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 " Lo studio, il ritiro, e la quiete, 
 Sol danno la pace sincera, 
 La gioja non gode gia vera, 
 Chi cerca per tutto il piacer." 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY 
 
 CASSELL, FETTER, AND GALPIN, 
 
 LUDGATE HILL, E.G. 
 
 MDCCCLXXIt.
 
 
 TO 
 
 MY DEAR MOTHER, 
 
 THE WORK OF HAPPY HOURS, AND THE FIRSTFRUITS OF MY PEN, ARE 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY 
 
 FLORENCE EMILY ASHLEY.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Darmayne ...... 9 
 
 The Village Churchyard • • • 55 
 
 The yEoLiAN Harp . . . . 69 
 
 Paris, 1870 ...... 73 
 
 Grandmamma's Reverie . . .77 
 
 The Rainbow ..... 81 
 
 The Flower Girl . . . . .82 
 
 The Stars' Vigil ..... 86 
 
 On Dancing . . . . .88 
 
 To some Lilies ..... 92 
 
 My Question . . -93 
 
 The Hunted Stag. . . 96 
 
 My Son and Heir 
 
 99 
 
 Morning Greetings .... 10 
 
 J 
 
 Jack's Retort . . . . . . 105 
 
 Gitanella . . . . . . no 
 
 STANZ.A.S . . . • . . .Ill 
 
 Helping Hands . . . . n 
 
 Lady-Bird 
 
 "5
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 Lines on St. Thomas's Hospital . . 117 
 
 The Descent of the Brook . . . .120 
 
 "Don't you Remember?" . . . 122 
 
 Mother's Lullaby . . . . -124 
 
 A Summer's Evening .... 126 
 
 Far Away where the Heather Blooms . . 127 
 
 Lottie's Vision . . . . . 129 
 
 Fairy Song ...... 133 
 
 Farewell, Jessie! . . . . . 135 
 
 The Lost Ring . . . . .   137 
 
 Music of Earth ..... 140 
 
 Gondolier's Good-night . . . .142 
 
 Autumn . . . . . 144 
 
 After the Battle ..... 146 
 
 Arran's Adieu ..... 147 
 
 The Voice of the Harp .... 149 
 
 Prayer for the Mariners . . . 150 
 
 On a Friend's Marriage . . . 151 
 
 On Returning some Flowers . . . 153 
 
 To a Friend ...... 154 
 
 In Memoriam, 1871 • •   • iSS 
 
 Ditto, 1866 . . . . .156 
 
 Stanzas ...... lej 
 
 Good-night ...... 159
 
 DARMAYNE. 
 
 'ER fair Geneva sail'd the harvest moon, 
 
 Above Mont Blanc's snow -crested 
 
 distant height, 
 
 And o'er Lake Leman's sleeping waters 
 
 threw, 
 
 A veil of soft and pearly radiance bright. 
 
 The Alpine mounts rose sombre, grand, and clear, 
 
 In bold relief against the sapphire sky ; 
 
 Their rugged glaciers bath'd in silver light, 
 
 Like fairy turrets towering on high. 
 
 Upon the mountain-sides, far up, o'erhead, 
 
 Like specks in air the Alpine chalets lay ; 
 
 Some in the shadow of the dark green firs, 
 
 And others shining in the moon's pale ray ; 
 
 While many, nestling in the valley's lap, 
 
 'Mid wooded glens and flower-curtain'd bow'rs, 
 
 B
 
 lO DARMAYNE. 
 
 To passing trav'llers told the happy tale, 
 
 Of all the peace that fill'd the laughing hours. 
 Upon the deep lay moor'd a little skiff, 
 
 And from it rose the sound of a guitar, 
 Whose notes, with song of plaintive melody. 
 
 Across the rippling waters echoed far. 
 The voice was low, as if it fear'd to break 
 
 The quiet calm that o'er the landscape lay ; 
 Now rising, and now falling, like a rill, 
 
 And on the night air faintly borne away. 
 Soft in its tone as strain of seraph's lyre. 
 
 Or zephyr's sigh among the forest trees ; 
 Sweet, as the music of Philomela, 
 
 That charm'd to rapture all the list'ning breeze. 
 But then, as speeds the lark upon the wing. 
 
 So high it rose, and soaring up at first 
 To heaven, from that trembling pathos note, 
 
 It into trill of glorious cadence burst. 
 But, as the wondrous melody rung on, 
 
 A fisherman towards the singer press'd, 
 With brow that dark as raging tempests lour'd, 
 
 And eyes, in which there lay a strange unrest.
 
 DARMAYNE. I I 
 
 Upon the lake, when twiHght shadows fell, 
 
 This gondola was seen to stealthy glide ; 
 And from it rose that rich enchanting voice, 
 
 Its harmony resounding far and wide. 
 The peasants called this syren song a snare ; 
 
 The songstress, too, some wand'ring elfin naiad ; 
 Who came to lure their young and artless maids 
 
 Into a fathomless and wat'ry grave. 
 For where the lady's gondola was moor'd. 
 
 The dark abyss and looming chasm lay ; 
 And those who blindly sought the treach'rous 
 cliff, 
 
 To listen, ne'er again saw light of day. 
 There were twin sisters — so the story ran — 
 
 That sought one night the lonely mountain 
 side ; 
 Two daughters of an aged fisherman. 
 
 To whom their earnings ev'ry want supplied ; 
 But, when the morning dawn'd, together they 
 
 Were found fast lock'd within a close embrace ; 
 Their garments drifting on the ebbing waves 
 
 That kiss'd the feet of that e'er fatal place.
 
 1 2 DARMAYNE. 
 
 Thus, why the fisher's superstitious dread. 
 
 As fell the song upon his list'ning ear ; 
 And looking from his task, he saw with joy 
 
 That to his boat the skiff had drifted near. 
 And now a thought sweeps sudden o'er his mind, 
 
 He turned the little fishing craft around ; 
 Then, as it near'd the shore, withdrew his nets, 
 
 And lightly sprung upon the rocky ground. 
 He crept along with sure, but noiseless tread. 
 
 To where the craggy rocks rose up full high, 
 And, climbing down a little winding path, 
 
 Close to the lady's gondola drew nigh. 
 " Now will I see her countenance," he cried, 
 
 " Be she of evil, or from heav'n on high ; 
 Now may our Lady guard my soul from harm, 
 
 And save me from a witch's evil eye!" 
 He bent towards the screen of amber silk. 
 
 That to and fro flapp'd idly in the breeze. 
 And looking in with gaze of eagerness. 
 
 He pale and breathless sank upon his knees : 
 A lady, clad in rich but simple garb, 
 
 With face half turn'd aside, sat there alone ;
 
 DARMAYNE. T 3 
 
 The lute-stn'ngs quiv'ring in her gentle touch, 
 
 And o'er the wires her slender fingers thrown. 
 Her face of Grecian loveliness, was fram'd, 
 
 By long thick tresses of the darkest hue, 
 Which o'er her forehead, in vine-tendril curls, 
 
 The evening breezes soft and lightly blew. 
 Amid the twisted ebon tresses lay 
 
 A spray of lilies, nestling stainless there ; 
 Their half op'd blossoms on the shining leaves, 
 
 Low drooping o'er her rounded shoulders fair. 
 Her eyes flash'd lustrous 'neath their veiled lids, 
 
 As twin stars from the dusky shadows beam ; 
 But now they shone with look of startled fear, 
 
 When Martyn, heedless, lift the hanging screen ; 
 The small guitar fell quickly at her feet, 
 
 And as an arrow flies along the wind, 
 So instant shot the skiff across the lake. 
 
 Nor stopp'd till rock and land lay far behind. 
 Old Martyn watch'd the swift retreating boat. 
 
 With all a poor untutor'd peasant's dread. 
 And, trembling, cross'd himself with growing fear. 
 
 Then turn'd, and up the rocky staircase fled.
 
 14 DARMAYNE. 
 
 Was she a creature born of mortal earth, 
 
 Or had she risen from the crystal caves, 
 That lay in all imagin'd splendour there, 
 
 Beneath Lake Leman's sparkling shimm'ring 
 waves ? 
 His lips breathed out a paternoster low, 
 
 As up th' ascent towards his cot he hied ; 
 And on the lake no more again that night 
 
 The full and heavy fishing-nets he plied. 
 
 II. 
 
 The morning sun had risen bright and fair 
 
 Upon the humble fisher's Alpine cot, 
 And Lilia Martyn 'mong the flowers sat. 
 
 Presiding queen of that delightful spot. 
 A face, that spoke the hidden soul within — 
 
 Its inward purity and holiness — 
 In every feature lurk'd a tender grace, 
 
 So perfect was its simple loveliness. 
 Her hair — the tint that Rubens lov'd to paint- 
 
 A sliadcd auburn, golden in its hue ;
 
 DARMAYNE. 1 5 
 
 A finely-chisell'd mouth, and lofty brow, 
 
 And earnest eyes of deep cerulean blue. 
 A dreamy, tender, thoughtful light repos'd 
 
 Within the shadows of those wistful eyes ; 
 And round the mouth there play'd a sunny smile, 
 
 Bright as the radiance of Italian skies. 
 Fair as the snowdrift on the distant heights, 
 
 That mantled Monte Rosa's queenly brow ; 
 A heart like morning's dawn upon the hills, 
 
 That clad her native vales in rosy glow. 
 Light-hearted Lilia ! Nature's artless child, 
 
 For whom the village swains all vainly sigh'd ; 
 The sunshine of her lonely mountain home ; 
 
 The village hamlet's sole and dearest pride. 
 Old Martyn's face lit up with sudden smile. 
 
 As down he came amid the tangled brake, 
 And, pausing, stood, to think no child so fair 
 
 As was his lily of Geneva's lake. 
 For there within the garden plot she stood 
 
 To wait his coming with her gaze of love ; 
 The flowers round her, blooming at her feet. 
 
 And cloudless heaven smiling from above.
 
 1 6 DARMAYNE, 
 
 There seem'd to look her mother from those eyes, 
 
 As if the long departed soul had come, 
 And stol'n one minute on the earth to see 
 
 Once more her husband and her cottage home. 
 The father took his child within his arms, 
 
 And, when their morning kiss had been ex- 
 chang'd, 
 She flew to get his wraps and fishing-gear. 
 
 Along the cottage chimney neatly rang'd ; 
 Then, running, drew his nets along the path 
 
 (Her blue eyes sparkling in a merry mood), 
 To save his hands the hard and tiring task. 
 
 And, laughing, bade him catch her if he could. 
 She watched his passage down the winding steep, 
 
 And wav'd adieu with kerchief in her hand. 
 Until he loos'd the chains that bound his boat, 
 
 Which glided quickly from the rocky land. 
 And still she watched, until it lay a speck 
 
 Upon the waters, that now seem'd to dance 
 With newer life beneath the rising sun. 
 
 Who o'er the landscape stole with soft, shy 
 glance ;
 
 DARMAYNK 1 7 
 
 Now deepening, till one radiant smile was flung 
 
 That bath'd the snows in flood of rosy light, 
 And casting beams so dazzling on her face, 
 
 That soon the little skiff was lost to sight. 
 Then Lilia bent her steps towards the cot, 
 
 That 'neath the shading trees lay buried there ; 
 Its curling smoke just stealing through the 
 boughs, 
 
 As if 'twould show what roof was prison'd 
 there. 
 The lattices peep'd out through network thick 
 
 Of brier roses, that in freedom wild 
 Crept up and up toward the brown thatch'd 
 roof, 
 
 Which 'neath its eaves the swallows domicil'd. 
 And by the stony path, along the steep. 
 
 Went murm'ring by a wand'ring mountain 
 stream, 
 Clear from the distant snow-bound pinnacles. 
 
 That all around in majesty were seen, — 
 
 The chamois bounding up their dizzy heights, 
 
 Where solitude her peaceful region kept, 
 
 c
 
 1 8 DARMAYNE. 
 
 Far from the world's unquietness, and where, 
 
 Down through the granite mountain torrents 
 leapt. 
 From rock to rock, and o'er the carpets green. 
 
 Besprinkled with the tender Alpine flowers, 
 And o'er the rising eminences, where 
 
 The solitary shepherd wil'd the hours, — 
 His merry tyrolien and his flute 
 
 Among Helvetia's wilds echoing wide. 
 And blending in with nature's melody, 
 
 From gurgling rills that sang on every side. 
 This Lilia looked on from the mountain path : 
 
 Low at her feet, Lake Leman's waters bright; 
 And pil'd above her domes of stainless snow. 
 
 That pierc'd the sky with spires of glitt'ring 
 light. 
 Earth, bath'd in all Aurora's charming smile, 
 
 That turn'd to threads of gold her unbound 
 hair ; 
 And as her blithe step turn'd toward the cot. 
 
 She smil'd to see her native land so fair. 
 Upon the threshold of the door there stood
 
 DARMAYNE. 1 9 
 
 Old Nannette Bohn, a feeble grey-hair'd dame, 
 Whose foster-child the young Swiss maiden was — 
 
 A mother to her, in aught else but name. 
 For many years a trusty friend she'd been, 
 
 And servant there, and Lilia loved her v/ell ; 
 And many dwelling in the hamlet round 
 
 Her honest worth and faithful heart could tell. 
 The fisher's wife had died long years ago, 
 
 And, dying, gave her child into her care ; 
 And well that aged soul had borne the trust, 
 
 And carried out the wishes treasur'd there. 
 Above her lowly resting-place one oft 
 
 Would see love's tribute by the peasants laid ; 
 For still her gentle memory remain'd. 
 
 Although her face lay pillow'd in the grave. 
 The bright-hair'd Lilia often wander'd there, 
 
 A little basket on her arm, all full 
 Of blooming clusters, that at morn or eve 
 
 She from the verdant mountain-plots would 
 cull. 
 In spring, she sought the wild blue violets, 
 
 To shed a fragrance o'er the grass-grown bed ;
 
 20 DARMAYNE. 
 
 And in the sunny days of summer-time, 
 
 The scented briers and the roses red ; 
 And when the winter came, with cruel breath, 
 
 To fright the flow'rs away, and, frowning, throw 
 His icy fetters round the scarped hills. 
 
 And mantle all the earth with garb of snow, 
 Then would she seek the barren underwood, 
 
 To gather scarlet berries in the dells ; 
 And Nannette dried them, with a housewife's 
 care. 
 
 To deck the grave with wreaths of immortelles. 
 And when the vesper chimes at close of day 
 
 Rung out, would Lilia seek that sacred place. 
 To breathe her evening hymn beside the mound 
 
 That held her young beloved mother's face. 
 Within her hands her little rosary, 
 
 That rosary so deeply precious now ; 
 For was it not the last and parting gift 
 
 That mother left her infant child below .-' 
 Her fingers fondly lingered o'er it once. 
 
 And at the wayside shrine she'd often said 
 Ave Marias, in the early morn
 
 DARMAYNE. 21 
 
 Or eve, with clasped hands and bended head. 
 Each bead was therefore hallow'd to her child, 
 
 And never from her should the treasure part ; 
 Twas fraught with mem'ries painful, but yet 
 sweet, 
 
 And Lilia wore it resting on her heart. 
 One of the sweetest dreams to human souls, 
 
 Is that dear thought that those lost ones of ours. 
 Whose home is now where sorrow hath no sting, 
 
 'Mid fields of bright and ever-living flow'rs. 
 Are by the wise Creator sometimes sent 
 
 On loving missions from that far-off sphere. 
 With unseen pow'r to charm our wayward hearts. 
 
 And be our watching guardian angels here. 
 And this to fair-brow'd Lilia was no myth, 
 
 But true reality ; for through the day 
 Her childish heart believed her mother nisfh ; 
 
 And when upon her couch she sleeping lay. 
 In dreams that heav'nly presence, ideal, 
 
 Unfurl'd its golden pinions o'er her head, 
 And in her ear there spoke its gentle voice, 
 
 With tongue arisen from the silent dead.
 
 22 DARMAYNE. 
 
 But now to Lilia — As she near'd the cot, 
 
 After old Martyn's fishing-boat was gone, 
 Her foster-mother watch'd her coming steps 
 
 With eyes in which maternal fondness shone. 
 As onwards Lilia came across the sward. 
 
 With happy pleasure beam'd her radiant face ; 
 And round her nurse's neck, in sportive glee, 
 
 She, laughing, flung her arms with playful 
 grace. 
 But as she met the look on Nannette's brow, 
 
 So grave and thoughtful, soon she wond'ring 
 grew. 
 And, like a shadow passing o'er the sun, 
 
 The laughter instant from her features flew. 
 "Dear nurse, your eyes are sad," she pleading 
 said ; 
 
 " Come, let me make them merry once again ; 
 Art thou unwell, my Nannie ? — ah ! come, say, 
 
 And bid thy Lilia charm away the pain." 
 The dame returned her fond caress, nor spoke. 
 
 But held the maiden back, and deeply sigh'd ; 
 Each day some fairer and some lovelier grace
 
 DARMAYNE. 23 
 
 In her young guileless foster-child she spied. 
 Ah ! what would life weave in her destiny ? — 
 
 Its flow'rs and sunlight, or its weeds and shade? 
 Would the clear sky keep ever so serene, 
 
 Or, would the storm-clouds, threat'ning, low 
 be laid, 
 And rise in seething foam across her heart, 
 
 To dash its artless hopes for aye away 
 Before her eyes, uncurtain all the world, 
 
 That now unknown and all unheeded lay ? 
 Alas, poor Nannette ! well it was for thee 
 
 Thou couldst not raise the future's heavy veil ; 
 Thou couldst not probe the sealed book of fate, 
 
 Nor read therein young Lilia's hapless tale. 
 
 III. 
 
 A STRANGER with a broad and noble brow. 
 And o'er it dark locks clustering in curls, 
 
 Was sketching on the mountain's sloping side 
 A distant group of dancing peasant girls. 
 
 The blush of sunset on the landscape lay.
 
 24 DARMAYNE. 
 
 With quiv'ring flush, that dy'd the far-off snows ; 
 Now crowned with gorgeous aurioles bright, 
 
 And fairy mists of blended pearl and rose. 
 Fair evening's fingers, stealing with her brush 
 
 Of ruby tint, across the quiet lake ; 
 Whose wavelets onward brought the fishers' 
 boats, 
 
 That with gay chorus echoes sought to wake. 
 Upon a rising plateau near the lake. 
 
 In dance had gather'd all the young Swiss 
 maids ; 
 With merry games, and songs of happy mirth. 
 
 And ribbons twin'd among their hanging 
 braids. 
 Their light, trim figures, bounding here and there, 
 
 In rainbow hues, and gala costume clad ; 
 Their brown cheeks with carnation colour ting'd, 
 
 And countenances sparkling, gay, and glad. 
 A sunburnt shepherd, with Pan's sylvan pipe, 
 
 And mellow flute that rippled passing sweet, 
 Made all the simple orchestra that they 
 
 Were tripping to, with quick and nimble feet.
 
 DARMAYNE. 25 
 
 The stranger watch'd them from his rising post ; 
 
 Upon his bended knee the cardboard laid, 
 And, with his pencil's short and careful strokes, 
 
 The happy scene he skilfully pourtray'd. 
 In foreign lands a constant trav'llcr he, 
 
 And blonde and brunette both had often seen ; 
 Fair Gallia's daughters, or the English maids, 
 
 He thought the palm of beauty bore supreme. 
 But these fair children of Geneva's shores, 
 
 Could e'en vie with the proud and peerless 
 dame 
 Of laughing France, or with the dark-ey'd prudes, 
 
 Coquettish mistresses of sunny Spain. 
 With all an artist's eager gaze, his eye. 
 
 Now rov'd among the groups of village belles ; 
 Their snowy kerchiefs folded on their breasts, 
 
 And dainty posies from th' adjoining dells. 
 But, suddenly, among the bevy fair, 
 
 A countenance so lovely he beheld, 
 Of soft, madonna beauty, heaven-like, 
 
 That all above the rest it far excell'd. 
 
 Scarce had it caught his gaze, than on the board 
 
 i>
 
 26 DARMAYNE. 
 
 The outline of its features quick was drawn ; 
 But, ere he turn'd to look on it again, 
 
 The girlish figure and the face were gone. 
 Young, timid Lilia had perceiv'd his eye 
 
 Fix'd on her with such pleas'd and rapt'rous 
 glance ; 
 And, with a blush of inward consciousness. 
 
 She, shy, withdrew from out the village dance. 
 The stranger laid in haste the outline down ; 
 
 Ah ! where had disappear'd that striking face .-' 
 In vain he scann'd the crowd of laughing maids, 
 
 And sought that smile of such enchanting 
 grace. 
 He could not find the object of his search ; 
 
 Among the peasants it was lost to sight ; 
 But little did he reck 'twould smile for him — 
 
 The face that dawn'd upon him on that night. 
 From that eventful hour did fate begin 
 
 To weave around young Lilia's heart a spell ; 
 For her the morrow should arise with joy, 
 
 A tale of newer happiness to tell. 
 
 ' ¥r * * -a- -K-
 
 DARMAYNE. 27 
 
 But who the artist ? — Florian Darmayne ! 
 
 He was the son of a proud Enghsh peer, 
 Whose race was haughty, and his wealth untold ; 
 
 Of all his riches, Florian was the heir. 
 The proud Darmayne had wish'd his only son 
 
 To be united to some noble dame, 
 Who could bring with herself a dowry large, 
 
 And lineage of old, distinguish'd name. 
 But Florian, without his father's ken. 
 
 Had given up his heart's affection to 
 A young and lovely maiden, who was queen. 
 
 Among some concert-singers that he knew. 
 A daughter of the nation's sons of toil — 
 
 The working bees of England's busy hive — 
 Who, all unfetter'd by the chains of rank. 
 
 For simple life and homely habits strive, 
 God's true nobility — the pure of heart. 
 
 And such as they who scorn the charms of state, 
 And hold the pomp of kings as vanity. 
 
 That blinds the eye to what is truly great. 
 Of humble parentage, Elaine he lov'd ; 
 
 And, though both poor and wholly penniless,
 
 28 DARMAYNE. 
 
 Yet she became his only living thought ; 
 
 Of his gay life, its only happiness. 
 When Darmayne's mansion rung with revelry, 
 
 And all the windows were ablaze with light ; 
 And noble dames, and women young and fair, 
 
 Went whirling 'neath the candelabras bright ; 
 Their robes of satin sweeping through the dance, 
 
 And costly jewels gleaming in their hair, 
 The whisper — " Where is gallant Florian ?" 
 
 Went often circling round among the fair. 
 And thus his mother, too, would ask herself, 
 
 And wonder'd why he shunn'd his palace home ; 
 She little dreamt he sought the poor Elaine, 
 
 Who, with a widow'd mother, dwelt alone. 
 The youthful singer's love for Florian 
 
 Was nurs'd in tears, for well she knew that ne'er, 
 Would the proud noble ever give consent 
 
 For such as she to wed his son and heir. 
 Darmayne was frantic when he found it out 
 
 That Florian lov'd the penniless Elaine ; 
 No words or pray'rs could move his angry pride : 
 
 He vow'd that he would disinherit him.
 
 DARMAYNE. 29 
 
 When Elaine heard that soon the man she lov'd 
 
 Would be, for her, cast from his father's home. 
 She left the city, with no guiding hand, 
 
 And into the cold world set out alone. 
 She disappear'd, and left no clue behind ; 
 
 But Florian's love was only doubled more ; 
 He left his home, began a weary search. 
 
 And, seeking vainly, left fair England's shore. 
 And now he stands beside the Alpine lake ; 
 
 The years had pass'd — he had not found 
 Elaine ; 
 He knew not that the Elaine of the past 
 
 Had now become a singer of great name. 
 She had won laurels, and in Switzerland, 
 
 Reign'd casta diva — by the millions sought ; 
 And now, by some strange freak of wondrous 
 fate, 
 
 Within one mile of her he had been brought. 
 But fickle Florian — ah ! where thy vows .■' 
 
 For, from the day he saw the Swiss maid's face. 
 His heart began to shrine a picture there. 
 
 More lovely than when Elaine's held its place.
 
 30 DARMAYNE. 
 
 She caus'd him for a time to quite forget 
 The girl for whom he'd left a princely home 
 
 For whom of parents' love he was bereft, 
 And for whose sake an outcast he'd become. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The months went by — he travell'd on no more, 
 
 But in the Alpine valley, ling'ring, stay'd ; 
 The mem'ry of Elaine grew faint and dim ; 
 
 He only now card for the young Swiss maid. 
 The past began to wear a mellow veil. 
 
 And, like a bright, but evanescent dream. 
 Grew the remembrance of the bygone days, 
 
 Which had been rob'd in such bewitching 
 gleam. 
 He sought the fisher's cot upon the hill. 
 
 And soon the artless village maiden knew ; 
 Then told his tale of deep and fervent love ; 
 
 And Lilia listen'd, blush'd, and trembling grew. 
 Her own regard grew deeper day by day, 
 
 Silent and slow, yet dawning in her heart ;
 
 DARMAYNE. 3 1 
 
 And ere the summer into autumn wan'd, 
 
 Their troth was plighted, that should never 
 part. 
 Did her quick ear discern his manly step, 
 
 Which soon became a daily well-known sound. 
 Upon the threshold of the cottage door 
 
 How quick to meet him would her light feet 
 bound ! 
 To her he soon became her all in all, 
 
 Her girlish hero, and her beau-ideal, 
 Whose voice could bring the warm blood to her 
 cheek, 
 And fill her young heart with a gladd'ning 
 thrill. 
 Ah, hapless Lilia ! in thy web of life. 
 
 The golden threads too soon would sever'd be. 
 And the stern Fates should weave with iron 
 loom 
 A pall of night into thy destiny. 
 One evening, when the sunset's glow had fled, 
 They stood together by the calm, blue lake, 
 Watching the shadows o'er the wavelets creep.
 
 32 DARMAYNE. 
 
 That in their ears such music seem'd to make ; 
 " My Lilia," he was saying, chidingly, 
 
 " What cloud has made thine eyes so sad 
 to-night ? 
 Why do you e'er refuse to name the day, 
 
 When I can have thee ever in my sight ?" 
 The tears were wet on Lilia's cheek, and she. 
 
 To hide them, hid her face within her hands ; 
 " Ah, love !" she answer'd, " is not this sweet spot 
 
 Far happier than a home in foreign lands ? 
 My aged father," — here she, silent, paus'd ; 
 
 But Florian guess'd what she had meant to say, 
 And quick he turn'd, with smile of tender love, 
 
 And from her face her hands he drew away. 
 " My Lilia, could I tear you from his sight. 
 
 And leave his old age comfortless and bare — 
 Deprive him of his sunshine and his joy, 
 
 And take away his loving daughter's care ? 
 Nay, nay, he'll not refuse my urgent plea, 
 
 To journey with us to my native land, 
 Where thou shalt reign as fairest of the fair, 
 
 And by my side a lovely countess stand.
 
 DARMAYNE. T,3 
 
 You Start, dear Lilia ; nay, come tremble not, 
 
 And say not thou wouldst be too poor a bride ; 
 I'll lay rich stores of learning at thy feet, 
 
 I'll be thy teacher and thy only guide. 
 Thy gentle face shall win my mother's heart, 
 
 When in the halls of Castle Farleigh there ; 
 And thou shalt mingle with the proud court 
 dames, 
 
 With diamonds glist'ning in thy auburn hair." 
 Thus, on he talk'd, amid the waning light. 
 
 Of England, and his large possessions there ; 
 Where brows'd the deer within the shady parks, 
 
 And where stood pleasant woods and valleys 
 fair. 
 Then of a mansion, too, in London vast, 
 
 That giant of all cities, whose great arms 
 Enfold so many children, and such sights. 
 
 That have for eye and ear such wondrous 
 charms : 
 That city, who doth queen it o'er the world — 
 
 Mother of commerce ; — and whose varied 
 
 scenes, 
 
 E
 
 34 DARMAYNE. 
 
 That simple maid knew nought of, nor had she 
 
 Even imagin'd them within her dreams. 
 Ah, Lilia ! thy young heart could but enjoy 
 
 The wealth of nature, not the wealth of 
 towns ; 
 The soft, green grass, the Alpine flow'rs thou 
 lov'dst. 
 
 Only the riches in which earth abounds. 
 These all to thee were gems, more valued far 
 
 Than diamonds, rubies, pearls, and precious 
 stones ; 
 Thy gentle heart with true contentment beat, 
 
 Nor sigh'd for gorgeous robes or princely 
 homes. 
 Thus stood the lovers by the quiet lake ; 
 
 The moonlight falling soft and silv'ry down 
 On Lilia's fragile form and angel face, 
 
 Encircled with its tresses golden brown ; 
 On Florian's dark and handsome countenance. 
 
 Which look'd so honest, manly, and so true — 
 But, ah ! which held within a fickle mind — 
 
 And heaven sigh'd whilst looking on those two.
 
 DARMAYNE. 35 
 
 Fond, trusting Lilia, in her inmost heart 
 
 There lay no doubt or fear about his love ; 
 She thought that it would last for aye and aye — 
 
 Through life, through death, e'en to the realms 
 above. 
 Oh, fleeting dream ! that, like the fair snow- 
 wreath, 
 
 That hung so often o'er the Alpine heights. 
 Reflecting all the splendid rainbow hues, 
 
 And scintillating with a thousand lights ; 
 But which, at the first touch of a fierce sun, 
 
 So soon dissolv'd amid the mist and rain. 
 Thus — thus was Lilia's dream to pass away: 
 
 The sun that chas'd it was to be — Elaine ! 
 
 V. 
 
 After they parted (Florian and she). 
 In the direction of the lake he went. 
 
 And flung himself upon a grass-grown rock. 
 His thoughts upon the young Swiss maiden 
 bent.
 
 36 DARMAYNE. 
 
 But, hark ! a splash ! Across the water shoots 
 
 A Hne of light ; and Darmayne turns his eyes 
 To where a skiff is dancing o'er the waves. 
 
 See ! now toward the mountain's shade it hies ; 
 He stands entranc'd, and rooted to the spot ; 
 
 A voice is rais'd above the sighing wind — 
 A rich, deep voice, breaks forth in bird-like song — 
 
 And then ! — ah, then ! — what thoughts sweep 
 o'er his mind ! 
 That voice, that well-known voice, 'tis Elaine's 
 own ! 
 
 And now his face turns pallid as the snow ; 
 Silent he stood, as if to marble turn'd. 
 
 And, spell-bound, watch'd the gondola below. 
 The cadence soar'd above, in ringing notes. 
 
 Rising and falling, as a mountain stream ; 
 Bright, glorious, as the lark's carol it rose. 
 
 Then faded softly, like a troubled dream. 
 Ah ! how that voice brings back the past again — 
 
 Its old associations, all so dear ! 
 Recalling Elaine D'Esta's beaming face. 
 
 Once, once, to him, his only gladness here.
 
 DARMAYNE. 37 
 
 He saw again her humble EngHsh home — 
 
 The harp there resting by the window seat ; 
 Her fingers striking its melodious chords, 
 And he, enraptur'd, list'ning at her feet. 
 The cage, with prison'd warbler, hung above, 
 
 Whose trill beside his mistress' was so poor ; 
 Her mother knitting in the red arm-chair ; 
 
 The faded carpet on the chamber floor. 
 Why did it stir his soul with pow'r like this ? 
 Was the old love still living — never dead .-' 
 Now, when he'd to another pledg'd himself; 
 
 Now, when he thought that past love truly fled ? 
 Ah, yes ! ah, yes ! he lov'd the lost Elaine ; 
 
 Poor Lilia's image faded into nought ; 
 This wondrous voice, now soaring to the skies. 
 Back from the past each happy mem'ry 
 brought. 
 Elaine was near him : she, to whom of yore 
 
 He'd bound himself by vows of lasting faith ; 
 Whose finger wore the ring himself had giv'n ; 
 She, whom he'd sworn to love through life and 
 death !
 
 38 DARMAYNE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The cadence died away ; the song, it ceas'd ; 
 
 The words that through the ev'ning's gath'ring 
 mist 
 Had fall'n, were lost in the dim, twilight air, 
 
 And, floating on the winds, ceas'd to exist. 
 On Florian's soul there fell despairing gloom ; 
 
 As ebbs and flows the tide, his thoughts now 
 ran : 
 Which tie to sever — Lilia, or Elaine ? 
 
 Ah, fickle heart ! inconstant Florian ! 
 He plunges down the rocks, nor stops to think ; 
 
 He gains the boat side with a hasty spring, 
 And tears aside, with heedless recklessness, 
 
 The silken awning that is hung within. 
 There sat Elaine, her fingers on the lute ; 
 
 Over her jetty hair a gay scarf thrown ; 
 Her face half turn'd aside, in pensive mood. 
 
 And scarcely chang'd from all that he had 
 known. 
 Ah, lovely as the starry summer night
 
 DARlVfAYNE. 39 
 
 Was that fair, gifted songstress he beheld ! 
 Whose charms had fascinated Switzerland, 
 
 Whose voice all prima donnas' far excell'd. 
 She turn'd and saw him ; then a piercing shriek 
 
 Breaks through the silence of the star-lit night : 
 The boat has lurch'd, and in the waters deep 
 
 A fainting figure struggles hard for life. 
 "Florian!" she cried, and flung her arms on 
 high ; 
 
 And then her hold upon the boat gave way ; 
 But Florian was to the rescue swift, 
 
 And down he sprung amid the water's spray. 
 Soon, 'mong the crimson cushions of the skiff, 
 
 She lay unconscious, safe from every harm ; 
 But, white as parian marble was the face 
 
 That lay all wet and dripping on his arm. 
 All thought of gentle, trusting Lilia, then, 
 
 Seem'd to have faded from his harass'd brain. 
 As in the boat he sat, forgetting all. 
 
 Save that before him lay the lost Elaine. 
 And there upon her finger was his ring ; 
 
 She had been true, then, true to him alone.
 
 40 DARMAYNE. 
 
 How different his own fidelity ! 
 
 Another heart believ'd his love its own. 
 Upon a strip of carpet at his feet 
 
 Lay sheets of op'ra music, and a name 
 Met there his gaze upon the rumpled leaves, 
 
 That made him start — 'twas Signora Helene. 
 Excitedly a light breaks o'er his mind, 
 
 Elaine and Helene, then, are but the same ; 
 The op'ra-house that he had miss'd for long. 
 
 Had held her, while he search'd abroad in 
 vain. 
 When her dark eyes reopen'd on his face, 
 
 Their lashes droop'd, to hide the happiness 
 Which sparkled in their bright, but timid glance, 
 
 As Florian press'd upon her hand a kiss. 
 Nor dreamt she ever of his perfidy, 
 
 When, bending down his handsome face to 
 hers, 
 He murmur'd, " So at last I've found thee, love; 
 
 And, after all these weary, waiting years. 
 When the sun sets upon to-morrow's day, 
 
 I'll fly from here with thee, my poor Elaine.
 
 DARMAYNE. 4 1 
 
 Say, wilt thou recompense my anxious search, 
 And bid me call thee ' mine ' once more 
 again ?" 
 " Why call me 'poor ' Elaine ?" she archly said, 
 " Not poor, indeed, but rich in thy dear 
 love;" 
 And then her voice grew quivering and low, 
 And to her cheek sprung up the crimson 
 blood. 
 " Oh, Florian ! you must be gone, indeed, 
 
 Your father's words have parted us for aye ;" 
 " Now all is changed," was Florian's reply. 
 
 He died, Elaine, one year ago to-day. 
 Now am I master of the Darmayne lands, 
 At Farleigh dwells my mother all alone, 
 'Tis time I did return and cheer her heart ; 
 She would give aught to see me back at 
 home." 
 Elaine's whole face now glow'd with radiant 
 smiles ; 
 But, as he saw it, suddenly and soon, 
 His face fast darken'd as a sky o'ercast,
 
 42 DARMAYNE. 
 
 And round his mouth there crept a deep'ning 
 gloom. 
 The prima donna's all-apparent faith 
 
 Brought back to mind one pure, confiding 
 heart ; 
 And o'er his soul now rush'd a battle fierce — 
 
 A host of thoughts, remorseful, stormy, dark. 
 But, ah ! that swift, relenting moment pass'd ! 
 
 One look at Elaine's fascinating face 
 Swept from his gaze the Lilia pictur'd there, 
 
 And her old pow'r return'd with rapid pace. 
 Her kindling eyes, so starry and so bright ; 
 
 Her laughing lips, that hid such wealth of 
 pearls ; 
 Her brunette's cheek, ting'd with its damask 
 rose ; 
 
 Her oval face fram'd in with ebon curls. 
 The Swiss girl's sunny smile, and soft blue eye ; 
 
 Her timid heart, that he so soon had won ; 
 Faded, as violets beside the rose 
 
 Grew dim, as pales the moon before the sun. 
 Yet, how much sweeter blooms the violet,
 
 DARMAYNE. 43 
 
 In all its modesty and fragrance rare, 
 Than the rich, dazzling rose, in crimson drest, 
 
 Whose heavy perfume scents the summer 
 air ! 
 And how much purer beams the placid moon, 
 
 That o'er the face of troubled earth lets 
 fall 
 Its peaceful shadow, like an angel's wing, 
 
 Holy and gentle, comforting to all. 
 So humble Lilia, like the violet. 
 
 Born but to shine within a low retreat ; 
 Her simple charms were veil'd beside the rose, 
 
 And the wild flow'r was left alone to weep. 
 When the stars 'gan to shine far up o'erhead, 
 
 And evening summon'd forth her sister, 
 night. 
 Then Florian rose to quit the gondola. 
 
 And bade adieu amid the fleetincf lieht. 
 But Elaine linger'd 'neath the shelving rocks 
 
 Until his form had faded o'er the cliff. 
 Then through the water, like a flying dart, 
 
 Cleaving the billows, sped her little skiff.
 
 44 DARMAYNE. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Another day broke o'er the Alpine vale, 
 
 Serene and fair, with sky of cloudless blue ; 
 At dawn came Lilia, with her bounding step — 
 
 That fairy step, — which every peasant knew. 
 Her voice, uplifted like the lark's clear trill ; 
 
 Her sylph-like figure, full of bending grace ; 
 And with her eyes full of a happy light, 
 
 She bent her steps toward a woodland place, 
 That lay along a winding mountain road, 
 
 Where Florian ev'ry day was wont to come ; 
 And where to meet him she went gaily forth. 
 
 Beneath the trees that sheltered from the sun. 
 There they would often sit and chat till noon, 
 
 Until old Nannette came, with knowing smile. 
 To call them to her plain and homely meal, 
 
 At which the fisher joined them for awhile. 
 How often, sitting at that frugal board, 
 
 Spread with its home-made bread and honey 
 sweet, 
 Had Florian thought, "Could there in palace halls
 
 DARMAYNE. 45 
 
 Exist such happiness, such comfort deep ? 
 Could any regal banquet vie with it ? 
 
 Did e'er a prince enjoy so much his fare ? 
 Did e'er a monarch taste such peace and love, 
 
 As dwelt among that little household there ?" 
 Ah, no ! such joys were born of honest toil ; 
 
 And 'twas a picture, beautiful and bright, 
 To see them gathered round at morn or eve, 
 
 With Lilia, clad in robe of simple white. 
 Presiding o'er the meal, her rippling laugh 
 
 Like music sounding on the balmy air ; 
 Her taper fingers flitting 'mong the cups ; 
 
 A wild rose fastened in her auburn hair. 
 How Martyn loved her ! 'twas his dearest joy 
 
 To see his Lilia happy, and to know 
 That she would be a lov'd and car'd-for wife, 
 
 When his old bones were laid the sod 
 below. 
 Yet often did he think, into what care 
 
 Am I committing her ? Will always he, 
 When she is his ; — ah ! will he always love 
 
 So tenderly, so true and lovingly ?
 
 46 DARMAYNE. 
 
 E'en one reproach would hurt her gentle heart ; 
 
 And will his ev'ry thought be but for her, 
 As mine has been ? Ah, well ! I like the lad ; 
 
 He's manly ! noble ! I will give him her. 
 So thought old Martyn ; little did he know 
 
 The character that lay 'neath Florian's face. 
 Poor, simple-hearted, honest fisherman. 
 
 He thought him all he seem'd, not false and 
 base. 
 But, to my tale. With eager eye ; and cheek 
 
 That flush'd and pal'd with expectation now ; 
 Stands Lilia, pacing up and down the path, 
 
 An anxious look imprinted on her brow. 
 Why came not Florian .'' The minutes flew. 
 
 The hours pass'd, but still he did not come. 
 Oh ! ne'er before had he e'er miss'd a day 
 
 To see her, since their friendship had begun. 
 Could he be ill ? With fresh anxiety 
 
 Now throbs her heart, and more she longs to 
 see 
 His welcome face appearing through the trees, 
 
 Or hear his merry whistle, gay and free.
 
 DARMAYNE. 47 
 
 Had some misfortune chain'd his ling'ring steps ? 
 
 Would he not come to kiss away her fears, 
 And chide her for her fond solicitude ? 
 
 " Oh, yes !" she thought, and smiled amid her 
 tears. 
 But, ah ! the morning fled, the sun rose high ; 
 
 She watch'd and waited, listen'd all in vain ; 
 Ne'er did his step sound through the underwood, 
 
 And down that road ne'er would he come 
 
 again. 
 ****** 
 
 The eve was waning with a lurid light. 
 
 And star-wreathed night was falling fast 
 around, 
 When down the mountain pathway Lilia came, 
 
 With slow, sad step, across the rocky ground 
 On through the rocks toward the lake she went. 
 
 Then to the spot of flow'ry verdure green, 
 Where Florian his question once had ask'd ; 
 
 How happy then the simple maid had been ! 
 His words were ringing still within her ears. 
 
 His vows imprinted on her very mind ;
 
 48 DARMAYNE. 
 
 Hark ! a faint whisper's borne along the breeze ; 
 
 "'Tis nought," she murmur'd, "but the pass- 
 ing wind." 
 It steals along again, and nearer now ; 
 
 A woman's voice, which, laughing, seems to 
 wake 
 The sleeping echoes. Lilia's cheek turns pale, 
 
 She calls to mind the lady of the lake. 
 The soft notes of a rich guitar are struck, 
 
 And then, a strain of melody so sweet 
 Rose on the air, that soon she forward sprung, 
 
 And gazed, enchanted, on the rippling deep. 
 Oh ! could it be some heavenly seraph, who. 
 
 Had wing'd her flight down from a starry 
 sphere. 
 To hover over earth at that still hour, 
 
 And charm with her celestial voice the ear .-' 
 Or, did it come from out the calm, blue lake, 
 
 Breath'd by the lips of some poor water- 
 sprite. 
 Who, like the peri, long'd to cleave the air, 
 
 And, opening Heaven's gates, behold its light ?
 
 DARMAYNE. 49 
 
 Ah, no ! that music had a soul — it spoke ; 
 
 It could be but an angel's joyous song. 
 Her lips now parted in an ecstacy, 
 
 The list'ning maiden stands the rock upon. 
 But, presently, she hears a boat oar's splash, 
 
 Another voice blends in with manly tone ; 
 Then Lilia, white as death, crept up the rocks, 
 
 And leant against an old and mossy stone. 
 The gondola came onwards, then it stopp'd ; 
 
 And, with a look of wonderment and grief, 
 She looks below, to see her lover there. 
 
 Reclining at a lovely woman's feet. 
 Is that her Florian ? Nay, it cannot be ; 
 
 That Florian ! and wild she strains her 
 eyes 
 Upon the figure, more its face to see : 
 
 Ay, there's her Florian, stript of all disguise. 
 " By break of day we shall be far away 
 
 Homewards, Elaine, beneath this star-gemm'd 
 
 sky." 
 
 The startled girl now clasp'd her trembling 
 
 hands, 
 
 G
 
 50 DARMAYNE. 
 
 And rais'd her face to Heaven, and pray'd to 
 die. 
 Crouching upon the damp and dewy grass, 
 
 She listens, chaos raging in her brain ; 
 And rests her hands across her aching brow. 
 
 As if some clearer truth to ascertain. 
 Ah ! what an hour is that, when from the gaze 
 
 An idol falls, all shatter'd at the feet ; 
 When what was golden turns to common clay. 
 
 Denuded of its gilded mask, complete ; 
 When that which was so lovely to the eye, 
 
 Appears as dross, that nothing can adorn, 
 But for its ruins, still the stricken heart, 
 
 In desolation, can regretful, mourn. 
 The gondola went drifting from her sight, 
 
 And skimm'd the waters like a flying bird ; 
 For the last time she saw her lover's face. 
 
 For the last time his well-known accents 
 heard. 
 Was it reality, or but a dream, 
 
 From which she should awake, to find him 
 
 r 
 
 true .'
 
 DARMAYNE. 5 1 
 
 Ah, no ! ah, no ! there went the fleeting boat ; 
 
 There went her hopes, now dying, dying, too. 
 A startHng cry broke through the silence then — 
 
 A cry of madness, on the breezes borne — 
 And, with a spring from off that fatal rock. 
 
 The dark blue waters closed o'er Lilia's form. 
 
 ****** 
 
 And now there came a distant rushing sound — 
 
 A faint, low roll of thunder on the ear ; 
 The sudden fall of mighty avalanche, 
 
 And mournful boom of glacier breaking near. 
 As if the Nature that her heart had lov'd. 
 
 Had ris'n to sing a wild funereal knell ; 
 And in the snows that downwards crashing 
 went, 
 
 Now sung a dirge, its wrath and grief to tell. 
 Over the quiet lake that bitter cry. 
 
 Heartrending in its woe, re-echoed wide ; 
 And Florian hush'd his rapid-going oars, 
 
 And listen'd, breathless, Elaine by his side. 
 But, swift the boat had shot across the lake, 
 
 Now far from land it lay 'neath Luna's rays ;
 
 52 DARMAYNE. 
 
 A flash of falling white, a distant splash, 
 
 Was all that caught their ears or met their 
 
 gaze. 
 
 Yet Florian shudder'd to his very soul ; 
 
 A dreadful vision rose before his eyes ; 
 He shook and trembled with a horrid fear ; 
 
 That woman's cry had seem'd to pierce the 
 skies. 
 In fancy he beheld a girlish form, 
 
 That struggled in the water's cold embrace ; 
 Its golden tresses dripping dark and wet, 
 
 Around a fair and sweet madonna face. 
 Its dying gaze of firm, undying love, 
 
 And mute reproach, so bitter, yet so meek ; 
 As, 'neath the waters sunk the paling face. 
 
 The lashes drooping on the pallid cheek. 
 " Oh, God !" he cried, " it could not be her voice ; 
 
 Great Heaven, chase the awful thought away." 
 But, ah ! rave on, oh, Florian ! for it 
 
 Shall haunt your ears until your dying day. 
 Poor broken heart ! poor wither'd violet ! 
 
 CuU'd by a careless hand, then flung away ;
 
 DARMAYNE. 53 
 
 Sleep calmly on within thy silent bed, 
 Till the last trump hails in eternal day. 
 
 Then shalt thou rise in all thy purity, 
 
 Far above earthly hopes and earth's despair. 
 
 To meet him face to face, without one sigh — 
 Christ all thy love, and Heav'n thy only care. 
 
 ^ tP TP -7f •75' dfe 
 
 The dawn rose fair upon the snow-clad Alps — 
 
 A lovely morning, rich with Beauty's freight — 
 But Martyn's cot upon the mountain side 
 
 Is tenantless, and sadly desolate. 
 Earth smil'd up toward the glorious sun, 
 
 With hymn of praise, his charioteer to greet ; 
 But she, the mistress of that mountain home, 
 
 Lies 'neath the waters, in her dreamless sleep. 
 No daughter's fond and dear caress was there, 
 
 To meet the fisher, as, at early dawn, 
 He cHmb'd the stony cliff and reach'd the cot, 
 
 Tir'd with the anxious toil he'd undergone. 
 Where was his mild-ey'd dove, his lily fair ? 
 
 Why came she not to give th' accustom'd 
 kiss }
 
 54 DARMAYNE. 
 
 Not even aged Nannette's form appear'd ; 
 
 Oh, surely there must something be amiss ! 
 No fairy step came out to meet him there ; 
 
 He had to drag the heavy nets alone ; 
 No helping hand to meet him as was wont ; 
 
 What pen can paint that father's coming 
 home ? 
 This, Florian had wrought, ignoble soul ! 
 
 Parted for aye that father from his child ; 
 Caus'd shadows to fall darkly o'er a heart 
 
 Whose cares that child so often had beguil'd. 
 When eventide steals o'er the Alpine dell, 
 
 And vesper chimes come pealing on the ear, 
 The peasants from the vintage, or the field, 
 
 Oft wend their steps to tell a story here. 
 And while they gaze upon the clear, blue depths, 
 
 Which to their minds such fancies seem to 
 wake, 
 "'Twas here," they say, "our Lilia met her fate ; 
 
 Beneath us sleeps the lily of the lake." 
 
 — ^ — •
 
 55 
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 " Quod hominis vita est ? 
 Viridis flosculus horti, 
 Oriens, sole oriente, 
 Cadens, — Cadente. " 
 
 An autumn sunset quiver'd grand and red 
 Over a little hamlet ; shrin'd in trees 
 And woodland fair ; its humble cottage homes 
 All bath'd in golden shadows. On the breeze, 
 Faint echoes trembled of the village chimes, 
 That had but now rung out upon the air, 
 And died away, leaving a breathless hush. 
 A Sabbath evening's calm and sacred peace 
 Spoke to the woods, and luU'd them off to rest ; 
 And silence brooded o'er the drowsy land, 
 And rock'd it soft to sleep. Up, on the hills, 
 Sweet twilight loiter'd, with uplifted wings, 
 The evening star upon her gentle brow ; 
 And, on the mists her robes of quiet grey, 
 Just flutt'ring, ere she wing'd her downward flight.
 
 56 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Down in the valley stood the village church, 
 Its ancient spire wrapped in ivy green ; 
 Wild honeysuckles twining round the porch, 
 With fair clematis, and the eglantine. 
 My steps I wended, as the sun went down, 
 Throughout the little churchyard ; and I gaz'd, 
 And ponder'd deeply as I went along 
 Upon the stories of the buried dead. 
 An aged sexton, standing by the porch, 
 With keys in hand, return'd my friendly nod ; 
 And, moving o'er the sward with feeble steps, 
 Approach'd me, and we then began to talk, 
 
 ■W TP "JP TP 
 
 " Behold !" said he, " the mounds that round us 
 
 lie ; 
 Of them I know a varied history ; 
 Some have I seen born, married, and dead. 
 For I am old, and Time has touch'd my head 
 With hoary hands. I love this little spot, 
 Where mortal man, whatever be his lot, 
 Is laid at last. To me 'tis doubly dear ; 
 I shall not sigh to lay my old bones here.
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 57 
 
 Some here have slept for many long, long years ; 
 Those, too, arc gone who mourn'd them once 
 
 with tears ; 
 I've seen full many laid beneath the clay. 
 And you and I, fair sir, must go some day. 
 See yon white cross, that rears its spotless head 
 'Mid crown of flowers, o'er the early dead. 
 As fled the beauty of that once bright wreath, 
 So faded, quickly, childhood's tender breath. 
 God's hand pluck'd soon that flower from our 
 
 sight, 
 
 To fairer bloom, amid His fields of light ; 
 
 And now the babe lies cradled on His breast, 
 
 From future evils, there secure, at rest. 
 
 A rich man's darling, yet it pass'd away ; 
 
 I laid it there — it seems but yesterday. 
 
 And yet 'tis twenty years ago — ah, me ! 
 
 Its parents' sorrow I again can see : 
 
 They mourn'd it sorely, but it wither'd here. 
 
 To grace a fairer and a better sphere. 
 
 Beside it lies another resting-place, 
 
 Which hides from earth a young and lovely face ; 
 
 H
 
 58 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 I knew her well, from childhood's happy morn, 
 I watch'd her pass to maidenhood's bright dawn ; 
 When life began its charmed robes to wear. 
 And all the hours went by untouch'd by care. 
 Upon her brow shone innocence and love, 
 And in her eyes the mildness of the dove ; — 
 The pride and sunshine of our village dell ; 
 Ah, gentle heart ! we lov'd her all too well. 
 The guardian angel of the sick and poor ; 
 The blessing of us all, from door to door ; 
 Too fragile she to linger with us long, 
 For now she sings a seraph's joyous song. 
 Our pastor's dearest household joy was she ; 
 But, ah ! we could not keep her, nor could he : 
 The hectic flush that dy'd her pallid cheek 
 Told but too plain the truth we fear'd to speak ; 
 She droop'd away, as fade the early flow'rs, 
 Chill'd by the touch of winter's ling'ring show'rs. 
 Her soft, sweet smile, it haunts me even yet, 
 Nor can my heart its hidden charm forget ; 
 Her wistful eyes, that scem'd to reach the heart, 
 And in their look such sudden fear impart ; —
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 59 
 
 So deeply blue, witli thoughtfulncss serene 
 Imprinted in each glance and in each beam, 
 Reveahng all the hcav'nly soul within, 
 That, even then, was trembling on the wing, 
 Longing to burst its slender bonds, and soar 
 Where God should meet its gaze for evermore. 
 We lost her ; ay, 'tis there the casket lies, 
 But the bright gem is sparkling 'mid the skies, 
 Set in the Saviour's crown of jewels there ; 
 A pearl of loveliness ! — ah, sir, how fair ! 
 They gave me, when she died, a golden tress 
 That once lay on the brow I used to bless ; 
 Oh, sir ! in all my memories, there's ne'er 
 A life so lov'd as hers, or name so dear. 
 And now, near her, mark yonder dismal stone, 
 With mosses damp and ivy thick o'ergrown. 
 On which the fingers of corroding time 
 Have fall'n, and left their unprevented sign ; 
 A sombre yew, low spreading at its side, 
 As if that forlorn spot 'twould kindly hide. 
 Love's touch ne'er ventur'd there, nor mourner's 
 eye;
 
 6o THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The elements war on it, and none sigh. 
 Decay has mark'd, with dreary stains, its sides ; 
 None card for him the broken tombstone hides ; 
 The roses cluster o'er our Mary's grave, 
 But over this droops down a gloomy shade. 
 He was an only son : his parents died, 
 And left him, orphan'd, when a child of five ; 
 Bereft of friends, save one poor, aged dame, 
 To whom the little homeless wand'rer came. 
 But, ah, alas ! her care was all for nought ; 
 The boy, sore wilful, many troubles brought ; 
 And scarce had she begun to have control, 
 When from the earth the Lord recall'd her soul. 
 Too young and wild to know the friend he'd lost, 
 The boy was then upon the billows toss'd, 
 And hurled amid the cold world's medley scene 
 To find, too late, how precious she had been. 
 Alone he grop'd his solitary way, 
 No mother's hand to counsel, or to stay ; 
 No father's eye to guide his boyhood's road, 
 That soon became with prickly thistles sow'd. 
 He grew to manhood ; then the tempters came,
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 6l 
 
 And broke the rising temple of his fame. 
 Too weak to combat all the snares he met, 
 That gamblers laid beneath his feeble step ; 
 No buckler on, as Bunyan's * Christian ' gain'd ; 
 No looking up to where his Master reign'd. 
 And so he fell, dragg'd down to vice so nigh, 
 That virtue shudder'd as she pass'd him by ; 
 And, struggling in the dark, fi-om year to year, 
 He reach'd a brink, to treach'rous abyss near : 
 Grim poverty his comrade ; not one friend 
 A kind word or a helping hand to lend ; 
 The Word of God, a stranger to his eye ; 
 And yet for him the Saviour came to die — 
 Not for the righteous, but for such as he ; 
 And, God be prais'd ! that Saviour set him free. 
 Upon the night the rosy day-beams fell ; 
 Heav'n op'd its gates, its mercy deep, to tell. 
 The icy barriers, that barr'd the way, 
 With quick'ning touch, the sunbeams chas'd 
 
 away ; 
 They thaw'd the mass uprear'd before his sight. 
 And dawn came stealing o'er the eyes of night.
 
 62 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The words of Jesus pierc'd his inmost heart, 
 And broke the chains, that Satan held, apart. 
 Our Mary's Hfe, indeed, good sir, was blest ; 
 Unspotted from the world, she sank to rest ; 
 But there was glory in the courts of heav'n 
 When that poor erring sinner was forgiv'n ; 
 And angels and archangels sang above. 
 When he soar'd upwards, pardon'd, to his God. 
 What recks it that the matted brambles lie 
 Above his dust, or that no friend can sigh .'' 
 What recks it that no name is on the stone .'' 
 'Tis written in the book upon the throne. 
 His hand shall clasp our Mary's, up above, 
 Within those realms of never-dying love. 
 With soul as pure, and face as glowing bright ; 
 A victor, 'mong the angels of the light." 
 The old man paus'd, to wipe away a tear. 
 Then pointed to a costly marble near. 
 'Twas built on granite, tow' ring, as in pride, 
 Above the humbler stones that throng'd its side ; 
 A gold escutcheon gleaming on its face, 
 And gilded posts spread round its lordly base.
 
 - THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 6t, 
 
 Beneath that princely monument there hes   
 
 One who the village could not but despise ; 
 
 Rich and titled, but with heart as cold 
 
 As is her form now buried in the mould. 
 
 She wore a mask throughout her godless life — 
 
 All outward, piety ; but inward, strife. 
 
 Bowing to all the follies fashion brings, 
 
 And ne'er repenting of her heinous sins. 
 
 In midst of health the call was sudden sent; 
 
 And, unprepar'd, her soul to judgment went. 
 
 The hamlet mourn'd her not when she was gone — 
 
 She scarce was miss'd within her joyless hom.e — 
 
 The poor had never found in her a friend, 
 
 So mourn'd not when they heard her sudden end. 
 
 'Twas only ivcalth that rais'd that pile o'er her ; 
 
 Love did it not, nor memory, good sir. 
 
 But look beyond it, — there's a grassy mound, 
 
 With simple daisies budding all around ; 
 
 'Twas love did that ! — a mother's loving hand ; 
 
 That spot to her the dearest in the land. 
 
 Within it lie twin brothers, whom grim death 
 
 Could not dissever, e'en with icy breath ;
 
 64 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 He took them both within his dark-rimm'd 
 
 cloud ; 
 They shared the same short life and early shroud. 
 But, ah ! that cloud which hid them from her 
 
 sight, 
 Was lin'd with glory, brilliant and bright ; 
 For now they wing their way through heaven's 
 
 scenes, 
 And smile upon her in her midnight dreams. 
 She griev'd at first, but now she does not weep ; 
 'Tis only for awhile — they've fall'n asleep ; 
 Death could not part those loving hearts, and 
 
 there 
 The mother's hand has sown the daisies fair. 
 Look further, where yon broken pillar stands 
 (Time did not shatter that, but sculptor's hands), 
 For emblem of proud manhood's brightest time, 
 When life, and hope, and fame were at their 
 
 prime. 
 Death snatch'd him, strangely, 'mid a grand 
 
 career, 
 And left his friends to shed the bitter tear ;
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 65 
 
 They mourn'd his sad, untimely end, in vain, 
 
 And wept, but could not call him back again. 
 
 His was a noble and a giant mind, 
 
 And round his brow the laurel leaves were twin'd ; 
 
 A man of wit, of learning, and renown ; 
 
 But now he wears a far more lustrous crown 
 
 Than ever earth could give him ; and from toil 
 
 His mighty brain rests calmly 'neath the soil. 
 
 He was our squire ; the village lov'd him well ; 
 
 His many virtues I, for aye, could tell. 
 
 They'll never die. Sir, do I weary you 
 
 With these remembrances ? They are a few 
 
 I love to dwell on ; pardon me I pray. 
 
 Old age is garrulous, perhaps you say." 
 
 " Nay, nay," I quick replied, " say on yet more ; 
 
 I like to hear thee tell of those of yore 
 
 Who've gone before us ; for we, too, should like 
 
 (When death has come, his subtle blow to strike) 
 
 To be remember'd. Should we not, old man ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said he, and so again began 
 
 To tell me one more story : — " There," said he — 
 
 And pointed to a weeping willow tree —
 
 66 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD, 
 
 " There lies a mother, sleeping her last rest, 
 
 Her firstborn daughter pillow'd on her breast. 
 
 Her husband in a foreign land lies low ; 
 
 He fell in horrid battle's ruddy glow, 
 
 Fighting for glory's sake, 'mid fire and smoke — 
 
 Alas ! how many hearts that glory broke ! 
 
 Ne'er, ne'er again she saw his dear lov'd face ; 
 
 Home felt no longer a bright sunny place ; 
 
 He was no more ; she could not even press 
 
 Upon his pallid lips a kiss, to bless. 
 
 Nor give a last embrace ; so sore she wept. 
 
 And droop'd away, of ev'ry hope bereft. 
 
 It wrung her heart to think how he had died, 
 
 With none to help or cheer him at his side ; 
 
 War's horrors round him, and his poor, pale head, 
 
 Bent 'neath the frantic charger's trampling tread. 
 
 They were not parted long ; God's loving eye 
 
 Look'd down upon her in her misery. 
 
 She linger'd here just but a little while. 
 
 To greet her husband's child with tender smile ; 
 
 Then, to her heart its tiny form close press'd, 
 
 She joyfully went upwards to her rest.
 
 THE VILLAGE CHURCHYARD. 6/ 
 
 The little flow'ret, frail, that she had giv'n, 
 Ne'er bloom'd for earth, but sought its native 
 
 heav'n ; 
 And so, in realms of endless life and love 
 They met again, beatified above. 
 The father met the child he'd never seen ; 
 The wife forgot the sorrows that had been. 
 Ah, me ! And now, view yonder simple stone 
 O'er which the ivy's trailing sprays are thrown ; 
 There lies my own dear wife and only son, 
 That in their life, for me, such comfort won ; 
 For forty years she was my partner dear, 
 In all my many joys and sorrows here. 
 No man e'er had a better helpmate, sir. 
 Nor truer woman, than I had in her. 
 And then my son — ah ! how I lov'd the boy — 
 He was my favourite, my pride, my joy. 
 I'd other children, but I lov'd him best. 
 And yet God put me to the bitter test 
 Of losing him. Ah, well ! I only wait 
 Th' Almighty's summons to the golden gate. 
 No more has earth delusive charms for me —
 
 6S THE VILLAGE CIIURCPIVARD. 
 
 I'll hail with gladness God's eternity. 
 
 My limbs are aged, and my sight is dim, 
 
 The road is winding nearer unto Him ; 
 
 'Tis time earth op'd her arms and took me in, 
 
 To kindly shelter from this world of sin, 
 
 I ne'er should like to be a burden here, 
 
 Thus, in the closing winter of my year. 
 
 Our little span of life, how swift it flies ! 
 
 A man is bom to day, to-morrow dies." 
 
 The sexton paus'd, and bent his hoary head. 
 
 Then turn'd, and look'd upon the buried dead ; 
 
 And I, in tearful silence, wrung his hand, 
 
 And wish'd him " God speed " to that better 
 
 land. 
 " God speed ye, too, good master," he did say. 
 Then from the village churchyard went his way. 
 Along the rural path I saw him go, 
 His footsteps falt'ring on with movement slow ; 
 With weight of years his aged figure bent. 
 And staff in hand, on which he feebly leant. 
 Then, by degrees, amid the fading light, 
 The winding pathway hid him from my sight.
 
 THE /EOLIAN HARP. 69 
 
 The eve had fall'n, the night breeze wandcr'd by, 
 And stars began to gem the dark-blue sky ; 
 Around me hill and dale were wrapp'd in sleep, 
 And I stood there, with thoughts too deep to 
 speak. 
 
 THE yEOLIAN HARP. 
 
 In the greystone tow'r of a castle keep 
 
 Was a casement o'ergrown with ivy deep, 
 
 That had crept right up o'er the mossy eaves. 
 
 Till the ancient roof was robed in leaves ; 
 
 And on the stone sill, 'mid the ivies dark, 
 
 Fair hands had plac'd an ^Eolian harp. 
 
 Oh ! nought was so sweet as the strings laid 
 
 there. 
 Lovingly touched by the fingers of air ; 
 Like angels' whispers its fairy tones fell. 
 Floating away to the far-distant dell. 
 The north wind, when he came sailing along,
 
 70 THE .EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 Would stop there to whistle his bold, clear 
 
 song ; 
 With his great wings flapping high up above, 
 Pinions, the hue of the fair ringdove ; 
 And his fingers would strike the chords full 
 
 loud, 
 Half drearily, yet with a freedom proud. 
 He would sing of the ice-fields far away. 
 Where the glowing aurora shines like day ; 
 Beaming with lovely and softly-ton'd hues — 
 Crimson and orange, and deep purple blues — 
 Of the slender reindeer, whose graceful form 
 Speeds swiftly on through the snow, sleet, and 
 
 storm ; 
 Its bells ringing out on the frosty air. 
 And its curv'd, branching horns, erect and bare. 
 Where the dark, shining firs sway to and fro, 
 On the sides of mountains crowned with snow ; 
 And the sun sheds downward a mellow light. 
 That soon quickly fades, to give place to night. 
 Then oft to the harp came the sweet south 
 breeze.
 
 THE yEOLIAN HARP. 7 I 
 
 His balmy breath stirring the forest trees ; 
 With wings of a dazzling, rainbow-hu'd light, 
 And soft, azure eyes, like the heavens bright. 
 He swept the lute -strings with soft, tender 
 
 hands, 
 Whisp'ring a story of sunnier lands. 
 Where groves of the lemon and myrtle fair 
 Scent, with rich fragrance, the pure summer 
 
 air ; 
 And dark-ey'd maidens their tresses entwine 
 With the orange flower and the eglantine. 
 Where brown, sunburnt children, merrily bound 
 By the fountains, that fall with tinkling sound ; 
 W^hose glimmering showers of crystal spray 
 O'er marble naiads in the basins play ; 
 And where on the hillsides the grapes are hung, 
 Ripening under a tropical sun ; 
 And paradise birds flit from tree to tree. 
 With brilliant plumage so fair to see. 
 Sometimes he would tell of the scorching sky 
 Of Egypt, where tow'r the pyramids high — 
 Colossal relics of long, by-gone years,
 
 72 THE .EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 That entomb the bones of their kings and 
 
 seers. 
 They lie in those caverns, deep under ground, 
 But all shall awake when the trump doth sound ! 
 Then of the wilderness, dreary and wide, 
 And the limitless sandy wastes beside ; 
 Where the burdened camels plough their way, 
 And feathery palms in oases lay. 
 Where wells were few, and dusky-skinn'd maids, 
 With gold coins set in their jetty-black braids, 
 Let down their pitchers of leathern case, 
 Pois'd on their heads with such native grace. 
 Such stories as these, both wondrous and sweet. 
 The winds told the harp in the ivied keep — 
 Of such rare and wonderful sights and scenes. 
 That we should e'en wish to see in our dreams ; 
 Now the ravens whirr past the castle tow'r. 
 And the ringdove builds in the turret bow'r, 
 Where the harp sings forth to the list'ning trees, 
 With each murm'ring breath of the passing 
 
 breeze.
 
 7}> 
 
 PARIS, 1870. 
 
 "O terre ! toute baiguee de sang et de larmes, tu n'as jamais 
 cesse d(; pioduire et des fruits et des fleurs ! es-tu done sans pitie 
 pour I'homme, et sa poussiere retourne-t-elle dans ton sein 
 maternel sans le fair tressaillir ?" — Madame de Stael. 
 
 Lo ! crushed she lies, who once, of all the earth, 
 Reign'd its one pride and joy ; above her head 
 Droop the dark wings of Mourning, whose sad 
 
 brow 
 Is sear'd and wrinkled with a stormy grief 
 She, who once stood the queen of cities ; and 
 To whose gay charms the nations bent the knee. 
 Alas ! those charms have fled. Her jewell'd brow 
 Lies in the dust ; and o'er her, cold and stern, 
 The avenger's hand drops pitiless. Her eyes. 
 That, brilliant as twin stars in cloudless sky 
 Once sparkled, now are heavy and all dimm'd, 
 And bloodshot, seek the heav'ns ; while her lips, 
 Pale as the mountain snows, gasp out her woe. 
 A Niobe, with brain on fire, and tears
 
 74 PARIS, 1870. 
 
 Frozen upon her cheek, she, tott'ring, stands, 
 And views the gory steel pierce through her sons; 
 And wails in bitterness of heart. All torn. 
 And prostrate on the ground, 'mid fire and 
 
 smoke, 
 The standard, that once flaunted in the breeze. 
 Lies undistinguishable. And, all red, 
 The fleur-de-lis droops on its broken stem. 
 The tramp of feet, the ringing clash of arms, 
 Sound through the vineyards, where, but week 
 
 ago, 
 God's peace abounded. Manly heart to heart 
 Fight in the death-grasp ; ev'rything forgot 
 In mad delirium of battle. They, 
 Who might have shar'd the kiss of peace, and 
 
 liv'd 
 As brothers. 'Mid the melee, thick and fierce. 
 Booms out the cannon ; and, from out the gloom, 
 Shells cleave the air, on murd'rous mission bent — 
 Their goal the doomed city down below. 
 The roar of battle, and the horrid heat, 
 The glare, the din, and all the pit'ous sights.
 
 PARIS, 1870. 75 
 
 Turn men to fiends, and from their frenzied brains 
 Sweep ev'ry better thought ; and sore dismay 
 Th' affrighted angels, watching overhead. 
 Within the city's streets, and 'mong the ruins ; 
 Where once fair plenty laugh'd the hours away, 
 And mirth and pleasure frolick'd hand-in-hand — 
 Their only thought the present. Now, how * 
 
 chang'd ! 
 Want trails her ragged garments o'er the stones. 
 And thrusts her haggard face in at the doors ; 
 And Death has reap'd a harvest rarely seen. 
 And, ruthless, swept the land with sharpen'd 
 
 scythe. 
 Ceres shall mourn some flowers for her wreath : 
 All trampled lies the corn, and long-a-day 
 Shall she deplore, and weep her fairest gifts. 
 That lie all stain'd and soil'd. Across the land 
 Stand homesteads vacant, ne'er to shield again 
 The happy groups that circled round the hearth. 
 Gone, gone for e'er, young Jeanette's merry face, 
 And hush'd for aye poor Grandmere's ancient 
 
 tale ;
 
 'jG PARIS, 1870. 
 
 Jeannette now mourns her lover, and Grandmere 
 Lies broken-hearted in the churchyard's shade. 
 Her four brave sons, that gladden'd all her life, 
 For France have died, and chill and silent lie, 
 Unshrouded, 'neath the mounds of sad Sedan. 
 Oh ! what the sinking nation's tears and groans 
 To foe unmerciful t "Woe to the fall'n !" 
 They, conqu'ring, cry, and madly onwards press. 
 With vict'ry flush'd. Swift as the summer grass 
 Mow'd 'neath the blade, so helpless at their feet 
 The armies fall ; and last into their arms 
 Falls matchless Paris, to complete the ruin. 
 Lutetia ! day by day, and year by year. 
 You to a beauty so complete, advanc'd. 
 That he, your master, deem'd you should eclipse 
 All cities of the world ! Ah, subtle brain ! 
 How has thy cunning fail'd, and how in smoke 
 Have all thy dreams of pride dissolv'd away ! 
 The hardy Saxon thunders at her gates, 
 And thy fair, tinsell'd city must expire. 
 Hard on the pale and struggling country lies 
 A cloudy pall — a hand of iron press'd —
 
 grandmamma's reverie. jj 
 
 A hand of retribution. War ! fell war ! 
 With its ten thousand horrors, has swoop'd down, 
 And crush'd to powder all the dazzling gems 
 That grac'd the land, and torn from countless 
 
 hearts 
 Their life-blood. Now avaunt, ye savage hounds ! 
 Unloose thy clutch, and cease thy baying fierce. 
 It is enough ! the punishment is done ; 
 There is repentance for the stained heart. 
 The flow'rs shall bloom again from out the dust ; 
 From out the ashes shall another France — 
 A newer, better, and a wiser realm — 
 Arise, and show the world that still she's France. 
 
 GRANDMAMMA'S REVERIE. 
 
 Dear grandmamma sat in the old arm-chair. 
 With the sunbeams flecking her snow-white hair ; 
 The warm, sunny weather had just begun. 
 And she sought the porch in the morning sun.
 
 78 . grandmamma's reverie. 
 
 Happiness shone on her fast-wrinkhng brow- 
 Lovely in youth, but e'en loveher now ; 
 For there was that in her calm, aged face, 
 That spoke of the beauty of God's own grace. 
 Bruno lay lazily stretch'd at her side. 
 Wagging his tail, as if quite satisfied ; 
 Now and then grandmamma gave him a smile. 
 Busily plying her knitting the while. 
 Up in the porch a canary bird sung ; 
 Its cage, 'niong the woodbine and roses, hung 
 O'er her head, warbling its fairy-like song, 
 That charm'd all the hours as they sped along. 
 Down by the path spread the green meadows 
 
 there, 
 Sprinkled with fragile anemones fair ; 
 In 'mong the clover, the daisy's wee eye. 
 Peeping so modestly out at the sky ; 
 And over the stile, the pink hawthorn spray, 
 Blushing and sweet with the breath of the May ; 
 Under the bushes, a deep purple shade, 
 Where the wild violets thickly were laid ; 
 Springs gentle foot o'er the verdant earth spread.
 
 GRANDMAMMAS REVERIE. 79 
 
 Waking the flowers with soft, tender tread ; 
 Merry young voices afar, shouting gay, 
 Out in the woods for a long hohday. 
 In the tall grass the young lambs were playing ; 
 Over the hedges, the horses neighing ; 
 And, far away, the young ploughboy's song. 
 As he guided the stout Dutch steeds along. 
 What was dear grandmamma thinking of then .'* 
 For, see, her eye has stol'n over the glen. 
 Where stands the church, 'mid the clustering 
 
 trees, 
 Wedding bells pealing far out on the breeze. 
 " Some one is married to-day,"' she sighs ; 
 And a sad film gathers over her eyes. 
 Once, too, for her did those merry bells ring — 
 Once, long ago, in an ever-dear spring. 
 Memory rises 'fore grandmamma's gaze. 
 And, with bent head, she there earnestly prays ; 
 Prays for the welfare and true happiness 
 Of the young hearts that the pastor shall bless. 
 From her dear hands falls the knitting away, 
 Hearing the village chimes ringing so gay ;
 
 8o grandmamma's reverie. 
 
 And she calls up a fair picture of yore, 
 When she, too, wedded the one gone before. 
 How she remembers that marriage day 
 Now, when her hair has grown faded and grey ! 
 How, when they went from that same altar side. 
 He had rais'd the veil of his trembling bride. 
 And, kissing away her quick-starting tear, 
 Had whisper'd that nothing should part them 
 
 here. 
 Well had he kept to that low-spoken vow ; 
 Death had but parted them cruelly now ; 
 But ! — and now grandmamma's face wears a 
 
 smile, 
 For soon shall they meet in a little while. 
 Ring out, merry bells, o'er the wood and lea ! 
 Ring out, there's a blessing from heav'n for thee ! 
 For grandmamma's prayers have been heard on 
 
 high. 
 And the love of those hearts shall never die ; 
 They shall, side by side, and with hand in hand, 
 Journey through life to the heavenly land.
 
 8i 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Look up ! and yonder see on high 
 The sacred bow that spans the sky ; 
 A lesson doth it teach us well, 
 Which it was placed there to tell : 
 God put the bow within the cloud, 
 For all by sin or sorrow bow'd. 
 
 Christ was the bow that lit the world 
 After the deluge that God hurl'd 
 Upon the offending sons of man, 
 Who into such destruction ran. 
 How eager, then, should we all be 
 Salvation's sign to hail and see ! 
 
 Look up ! there is no lot so drear 
 
 But what some comfort lurketh near ; 
 
 The darkest cloud can pass away. 
 
 And show us yet a sunlit day. 
 
 There's hope and faith for ev'ry one ; 
 
 Have faith ! and half the battle's won. 
 
 K
 
 82 THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 Do not the flowers once more bloom 
 From out the winter's des'late gloom ? 
 Doth not the joyous spring arise, 
 And chase the mists from off the skies ? 
 E'en Nature teaches us the same, 
 That sunshine follows ev'ry rain. 
 
 Look up ! and on the sunny side, 
 
 Whatever trouble doth betide, 
 
 There's always God's own word of light 
 
 To brighten up our darkest night. 
 
 And though e'en life all clouds should be, 
 
 There's still the glad eternity ! 
 
 THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 Come, buy my flowr's ; come, buy my flow'rs ; 
 All wet with heaven's dewy show'rs ; 
 I've blossoms here for ev'ry one — 
 Bright, fragrant children of the sun. 
 Here ! maid, with darkly-shaded hair.
 
 THE FLOWER GIRL. S^ 
 
 A red rose bright and freshly-fair ; 
 See, how it gleams against thy cheek, 
 As if 'twould kindred roses seek. 
 Wouldst have a wreath for festive scene .-" 
 Here's crimson buds and tendrils green ; 
 Come, twine them in thy ebon hair, 
 Thou'lt be the brightest beauty there. 
 Gay cavalier ! come, turn aside ; 
 Dost seek a nosegay for thy bride .-' 
 Here's myrtle, and the orange bloom, 
 They'll keep for long, nor wither soon. 
 Or, dost thou haste to lady love .'' 
 A tribute take, thy love to prove. 
 For golden hair and eye of blue, 
 Forget-me-nots of tender hue ; 
 Or lily-bell, with spotless heart. 
 That shall a gentle grace impart. 
 For glossy hair and dusky eyes, 
 In whose dark depths such lustre lies. 
 And brunette cheeks of ruddy bloom, 
 A garland of the yellow broom. 
 Here's heliotrope — devotion's sign —
 
 84 THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 And scented pinks, and eglantine ; 
 
 And fair, white violets — to say, 
 
 Thy candour's open as the day. 
 
 Then buy my flow'rs ; come, buy my flow'rs ; 
 
 Gemm'd with the morning's dewy show'rs. 
 
 Stay, lady, with the pensive eye, 
 
 Why should you pass me by, and sigh .'' 
 
 Can I your troubled thoughts discern .'' 
 
 Here's hawthorn, and the flow'ring fern. 
 
 Thy love, perhaps, is o'er the sea ; 
 
 Ah ! trust he's thinking still of thee ; 
 
 Come, then, this spray of hawthorn take. 
 
 Nor think that he will thee forsake : 
 
 'Tis absence makes the heart more true, 
 
 This flow'r of hope is then for you. 
 
 Flow'rs ! flowers ! fair flow'rs, come buy of me ! 
 
 Ah, stop ! sister of charity. 
 
 Here's lilies, pluck'd this very morn, 
 
 For sacred altar to adorn ; 
 
 Sweet buds of ev'ry fragrance rare 
 
 That bloom amid the summer air. 
 
 Some poor sick heart, you, too, may know.
 
 THE FLOWER GIRL. 85 
 
 To whom my gentle flow'rs might go ; 
 They'd cheer indeed the languid heart, 
 And might, perhaps, some joy impart. 
 They'd be within the shaded room 
 A welcome guest and blessed boon ; 
 Their beauty has a lasting charm, 
 Their fragrance, never-ceasing balm, 
 They speak of all that's bright and fair, 
 They're ever welcome ev'rywhere. 
 Then buy my flow'rs ; come, buy my flow'rs ; 
 All wet with heaven's dewy show'rs ; 
 I've blossoms here for ev'ry one — 
 Bright, fragrant children of the sun !
 
 S6 
 
 THE STARS' VIGIL. 
 I. 
 Stars ! stars ! gemming the sky, 
 Brightly burn from thy throne on high ; 
 Light the bark on the tossing sea, 
 Bearing my husband home to me. 
 Pierce the clouds if the tempest lours, 
 Trim thy lamps through the dark'ning hours ; 
 Shine ! oh, shine ! on the brow of night, 
 Watch with me till the morning light, 
 
 And dawn be here. 
 
 II. 
 Winds ! winds ! laughing away, 
 Sing ye on till our meeting day ; 
 Keep as calm as thou art to night. 
 Soon shall he meet my anxious sight ; 
 Sing ! oh, sing ! on the ocean's breast. 
 Hushing it off to gentle rest ; 
 Speed his bark o'er the distant main. 
 Send me my husband back again, 
 
 When dawn be here.
 
 THE STARS VTCIL. 8/ 
 
 III. 
 
 Stars ! stars ! glowing above, 
 Guide the steps of my absent love ; 
 Light his path through the deep alone, 
 Pilot him safely on to home. 
 Cheer his soul with thy steadfast light. 
 Angels' eyes mid the darksome night ; 
 Calmly his babe sleeps on my breast, 
 But ne'er my heart at rest, at rest, 
 
 Till dawn be here. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wmds ! winds ! stirring the trees, 
 Fan his cheek with thy gentle breeze ; 
 Tell him how oft I've sat and wept. 
 Tell him the lonely watch I've kept — 
 Night after night, day after day, 
 On the lighthouse steps, 'mid the spray ; 
 Watching the line the sun crept down, 
 Scanning the distant horizon, 
 
 Till dawn appear.
 
 88 ON DANCING. 
 
 V. 
 Stars ! stars ! paling at dawn, 
 Joy has come with the wak'ning morn ; 
 The winds have died away to sleep, 
 Over the waves the daybeams creep ; 
 Breaks the sun through the morning grey. 
 Stars and vigil have pass'd away. 
 Hark ! his step ! on the turret stair ; 
 Wake, my babe, he's there, he is there ! 
 
 And dawn has come. 
 
 ON DANCING. 
 
 "pro" and "con." 
 
 Merry pastime, joyous pleasure, 
 Circling to a sportive measure, 
 Whirling round amid the dance. 
 Bright eyes beaming, sly, askance ; 
 Godfrey's waltzes in your ear. 
 With their notes, bewitching, clear ; 
 Blushes, rising to the cheek,
 
 ON DANCING. 89 
 
 Which of gay enjoyment speak ; 
 
 Satin'd sHppcrs gUding nigh ; 
 
 Fairy figures flitting by ; 
 
 Jewels gleaming ; flowers fair, 
 
 Drooping in the waving hair. 
 
 Figures, clad in misty white, 
 
 Floating round like snow-wreaths bright ; 
 
 Lightly as a feather falls, 
 
 Trip the small feet through the halls ; 
 
 Swiftly as the young gazelles, 
 
 Bounding through the forest dells ; 
 
 Senses lost in charm'd delight, 
 
 All the quickly fleeting night. 
 
 Fragrance rich, of tropic blooms, 
 
 Hanging o'er the vast saloons ; 
 
 Rippling laughter on the air, 
 
 Making music everywhere. 
 
 Lovely faces, fair and bright, 
 
 'Neath the candelabra's light : 
 
 Blonde and brunette, dark or fair. 
 
 Sweeping past, with jesting, there ; 
 
 Whispers, soft, and low, and sweet ; 
 
 L
 
 90 ON DANCING. 
 
 Glances, speaking volumes deep ; 
 Feather'd fans, no longer mute, 
 Telling much to those astute ; 
 Features sparkling, all aglow — 
 Cupid's there with dart and bow. 
 Vive la danse ! 'twill live for ever ; 
 Time can ne'er its pleasures sever. 
 
 " CON." 
 
 Oh ! fantastic, senseless pleasure. 
 Moving to a dizzy measure ; 
 Now whirling round and round a room 
 To some quick, bewildering tune. 
 One's arms and shoulders almost bare. 
 All decked out with jewels rare ; 
 With gems, alas ! whose " little bill " 
 Some starving poor with food could fill. 
 A gown — twelve yards of useless stuff, 
 Which oft has kept some seamstress up- 
 A hapless creature, wan and white. 
 Hard stitching at it day and night. 
 Cobwebs, frilled with flounces gay.
 
 ON DANCING. 9I 
 
 Just worn to charm, then flung away ; 
 Temples giddy ; brain all mazy ; 
 Oh, it drives a mortal crazy ! 
 Flushed and heated, call it nice 
 To swallow down a freezing ice ? 
 Then off again, to dance in haste 
 With strangers' arms around your waist ; 
 And who, for want of aught to say, 
 Now compliment and fib away ; 
 Or else of Fashion's doings prate, — 
 To this and that they've been of late ; 
 And if to concert, op'ra, ball. 
 You say you have not been at all, 
 You instant fall to somebody 
 Who can't afford the sights to see. 
 You have not money, that is clear ; 
 Attention, then, would cost too dear ; 
 You're not amongst the " upper ten " — 
 They'll seek a better partner, then. 
 Gay, vapid beings ! all the time. 
 Imagining themselves sublime ; 
 Of course, quite killing ! Goodness me !
 
 92 TO SOME LILIES. 
 
 What stupid creatures they must be ! 
 
 I'd laugh within my sleeve, and smile, 
 
 And ridicule them all the while ; 
 
 A partner for the dance, so rife, 
 
 Would rarely do for one through life ! 
 
 Their gaiety will ne'er enthrall ; 
 
 One quiet heart is worth them all. 
 
 Oh, dear ! to spend the livelong night 
 
 In this, what Fashion calls delight ; 
 
 Folly, surely, was the " mater " 
 
 Of "La danse" — poor fragile " craytur' !" 
 
 TO SOME LILIES. 
 
 " Consider the lilies of the field." 
 
 Fair, fragrant children of the woodland brook, 
 Kiss'd by the waters in thy shelter'd nook ; 
 The zephyrs love to linger on thy leaves ; 
 The wood-nymph of thy buds a circlet weaves. 
 Fair lilies, poet's fav'rite flow'r ye are. 
 And purer than the white rose — purer far.
 
 MY QUESTION. 93 
 
 The garden flow'rs arc lovely to the eye, 
 
 But with thy snowy bells they cannot vie. 
 
 Thy stainless petals crown the young bride's 
 
 hair — 
 A coronal as typical as fair ; 
 The fittest flow'r to strew an infant's bier — - 
 The flow'er of innocence, so doubly dear. 
 The Saviour lov'd thee, and a lesson taught. 
 How we the lilies to consider, ought : 
 " They toil not, neither do they spin " nor sow, 
 Yet God's protecting eye beholds them grow ; 
 Simple and lovely they should always be, 
 Our humble offerings to the Deity. 
 Oh, lilies ! would my pen could better tell 
 Thy sacred loveliness ! I love so well ! 
 
 MY QUESTION. 
 
 " What is the dearest thing on earth ? " 
 
 I ask'd a little child ; 
 It look'd at me with doubting glance, 
 
 And at my question smil'd ;
 
 94 MY QUESTION. 
 
 Then held aside its curly head, 
 
 And push'd its toys aside, 
 Perplexed, and wond'ring, and amus'd — 
 
 Unable to decide. 
 
 " What is the dearest thing to me ? 
 
 My Noah's ark up there, 
 Or this, that brother Archie gave ? — 
 
 This drum and sticks I wear." 
 
 But, hardly had he answer'd thus, 
 When, through the open door, 
 
 He saw his mother on the stairs. 
 And bounded from the floor. 
 
 " Oh, no ! there's something better still," 
 
 He cried, with joyful glee ; 
 " A kiss from dear mamma ! — it is 
 
 The dearest thing to me." 
 
 "What is the dearest thing on earth .?" 
 
 I ask'd our laughing Fan ; 
 She toss'd aside her sunny curls, 
 
 And then to laugh began.
 
 MY QUESTION. 95 
 
 " The dearest thing ! how can I say 
 
 What I prefer of all ? 
 The thing I like the best is this — 
 
 The yearly county ball." 
 
 " What is the dearest thing on earth ?" 
 
 I ask'd my brother Tom ; 
 Now, Tom was thoughtful, and of age, 
 
 And clever, too, anon. 
 
 But, ah ! he only laugh'd at me ; 
 
 *' The * dearest ' thing that is .-* 
 Why, I can tell you, sure enough : 
 
 Tobacco, darling sis." 
 
 But, then I turn'd to grandmamma, 
 
 My question to repeat ; 
 Not careless, thoughtless, giddy, she, 
 
 But sober and discreet. 
 
 " 'Tis friendship, child, that through the years 
 
 Has stood through good or ill ; 
 A faithful friend, that has been true ; 
 
 Unchanging, loving still.
 
 96 THE HUNTED STAG. 
 
 Oh ! friendship is the dearest thing 
 That earth can ever give ! 
 
 With that to cheer, the poorest heart 
 And saddest heart can hve." 
 
 THE HUNTED STAG. 
 
 The forest rang with hunting cries ; 
 
 The hunter 'mong the brushwood flies ; 
 
 And hounds dash onwards through the glen, 
 
 Fast follow'd by the riding men. 
 
 Among the trees, the scarlet bright 
 
 Gleams here and there upon the sight, 
 
 With plumed hat, of huntress fair, 
 
 Half drooping o'er her sunlit hair ; 
 
 And cavaliers of royal birth. 
 
 Whose chargers skimm'd the fresh-turn'd earth. 
 
 Throughout the thickly-wooded chase 
 
 The hounds and horses madly race. 
 
 So on they went, and onward made 
 
 Where wood and forest met in shade,
 
 THE HUNTED STAG, 97 
 
 And arching trees spread overhead, 
 
 And mossy turf lay 'neath the tread , 
 
 Where bent the ferns across the brook, 
 
 That, at a leap, the hunters took. 
 
 The panting stag, with trembling limbs, 
 
 High o'er the sparkling streamlet springs, 
 
 Nor stops to quench his burning thirst, 
 
 But o'er its waters madly burst. 
 
 He near^ the cascade on the hill ; 
 
 The dogs are chasing closely still ; 
 
 Now, up the slopes that skirt the wood, 
 
 Where ruddy apple orchards stood ; 
 
 And over Parson Humphrey's field. 
 
 Which just began its fruit to yield : 
 
 Sad havoc making as they went, 
 
 Upon their regal pleasure bent. 
 
 Over the gate of Farmer Wise, 
 
 Young Mary leant, with flashing eyes, 
 
 As on they hurried, all pell-mell. 
 
 Crushing the flow'rs she lov'd so well, 
 
 And trampling all her father's grain, 
 
 That, sure, would never rise again. 
 
 M
 
 98 THE HUNTED STAG. 
 
 The snorting steeds now gallop on, 
 
 To stop his course the bank along. 
 
 The young lev'rets fly back in fright 
 
 Among the trees, till out of sight, 
 
 As on the breathless horses hie ; — 
 
 The running water's almost nigh ; 
 
 A bound ! he's reach'd the sloping glade ; 
 
 A leap ! he clears the wide cascade. 
 
 The hounds wade o'er — they're gaining fast ; 
 
 They've swam the stream ; — all hope is past ! 
 
 The stag's last strength begins to flow, 
 
 And loud resounds the " tally-ho." 
 
 The hunter gives a ringing blast ; 
 
 The tir'd deer has fall'n at last : 
 
 Once rais'd his branching horns on high, 
 
 Then sank among the ferns, to die. 
 
 o>S<c
 
 99 
 
 MY SON AND HEIR. 
 
 I. 
 
 This little boy of mine — 
 
 Tiny dot ! 
 What now is there, that his eyes 
 
 Seeth not ? 
 From the trinkets on my chain, 
 That are pull'd, and pull'd again, 
 To the button 'neath my chin, 
 Where his fingers first begin ; 
 Oh ! there's not a single thing. 
 
 But he's got ! 
 
 II. 
 This little son of mine — 
 
 Funny rogue ! 
 How he wheedles round my heart 
 
 With his "brogue!" 
 With his mischief-telling eye, 
 That's so quiet, yet so sly ;
 
 lOO MY SON AND HEIR. 
 
 And his patting, coaxing hand, 
 That oft in my pockets grand 
 Finds a pleasant place to land — 
 Much in vogue. 
 
 III. 
 
 This little boy of mine — 
 
 Cunning Turk ! 
 What a quickness in his glance 
 
 There doth lurk ! 
 If his mother's voice is nigh, 
 Like a shot he's pass'd me by, 
 And is off to fairer scene, 
 Where some golden candies gleam 
 In the depths of tunic green. 
 
 Sticky work ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 This little son of mine — 
 
 Sturdy elf! 
 Back he trots toward my seat, 
 
 By himself
 
 MY SON AND HEIR. lOI 
 
 And his look, it seems to say 
 Why it was he ran away — 
 " Metal more attractive " there ; 
 But, when gone the object fair, 
 Why, he's back to my arm-chair, 
 Me, to pelf. 
 
 V. 
 
 This little boy of mine's 
 
 Fond of jam ; 
 He was but one year old, when 
 
 He began. 
 He will ruin me, I know. 
 If the raspberry goes so ; 
 But, there's something else than sweets 
 That through life one often meets. 
 And he'll plenty get of griefs, 
 
 When a man. 
 
 VI. 
 This little son of mine — 
 
 Saucy chap ! 
 I must pack him off to school 
 
 Soon, by trap.
 
 I02 MY SON AND HEIR. 
 
 I'm sure his mother's whims 
 Have just spoilt him, head and Hmbs ; 
 And 'twill never do, I'm sure, 
 In my dignity demure. 
 To give in to her allure — 
 Ne'er to "rap." 
 
 VII. 
 This little boy of mine — 
 
 Curly pate ; 
 There must Latin come, and Greek, 
 
 To be great ! 
 
 And the sooner you begin, 
 
 Why, the earlier to win ; 
 
 And the laurel bushes thin. 
 
 Soon, or late. 
 
 VIII. 
 This little son of mine — 
 
 Oh, the sprite ! 
 When I tell him this he laughs 
 
 Just outright ;
 
 MORNING GREETINGS. 103 
 
 And his twinkling dimples go 
 In and out, in merry show ; 
 " I'll be rich some day," he cried, 
 " And will in a carriage ride, 
 You and mother at my side, 
 All so bright!" 
 
 MORNING GREETINGS. 
 
 Night ! with her diadem of flashing stars. 
 
 Like di'monds on a brunette's dusky hair, 
 Is fading in aurora's golden light. 
 
 And fi'ry Phoebus in the east is there. 
 With rosy sunbeams, joyous songs, and flow'rs, 
 
 The soaring lark, to herald in the day ; 
 Night veils her face in clouds, her task is done, 
 
 In silent haste she vanishes away. 
 The drooping plants lift up their heads to hail, 
 
 With smiles, the morn ; and, bidding mute 
 adieu 
 To night, as she uprises from the earth,
 
 I04 MORNING GREETINGS. 
 
 Leaving them crown'd with wealth of pearly- 
 dew. 
 Some, with the flowers, wake to day of joy, 
 
 Bright with the sunny moments, all and each 
 Fleeting away on wings of golden gauze, 
 
 Slipping too quickly from the eager reach. 
 Fair, with a sky of azure all undimm'd, 
 
 And with the sun a ball of splendour bright ; 
 Pleasure's fingers lingering on the dial, 
 
 And painting all the hours with brush of light. 
 But others wake to day of mist and gloom ; 
 
 With minutes heavy, as if care had chain'd 
 Them to her heels, and, with malicious stroke. 
 
 Their light, and fairy feet had wilful lam'd. 
 Some wake with morning for the bridal robe, 
 
 And in their hair the orange-wreath to twine ; 
 To bid adieu to hours of careless mirth. 
 
 And breathe a vow, fast binding and divine, 
 Which parts them from a fair and happy time ; 
 
 Makes them a farewell take of ev'ry one. 
 To light some other's day, that has, perchance, 
 
 Been fraught with shadows, cheerless with no 
 sun.
 
 OLD jack's retort. 1 05 
 
 Some, like the flowers, wake with tears of joy, 
 
 To clasp their first-born to their anxious heart ; 
 A future blessing for the hearth and home, 
 
 A gift that shall new happiness impart. 
 But o'er some homes the daybeams, shaded, fall — 
 
 Where droop the wings of the dark angel 
 death ; 
 Where once was light, has fall'n a sombre gloom, 
 
 The sun eclipsed ; and still, the parting breath. 
 Yet brighter than the morning dawn, to heav'n 
 
 Soars up a free, rejoicing soul, aw^ay. 
 Where shines the sun in steadfast brill'ancy ; 
 
 Where reigns for ever everlasting day ! 
 
 OLD JACK'S RETORT. 
 
 The sun shone bright one Derby day. 
 The dusty roads were dry, 
 
 And o'er them countless vehicles 
 To be the first did try. 
 
 N
 
 lo6 OLD jack's retort. 
 
 The jests were merry, jokes were loud, 
 And covert tricks were tried. 
 
 Which serv'd to make them merrier 
 As to the race they hied. 
 
 A dashing four-in-hand, with steeds 
 
 Of chesnut and of grey, 
 Was rolHng on among the rest. 
 
 All deck'd with colours gay. 
 
 But just before it, in the line, 
 
 A costermonger's hack 
 Was plodding on with steady trot, 
 
 Ne'er swerving from the track. 
 
 Beside its owner sat a dame. 
 Fair, rosy-cheek'd, and stout ; 
 
 A jolly-looking, homely soul, 
 As e'er you saw about. 
 
 The road was very narrow here, 
 
 The footpath also small, 
 And, if one had desir'd to pass. 
 
 They'd surely had a fall.
 
 OLD jack's retort. 107 
 
 Now, in the carriage was a lord, 
 
 Of proud, conceited mind, 
 And little did he want to be 
 
 That humble truck behind ; 
 
 For, on in front he saw some friends, 
 
 My Lord and Lady Figg ; 
 With Lady Arabella Stiff, 
 
 Whose " money-bags " were big. 
 
 " Come, just fall back, good fellah, there !" 
 
 Cries out my lordship fine ; 
 But honest Jack he smok'd his pipe, 
 
 And gave no word or sign. 
 
 " Now, fellah ! are ye deaf .^ d'ye hear ? 
 
 Just move, and let us through !" 
 " Not if I knows it," quoth old Jack, 
 
 " I'm just as gude as you. 
 
 " I'm gwine to see the race for fun, 
 
 But you, my lud, for gain ; 
 I bet it's me should jog on first — 
 
 You'd best turn back again.
 
 I08 OLD jack's retort. 
 
 " I dessay you'll lose heaps of tin 
 
 Huppon this 'ventful day ; 
 Lor' bless ye, I shan't lose a pin, 
 
 Nor farden, ludship gay. 
 
 " Who's got the right, I'd like to know, 
 
 To best enjoy the fun ? 
 Why, gwacious me ! not you, I'm sure, 
 
 You've left your wife at hum ! 
 
 " And tender-hearted gal she is, 
 
 I'll wager half-a-crown, 
 Now, weren't it she that bade you bring 
 
 That hovercoat from town .-' 
 
 " Perhaps she thought the rain might come 
 And wet ye through and through ; 
 
 To think ye left that gal behind, 
 I'm quite ashamed of you ! 
 
 " But, look'ee 'ere, now — look'ee 'ere ; 
 
 Who's this ? Why, Sary Ann ; 
 D'ye think that my old 'oman would 
 
 Be left behind, my man .''
 
 OLD JACKS RETORT. lOQ 
 
 " Ah ! no, my lud, she's cosy 'ere ; 
 
 And all the cash Fvc got 
 Shall go to get my Sary Ann 
 
 A dinner nice and hot. 
 
 " Afore the day has pass'd, my lud, 
 
 I sartain know who'll be 
 The 'appiest chap 'twixt you and me, 
 
 That came the race to see. 
 
 " I'm not a gwine to budge a hinch, 
 
 'Ere 'is hi, and hi'll stick ; 
 For me and Sally likes a chat, 
 
 Nor likes to drive on quick." 
 
 The laugh was all against Lord John, 
 
 He fum'd and huff'd in vain ; 
 But had to follow Jack and Sal 
 
 Among the merry train. 
 
 -ooi#iOo-
 
 no 
 
 GITANELLA. 
 
 The morn is up, the sun appears, 
 The grass is wet with heaven's tears ; 
 And shining bells of tambourines 
 Sparkle bright in the golden beams. 
 
 Merrily dance, merrily sing, 
 Our castanets with gladness ring. 
 
 Come, let us lift our tents and roam, 
 
 The trees our roof, the woods our home ; 
 
 In front our chieftain, eagle-ey'd. 
 
 Through wood and heath our steps to guide. 
 Merrily dance, merrily sing, 
 The castanets come loudly ring. 
 
 Rosy our cheeks with Nature's dye, 
 Tann'd with a bloom no art can vie ; 
 Ladies fair, in the dusty town, 
 Can ye boast of such glowing brown ? 
 
 Merrily dance, merrily sing, 
 Our castanets all gaily ring.
 
 STANZAS. 1 1 I 
 
 Light our steps with the spring of health; 
 
 Free our hearts from the cares of wealth ; 
 
 Earth's bright flow'rs for a carpet gay ; 
 
 For gipsy songs, our roundelay. 
 
 Merrily dance, merrily sing, 
 The castanets as joy- bells ring. 
 
 Our hearts are buoyant, free from strife. 
 
 And wild and brave our roving life ; 
 
 The laws we own, our chiefs decree, 
 
 And ever careless gay, and free. 
 
 Merrily dance, merrily sing, 
 Our castanets now lightly ring. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 BY THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER A STORM AT SUNSET. 
 
 Swelling in grand, majestic song, 
 The surging waves came rolling on ; 
 Now, bird-like, bending to the deep.
 
 I I 2 STANZAS. 
 
 To kiss the coral's ruddy feet ; 
 
 Now soaring up, like mountain steep, 
 
 An avalanche in might. 
 
 Now casting, like a child at play, 
 On high their clouds of foamy spray, 
 As on the dancing breakers bound, 
 Passing away with thund'ring sound, 
 In echoing caverns underground, 
 
 Gemm'd with the stalactite. 
 
 Now calm at rest the waves are borne, 
 And the fierce spirit of the storm 
 Sleeps, and his wings lie folded ; then 
 The ocean's breast is still, as when 
 A streamlet of some woodland glen 
 
 Murmurs along the dell. 
 
 Within the haven, quietly. 
 The stately ships at anchor lie ; 
 No more tlie cresting billows rise, 
 At peace the mighty ocean lies ; 
 Its rippling waters 'neath the skies. 
 
 Their heav'nly mirror tell.
 
 HELPING HANDS. II 
 
 Its depths of blue lie all undimm'd, 
 The clouds with golden edge are rimm'd ; 
 And up the sea-fowl wends his way, 
 To bid adieu th' expiring day ; 
 And on the cliffs of limestone grey 
 
 The setting sun is glowing. 
 
 The fishing hamlet's sober gown 
 Now wears a tint of golden brown ; 
 The sky, but now as dark as night, 
 Is arch'd with brilliant rainbow light ; 
 And crimson clouds of glory bright 
 
 Across its depths are flowing. 
 
 J 
 
 HELPING HANDS. 
 
 What a lovely thing is a helping hand ! 
 
 Through the length and breadth of the widest 
 
 land 
 
 There is nothing so truly blest, indeed. 
 
 In the hour of sorrow and troubled need. 
 
 O
 
 114 HELPING HANDS, 
 
 A helping hand ! Oh, how fair to the eye ! 
 It can wake the smile, it can hush the sigh ; 
 It can change the moments from grave to gay, 
 And fright e'en the heaviest care away. 
 
 Oh ! a priceless thing is a helping hand! 
 It can save the bark from the treach'rous sand ; 
 It can stem the tide that would else destroy : 
 'Tis the beacon light ; 'tis the friendly buoy. 
 
 How many poor hearts have drifted away 
 
 In the stormy ocean of life's sad day, 
 
 That well could have wrestled with e'en the grave, 
 
 If only a hand had been stretch'd to save ! 
 
 God bless them all, the helping hands, 
 Be they here at home or in foreign lands ! 
 At the feet of God is Charity's home ; 
 And those hands, are they not Charity's own ? 
 
 Oh ! the hair may whiten as years roll by. 
 And old age may shadow the once bright eye ; 
 But tJuy will look fair till our latest breath. 
 For memory lives in the heart till death.
 
 115 
 
 LADYBIRD. 
 
 Come, ladybird, and wind thy arms 
 Round old grandfather now ; 
 
 And lay thy sunny, flaxen curls 
 Against his wrinkled brow. 
 
 There is to me in thy young face 
 
 An ever-binding spell ; 
 Thy merry laugh and joyous smile, 
 
 Of childhood's gambols tell. 
 
 Thy dancing step upon the stair, 
 Thy roguish mirth and glee. 
 
 Remind me of departed days. 
 And bring fresh charms to me ; 
 
 Recalling all the memories 
 
 Of gladsome youth's bright time ; 
 When my young careless spirit own'd 
 
 A heart as gay as thine.
 
 Il6 LADYBIRD. 
 
 My little lady ! ah ! for thee 
 The year has just begun ; 
 
 The spring's fair buds are opening, 
 The summer's yet to come. 
 
 But, gone the summer, love, to me. 
 And autumn glories fled ; 
 
 For now the snows of winter-time 
 Are scatter'd o'er my head. 
 
 But, ladybird, come stay with me, 
 And brighten winter's day ; 
 
 And be a blessed sunbeam 
 In my o'ershadow'd way. 
 
 I soon shall see another spring 
 More beautiful than thine ; 
 
 Then kiss me, little lady — 'twill 
 Be yours as well as mine.
 
 117 
 
 LINES ON ST. THOMAS'S HOSPITAL, 
 November, 1871. 
 
 Where murky Thames its turbid waters roll'd, 
 With sHmy trail, along the banks of old ; 
 And, frowning black upon a dreary view, 
 Once ebb'd and flow'd, monotonous in hue ; 
 Where London's ancient structures loom'd in 
 
 sight, 
 In bygone days, all then in sorry plight, 
 With stagnant waters breaking near their feet. 
 And muddy waves, with poison all replete. 
 Now, how enliven'd, different, the scene ! 
 The dull and ugly garments that had been, 
 Are chang'd for garb that cannot but adorn — 
 A finer coat than e'er " old Thames " has worn. 
 And now, as if a fairy's magic wand 
 Had thrown enchantment o'er the land beyond, 
 On Surrey shore a stately building stands 
 Extensive there, the work of skilful hands.
 
 Il8 LINES ON ST. THOMAS'S HOSPITAL. 
 
 Palladian in form, whose spreading wings 
 A shelter give to all that sickness brings ; 
 To those who, without charity, would die. 
 And by the wayside, all untended, lie ; 
 To all whose " only passport was their ill," 
 And who in those kind walls are shelter'd still. 
 A goodly pile ! that lifts its kingly head. 
 Sprung up to being from the river's bed ; 
 And, Phoenix-like, arisen there in light, 
 From out the waters, on the wond'ring sight. 
 There is it rear'd where nought but mud lay 
 
 spread, 
 A refuge for the sick one's aching head ; 
 A home, where science stretches forth her arm 
 To soothe the pang, and comfort each alarm ; 
 Where good Samaritans are cluster'd round, 
 To raise the maim'd and wounded from the 
 
 ground, 
 And ask no recompense, but give their all, 
 Thus following our sacred Master's call. 
 England's fair " Nightingale " on its old leaf 
 Stands written ; she, her " seed will go to reap ;"
 
 LINES ON ST. THOMAS S IIOSTITAL. I IQ 
 
 In ink indelible her name lies there, 
 
 A noble lesson to the worldly fair. 
 
 On its new page, oh ! may such women shine, 
 
 And show how charity is all Divine ! 
 
 She, like the nightingale in sober brown, 
 
 Ne'er sought the world, but sung in modest 
 
 gown ; 
 And Fame, for her, a chaplet now has wove 
 Of laurels, for whose leaves she never strove. 
 All hail, St. Thomas's ! May thy good roof 
 From ev'ry fell disease be ever proof ! 
 As did Minerva spring to wondrous birth, 
 So have thy grand foundations, of such worth — 
 A cornucopia for the needy poor. 
 All stor'd with joy and health within thy door. 
 A blessing of the nation ! salve of pain ! 
 So, good St. Thomas's, all hail, again !
 
 120 
 
 THE DESCENT OF THE BROOK. 
 
 Among the mountains, and where earth's winds 
 
 sung, 
 Nourish'd by heaven's tears, a streamlet sprung ; 
 And, day by day, it larger, braver grew, 
 Till to the cloud-wrapt hills it bade adieu. 
 Away it trickled o'er the rocky ground, 
 Still downwards, for no place of rest it found ; 
 Then, sudden, in a silver cascade fell 
 From off the rocks into a woodland dell. 
 On, on it danc'd, wooing the sunbeam's light, 
 Till soon its native hills were lost to sight ; 
 And past fair lawns and fields it murmur'd on. 
 And glided through the wood with sylvan song. 
 The ferns and flowers smil'd as on it pass'd, 
 And bent to kiss the waters pure. At last 
 It reach'd a valley, where the lindens grew, 
 And bright forget-me-nots of tender blue. 
 Beside a brook they nestled lovely there. 
 And charm'd the sight with azure petals fair.
 
 THE DESCENT OF THE BROOK. 121 
 
 The water-lilies near the brink repos'd, 
 
 And 'mid the emerald leaves their blossoms 
 
 clos'd ; 
 And o'er their buds the bees were humming gay 
 Among the flowers, keeping holiday. 
 " Let's journey on together, side by side," 
 The sparkling streamlet to the young brook 
 
 cried ; 
 So on the waters went, with laughing glee, 
 And o'er the ripples skimm'd the swallows free. 
 But soon they left the valley far behind ; 
 The flowers with long weeds became entwin'd ; 
 And, in the distance, loom'd the ocean wave. 
 And no more songs the broad, blue river gave. 
 As is the brook, the river, and the sea, 
 So is it of our life the simile : 
 First infancy, then childhood, and then, last, 
 When into wiser years these two have pass'd, 
 To then become as strong and ably brave, 
 To battle with the sea of life's wild wave.
 
 122 
 
 "DON'T YOU REMEMBER?" OR, THE 
 OLD MAN'S RETROSPECT. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 T. 
 " Don't you remember, don't you remember, 
 When through the meadows we stroll'd, you 
 and I ? 
 Fair bloom'd the wild-flowers down in the 
 hedges, 
 And up above spread the blue summer sky. 
 
 II. 
 " White were the fields with carpets of clover ; 
 
 Fragrant the hawthorn that scented the breeze ; 
 And all around us nothing but sunshine, 
 
 As you and I wander'd 'neath the old trees. 
 
 III. 
 " Don't you remember, don't you remem.ber 
 
 That little stile at the end of the lane, 
 Where, when the sun had set o'er the meadows, 
 
 We often met, love, again and again ':
 
 "don't you remember?" 123 
 
 IV. 
 
 " There did we hold sweet converse together, 
 Talking till twilight fell round us in shade ; 
 
 There, too, Ellen ! but, don't you remember 
 All the true promises you and I made ? 
 
 V. 
 
 " Don't you remember, don't you remember 
 That little knot of red ribbon you wore ? 
 
 There did you lose it — ask'd me to find it — 
 And long did we search, but ne'er saw it more 
 
 vi. 
 
 " Ah, dear Ellen ! that same knot of ribbon, 
 I have it still, though the long years have fled ; 
 
 And we are still now — are we not, Ellen, 
 As in the days long before we were wed ? 
 
 VII. 
 " Treasures of mem'ry, priceless and lovely. 
 
 Deep are they shrin'd in my innermost heart ; 
 And, till the end of life's happy journey, 
 
 Ne'er will those memories ever depart.
 
 124 mother's lullaby. 
 
 VIII. 
 " Years have but deepen'd love and affection ; 
 
 Thou art the same loving Ellen I won ; 
 Years have not chang'd you, and my love is firm 
 
 As it was then, in the days we were young." 
 
 MOTHER'S LULLABY. 
 Softly sleep, my baby, now. 
 On my breast thy fair white brow ; 
 Mother's arms are round thee spread, 
 Mother's heart is next thy head ; 
 Nestle closer to thy rest, 
 Nought can harm thee on her breast. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Softly sleeping, baby mine. 
 Oh ! shall on that brow of thine 
 Lines of trouble e'er appear .-* 
 Cares, to raise the bitter tear? 
 God watch o'er thee, loved babe ; 
 From all care His hand can save. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep.
 
 mother's lulladv. 125 
 
 Softly sleep, my baby dear ; 
 He, thy mother's prayers shall hear ; 
 Guard her, shield her, God of love ; 
 Send Thy angels from above ; 
 Guide her timid steps to Thee, 
 Onwards, to eternity. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Softly sleep, my baby, mine, 
 Angels guard those steps of thine ; 
 And, when mother's work is done. 
 Finish what her hand begun ; 
 Ever holding up thy hand. 
 Till you reach that far-off land. 
 
 Sleep, baby, sleep. 
 
 Sleep, oh, sleep ! my fair young child ; 
 O'er thee heav'nly ones have smil'd ; 
 Nestle closer to my heart ; 
 Death alone can ever part, 
 Ever part thee from my breast ; 
 Closer, closer to that rest. 
 
 Come, baby, come.
 
 126 
 
 A SUMMER'S EVENING. 
 
 The sun has set, and clouds of rosy hue, 
 
 Blended with gold, light up the western 
 sky; 
 The cattle, lowing in the distant meads, 
 
 Await the milkmaid, who comes, singing, by. 
 The fish are leaping on the river's breast 
 
 To catch the gnats, that hover all around ; 
 And in the fields that grace the distant slopes 
 
 The tinkling sheep-bell gives its merry sound. 
 The old brown roof of yonder distant cot 
 
 Shines golden, as the sunbeams touch the 
 eaves ; 
 And loud the marten twitters in its nest, 
 
 From out the hanging canopy of leaves. 
 Across the water play the flick' ring rays. 
 
 Now loit'ring here, now there, as loth to go ; 
 And up above the deeply-crimson'd clouds 
 
 Lie mirror'd in the rippling stream below.
 
 FAR AWAY WHERE THE HEATHER BLOOMS. 1 2/ 
 
 The birds -fly homeward to the woody glens ; 
 
 The nightingale alone outsings the light, 
 And, with a strain of melody sublime, 
 
 Wakes the soft echoes of the silent ni-^ht. 
 
 FAR AWAY WHERE THE HEATHER 
 
 BLOOMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Far away, on the mountain side, 
 
 Where the purple heather blooms, 
 And shepherds, in their tartan plaids. 
 
 Make merry with bagpipe tunes ; 
 Where Scotia's rills, crystal bright, 
 
 Leap down through the nodding bells : 
 'Tis there it stands, my highland home, 
 'Mong the hazy hills and dells. 
 
 Far away, where the heather blooms, 
 
 There, 'mong the azure bells ; 
 Oh ! for a glimpse of Jeannie Dee, 
 And highland hills and dells.
 
 128 FAR AWAY WHERE THE HEATHER BLOOMS. 
 
 There, where the winds are free and bold, 
 
 And with braver voices speak ; 
 And the rose of health blooms so red 
 
 On my highland lassie's cheek. 
 Once more to stand beside the brook 
 
 Where we took our last adieu ; 
 And see her standing with the tear 
 
 In her bonny e'en of blue. 
 
 Far away, etc. 
 
 Go, ye winds, o'er the stormy main, 
 
 That divides my love from me ; 
 Tell her the ribbon's next my heart 
 
 She gave ere I crossed the sea. 
 'Twill not be long ere work is done. 
 
 And I to my Jeannie then ; 
 When summer sun comes round again 
 To the bluebells in the glen. 
 
 Then, for the land where the heather 
 blooms. 
 Bright 'mong the azure bells, 
 And to share my cot with Jeannie Dee, 
 'Mid highland hills and dells.
 
 129 
 
 LOTTIE'S VISION. 
 
 Lottie had fallen asleep by the fire 
 
 At close of a wintry day ; 
 Fast beat the rain on the shut window-pane ; 
 
 Without fell the gloaming grey. 
 
 Dreary outside, but 'twas cheerful within ; 
 
 Curtains drawn cosy and warm ; 
 Pussy curl'd up on the rug at her feet, 
 
 Knowing no foes could alarm. 
 
 Brightly the firelight flickered away, 
 
 Turning the shadows to rose 
 On the crimson arm-chair and Lottie's hair. 
 
 That fair in its sparkle glows. 
 
 Its rays on her half-drooping face reveal 
 
 The trace of a falling tear ; 
 But how came it there, with Lottie, a bride 
 
 Of only one fleeting year ? 
 
 Q
 
 130 LOTTIES VISION. 
 
 Ah ! what did it mean ? Why, that hour ago 
 
 Lottie had been in a storm ; 
 And greatcoat and hat now gone from the peg 
 
 Told Harry from home was gone. 
 
 Out in the rain and the fast-driving sleet, 
 
 Brav'd with a sailor's disdain, 
 He had march'd with a frowning, dark'ning brow. 
 
 That told of a hidden pain. 
 
 So Lottie had pouted and fum'd for awhile. 
 
 Never the first to give in ; 
 And so she sat down in the great arm-chair. 
 
 But waited in vain for " him." 
 
 And now in the flames that are leaping gay. 
 
 Dancing along the bright steel. 
 There rises a vision of tossing waves, 
 
 That strike round a vessel's keel. 
 
 The gallant ship goes with a steady plough, 
 Through the feath'ry wreaths of spray ; 
 
 And her husband's form on the heaving deck 
 Looms clear through the mists of grey.
 
 Lottie's vision. ni 
 
 His steady eye and his hand of iron 
 
 Are there in perilous need ; 
 And his brow, with its hnes of thouijhtful care, 
 
 Bears a weight that all can read. 
 
 There's danger at hand in the vessel's works, 
 
 And Death on the waves alone ; 
 For, stronger than man, the fire in the hold ; 
 
 He sighs for his wife at home. 
 
 The red tongues creep through the hot, creaking 
 wood, 
 
 On, stealthily on they go ; 
 And his arm is bar'd to its vainless work, 
 
 Dashing the waters below. 
 
 The boat is lower'd, and his manly voice 
 
 Is bidding the women cheer ; 
 And off from the sides of the burning ship 
 
 He tells them to bravely steer. 
 
 And now o'er the mind of his sleeping wife 
 
 There comes all the mem'ry dear. 
 Of his noble heart and unselfish soul, 
 
 And his tender love sincere.
 
 132 LOTTIES VISION. 
 
 In the ruddy glare of the leaping flames 
 
 That break o'er the lighted deep, 
 He is standing firm on the vessel's deck ; 
 
 She stirs in her breathless sleep. 
 
 His face, mid the showers of falling sparks. 
 
 Is the face of a hero's there ; 
 Blanch'd with the pallor of terror wild, 
 
 Yet brave in its stern despair. 
 
 There comes a blaze o'er the tow' ring masts ; 
 
 He leaps through the pall of smoke, 
 And down through the waters his figure strikes, 
 
 And o'er him the mad waves broke. 
 
 " Ah ! save me for her, great Heaven above !" 
 
 Are the only words he cries ; 
 And they ring o'er the crimson'd waves so loud 
 
 That Lottie opens her eyes. 
 
 Oh, God be thanked ! it was but a dream, 
 
 A dream that has pass'd away ; 
 Her sailor husband is safely at home, 
 
 And tempests have died for aye.
 
 FAIRY SONG. I33 
 
 The room's alight with the gleam of the fire, 
 
 No ship or waves can she see ; 
 With loving face, o'er the tea-table bent, 
 
 Harry is making the tea. 
 
 He turn'd, and his smile, forgiving and gay, 
 Like enchantment, calms her fears ; 
 
 Now she has flung both her arms round his 
 neck, 
 Smiling through sunshine and tears. 
 
 FAIRY SONG. 
 
 The moon is up, the forest is still, 
 Let us away to the woodland rill. 
 The blue forget-me-nots are sleeping, 
 The glowworms 'mong the trees are peeping ; 
 And the fresh and limpid mountain stream 
 Murmurs along through the mosses green ; 
 With its crystal waters gleaming bright, 
 And playing beneath the soft moonlight.
 
 134 FAIRY SONG. 
 
 Oh ! haste away to the gemm'd cascade, 
 And in its diamond showers bathe ; 
 So cool and transparent, pure and clear. 
 Rippling away to the far-off mere. 
 The water-lily is closed up, 
 But we'll make our throne its folded cup ; 
 And watch the rays of the sheeny light 
 Gilding the waters this summer night. 
 
 Then, merry fays, to the wood away ! 
 Where through the branches the zephyrs play, 
 Whisp'ring softly their musical song, 
 Bearing the breath of the flowers along. 
 We'll gaily swing on the spider's web, 
 Hanging aloft 'mid the roses red ; 
 And Philomel's song, so rich and sweet, 
 Shall chime with our lightly-tripping feet. 
 
 Then, when the starlight begins to fail. 
 We'll bear our queen to her fav'rite vale : 
 Deep in the heart of the forest bow'rs. 
 Carpeted over with moss and flow'rs.
 
   FAREWELL, JESSIE! 135 
 
 Where the long green grasses twine and wave, 
 Violets nestling under the shade ; 
 Where the honeysuckle clasps the trees, 
 And the fragrant briers scent the breeze. 
 
 We'll drink to her health in liquid dew, 
 And wreathe her brow with the harebell blue ; 
 A rose's heart shall enshrine her head. 
 Wild flow'rs shall strew her mossy bed. 
 And then, when Aurora lifts her veil, 
 Her sire, the gorgeous sun, to hail, 
 Away we'll float on gossamer wings. 
 Bearing her home by the forest springs. 
 
 FAREWELL, JESSIE! 
 
 Farewell to thee, Jessie! the war-cry is ringing 
 O'er mountain and vale, and now I must 
 away ; 
 
 The night o'er Ben Nevis is vanishing quickly ; 
 And, see ! o'er the hills comes aurora with day.
 
 136 FAREWELL, JESSIE ! 
 
 Farewell to thee, Jessie ! 'tis Freedom that calls 
 me; 
 And would you my arm should withhold from 
 her cause ? 
 Ah, no, love ! my sword and my heart shall for 
 ever 
 Strike out for her rights, and be true to her 
 laws. 
 
 Farewell to thee, Jessie ! come, part with those 
 tear-drops, 
 
 Let hope shed a smile on that sorrowful brow : 
 It is not the last time I hope to embrace thee ; 
 
 But look to the future, and be happy now. 
 
 Farewell to thee, Jessie ! oh ! 'tis but a shadow 
 That hides for a moment our clear summer 
 skies ; 
 For soon shall the sunbeams burst through it 
 upon us, 
 And nothing shall dim the fair day of our 
 lives.
 
 THE LOST RING. 13/ 
 
 Then fare thee well, dearest ! the dawn is fast 
 breaking; 
 Look ! Nature is smiling on upland and dell ; 
 Oh ! trust 'tis the sign of a happy reunion, 
 And that victory waits me, love — fare thee 
 well! 
 
 THE LOST RING. 
 
 I HAVE a ring, a slender ring, 
 That many years ago I wore ; 
 
 By chance I found it yesterday. 
 Within an old oak escritoire. 
 
 Up in the lumber-room it stood, 
 Upon its lid the dust of years ; 
 
 And, as I look'd on it again, 
 
 Unbidden sprung the bitter tears. 
 
 With what emotions fond I gaz'd 
 Upon that faded desk and stand ; 
 
 Where once, in happy, by-gone days, 
 I penn'd my notes with youthful hand
 
 138 THE LOST RING. 
 
 Ah ! like itself, my face now bears 
 The marks of unrelenting time ; 
 
 But I, too, once was fresh and fair 
 As that old escritoire of mine. 
 
 Now there it stands, forgotten quite ; 
 
 Full thirty years have roll'd away 
 Since a dear mother gave it me. 
 
 Upon a gladsome natal day. 
 
 There did I sit in years gone by ; 
 
 There, too, o'er me had Robin bent, 
 With whisper'd word and laughing eye, 
 
 That to my cheek the colour sent. 
 
 He gave to me that precious ring, 
 Token of our betrothal tie ; 
 
 But Heaven will'd it otherwise. 
 For I but liv'd — to see him die. 
 
 I lost it suddenly one day — 
 
 'Twas on the very day he died — 
 
 It from my finger roll'd away, 
 
 And there I sat me down and cried.
 
 THE LOST RING. I39 
 
 Upon that desk I laid my head, 
 
 And clasp'd his letters to my breast ; 
 
 And wish'd that my poor heart was there, 
 With his, in that lone place of rest. 
 
 And there I found it yesterday ; 
 
 The old oak lid had fall'n aside, 
 And in the dusty, narrow crack. 
 
 My little turquoise ring I spied. 
 
 Ah ! like that little golden hoop. 
 That once had made my happiness ; 
 
 And there lay firm, as e'er of old. 
 Bright, sparkling in its dark recess. 
 
 So had my faithful heart been firm. 
 As steadfast as that link of love ; 
 
 Its riches garner'd up in store. 
 And treasur'd for a world above. 
 
 The years have found me staunch and true ; 
 
 They'll find me faithful to the end ; 
 There's not one heart like that true heart ; 
 
 There is no love like his, dear friend.
 
 I40 THE LOST RING. 
 
 And now beats high this heart of mine, 
 What joyous recollections spring ! 
 
 I've kiss'd the dear old escritoire, 
 To think it held my precious ring. 
 
 MUSIC OF EARTH. 
 
 There's music in the sighing winds, 
 As through the trees they pass, 
 
 And linger in the waving corn 
 Or tow' ring forest grass. 
 
 So faint, so softly does it steal 
 
 Upon the changing air, 
 That scarce the ear can catch its tune ; 
 
 But yet 'tis ever there. 
 
 There's music in the singing brook, 
 
 As, like a silver bell, 
 It trickles on through rocks and stones, 
 
 Into the woodland dell.
 
 MUSIC OF EARTH. I4I 
 
 It tells of far-off mountain tops, 
 
 Where chilly was the earth ; 
 Or hills in glowing pasture clad, 
 
 Where first it sprung to birth. 
 
 There's music in the warbling notes 
 
 Of feather'd songster's lay, 
 As at the early dawn they wake 
 
 To pipe their carol gay ; 
 
 Or else at quiet even time. 
 
 When twilight steals along, 
 And sings the brown-wing'd nightingale 
 
 Its ever matchless song. 
 
 There's music in the restless sea, 
 
 Grand and magnificent. 
 As high the cresting billows soar, 
 
 With sad and wild lament. 
 
 Dashing against the giant rocks. 
 
 Or on the pebbled shore, 
 Like thunder in the vault of heav'n, 
 
 Or lion's angry roar.
 
 142 gondolier's good-night. 
 
 There's music in the tempest's voice — 
 
 The music of the storm — 
 When the winds of heaven gather, 
 
 On wings of darkness borne ; 
 
 To join their lyres together there, 
 
 In one majestic song, 
 That fills our souls with trembling awe 
 
 As loud it swells along. 
 
 Oh ! there's music all around us, 
 
 In ev'rything we see ; 
 Creation is all harmony, 
 
 And still for e'er will be. 
 
 GONDOLIER'S GOOD-NIGHT. 
 I. 
 
 The sun has set in crimson fire, 
 
 The fading daylight dies, 
 And Night has set her golden lamps 
 
 Amid the dark'ning skies ;
 
 gondolier's good-night. 143 
 
 And bri<^ht they burn, to light my bark 
 
 Across the moonHt sea, 
 Whose silver breast, so calm to-night, 
 Is like, my love, to thee. 
 
 Then bid me now good-night, good-night ! 
 
 The summer day is gone, love ; 
 And Luna's face smiles there on high, 
 To guide my steps to thee, love. 
 
 II. 
 
 Cool blows the breeze upon my cheek, 
 
 Flush'd with its fev'rish hue ; 
 Thy smile hath called its rose to bloom; 
 
 I'm thinking, love, of you. 
 Then give me now another glance. 
 
 And ope' the lattice wide ; 
 The plaintive strains of my poor lute 
 Shall tell how oft I've sigh'd. 
 
 Then bid me now good-night, good-night ! 
 
 My serenade's for thee, love ; 
 My faithful watch shall rival e'en 
 The stars that glow above, love.
 
 144 AUTUMN. 
 
 III. 
 Come, speak, my lute ; now shall thy strings 
 
 Vibrate with music rare ; 
 And tell my lady she outvies 
 
 The starry heavens there. 
 Oh, gentle love ! come, own its pow'r. 
 
 Or bid it e'er be mute ; 
 The love that surges in my breast 
 Is breath'd by this poor lute. 
 
 Then bid me now good-night, good-night ! 
 
 Its song shall thrill thy heart, love ; 
 And make thee even in thy dreams 
 Wish me, once more, good-night, love ! 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 I. 
 Autumn leaves are falling — falling ; 
 
 Summer days are dead ; 
 Flow'rs that bloom'd with beauty gay ; 
 Birds that sung with thrilling lay ; 
 Beams that shot across my way, 
 
 All are fled.
 
 AUTUMN. 145 
 
 II. 
 
 Cold, grey skies are spreading — spreading ; 
 
 Bare the forest tree ; 
 Where the wild rose blossom'd fair, 
 Leafless branches strike the air, 
 Carpet brown lies mantled there, 
 
 Drear to see. 
 
 III. 
 Shadows now are drooping — drooping 
 
 O'er the misty scene ; 
 Sparkles from the brook are dying ; 
 Nature, bath'd in tears, is sighing ; 
 Wither'd ferns around me lying ; 
 
 That have been. 
 
 IV. 
 And my hopes are dying — dying 
 
 With the summer's day ; 
 Joys that crown'd the hours with light ; 
 Love that wove such daydreams bright — 
 All have from my tear-dimm'd sight 
 
 Pass'd away.
 
 146 
 
 AFTER THE BATTLE. 
 
 The sun was sinking fastj and star-wreath'd 
 
 evening, pale, 
 Was waiting for the rays to fade, o'er all to cast 
 
 her veil ; 
 Behind the rosy clouds with her an angel seraph 
 
 stood, 
 Watching above a battle-field, o'erstrewn with 
 
 human blood. 
 Among the heaps of conquer'd slain a widow's 
 
 darling lay. 
 His fair hair stain'd with crimson, and his blue 
 
 eyes turn'd away 
 Toward the fading sunset, in its matchless glory 
 
 deep, 
 And where the angel waiting stood till he should 
 
 fall asleep. 
 The dying soldier rais'd aloft his faint and 
 
 burning head,
 
 arran's adieu. 147 
 
 And gazed around with tearful eyes upon the 
 
 slaughter'd dead ; 
 A moaning cry broke from his Hps, now pallid as 
 
 the snow — 
 "What will become of thee, mother?" he fal- 
 
 ter'd, whisp'ring low. 
 And now the sinking sun expires, and up a 
 
 hero's soul 
 Flew, with the parting rays of light, tow^ard the 
 
 heav'nly goal. 
 And far away, on bended knees, a mother prays 
 
 alone 
 For one who'll never come again to light her 
 
 widow'd home. 
 
 ARRAN'S ADIEU. 
 
 The sun is setting o'er green Arrandale ; 
 
 All bath'd in ruddy halo lies the dell 
 Where stands the home that shelter'd me for 
 years, 
 
 In all its grandeur, while I say, " Farewell !"
 
 148 arran's adieu. 
 
 And I must leave it now. Alas ! sad fate ! 
 The dear old home that saw my childhood 
 pass ; 
 The ivy-cover'd turrets, and the wood 
 
 Where oft I wander'd through the long, green 
 grass. 
 
 The home where parents press'd me to their 
 heart. 
 And round me came the loving friends of old ; 
 But now I stand an exile and alone, 
 
 And they are sleeping 'neath the churchyard 
 mould. 
 
 Farewell ! ye sylvan bow'rs and well-known 
 glades, 
 
 Fond memories are mingling with my tears ; 
 The recollection of those halcyon days 
 
 Will cling around my heart in future years.
 
 149 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE HARP. 
 
 I. 
 Strains of sweetness, softly blending, 
 
 Falling on my list'ning ear ; 
 Hark ! they thrill the soul, like echoes 
 
 From a distant far-off sphere. 
 
 II. 
 Soar thee on, angelic music, 
 
 Thou hast plung'd my heart in tears — 
 Tears of joy, for, in my fancy, 
 
 I can pierce the veil of years. 
 
 III. 
 Heaven seems to loom before me. 
 
 Visions of such loveliness 
 Thy sweet notes have conjur'd 'fore me, 
 
 That I weep with happiness. 
 
 IV. 
 Faces from the grave smile round me. 
 
 Friends that long have gone before ; 
 Stay, sweet harp ! oh, linger with me ! 
 
 Leave me not to sorrow sore.
 
 ISO PRAYER FOR THE MARINERS. 
 
 V. 
 See ! the lov'd ones round me hover, 
 
 Angels' wings are flutt'ring nigh ; 
 Voices whisper tales of gladness 
 
 Of that home beyond the sky. 
 
 VI. 
 Sounds of harmony soar onwards, 
 
 My poor heart with rapture fill ; 
 Hark ! they die upon the breezes ! 
 
 Now the harp is mute and still. 
 
 PRAYER FOR THE MARINERS. 
 
 Great God ! look down this stormy night, 
 From out Thy realms of beaming light, 
 And place on high Thy brightest star, 
 To guide the mariners afar. 
 
 From tempest and from danger save 
 The tossing ships that brave the wave ; 
 And send Thy messengers to cheer 
 The hearts that battle with their fear.
 
 TO A FRIEND, ON HER MARRIAGE. 151 
 
 Oh ! calm the fierce and troubled sea, 
 And order it at peace to be ; 
 And safe into the haven guide 
 All those who on the billows ride. 
 
 Oh ! give us faith, dear Lord, that here, 
 When cares or troubles e'er appear. 
 To Thee alone we turn for aid. 
 Knowing Thy hand alone can save. 
 
 TO A FRIEND, ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Fair as the rosy daybreak in the east, 
 
 When Sol's bright splendour gilds the waking 
 earth. 
 May thy life be, through all the coming years, 
 With him who now has won thy priceless 
 worth! 
 
 If ev'ry wish that human heart could speak 
 Were gather'd now, dear girl, this day for thee, 
 
 It could not tell thee all my heart would say, 
 So dear thy future happiness to me.
 
 152 TO A FRIEND, ON HER MARRIAGE. 
 
 Oh, Annie ! love has stol'n thy heart indeed ; 
 
 But, surely now, it was against your will. 
 For friendship's bond is strongest, dearest, best ; 
 
 Then keep for it one corner empty still. 
 
 And, Annie, now that heart of yours is gone 
 Into another's sacred charge and care, 
 
 Oh ! may his love be as the forest oak, 
 That cherishes the clinging ivy there. 
 
 Firm, noble, strong, through storm, and wind, 
 and rain, 
 A stable shield when threat'ning tempests 
 low'r, 
 Ever the same, dear Annie, unto thee : 
 
 A lover still, through sunshine and through 
 show'r. 
 
 God bless thee, love ! may clouds ne'er rise for 
 thee, 
 Or love or friendship's bonds be sever'd e'er ! 
 And may thy footsteps tread through paths of 
 flow'rs. 
 Unfading, never-dying, ever fair !
 
 ON RETURNING SOME FLOWERS. 1 55 
 
 And when life's pilgrimage is clos'd and done, 
 Oh ! there is still the heav'n of bliss above ; 
 
 Where love and friendship, lasting as on earth, 
 Shall pass all knowledge in those realms of 
 love. 
 
 ON RETURNING SOME FLOWERS. 
 
 You ask me to thank you, in verse or in prose. 
 For the flow'rs you sent me to-day ; 
 
 But now, when I come to sit down, pen in hand, 
 I really don't know what to say. 
 
 I would not offend you, but still I cannot 
 
 Accept them for only myself ; 
 If so, I must put them where all can enjoy 
 
 Their beauty and scent — on the shelf. 
 
 And then, for the emblems you bid me receive, 
 
 I must, answ'ring truly, say nay ,' 
 You should not have sent such a language of 
 flow'rs 
 
 In the nosegay you gave me to-day.
 
 154 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 I would rather you took them all back again, 
 And sent me instead a few leaves 
 
 Of the evergreen ivy, for friendship's sign ; 
 The friendship that never deceives. 
 
 Nor will I mislead you ; your flow'rs I return, 
 But let us be friends all the same ; 
 
 I thank you ; but this is the most I can say, 
 In returning your flow'rs again. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 The old year's face has smil'd its last 
 On friends and foes together • 
 
 And bound all hearts in closer bonds, 
 This gladsome Christmas weather. 
 
 And to us all the chiming bells 
 Their welcome messag-e bring- • 
 
 How winter's gloom has pass'd away, 
 How soon shall dawn the spring,
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 155 
 
 Then sometimes think of absent hearts 
 
 You in the old year met ; 
 And do not, with the Christmas bells, 
 
 Old friends and true foreret. 
 
 'ta' 
 
 But, as the years fly on apace, 
 
 Oh ! like the laurel tree, 
 That blooms through winter's snow and frost, 
 
 So let our friendship be. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 1871. 
 
 Weep ! weep, oh, sky ! blend in your tears with 
 ours, 
 
 A noble soul has pass'd unto its rest ; 
 A noble heart of true and priceless worth 
 
 Is laid to-day upon the earth's cold breast. 
 
 Oh, heart ! with ev'ry kindly feeling stor'd ; 
 
 Oh, friend ! a friend in ev'rything indeed ; 
 Shall not we mourn thee ? pass'd so soon away, 
 
 Leaving dear ones to feel thy bitter need.
 
 156 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 Our hearts, that oft with gratitude have swell'd, 
 To think the much thy gen'rous hand has 
 done, • 
 
 Now shall be rent with mourning, deeply felt, 
 For from the earth that soul of thine is gone. 
 
 Oh ! weep with us, drear sky ! let fall your tears ; 
 
 Beat the rain fast against the window-pane ; 
 A good man and a true has pass'd away, 
 
 "We shall not look upon his like again." 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 1866. 
 
 We lost them when the winter snows lay deep — 
 Those flow'rs of ours that we had lov'd so 
 well ; 
 
 Their merry prattle and their childish glee 
 Was hush'd for ever by the cold winds' knell ; 
 
 And two bright faces and two loving hearts 
 Were hid away for ever from our gaze. 
 
 But, ah ! although the bitter tears were shed.
 
 STANZAS TO C . 1 57 
 
 Yet now we grieve not for those winter days ; 
 Upon the Saviour's gentle breast they He, 
 
 Where no cold winds can wither, blight, or fade ; 
 And from His arms we never would recall 
 
 The gifts that for awhile He only gave. 
 From earth's bright garden did they early fade, 
 
 To be transplanted to a home on high. 
 Where they could bloom in fairer loveliness, 
 
 And grow in beauty 'neath their Maker's eye. 
 
 STANZAS TO C- 
 
 COME, sing to me, I'm sad to night, 
 
 And dimly burns the taper's light ; 
 
 My pen has fallen on the page. 
 
 No more my thoughts it can engage. 
 
 The moon's soft rays shine through the pane, 
 
 But makes me e'en more sad again ; 
 
 And yet I cannot tell you why 
 
 Its peaceful beams should wake the sigh. 
 
 It seems as if some voice was there. 
 
 Low whisp'ring in the silent air ;
 
 158- STANZAS TO C . 
 
 So quiet is the scene, so calm, 
 Nought there to sadden or alarm ; 
 Yet still, yet still I'm sad to night, 
 Here sitting in the planet's light. 
 Come, sing to me some soothing lay, 
 My thoughts are, sister, far away. 
 If only there could flutter down 
 A message that all care could drown ; 
 A word of Heav'n, to bid the heart 
 In surer happiness depart ; 
 If only, as in olden time. 
 The faithful heart its Lord divine 
 Could see, amidst the gath'ring mist. 
 To bid all fear no more exist. 
 So faith must reign, without the sight. 
 Till He shall come in day of light. 
 Then sing to me, and, laughing, fright 
 Dame Melancholy out of sight ; 
 Weave round me now a fairy spell. 
 That brighter, happier dreams may tell. 
 And draw the blind on Luna's light ; 
 I'll be no longer sad to-night.
 
 159 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 Good-night ! Oh, how the well-known words 
 
 Re-echo through the heart ! 
 The last sweet words that lips can frame, 
 
 Ere comes the night to part. 
 
 Good-night ! How homely is the phrase. 
 
 Yet how much to express ; 
 Revealing how the friendly heart 
 
 Would e'en your slumbers bless ! 
 
 On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart 
 
 It is the evensong ; 
 For, to the tir'd souls of men 
 
 The night brings rest along. 
 
 The mother's pray'r for weary heads 
 
 That on the pillow lie ; 
 The lab'rer's cheerful " Fare-thee-well ! " 
 
 The lover's whisper'd sigh.
 
 l6o GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 The soldier's careless greeting, ere 
 
 He turns to seek his rest : 
 His coverlid, a matting coarse ; 
 
 His pallet, earth's cold breast. 
 
 The bronz'd and hearty sailor's cry 
 
 That o'er the ocean rings ; 
 The patient patrol's gay adieu ; 
 
 The hymn creation sings. 
 
 The closing flowers' parting sigh, 
 
 Their folded leaves that tell ; 
 The drowsy earth's mute benison 
 
 At chime of vesper bell. 
 
 No tongue is there through Europe's breadth. 
 
 No nation, dark or light. 
 But what possesses charmingly 
 
 This little word — good-night. 
 
 Good-night ! Oh, may the night indeed 
 
 Pass under God's own wings ! 
 The sleep of peace is that of heav'n. 
 
 For happy dreams it brings.
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. iGl 
 
 ])ut, all ! tlu)ui;ii sweet, indeed, on earth, 
 
 This word good-night of ours, 
 Yet round it Hngers sadness, too — 
 
 The pain of parting hours. 
 
 But there shall come a gladsome day, 
 
 An endless day of light. 
 When hearts shall not regret to lose 
 
 This little word good-night. 
 
 For sweeter word than that shall sound 
 
 From joyful heart to heart ; ;3 
 
 Reunion, never more adieu, J".. 
 
   ^ 
 
 Nor earthly night to part. V O 
 
 ■■■• J 
 
 So, friend, good-night, till o'er the night 
 
 Shall burst that glorious day ; 
 When eye shall watch the morning dawn, 
 
 Ne'er more to fade away. 
 
 When hands shall clasp, in new-found joy. 
 
 And hearts, as brothers meet. 
 
 United in one family, 
 
 At God our Father's feet, 
 
 U
 
 l62 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 When king and peasant, side by side, 
 Shall stand as nought but men ; 
 
 The serf above his master, and 
 The slave a victor, then. 
 
 When this long earthly night of ours 
 
 Shall break in golden day ; 
 When hearts no more can sever'd be, 
 
 And tears are wip'd away. 
 
 So, friends, good-night. For those now by, 
 
 And those who're far away ; 
 For ev'ry friend, both far and near, 
 
 Good-night, good-night, I say. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTF.n liV CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN, LUDGATE HIIX, LONDON, E. C.
 
 
 
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