliciting my pardon for his temerity, and offering his undivided and devoted heart. As he spoke, I took a rapid survey of my own feelings towards him : his seeming rank, his amiable and fascinating manners, his cultivated mind, his personal bravery in my defence, my gratitude, all were in his favour, and pleaded for him with a power I could not withstand. With a frankness which is natural to me, and with tlie proud but subdued doliglit of a girl who first sees man her worshipper, I confessed — could I do less? that I already loved him. I need not describe our mutual confidence and happiness. In a few days the frantic soldiery were reduced to order and discipline, and PASSION AND PENITENCJE : A TALE. O4 comparative peace was restored. In the meantime my mother's health rallied, and every hospitable kindness that could express the deep sense of our obligation to the Englishman she unstintedly showered upon liim. Our interviews now became frequent and protracted. Fearing to make my mother ac- quainted with what would appear to her a too premature connexion, we met in secret, Every day ■we were knit more closely together — every hour saw me more entangled in the mazes of a new and romantic attachment. By his artful designs — for I must now call them artful — my caution was gradu- ally lulled to sleep ; my scruples were overruled ; my virtue was undermined ; and in an evil and unguarded hour, I became the victim of a guilty passion which I blush to name." Here Madame Santerre gave way to her feelings and wept, while the rector with a hurried step and troubled countenance paced the apartment. At length the widow resumed, — " A few weeks passed away in dishonourable and intoxicating indulgence, during which I saw no dimi- nution of his tenderness. One evening, however, he appeared unusually thoughtful. Sitting beside me he slid a valuable ring on my finger and unclasped a bracelet from my arm, saying half-playfuUy, half- seriously, ' We will exchange tokens of affection, dear Victorine, keeping the talismans to remind us of each other when distance or duty keeps us apart.' I saw nothing in the sentence to alarm me. I saw nothing but the unwonted gloom on his brow, and expressed my anxiety as to the cause. With a sickly smile he pleaded indisposition, and with an cm- brace, during which I felt a tear — a tear of his shedding — fall hot upon my cheek, he departed. I never saw him more. On the following day I re- ceived a letter ; it was from my lover. With a trem- bling heart I tore it open, devoured its contents, and 58 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. stood paralysed Avith fear, grief, and shame. It was full of expressions of love and remorse. ' Under an assumed name,' lie wrote, ' I have wooed and wronged you. 1 mourn tliat inexorable circumstances prevent me making reparation ; but as my heart can never be estranged from you, can those difficulties be removed, it will be my pride and pleasure to claim you as my wife. Till then I implore you to be consoled, to for- give me, to believe that I am not the heartless seducer J appear. We may possibly never meet again, but till the latest moment of my existence, my dear Vic- torine can never be forgotten, can never cease to be beloved. Duty calls me hence ; I depart this very hour.' " This letter afforded no clue to where he might be found. Jn vain I made enquiries. In vain I made daily rambles through the town in the hope of again beholding him. It was evident that he was really gone, and the sense of desolate despair that came over me words are inadequate to describe. To add to my sorrow, my mother suffered a relapse, and as I watched over her with affectionate solicitude, brooding over my fate, fearing to lose the only being that connected me with the world, my fond parent would attribute my faded cheek to my toil and anxiety on her account. It was indeed true in part, but I could not embitter the few days that remained to her by a confession of my guilt and grief. She closed her eyes unconscious of my sin, and I laid her in the grave with a subdued and repentant spirit, returning home — alas ! how lonely now ! — with a strengthened, trustful, and tran- quil mind. I had scarcely performed this mournful duty than I began to feel the unquestionable conse- quences of my criminal love. Alarmed at this new cause of trouble, and fearing exposure, I hurriedly arranged my affairs, discharged my domestics, dis- posed of my house, and with one female companion, who yet remains with mc, set out for Paris, where PASSION A»D PEMITENCE : A TALE. 59 my father's property had been chiefly invested. Hav- ing secured my little fortune, I assumed the name of Madame Santerre, and took up my abode in a seques- tered village, where I gave birth to my poor boy, who is yet ignorant of his mother's disgrace. Here 1 stayed three years. The innocent endearments of my child soothed my sorrow, and kept alive my love for hia father. A new hope, a new desire seized my mind. I would visit the principal cities of France and Eng- land. I might in my wanderings meet with him — he might be yet free and imchanged, and, oh ! flatter- ing idea ! I might yet be compensated for all my sufferings on his account. For a whole year I travelled incessantly, and made use of every honour- able means to discover the object of my search, but in vain. Wearied and sick at heart I at length took refuge here. My one great hope gradually subsided. Time did its work of consolation, and my one great misfortune seemed a thing of ' long ago.' My love for the man who had wronged me gave way to a higher, and holier feeling. Religion began to claim my whole heart, when your eloquence, Mr. Morland, gave poignancy to my recollections, and your noble offer put me to the necessity of making this painful disclosure. "Without reservation have I made it ; and your commiseration, perhaps a continuation of your friendship, is all I can now expect; more than that I have not the presumption to claim. A load is lifted from my mind, and, with a full reliance on your honour, I resign myself to my solitary lot, too happy if I see my boy take a virtuous path, and an honour- able position in the world, ere I die." Madame Santerre (as wc must still call her) con- cluded her narrative with a deep sigh and a few tears of maternal solicitude. With her eyes bent on the ground, she had not observed the many changes that had passed over the faco of her auditor, in the course of her Btory. He vras 110^7 deathly pale and trem- 60 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. bling with deep emotion, as he said, " Madame San- terre, there is sometliing very strange in your history; and I feel, I hope^ that I am in some way connected with it. Will you satisfy some doubts that yet re- main upon my mind ?" " Anything, Mr. Morland, that may convince you of my sincerity." " Is your present name not Santerre ?" " No ; ray real and only name is Jocelyn." " Good God !" ejaculated the rector. " What was the assumed name of your lover — I mean your seducer ?" " Alas ! I remember it too well ! It was Frederick Stanley." " Indeed ! But there have been, no doubt, many of that name in the British army. Can you produce the ring he gave you, and the letter he wrote to you at parting ?" " 1 can," said Victorine, taking them from a cabinet and laying them on the table : " you will see that the ring contains an emerald, heart-shaped. The letter is worn and stained with my tears." The rector took up the letter and scanned it closely. Having read it and laid it down calmly on the table, there was a tear upon it, which said more than words. " In what town of Spain did these painful events of your early life take place ?" " In Badajos, after the siege in 1812." With compressed lips, but with an expression of eye which indicated inward pleasure, Mr. Morland walked slowly about the room, purposely averting his face from the anxious, searching, and enquiring looks of the lady. After a pause, he asked, with some hesitation, as if fearing her answer might frus- trate his newly kindled hopes, " Was there about this Frederick Stanley any mark, any peculiarity by which you could recognize him ?" " There was ; he had on his neck a scar left by a PASSIOX AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 61 bullet wound. When questioning lilm concerning the clangers to which he had been exposed, he showed me this mark, and expressed his thankfulness that Pro- vidence had guarded him in the strife." Here, to the surprise of the lady, the rector threw himself at her feet, exclaiming, " Rejoice with me ! rejoice with me, my dearest Victorine ! Behold in me that Stanley — that infatuated and guilty man who robbed you of your honour, and who has been the cause of your tribulation. In the course of your story I felt it would come to this, and 1 am now grateful to Heaven th^ I am permitted to oflfer that heart whose first love has never been wholly subdued. But we knew not each other, beloved Yietorine ! How is it ?" Victorine, bewildered with astonishment, delight, and gratitude, had fallen upon his shoulders, and her tears were dropping thick and fast upon his uplifted face. " Alas !" she replied, " fourteen years of sorrow and remorse will blanch and furrow the fairest face, and the difference of garb, place, and circumstance has aided the deception. I had a vague presentiment when I first saw you as God's chosen servant, that I had looked upon your countenance and listened to your voice in my youthful days ; and am I not ex- ceedingly happy to have found you at last !" Once more, as of old, but in perfect purity and sincerity, their lips met, and seated by each other the rector explained some circumstances of his past life. " I was born of a good and pious family in the north of England. My fiither designed me for the church, and I was educated at Oxford with a view to holy orders ; but bi.'ing of an a '-dent temperament, and fond of novelty and adventure, I expressed my preference for the army, which excited my father's anger and surprise. Rightly judging, however, that a few years amid the dangers and discomforts of a soldier's life, would cool down my youthful impetu- D 62 PASSICN AND PENITENCE ; A TALE. osity, he purchased for me a captain's commission, and I set out to reap laurels in the Peninsula. After taking part in a few minor engagements I was at the taking of Badajos, where I iiad the good fortune, my dearest Victorine, to protect thee from a brutal and merciless soldiery. Little did I think that so many woes would have resulted from our first meeting. I had not then learned to control my pas- sions, and your beauty, your interesting position, your gratitude, and my own wild desires, all combined to effect your ruin. Knowing I was not at liberty to offer you my hand, though myheart was yours, with a feeling of anguish and self-reproach I wrote that letter. I was then ordered to a distant station, and departed immediately. For six months, though 1 had much to occupy my mind as a soldier, I was abso- lutely miserable, hesitating between my love for you, and my ties and promises to those at home. At length the caprice of the lady to whom I was betrothed released me from my engagements. I hastened to communicate to you the joyful intelli- gence, renewed my vows, and promised, -when my duties would permit, to fly to your arms, and make honourable amends for the wrongs I had inflicted. — Weeks passed away, and no answer came to tranquil- lize my impatient mind. I then requested a brother officer, still remaining at Badajos, to make inquiries after you. lie informed me you were gone no one knew whither. I was distracted, and with more recklessness than bravery, plunged into danger, and sought every kind of excitement, in the vain hope of banishing your image from my memory. It would cling to my recollection. In the tent, in the field, at tlie feast, it was ever before me, and reproached me with almost unendurable gentleness. Thus I existed, mentally and bodily tossed about, till the battle of Waterloo. Here again I courted danger, but when vic^.ory furled the British standard, I remained us- PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. 63 scathed. Disgusted with the enormities of the war system, weary of tumult, and the turmoil of my own mind, I gave up my commission, and was received by my family with affectionate joy. To the great satis- faction of my father, I recommenced my studies for the church, and began my new career with a small living at a distance from here. With a truly changed and penitent spirit, I gave myself wholly to my sacred duties, the performance of which afforded me a plea- sure far higher than all the liberties of a mere worldly life. At length I obtained the Rectorage of Mayburn; and I believe that Providence has brought me hither for the especial purpose of atoning for my youthful crime, by loving, guarding, and comforting thee, my Victorine; wilt thou not grant me such glorious privilege ?" " Need such a question be asked, Edward ? From this moment I am devoted to your slightest wish, and shall be proud to retain the truant I have sought so long." " I have but another request to make. May I not see my boy this evening ? May not our marriage be solemnised immediately, Victorine ?" " 1 will send for Charles ; but we must prudently keep him ignorant of the circumstances of his birth for a time. AVith regard to our marriage, permit me a little space to prepare my mind for that happiness I long since ceased to hope for. It is now the end of October ; let it be on Christmas- day, Edward, — a time to remind us of Him to whose service our future years must be devoted." The good rector assented, and their son was called in. Mr. Morland took the boy's proff'ered hand, and retained it, while the inward yearnings of the father's heart prompted him to fall upon his neck, but he restrained himself, and merely gazed affectionately in his child's face. " Charles," said his mother," " you must hence- 64 PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. forth look upon JMr, Morland as your father. Can you not love and honour him as such ?" " I can, mother. I loved Mr. jMorland long since, and am pleased to be allow^ed to call him father. I shall be happy to prosecute my studies under a father's eye." Mr. Morland, with a gratified look, said, " Victo- rine, let us pray together." This little family knelt down. He prayed with more than common eloquence, fervour, and pathos, while Yictorine, in the fulness of her joy, wept aloud. "When they rose, three hap- pier hearts than theirs did not beat in the world. Beseeching a blessing on the house and its inmates, the rector departed for his own dwelling with a leeling of profound peace, arising from a conscious- ness of having done his duty, and of having given happiness to two beings so near and dear to him. A few weeks passed rapidly away, and on the morning of Christmas-day, My. Morland and Yicto- rine, by the most solemn and important of all cere- monies for the living, were made one. The rustics of Mayburn, who heard of the approaching event, had filled the church. Their congratulations were sincere and hearty. Their pastor gave bountiful largess to them, and sent them grateful to their homes. Mr. Morland then led his happy but trembling wife to the rectorage, where a few select guests awaited to receive them. " Welcome to thy future home, my own Yicto- rine !" exclaimed he, as he stepped over the threshold, " which thy sweet society will make a little paradise for me, and where I shall pour my daily tlianks to Heaven for restoring thee to my arms. Sinful was the Passion ; sincere has been the I'exitence. I trust we are forgiven." Mrs. Morland threw herself upon her husband's neck, and wept in the fulness of her gratitude and joy. If there bo among my readers any youth whose PASSION AND PENITENCE : A TALE. C5 ardent spirit lias been bewitched by the spurious grandeur of War, and who has longed to try his chance for distinction in the " tented field,'' I hope this little tale may have tended, however slightly, to shake his faith in the " honour," the " glory," the " duty," said to belong to this disastrous and unchris- tian system. They are specious names, used to catch the ear, and inflame the imaginations of young and unthinking minds. " War is a game which, were men wise, kings would not play at ;" and as men begin to form correct notions of War and its enormities, a corresponding distaste and detestation of them will be created. We may serve our country without shedding the blood of our fellow- creatures, recklessly and unnecessarily, at the bidding of men who would urge us into strife from expediency, vain glory, and intolerant self-love, A feeling opposed to battle and bloodshed is taking deep root in the public mind of our own country, and who may tell her influence for good on other nations ? God prosper the feeling, and hasten the coming of that day of Jubilee when uni- versal brotherhood shall be held inviolable, and " Peace embrace all climes, all children of the world." 66 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. TO A POET- FRIEND. IMy valued Friend ! as generous and true As bard could wish, when steadfast friends are few, — Friend of the feeling heart and soul of fire, Restrained and chastened by each just desire : Whose thoughts are high, exuberant, and warm, — Whose manners win, whose lightest words inform ; Whose deeds are ever on the helpless side Of all who are oppressed and trouble-tried. Thou hast not 'scaped the many-headed strife, Which in the tangled labyrinths of life Meets us at every turn, and strives to wrest Peace from the mind, and pleasure from the breast; But could I, as my wishes urge, extend A prayer-won blessing unto thee, my friend. Thy storms should cease, thy clouds should break away. And leave the experienced evening of thy day Calm in his joy, and in its brightness bland, A Hecting foretaste of a liappier land. Sick of the thoughtless revel, and the throng Of paltry pleasures that have done me wrong, Of envious malice and of spurious praise, (The bane, the blight of my aspiring days !) I come, with more than sadness in my breast, ^ To be with Nature a repentant guest ; And here, once more by the consoling sea, Whose constant voice of solemn euphony THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. 67 Disposes to serene, exalted thouglit, I find the tranquil solacemcnt I sought ; Put off my cares, repress regretful tears, And wake fond memories of departed years. ]\Iany and harmless are the spells that bind To this calm spot my stricken heart and mind, The grey and breexy downs, unploughed and bare; The priceless luxury of healthful air ; Tlie long lone ramble by the sounding shore ; The drip and sparkle of the measured oar ; The white winged sea gull's low and laggard flight ; The green wave's fitful and phosphoric light ; The staunch and stately ships that come and go "NVlth the strong tide's unfailing ebb and flow ; The hardy sailor's v.ild, peculiar cry, As, with a spirit emulous and high. His horny hands unfurl the fluttering sail To catch the fulness of the freshening gale ; The steadfast beacon's red revolving shine, Far-looking o'er the still or stormy brine With calm and constant, needful, watchfulness, To warn from danger, and to cheer distress. Then the pure pleasantness at eventide, Our faces brightening by the " ingle side," — In social converse, various and new, !Meri-y or sad, with chosen fi-iends and few, — Of wit and wisdom, manners, books, and men ; Of the strong sword-plague and the stronger pen ; Of living laws that guard us or degrade ; Of peaceful arts that speed the wings of trade ; Of mild Philosophy's untold delights ; Of fearless Science in his daring flights ; Of fervid eloquence, whose wondrous tongue !Make3 truth and falsehood, rectitude and wrong, Play faithless and, withal, fantastic parts On our deluded ears and doubtful hearts ; Till thou, my Friend, already brimming o'er "With classic story and poetic lore, 68 THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. Dost lead us gently, by degrees, away To mental regions of serener day, "Where Genius of a loftier, holier power, Lives soul-rapt in the quiet of his bower, Calmly creating and enjoying things, (Born of emotions and ijnaginings.) So sweet and stainless, truthful and sublime, And so instinct with life, that even Time Who makes material grandeur stern and hoary, Adds to their strength, their beauty and their glory ! 'Tis sweet again, with tranquil heart and limb, AVithin my dormitory, small and dim. To lie and listen to the lengthened roar Of restless waters rolling on the shore. And feel o'er all my languid senses creep The soft and silent witchery of sleep ; With its mysterious crowd of glooms and gleams Mixed in a wild romance of miscellaneous dreams. Once more there's pleasure, when my lattice pane Admits the dewy morning's golden rain. To hear the merry birds' melodious glee, And the still sleepless and complaining sea — Call me to spend another happy day Of fresh, free thought — too soon to pass away ! But there are other charms that gently hold My world sick spirit to thy little fold Of joyous human lambs, that learn and live '^ilid many pleasures fair but fugitive ; That wist not wherefore, and that ask not when Care claims tlie hearts, and dims the eyes of men. The first that greets my inquiring eyes at morn Is the sweet fay, thy loved and latest born : Her with the ruddy and the rounded cheek. And flowing elf-locks, amber-hued and sleek. And ripe lips, like a virgin bud that blows 'Mid summer dews, a stainless infant rose : Her with tlie thoughtless brow, and laughing eye. Clear as the depths of the cerulean sky, THE SEASIDE SOJOUBN. 69 W^'Iicre storms are brief, where shadows seldom dare Pollute or trouble the salubrious air. AVell do I know her fatlier hath the power (A dear, but yet, alas ! a dangerous dower !) To shrine his daughter in a song whose tone "Would be as sweet and lasting as my own ; But since he lays his trembling harp aside, AVith a deep sense of not unworthy pride, — Be mine the privilege, with words sincere, To please an anxious father's willing car. She duly comes — that little sprite of thine, — A human form, but seeming lialf divine, With the young morn, as fresh and free from care As forest flowers that meet ns unaware — To kiss with ready lips her fond, firm mother. Her kindly nurse, — her grave and growing brother, Her yearning father, and her father's friend, As if she sought her little soul to blend With souls of sterner mood, and thus impart Her own spontaneous happiness of heart. With bright impatient face she rushes out, Her lips disparted with a gleesome shout. To make a merry pastime of the hours In the romantic fields, knee deep in flowers. Which with an eager hand she plucks to grace The unrivalled tresses floating round her face. Else, with her young companions hand in hand, — Leaving her tiny foot-prints in the sand, — Roams the long level of the sloping shore, Watching the waters — fearless of their roar ; Gatherins: the stranded shells wherewith to deck The purer whiteness of her graceful neck ; Till in the full-tide splendors of the noon. Humming with "vacant joy" some wordless tune, She comes exulting from her pleasant toils. And strews the floor with variegated spoils ; Worthless, perchance, to our maturer sight, But to her own a treasure of delight. D 5 70 THE SEASIDE SOJOUR^^ Tlie dinner done, the irksome lesson o'or, Again she seeks her playmates, to explore Haunts yet unvisited, or old ones where All that salutes her earnest eyes is fair ; And everv sound, to her untutored ears Is as the fahlcd music of tlie spheres. The shady quiet of some bosky dell, And the cool sparklings of its little well ; The bustling brooklet hurrying past her feet "With a low murmur, tremulous and sweet ; A fluttering leaf — a waving flower — a tree Shiverin"; throufjli all its foliage : a bee Sittiuif assiduous on the honied blonni Of clover, bluahing in its own perfume ; The song and plumage of some fearless bird — Tlie cuckoo's sliout from dim remoteness heard ; ]).Iysterious Echo's mimic voice, that seems Like that of spirit from a place of dreams ; The dauntless pleasure-toils to seek and find The brown nuts nestling: in tlieir rucrsed rind : The feast of bramble berries black and briglit, Staining the lip that prattles with delight ; The tale of fairy — childhood's cherished creed — Of wild old tlioughts, a treasury indeed ! Yea, all that Nature's outward form imparts To win the worship of such sinless hearts, flakes up her waking life, and makes it too Seem ever gladsome, glorious, and new, — Sending her home at the calm set of day Subdued and silent from her joyous yday ; Her light limbs weary, and her eyelids prest By slumber — welcome, thougli unbidden gnest, "Which lays her down, a pure unconscious thing, In tlie soft shadow of an anrrel's win'j. Oh ! Childhood is the Paradise of Life, Long safe from sin, and separate from strife ; And heaven-appointed spirits hover round, To guard from evil the enchanted ground, THE SEASIDE SOJOURN. 71 Till the dread tiling o'orleaps the hallowed wall, Basks in our path, and lures us to our fall : Bright thoughts and pure all stealthily depart, Leaving a strange vacuity of heart ; Some necessary impulse seems to press Our footsteps nearer to the wilderness, Until we learn the knowledge of our doom From the " small voice" that whispers through the gloom, "While unseen hands, and powerful, compel Our going from the Eden where we dwell; And at the boundary, the angel Truth, With looks of pity on our dawning youth, "Waves the stern-flame sword in our startled eyes, And turns us to the world where danger lies : But happy we, if in our hearts we find Au-Tfht holy from the home for ever left behind. I may not predicate what grief or glee Awaits the darling of thy wife and thee, — Her fate lies folded in the breast benign Of Him who holds her in His hand divine : But hope is soothing, and despair is vain, And gentle precept leadeth with a chain Stronger than passion's, from the path of wrong, And firm example doeth more than song. Thus with the teaching thou alone canst give, Serene in virtue she may learn to live ; And though some bitter taints the cup of all, Her's, in its sweetness, may subdue the gall. Oh ! may these written thoughts, when after life Hath merged the maiden in the prouder wife, Awake sweet memories of departed years. And call the tribute down of none but happy tears. I go, heart-strengthened by the little space Of calm enjoyment in as calm a place, Enlarged in sympathy, refreshed in mind, With loftier thoughts, and feelings more refined ; Earnest and hopeful, anxious to explore A clearer region of poetic lore, 72 COME TO MY HOME. Where I may toil ■with purer soul, and stand Among the worthiest of my native land. In sadness I depart, but not in pain. Trusting to clasp thy cordial hand again : Take thou and tliine my blessing and farewell,- Peace to thy house and all therein that dwell ! COME TO MY HOME. Come to my calm but lonely home, With all thj'' grace, and love, and light, That I may watch thee day by day, And be thy guardian tlirough the night ; Be thou my household's happy f|ueen. The pride and beauty of my bower ; ]\fy wayward soul's presiding star, — 3Iy fond heart's sweetest, dearest flower. Light labours only wait tliee here, — My peerless and my cliosen one ! For thou shalt train the nectar-tree To hang: its tresses in the sun. By thee the honey-fingered bine Shall mantle round our rural shed ; And the Sultana summer rose Lift high her proud imperial head. Through radiant summer's gorgeous time, When pleasant toils are duly told : When burn upon the western skies The sun's rich robes of cloudy gold, — We'll tread the green and fragrant sward, And, leaning by some laggard stream. Breathe to the sweet and listening air The words of some immortal dream. COME TO MY HOME. 73 "When garish day fades softly out, lieligious twilight gathering o'er, — "VWll read upon the book of heaven Its (lod-illuniinated lore ; Then filled with quiet thankfulness, AVhile odorous night winds round us creep, We'll turn with homeward steps, and slow, To woo the tranquil bliss of sleep. TV'^hen moonlight snow is on the roof. And pictured frost is on the pane ; "When clustering stars look keenly forth, And clouds discharge their solid rain, — We'll nestle near the chimney side, Unenvious of the festive thronjj. ')-|5 And drown the moaninfj of the blast o In the united tones of song, »• Should sickness bow thy fragile form, Or sori'ow rifle thee of rest, — Should aught of human ill destroy The peaceful rajiture of thy breast. My lips shall speak of hope and health, To cheat thee of thy grief and pain. And all my faculties combine To bring thee back to peace again. When other voices than our own, And other forms which are not here. Shall fill these walls with childish glee, And make existence doubly dear ; What shall estrange us heart from heart. When such connubial joys are given ? Come, be the angel of my life, And make my earthly home a heaven ! A SUMMER'S EVENING SKETCH. In tranquil thought, last eventide, T went my wonted way. Along the foldings of a vale where quiet beauty lay, To breathe the living air, and watch, with fancies half divine, The clouds that gathered near the sun, to grace his grand decline. The new-mown meadows, smooth and broad, gay in their second green. The sinuous river gliding on in shadow and in sheen ; The orchard and its little cot, with low and mossy caves. And tiny lattice twinkling through its chequered veil of leaves. The costly mansion, here and there, 'mid solemn groves and still; The mass of deep and wave-like woods uprolling on the hill; Tlie grey and gotliic church that looked down on its grave-yard lone, And on the hamlet roofs and walls, coeval with its own ; Old farms remote and far apart, with intervening space Of black'ning rock, and barren down, and pasture's jdeasant face ; A StTilMER's EVENING SKETCH. 75 The white and winding road, that crept through vil- lage, vale, and glen, And o'er the dreary moorlands, far beyond the homes of men. Tlie changeful glory of tlie sky, the loveliness below ; Tlie tre«-tops tinged with rosy fire, the bright pool's borrowed glow ; The blaze of windows, and the smile of fields so soon to fade, And v>^lien the linG:erin2: sun went down, the tender- ucss of shade ; The throstle's still untiring song, loud as at early morn ; The grasshopper's shrill serenade amid the ripening corn ; The careless schoolboy's gleesome shout ; the low of homeward herds ; Tlie voice of mother and of child, let loose in loving words ; The rose that sighed its fragrant soul upon the sum- mer air ; The breath of honeysuckle wild, that met me unaware ; Tiie smell of cribs where oxen lay, of dairies dim and small ; Of herb, and moss, and fruit, that grew within the garden wall ; All pleasant things that wooed the sense in odour, sound, or hue. Came with as sweet an influence as if they had been new, — And so disposed my mind to love, to gentleness, and trust, I blessed all seemly forms that God life-kindled from the dust. 76 THE WANDERER. The mino;led mag;ic of the scene, the season, and the hour, Fell on my world-sick spirit then with most consoling ])0\ver ; Old friendships seemed revived again — old enmities forgiven, Suspended as my feelings were midway 'tween earth and heaven. I could have sported with a child, myself a child again ; I could have hailed the veriest wretch of penury and pain ; Religion, love, humanity, awoke within my breast. And filled me with a solemn joy my tears alone expressed. Thus Xature wins her peaceful way, with silent strength and grace. To souls that love her lineaments, and meet her face to face. Blest privilege ! to leave behind the paths of toil we trod, And live an hour of purity with Nature and with God! THE WANDERER. In a lonely valley yonder, AVhere the Rhenish wine-tree grows, I sat me down to rest and ponder On the mystery of woes : For I was travel-stained and weary, Sore of foot and faint of limb, Helpless, hungry, heart-sick, dreary, ]\iy eyes with want and watching dim. THE WANDERER. 77 It was a sunny Sabbath morning, In the hricffst days of spring, — Infant buds the boughs adorning. Larks upon the skyward wing : Flowers, in fragrant chiklhood blowing, Drank the goklen light of day ; Streams, in clearer gladness flowing. Found a sweeter, greener way. The peasant poor to worship wending, — Wrinkled dame and ruddy lass, With a kind obeisance bending, Greet the pilgrim as they pass : — Welcome, though their homely graces, Buoyant footstep, aspect free ; Stranger forms and stranger faces Are not those he yearns to see. A simple Sabbath-chime was ringing From a grey and leafy tower, — A sweet and solemn music Hinging Over vineyard, vale, and bower ; The very woods and hills seemed listening. In a holy calm profound. And the lingering dew- drops, glistening, Seemed to tremble at the sound. Present sorrow, — baleful shadow ! Slid from off my languid mind. Like a cloud-shade from a meadow, Leaving greener spots behind. Recollections, sad or splendid. Came with softened smiles and tears, And the future, hope- attended. Beckoned unto brighter spheres. England's temples of devotion, Unassuming, old, and dim, Where the deepest heart-emotion Answers to the holy hymn ; 78 THE WANDERER. In whose grave-yards, greened with ages, Eyes the tears of memory shed, Looking on those solemn pages — Stony records of the dead. I saw a sleeping babe receiving Baptismal drops upon its face, A blushing bride the portal leaving With a proud and modest grace : I saw a dark assembly gather Round an open grave and deep. And a wifeless, childless father Stricken till he could not weep. Then my youth rose up before me, Fresh as in its newest hour, When that deeper life came o'er me, Love's pure passion and its power ; When a crowd of different feelings In my growing heart took birth. Different thoughts, whose sweet revealings Uttered more of heaven than earth. Jlcmory opened out her treasures, AVliich liad lain unheeded long, — Trials, triumphs, pains, and pleasures, A mingled and familiar throng ; Scenes, where I had wandered lonely. In my boyhood's dreamy days, When the shapes of nature only Soothed and satisfied my gaze. Wood haunts, where I lay and lingered, At my stolen, but happy ease, While the west wind, frolic-fingered, ' Stirred the umbrage of my trees ; While the fern and fox-glove nigh me Whimpered tilings, too soldoni heard ; And brook and bue that flitted by me Held light concert with the bird. THE WANDERER. England's soft and slumbering valleys, With happy homesteads scattered o'er, Where the honeysuckle dallies With the rose, about the door : England's ancient halls and granges, In some woodland nested low, Through whose shades the river ranges With a dark and devious flow. Then I saw new things, and fairer. In the stars, clouds, fields, and flowers ; Then I heard new sounds, and rarer, In the ever-voiceful bowers : Then with stronger life came laden Every breeze that wandered wide. Because one loved, one loving maiden. Smiled, looked, listened, by my side. Every spot of blissful meeting. Hose before my inner sight ; Every fond and joyous greeting Thrilled me with an old delight. Precious hours of speedy pinion — ■ Ye with purest passion rife, Alas ! to feel your dear dominion Once only in the lapse of life ! Still that Sabbath-chime was ringing. Where the Rlicnlsh wine-tree grows, Sterner recollections bringing. Tinctured with a thousand woes : — • Poverty's resistless terrors, Careless words, and careless deeds, Pash resolves, and thoughtless errors. For which the wiser spirit bleeds. Absent voices, absent faces, Which 1 longed to hear and see ; Hearts;, which yearned for my embraces, And beat with faithful pulse for me. "rd 80 WAK. Thoughts like these, with strong appealings, Tinged with hopes, and touched ^Yith fears, Only asked for human feelings, And I answered with my tears. Thus that Sabbath-cliime, though simple, Stirred me with its hallowed sound, As a still lake's smallest dimple Moves the whole bright surface round. That sweet music, and the brightness Of the young and buoyant day. Gave to my soul new strength, new lightness, As I journeyed on my way. WAR. Scourge of the nations, and the bane of freedom, hope, and life ! Stern reveller in gory fields, exulting in the strife ! Thou terror of ten thousand homes, thou sword-plague of the world ! When shall we see thy balefires quenclied, thy blood- stained banners furled ? Ambition born, and power-begot, with passions dark and vile. And fostered by the cruel arts of avarice and guile, Thou goest forth with reckless hosts to slaughter and enslave. Thou trampler upon human hearts, thou gorger of the grave ! Thy oriflamme floats wantonly in the pure uncon- scious air ; The chorus of thy drums gives out the warning note, " Prepare !" WAR. 81 Thy cymbals ring, thy trumpets sing with shrill and vaunting breath, Alas ! that such vain pageantry should grace the feast of death ! Growing in peaceful splendour stands some proud and prosperous town, . Till thy dread footsteps pass her gates, and tread her glories down ; While panic sweeps her wildering streets, and all thy hounds of prey, Make riot in her homes, and leave dishonour and dismay. Some village, nestling tranquilly amid its happy shades, Girt with the calm amenities of corn-fields, streams, and glades, Beholds thee pause upon thy march, and in thy fierce employ Despoil its blooming paradise of quietude and joy. A province withers at thy frown, a kingdom mourns to see Her desecrated temples torn, her towers o'erthrown by thee ; Bewails her commerce paralysed, her fields unploughed and wild, And all her household sanctities invaded and defiled. And yet the land that sends thee forth, what land soe'er it be, Leaps at thy lawless victories, and lifts the voice of glee, And songs are sung, and bells are rung, and merry bonfires blaze. While false, or foolish pens, distil the poison of their praise. And at the crowded banquet board quick tongues diffuse thy fame, And columns lift proud capitals in honour of thy name. 82 WAR. And virgins, pure and beautiful, give their fond hearts away To men who trod out human life in the carnage yes- terday. Thy trophies, brought in triumph home, attest what thou hast done. What valour lavished on the foe, what fields oi glory won ; But men who scorn thy painful pomp, survey with blushing face Such signs of sanguinary power, such symbols of disgrace. Aye, strip thee of thy dainty garb, thy tinsel robe of pride. Lay glistering helm, and flaunting plume, and specious names aside, — And what remains of that gay thing that dazzled us before ? A monster, hideous to behold — an idol smeared with gore ! The widow's curse is on thee. War; the orphan's suppliant cries. Mixed with the mother's malison, ascend the placid skies ; And bones tliat bleach upon the shore, and welter in the sea, Appeal, — and shall it be in vain ? against thy deeds and thee. The green earth fain would fling thee off from her polluted breast : The multitudes are yearning, too, for knowledge and for rest, And lips inspired by Christian love all deprecate thy wrongs. And poets fired with purer themes, disdain thee in their songs. WAR. ta> " The embattled corn" is lovelier far than thy embattled hordes ; One plough in Labour's honest hand is worth ten thousand swords ; The engine's steam pulse, fitly plied, hatli nobler con- quests made Than all the congregated serfs of thy abhorrent trade. More courage in the miner's heart than captain ever knew ; More promise in the peasant's frock than coats of scarlet hue ; More honour in the craftsman's cap, and in the stu- dent's gown ; More glory in the pastor's robe, than all thy vaia renown. England, my own, my motherland, as fair as thou art free ! Thou Island queen ! whose wide domains o'ersprinkle earth and sea, "What need that thou should'st yearn again to conquer and subdue? Thy power has long been known to all, shall not thy mercy too ? Forbear to use the cruel sword, or, if thou wilt invade, 13e it with palm or olive branch, that maketh none afraid ; Be it with Bible in thy hand, with justice in thy breast, Give peaceful arts ; give Gospel light ; give rectitude and rest. If strong ambition dares to doom his weaker foe to bleed, Raise high the trumpet-voice of truth against the ruthless deed ; 84 WINTER MUSINGS. With magnanimity of heart, with calm and fearless brow, Be thou the umpire and the friend — the mediator thou So shall the nations look to thee, as one ordained to keep The balance of the social world, the portals of the deep ; And history shall write thee down, with proud and willing hand, Arealm of mindand majesty, a wise and Christian land! WINTER MUSINGS, Stern "Winter time ! thy shrouded skies oppress me, And fling funereal shadows o'er my brain : Sad thoughts and visions, spectre-like, distress me, And waken all my sympathies to pain ; Sad thoughts of yonder multitudinous city. Where care too often festers into crime : Where hearts heave out their life for lack of pity. Or, living, dread thy coming. Winter time ! Sad thoughts of sinful and pestiferous places, AVhere love, hope, joy, breeze, sunlight, never comes; Where pen and pencil never lend their graces, Nor common comforts quiet, to their homes — Oh ! no, not homes, but dens — where God's own creatures Creep tlirough the roughest ways of lowest life; Where untaught minds make savage forms and fea- tures, And hold perpetual fellowship with strife. WINTER MUSINGS. 85 Sad tliouglits ! tli.it virtue and that vice tocethcr Stir tlio thick air with curses and with groans, Pine througli the day, and in the fiercest weather Herd nightly on the cold and cruel stones ; Or desperate men put off" their fear and starkncss, To wreak their venGjcance on some ""iltless head : Or women, roaming through the storm and darkness, Barter their beautv for dishonoured bread. Even where royalty, oppressed with splendour, Free as the humblest from repulsive pride, "While ready hands and willing hearts attend her, Walks in her gardens beautiful and wide — There, even there, with gorgeous wealth surrounded, The lost, the scorned, the outcasts of their kind, Lie down a heap of indigence confounded. Fellows in misery, if not in mind. Sad thoughts ! that in yon town's bewildering maze?. Dark veins far stretching from its giant heart, Man in his saddest moods and sternest phases Lives from all healthy influence apart : Souls that have missed tlieir way lie there benighted, With all their sensual instincts wild and bare ; And hearts, once prone to love, are warped and blighted For lack of genial sustenance and care. Fathers sit brooding on the threatening morrow. With looks of anger kindling into hate ; And mothers, with a mute, but deeper sorrow. Cease to resist the thraldom of their fate : Children, grown prematurely old, are pining In apathetic squalor, day by day ; Round their young nature's vicious w"eeds are twining, Which thrust the flowers of purity away. Perchance, within those lazar-dens of riot Insidious sickness saps the shattered frame : Where is the yielding couch, the room of quiet ? The pensive taper-light's unfailing flame ? 8G •n-IIITER MUSINGS. Where is the cleanly hearthstone, blithely glowing ? The cordial oll'ered ere the lips request ? Where are attectiou's eyes, with grief o'crflowing ? The forms that wait, yet fear, the final rest ? Where is the skilful leech, man's health-director, AVith words of honey all immixed with gall ? The pastor praying to the great Protector, Without whose will a sparrow cannot fall ! Alas ! not there ! no love, no skill, no teaching. Touches with hopeful light the hour of gloom, The lorn wretch thinks high heaven beyond his reaching. And, dying, braves the horrors of his doom ! Strange contrast ! lo ! yon lofty windows brighten From chambers as an eastern vision fair, Where lips and eyes with pleasure smile and lighten, AVhile song and music thrill the throbbing air ; Where Art hath brought her triumphs and her graces, The glowing canvas, and the breathing stone ; Where rich refinements from a thousand places Arc tributes from the lands of every zone. There lusty lacqueys round the banquet gliding, With costly dainties court the pampered taste, While Joy and I'lenty o'er the board presiding, See southern nectars run to wanton waste ; There Fortune's idol learns to love and languish, Swathed in the splendour and the pride of birth, Uncaring, or imconscious, of the anguish That bows her lowly sisters of the earth. And yet there are, beside the hall or palace. Shapes of humanity, unhoused, unfed. Untaught, unsought, unheeded, fierce or callous, The sky their curtain, and the earth their bed : WINTER MUSIXGS. 87 Sliapcs which arc all of one Almi2;hty's making, Imploring, threatening, near the rich man's feet, With sin grown savage, or with sorrow (piaking, Frenzied for food his dorrs refuse to eat. " The poor shall cease not," God's blest word de- clareth ; But are tliey less of human mould than kings ? Must they grow faint for what kind Nature Leareth, For what she gives to all her meaner thino-s? Must they exist in darkness and distraction, Douhting if Heaven be merciful and just? Shut out from joy, unnerved for glorious action Aud scarce uplifted from the grovelling dust ? Formed for all fitting faculties and feelings By Him who gives the tiniest worm a law, Who fills His humblest work with high revealings, — Sustains the skies, and keeps the stars in awe. Shall they, oppressed with famine and wrong doing, With crowding cares, and unassuasive pain, Obey, toil, falter, rush to deeper ruin, Reason, implore, grow mad, and all in vain ? Forbid it, God ! who deigns to guide and gift us ! — Ye mild and moral principles of right — Ye liberal souls that labour to uplift us — • Rise up against it with resistless light : And all ye holy sympathies that slumber Unstirred, unfruitful in the human breast. Spring into active phalanx without number, And give the poor hope, help, and happier rest. Forbid it Pen — for thou canst vanquish error ; Forbid it Press — proud ally of the Pen ! Forbid it Speech, that carries truth or terror To the hard bosoms of unthinking men. 88 THE PAKTITION OF THE EARTH. Pen, Press, and Speech, creators of opinion — " Opinion armed 'gainst ignorance and wrong — League all the lands beneath your blest dominion, Till the glad poet sings a calmer song. THE PARTITION OF THE EARTH. PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. " Take the Earth !" uttered God, from the height of his throne, As he looked on the children he made, from above: "Take the Earth, with its treasures, and call it your own. But divide it with justice and brotherly love !" By myriads men came when they heard the decree, — Age, manhood, and youtli hurried on in the race; The husbandman ruled o'er the corn-covered lea, — The forest was given to the sons of the chase. The merchant took all that his stores would contain, While the priest — holy man ! took the choicest of wine ; The king took the highways and byways for gain, By a law whicli the people believed was divine. At length, when each mortal rejoiced in his lot. Came the poet, who loved not the boisterous throng; But, alas ! when he came he beheld not a spot, Save the breadth of a grave, for the pilgrim of song. THE PATRIOT 3 BATTLE PRATEU. 89 Then he threw himself down at the throne of his Sire, And cried to tlie Being who gave liim his birth, — " Oh ! grant a poor outcast liis only desire, Let the child of Thy wrath be forgotten on earth." God said, "If thou liv'st in the empire of thought. The cause of thy sorrow pertains not to me : — Where, where hast thou stayed while my bidding was wrought ?" Said the Poet, " Oh, God ! I was near unto Thee! " If my eyes were entranced by Thy glory and might, And my ears by the music that breathes in Thy skies; If my soul was absorbed in Thy love and Thy light, Forgive that the Earth disappeared from mine eyes." " Content thee," God said, " for Earth's riches are given,— As such was my pleasure, and hence my decree. Thou shalt live with thy Lord in his own blessed heaven. For whenever thou coraest 'tis open to thee !" THE PATRIOT'S BATTLE PRAYER. PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. Father of Life ! to Thee, to Thee I call — The cannon sends its thunders to the sky ; The winged fires of slaujxlitcr round me fall : Great God of Battles ! let Thy watchful eye Look o'er and guard me in this perilous hour, And if my cause be just, oh ! arm me with Thy power 90 THE patriot's battle prayek. Oh ! lead nic, Father, to a glorious end, To well- won freedom, or a martyr's death; I bow submissive to Thy will, and send A soul-felt prayer to Thee in every breath : Do with me as beseems Thy Avisdom, Lord, But let not guiltless blood defile my maiden sword ! God, I acknowledge Thee, and hear Tliy tongue In the soft whisper of the falling leaves, As well as in the tumult of the throng Arrayed for fight — this human mass that heaves Like the vexed ocean. 1 adore Thy name, Oh, bless me, God of grace, and lead me unto fame. Oh ! bless me, Father ! in Thv mightv hand I place what Thou hast lent — my mortal life ; I know it will depart at thy command. Yet ■will I praise Thee, God, in peace or strife ; Living or dvinsf, God, my voice shall raise To Thee, Eternal Power, the words of prayer and praise ! I glorify thee, God, T come not here To fight for false ambition, vaitdy brave; I wield my patriot sword for things more dear, — • Home and my fatherland ; the name of slave My sons shall not inherit. God of Heaven! For Thee and Freedom's cause my sacred vow is given! God, I am dedicate to Thee for ever ; Death, whicli is legion here, may hem mo round ; Witliin my heart the invader's steel may quiver, And spill my life-blood on the crimson ground : Still am I Thine, and unto Thee I call, — Father I seek the foe — forgive me if I fall ! 01 ox THE DEATH OF ROBERT SOUTHEY, LATE POET LAUREATE. From the bright coronal of living minds, The grace and glory of these later days, A gem is shaken to the dust ; a star AVhicli rose in thought's wide hemisphere, and grew Resplendent witli the calm, sweet light of Song Hath faded into darkness, while our eyes Gaze with sad yearning after it — in vain ! The fitful winds, which sweep with varying voice O'er the broad breast of Keswick's wrinkled lake, Sing dirges o'er the mountain-girdled grave Where Sonthey sleeps. A fitting tomb for him "Whose heart did feed itself amid a scene So strangely beautiful ; for many a sound, And silence — which is sound awful — will Breathe about his resting place, from glens, From green hill tops, from old time-twisted trees. From wave-worn caverns in the rifted rock. From waters, sleepless as the listening stars On Avhich they gaze, from breezes touched and tuned To storms or zephyrs ; for in them he heard AVhat unto him was Poesy, and she Peopled his solitude with things of joy ! Sad to remember that that laurelled brow. Which held such w-ild imaginings, such powers To clothe in lofty language lofty trutlis. And sentiments which humanized and stirred, Weari the cold hues of death. That cunning hand, Which traced upon the page the living line, 92 ON THE DEATH OF HOBERT SOUTHET. Is paralysed ; and tliat onco piercing eye, Lit with the reflex of an ardent soul, Is veiled and quenched. That spark of deathless fire, Which filled its shrine with glory, hath returned To the pure fountain of immortal light From whence it sprang, leaving its " darkened dust" To mingle with its elements for ever ! Men lightly say — " This is the common lot ;" But when the gifted and the good depart, V/e stand aghast, as if some well-touched string. Breathing divinest music in our ears. Was snapped asunder, even while our hearts Were throbl)ing to its tones. But have we not, Within a few brief moons, been called to weep O'er the sad loss of many an eloquent mind Of strength and beauty ? For a voice hath said, That he who fixed his soul in marble lives In fame alone ; that Wilkie's magic hand, Which threw upon the canvass genuine life Hath lost its power in the remorseless grave; That honest Allan, of the hardy north, Hath hung his harp upon the cypress bough, And joined a nobler choir; and Southey, last, Bat far from least of these, hath rent away Tlie gyves of earth, and soared to happier shores. Yet let us not despair, — for Southey lives, — Lives in the labours of a quiet life, Well spent and richly fruitful. .Few may claim Tiic laurel crown which he hath laid aside. And wear the wreath so nobly and so long. Tire lustrous diamond in profuundest gloom Retains the light it gathered from the sun. From age to age ; so hath the world received And treasured up the lustre of tlie mind Of him we mourn, which shall not melt away. Lot us imbibe his s))irit, like old wine, Long caverned in t!ie earth, and mellowed down To strength and purity ; but let us not, FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. 93 Because some lees remain witliin the cup, Reject as wortlilcss the inspiring draught. Those first brief bursts of his unsullied muse — Those earlier flights of her rejoicing wing, Light as the lark, and buoyant as his lay. Are ours to think upon and love, llow well lie sang the sorrows of his race, and cried Aloud against its wrongs ! How sweetly breathed His harp-strings, when the charms of nature wooed Tlieir eloquent voices out ! For these alone, — For these few flashes of a feeling soul. His laurel leaves shall keep for ever green ! Wordsworth 1 Thou priest and patriarch of nature! — thou, \Mio wast a brother of the buried bard In mind and fame ! awake thine ancient lyre To one last mournful melody, and mine Shall shrink to silence at thy loftier song ! A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO MY FRIEND JOHN BALL. December 1843. Dear Friend, Free for an interval of time To sleep or think, to read or rhyme, — I hear yon steeple's measured chime, \Vith solemn weight, Fling to the silent night sublime E 5 The hour of eight. 94 FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. Snug seated by the chimney-clicck, Too calmly indolent to speak, — An evening custom through the week, jMy tuho of clay Sends forth a light and odorous reek, Like ocean spray. The spiral cloud soars to the ceiling, To ]<\incy's eye strange forms revealing, Until I iind around me stealing So sweet a rest, That every kind and gentle feeling Stirs iu my breast. (Thou tiny censer, burning slovv^, AVhose fire and fragrance soothe my woe, I would not willingly forego Tiiy quiet power For all the dainty dazzling show Of Fashion's hour.) The flickering fire is dancing bright, Dispensing genial warmth and light, AVhile beings pleasant to my sight Are seated round ; And one doth read, and one doth write, With scarce a sound. Meanwhile, within the glowing grate I see things wild and desolate, — Rocks, mountains, towers, in gloomy state. With other traces Of monsters savagely sedate. With gorgon faces. But as T gaze they slowly change To regions beautiful and strange, Where lovely creatures seem to range The red realm through ; Or English temple, cot, and grange Start into view. FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. Outside, the myriad-fingered rain Is driimming on the window pane, And the strong night- winds wail ia vain To enter here : Alas ! they move upon the main AVith wrath and fear ! And now my thoughts are sent afar To wliere the peril-seeking tar, Without tlie light of moon or star, Inittlcs aghast, And hears his proud ship's sail and spar Rent in the blast. Poor souls! who tempt the dangerous wave, Your home, your empire, and your grave, When winds and waters round you rave In mighty madness, Who shall extend the hand to save. And give ye gladness ? llphuoyed on Ocean's heaving flood, A thousand breathing beings stood. The brave, the gifted, and the good, But yesterday, Till the storm eamc in maddest mood, — And where are they ? God of the tempest- ridden sea ! The solemn secret rests with Thee, — With finite sense we are not free To scan thy law ; 'Tis ours alone to bow the knee In silent awe ! Thus the sad chiding of the wind Wakes memories of a mournful kind, Which pour upon the restless mind A tranquil balm. As thoughtful here 1 sit reclined, Secure and calm. 96 FAMILIAB EFISTLE TO JOHN* BALL. And thinking on the sleepless sea, " Hungering for peace," I think of thee, And how with friendly souls and free Wc strayed together, To talk and dream of Poesy, In summer weather. I see that little rustic place, ■\Vliere our '• blythe friend," with pleasant face. Displayed with hospitable grace. Those goodly things, TThich quicken Time's lame, laggard pace, And speed his wings. The full o'erflowlng of the breast. The frank and unoffending jest, The bright idea well expressed, — The laucih and song : The talk of Spencer, and the rest Of Fancy's throng ; The antique chamber, warm and small, The fire-light flashing on the wall. The social cup unmixed with gall, The whole delight Passed like a vision to enthrall My memory quite. Deferred too long ; I seize my pen, (My wand of fancy now and then). To tell you why, and where, and when, I scrawled this letter; For in these courtesies, ye ken, I am your debtor. Yon crowded town, where stunned and tossed I lingered long, and to my cost. Caressed to day — to morrow crossed, I've left at last ; And as I count the moments lost, I stand aghast. FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO JOHN BALL. And liere I am, three leagues away, Earning my dinner every day As I was wont, before my lay Found willing ears — "Without a single friend to say, " Put otF thy fears." But yet I am not friendless — No ! j\Iy wife, fond sharer of my woe. And Hope, that spirit-joy below. Are with me still ; And God has blessings to bestow. — I wait Ilis will. I have a corner in my heart For thee, all generous as thou art; For thou, like me, hast felt the smart Of the world's wrong ; And thou art loth to live apart From darling song. And, therefore, do I wish to learn If Fortune's features grow less stern. And if thou dost as yet discern A brighter real, Or if thy hidden thoughts still yearn For the ideal. Does JMyra's cheek with gladness glow. And her sweet month with laughter flow As wont ? Do all thy children grow In sense and duty ? And does thy wife put off the woe That veils her beauty ? With us the wretched rains and damps, Have turned the level fields to swamps. And through the mist the drowsy lamps Look dim and dreary ; But, save some fitful aches and cramps, I'm well and cheer)-. 9B' THE POWER OF PLEASANT MEMORIES. I've fallen in love, but not with Flora, Nor Cynthia chaste, nor young Aurora, Xor dark Gulnare, nor sweet Medora, But with the shade Of fair, fond, faithful, fervent Zora, A Syrian IMaid ! Simply, I mean to weave a lay Of love, to cheer me on mv way ; And in ray silent hours I pray " God speed my pen," To which, methiuks I hear you say "• Amen ! Amen !" Xight wears, and, therefore, 'gainst my will, I use the last drop in my quill To tell thee I esteem thee still In shade or shine ; And be our lot or good or ill, I'm ever thine, J. C. Prince. THE rOWER OF FLEASANT MEMORIES. Low drooping o'er my toil this afternoon, With downward aspect, sombre as the air "Which slept around me, echoes of despair Passed througli my tlioughts and put them out of tune. Strong hope, of man the blessing and the dower, With the calm will to fashion dreams, which rose Instinct with mental splendour and repose, Seemed shorn of their consolatory power. THE POWER OP PLEASANT MEMORIES. 99 Thus as I sat with melancholy face, llesistino: sadness with a faint endeavour, " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever, ' That verse of truthful melody and grace Flashed through my darkened spirit, like the smile Of sudden sunlight on a solemn pile. As from her trance upleaps the joyous spring. Like a young virgin on her bridal morn — Flushed with expanding glories newly boi'n, While earth and air with merry greeting ring ; And Nature, strengthened by her rest, is rife With fascinating purity and gladness. So did my spirit, from its sleep of sadness Start into active and delijihtinf; life. Straightway I stood amid the classic glooms Flunw from the lavish pencil of young Keats, Realms of immortal shapes, of mingled sweets, Uncloying music, and unfi^ding blooms ; The shadovvs of creations, which the boy Nursed in his soul, and watched with silent joy. Not one, but Legion, were the forms and places, Laughing and lovely, solemn, and serene, Which came with all their wonders and their graces From Memory's treasure-halls, where they had been Hoarded with miser passion. Spencer's sheen And grandeur of romance; great Shakespear's Muse, Which holds all human sympathies between The foldings of her pinions : Milton's hues Stolen from the deathless amaranths of Heaven, And woven in his own seraphic song ; These to my wakened faculties were given, An ever moving, ever pleasing throng. Until I stood, enraptured and alone, la a strange world of beauty, boundless, and my own 1 100 XEW YEAR'S DAY ASPIRATIONS. GuEAT God ! a mighty multitude of years, Uimumbered as the Heaven -adorning splieres, Lit, living, moving, and upheld by Thee — Are gone to that interminable sea Which is unknown, unfatliomed, and sublime, The everlasting grave of all the things of Time. ,i The first fiiint dawning of another still. Bom of the sleepless goodness of Thy will. Breaks newly, sweetly, through the kindling skies. To wliich are turned our simultaneous eyes, Filled with the heart's unbidden tears, which spring A lowly, but a grateful offering To Thee, our strength and hope from first to last For blessings dropped beside our pathway of the past. God of tiie world, and of the human soul Held in the mystic bonds of Thy control, — ]Maker of Virtue, Loveliness, and Truth, The sister triad of eternal youth — I glorify Thee, wander though I may, Blindly or weakly, from Thy peaceful way ; Else why this restless longing to inf]^uire Into Thy hidden wonders — tliis desire To read Thy book of stars, and see Thy power Of silent working in the Summer flower ? Do I not worship when Thy lightnings break Through the mid cloud-realm ; when Thy thunders speak "With a tremendous eloquence, that thrills The stony hearts of all the stalwart hills ? NEW year's day asfiratioxs. 101 And in Thy other voices, which are heard, From tiny organ of rejoicing bird ; From lapse of waters, twinkling as they run ; From bees assiduous in tlie sultry sun : From leaves made tremulous by every breeze, And the grand choir of stormy winds and seas, Do I not hear in every sound a tone "Which speaks of Thy transccndant touch alone ? Thy grandeur, scattered with a goodly hand O'er the upheaving breast of every land. Hung in the boundless palace of the skies, Fleeting or fixed to my enamoured eyes ; Holding an ancient solitary reign O'er the mysterious empire of the main ; Clothing Tliy change of seasons, ever rife With mute and passive, loud and stirring life — All glad my eye, and purify my heart With joy and glory, of Thyself a part, Till filled and blended with the things I see I deem them symbols of Thy love and Thee ! Soul-searcher, Ilcart-sustainer ! humbly now, Vrith the young year's first breathings on my brow, "With a fresh dawn expanding on my sight, Melting the morning star's concentred light — I ask thy holy benison, and pray That thou will watch me from this very day. As "Wisdom watches o'er a wayward child. Bidding me stand erect and undefiled ! Gird me wiih high resolves, and such desires As fill the spirit with serener fires — "S^rhich shine upon and warm, but not destroy The seeds of virtue, and the flowers of joy. Let not the worldling with insiduous power. Beguile me from Thee for a single hour ; Nor dim the " magic mirror" of my mind, Hoodwink my judgment, smite my reason blind Xor freeze the well of charity, that flows Freighted with feelings for all human woes ; 102 TO A TOUXG POETESS. Nor stir my meaner passions, till 1 rise A strange anomaly to good men's eyes, But let the lamp, which Tiiou hast lit within This frail receptacle of grief and sin. Fed by the life of Thine endurino; love T) • • • liiirn on, aspiring to its source above — A pure and steady jjuidinj: light to fame, A sacred altar-fire in honour of Thy name. And as Thou spar'st me for a little while. Lend me Thy heart-regenerating smile ; Expunge my countless errors of the past. Till my life's record, stainless at the last, — The good acknowledged, and the ill forgiven. Stand as my passport to Tliy blessed Ileaven ! TO A YOUXG POETESS. I Kxow thou hast within thee, child of dreams. Songs which liave not been uttered — veins of thouoht As rich and rare as ever rrenius wrou-T^ht, Brightening thine inmost soul with golden "loams. Enthusiast of the ]\[use ! tliy dark eye beams Liglit intellectual ; tliy youthful cheek Looks tinged with fancies which thou wilt not speak, And through thy heart affection's current streams. Vanish thy maiden fears ! it well beseems A gifted one of Poesy to sing : Reanimate thy harp and bid it ring Loudly, but sweetly, to a thousand tlicmes — Express the yearnings of thy soul, till Fame Yield thee a wreath of light to crown thy after name. 103 A STRAY LEAF. I AM a commercial clerk, and a bachelor, on the shady slope of forty, doubtful concerning the advantages of sincde blessedness, but decidedly confirmed in my at- tachment to books and brown studies. Undisturbed by conjugal claims, cares, and responsibilities; holding myself aloof from the stir and turmoil of the volatile or vexed world, 1 give myself up to the indulgence of such quiet enjoyments as nature and the produc- tions of great minds cheaply and abundantly afford me. Politics I instinctively eschew ; ])oetry, in all her forms, has exhaustless treasures and attractions for me. One is, to me, as the whirl and confusion of the maelstrom ; the other the tranquillizing lapse and music of a summer stream. Such being my predi- lections, my evening hours are generally spent sweetly and profitably with my pen, my books, my music, and the delicious reveries they superinduce. I forget for a time the hard, matter of fact monotonies of the ledger, for the loftier meanings of diviner pages, and deep, and solemn, and consolatory are my com- munings witli my own soul, and the deathless legacies of genius tliat lie about me. Nor does the slowly burning incense of my friendly pipe — vulgar and prosaic as many deem such an indulgence — deaden or deteriorate my mental recreations. On the contrary, it disposes me to a calm, reflective, and benevolent frame of mind, it re-awakes the dormant memory, and loosens far a wider flight the impatient wings of 104 A STRAY LEAF. imagination. ]\Ianv a frvaccful vision have I seen coming dimly out from its undulating clouds. Under its soothing iuHucnco many a gorgeous castle have I built ; many a fairy region have I conjured up in the glowing cinders of my evening fire. IMany a bright picture of the future has hope created for me ; many a glad and gloomy resurrection of past things has memory brought vividly before me — things which visit us like dreams, and which are not without their mission, could we but feel them aright, and be en- couraged to good, restrained from evil, by their silent and mysterious counsels. At such times, and under such moods, it has often occurred to me that such flit- ting fancies, such involuntary reminiscences, if imme- diately seized and recorded, might be rendered in- teresting, not only to ourselves, to whom they would be as connectino; links in our life's historv, but to others whose modes of thought and feeling were more or less in harmony with our own. Acting upon this idea, I have, at uncertain intervals, filled a goodly volume with miscellaneous memoranda, fancies, and recollections, of which the following may be taken as " A Stray Leaf." THE WELL SPRING. " Lv what does the beauty of an English landscape consist ?" says Lord Jeffrey, "not in the mere mixture of colours and forms, but in the picture of human liappiness that is presented to our imaginations and aftections, and in the visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, and peaceful and cheerful enjoyment, and of that secure and successful industry wliich insures its cuntinuance, and of the piety by which it is exalted, A STRAY LEAF. 105 and by tlic simplicity by whicli it is contfastcJ with the guilt and tlie fever of a city life — in the images ol licalth, and temperance, and plenty, which it exhibits to every eye — and in the glimpses whicli it affords to warmer imaginations of tliose primitive or fabnlous times, ■when man was not corrnpted by luxury and ambition, — and of those humble retreats in whicli we delight to imagine that love and pliilosophy may find an unpolluted asylum." This passage contains much beauty and truth. All that pertains to the country — its external features, its legends and customs, its hardy and unsophisticated people — all have an irresistible and nndefinahle charm sought after and relislied by every rank and condition of life, from first cliildhood of four years, to second childhood of fourscore ; from the rich and refined, to the rough, ignorant, and lowly-born ; from tlie %hy in intellect and scholarly acqviirements, to tlie poor and helpless idiot, who suns himself by the wayside. " God made the country," says our English-hearted Cowper ; and what a multitude of delicious, nay /